QUOTE (Tecumseh @ May 4 2019, 02:18 AM)

Koekepan, where are my goddamn Redneck Runs? IT'S BEEN FOUR YEARS.
Wow, yeah, y'know, the weirdest thing happened with that. There I was, busy as a beaver - you have no idea, it was like half a megapulse of work I had - and these two freaks show up. One elf, one ork. The elf was thinner'n a string bean in a lean season, with a hard core dip habit and maybe three-four teeth left. The ork smoked stogies that stank like burning rubber, and I swear he had an extra set of tusks. About as broad as he was tall, too. Anyway, they give me names - I knew they were fake, so I didn't bother remembering them - and told me Johnson had this sweet gig, all they needed was a wiz and a rigger, and wouldn't you know it my regular fixer had somehow told them that I was both in one, instead of half of each. Anyway, Stogie did most of the talking, which was a good thing because Dip tended to dribble and spit a lot, and Stogie explained that the wiz part was just for magic security for a little run on this Daiatsu-Caterpiller repair shop way out in Pueblo country. No magical assistance expected, you understand, it was a run to grab some machinery, specifications and other mechanical goodies, and a rigger would be most useful. Hey, no problem, I can do all of that for a modest price, I can meet them there or they can transport me and a portable toolkit. They're in a hurry (who isn't?) and so they just tell me to grab the kit, and hop in the back of the Bulldog. I do exactly that, pausing only for a certified credstick to bless my accounts as a down payment, and away we go. Dip does the driving (for which read: autopilot babysitting) while Stogie and I are in the back. Turns out, Dip's a sniper, and he has the van. When he's not on runs he uses it to go hunting, judging by the decor and debris combo in the back. Stogie's infiltration and muscle. Make that: infiltration by muscle. His philosophy was never to pick a lock when you can just crowbar the latch right off the door. He had a sideline in decking, but we never did any of that together, so I only have his word for that. Anyway, the trip down was uneventful. At the Tir border the guards didn't want to talk to Dip any more than I did, so they basically checked him for pointy ears and a passport and waved us through. Stogie and I looked like stupid hired help, and they asked no questions. The Pueblo folks cared even less, as long as some kind of stupid machinery tax was paid, but once we're over the border things start to get weird. Stogie says he'll get some rest - good idea, I reckon - and Dip just keeps slapping his dip supply and staring at the road. So far, so good, but after maybe twenty miles from the border, Dip starts to make regular pit stops. Kidneys working overtime, it seems, but basically over every arroyo there's a new stop. After the first three of these I start to get suspicious, and I do a little snooping. He's not being magically controlled or anything, but his aura shows more paranoia than a raccoon in a coonhound kennel. Stogie's snoring up a storm, but on one of Dip's little brushfire prevention stops, I sneak a peek at the autopilot. Wouldn't you know, it's pointing straight at a house in Denver, no name attached, but I start to get suspicious (I always was a slow starter) and I just lean back in the back of the van on a pile of rolled-up deerskins, and act like I'm just passing the time on my commlink - which I am, of course, just not listening to music. I'm running a few datascans around the area of that address, and it doesn't take me more than two or three more of Dip's little pitstops to figure out that it's a hotspot for suspected Azzie activity in Denver. And no sign of anything related to Caterpiller, Daiatsu, or Caterpatsu. Now my old man always called me a sucker whose trusting ways would lead him into trouble, and maybe that's so, but even I was starting to smell trouble in this mix. However, I wasn't going to cause a ruckus while I was in their van. I just needed to slow things down a little to get time for thinking, so I equipped my smallest maintenance drone with a wrench, and sent it down to loosen a few bolts just enough that oil and grease would flow out, making the Bulldog's autopilot bitch like a city slicker at the first mucking out. Not only that, but it falls back to get-home speeds, which is about 10 klicks an hour, with all the flashers going. Dip's eyes bug out like baby onions resting on a pot roast, and he's cussing up a storm so bad it spraypaints the windshield's inside brown. I'm acting innocent, asking what's up while the little drone goes back to sleep in my kit. Stogie wakes up about this time, while I'm pointing out that there's a truck stop about five klicks down the road and I don't mind walking to get fresh supplies from their store so we can hit the road. Now all of a sudden Dip and Stogie want me to stay with the van, and they start to argue about who goes. Dip doesn't want to leave his precious van, but what Stogie knows about mechanics you could have fit in one of Dip's hollow teeth with room to rattle around. I suggest that they both go, but they don't like that, and Dip refuses to leave his van unwatched so all three of us going isn't an option. Then I suggest that Stogie and I go, but Stogie has a million reasons why he doesn't want to do that. His knee's bad, he didn't sleep well in the van, whatever. Anyway, finally I tell them this is stupid, do we really want to wait by the road for the Pueblo cops to come ask what's going on? They really, really don't like that plan at all, so I dig out a deck of cards and tell them high draw stays with the van, low draw walks to the truck stop, middle draw gets to decide. Aces high, spades over hearts over diamonds over clubs. They don't have a better plan, so we draw. Dip draws ten, Stogie a three, I draw a seven. Stogie grumbles like the van's suspension, but I tell him I'll go with him to the truck stop because he won't know everything I'll want to buy for supplies. I tell Dip not to worry, I'd pay for this out of my own pocket because it won't be too much and besides who needs the heartache arguing with Johnson over a few nuyen? So we set out, and fortunately it's early evening but already cooling down because walking in the Pueblo sun isn't my idea of fun. I have my pack over my shoulders, Stogie has his jacket with a box of his bias ply special stogies along for company. Now five klicks doesn't sound like so much until you start walking it. It'll keep you moving for an hour if you're walking, unless you're in a crazy hurry, and I wasn't. I started off by getting on the windward side of Stogie's toxic dump fire, and popping in a stick of gum, keeping it casual while we stroll on down the highway. While we're walking, I gently quiz Stogie about what we're supposed to retrieve from the supposed workshop we're supposedly hitting, but he denies knowing any details, saying Dip has all that on lockdown. OK, then I ask about Dip's bladder habit, and he just laughs and makes some very crude remarks about elves and their plumbing. I laugh along (what the hell, it was kind of funny) and keep walking along. I sing him a little dirty song I know about a cowhand's daughter and her search for a man who's hung like a bull, and we're having a good time. By now we're out of sight of the van, and not yet in sight of the truck stop, so I reckon it's a good time to magically sing Stogie to sleep. Maybe this was what he was afraid of, in which case he was right, but I didn't want to kill him. I just wanted him temporarily disabled. He goes down like a slow motion mudslide, and I put him to bed like a good boy in a nice, sandy little ditch. I ziptie his limbs together so that even a troll couldn't bust loose, and I cover him up with a few tumbleweed and broken branches. I also roll him like a drunken cowhand in a back alley, relieving him of a commlink, a knife, a Predator, a garotte, and a stungun. I left him a pouch of water and his box of stogies. Then I get back to walking, but picking up the pace a lot. I make the truck stop, sweaty and tired, but probably twenty minutes ahead of when Dip would expect me to. Then I get to their greasy spoon, grab a table and get to work. First thing, I quietly send a couple of watchers. One goes to check on Stogie, who's apparently awake but still where I left him. I tell the watcher to let him know I mean him no harm, but I don't care for lies. The other goes to check on Dip, and wouldn't you know he was on a little biobreak again, except that it wasn't his bladder bothering him, but some kind of technogizmo. Of course, the watcher couldn't tell me what, so I shelved that question and instead concentrated on my next step. First, I called my fixer and told him that the deal was a bust and we'd have words when I got back to his neck of the woods, but that it would go a lot better if he could find out where the bodies were buried as far as Stogie and Dip were concerned. Next, I drop a line to some very, very committed anti-Aztlan folks I know in Denver, with the address in question. I don't know what will happen, but it'll probably get people's minds off me. Then I turn off my tech, put everything away, and I go looking around the truck stop. Luck's on my side, and there's a bunch of bikers around. I go to ask them a little favour, telling them that there's a Bulldog van that they can have, no problem. All it needs is a little wrenching and a fresh bit of lube and they can ride it all the way to Miami if they so choose - I just get my pick of the contents, and quality time with the driver. At first they're hesitant until I explain to them that the driver tried to kidnap me for the Azzies, and I want a little vengeance, but I'd rather hitch a ride there and I don't mind paying with someone I don't like's van. I go to pick up some lube for them, plus a minikeg to seal the deal, and they're a happy gang of schoolboys. I grab my pack and hop on the bitch seat of a bike, and we roll out. Five klicks is just a couple of minutes at highway speeds, so less than five minutes later there's about twenty cycle headlights lighting up the van like a fairground mainstage, while I'm shoving my Cavalier Deputy's muzzle up Dip's right nostril and explaining what a max pressure hollowpoint will do to his cranium. It's amazing how persuasive that little speech can be. With my front sight reconfiguring his sinus, I walk him out of the van, and then I have the gangers (who are cheering me on every step of the way - great guys) tie him up like a ham and I do a quick run through of the van. I grab all Dip's crap, then tell the gangers exactly which bolts I had my drone back off. I tell 'em if they need help I'll be right there, but in the mean time I need to spend some quality time with my newest, bestest friend. So the first thing I do, right in front of Dip's very eyes, is to go through all his goodies, crack his commlink wider open than his momma's slot, and worst of all I don't ask him no questions. Not a one. His commlink told me everything. For starters, he was an Azzie elf poseur. I wondered aloud whether I should give him back to the Azzies as a failure (he didn't like that plan) or whether I should hand him over to the Tir for having a false passport and being in league with the Azzies, not to mention being human scum (he liked that plan even less) or whether I might be persuaded to let him go on his own recognisance if he hands his Johnson to me, signed, sealed and delivered on a silver platter with daikon garnish. That idea appeals to him much, much better. So there we are, sitting in a little cleft between some rocks, with thorns tickling his ass and my revolver tickling his skull while he chitchats with his Johnson. Leaving aside the biggest lies, he tells Johnson that he got some mega-secret CAS military data off me, and wants to hand it off for extra pay. Johnson agrees to meet him in a squat outside of Denver proper, and we sign off. I go talk to the bikers, who are just finishing with the van, and tell 'em where to find Stogie as well, and suggest that just maybe there'll be a reward for them handing Stogie and Dip both over to authorities at the Tir border. We shake hands, I wish them a safe and profitable ride, and then I walk back to the truck stop. Wouldn't you know, the truck stop is still there, and the greasy spoon is more tempting than ever, so I settle back for a real dinner and planning my next move. I identify a flatbed trailer with a tarp heading into Denver, so I wait my chance and stow away under the tarp. A few boring hours later, I drop back out when the truck slows down for the line at the Denver checkpoint, and start hiking to the rendezvous. It's a nasty part of town, but I blend in pretty well. I grab an outlaw taxi to the right corner, just to save time and look inconspicuous, then I perch up on a flat roof to wait in the night. Sure enough, Johnson arrives in a beat-up looking Americar that still sounds like the motor's brand new. Two heavies and the Johnson get out, but the driver stays in the car. The heavies are a complication, but not unexpected, so while they're casing the joint and preparing to enter, I set up a tiny cutting laser on a tripod and carefully aim it to put a hole in the brake caliper of the nearest front wheel. Then I cast a vocal illusion of a couple of angry trog voices shouting about having found the azzie drekheads, and wouldn't you know the tough guys and Johnson come moving out there in disciplined bodyguard style. They get in the car quick, and as the doors slam I continue the illusion with some Or'zet about a roadblock and burning cars. Driverman guns that engine like it's a race, reaches the intersection, brakes to turn, and the asymmetrical braking flings the car around so that the front gets sliced in two by a utility pole, while the rear slews around into fast-moving traffic. Instant pileup, with them at the bottom. I think it over for about a nanosecond, and decide that I really don't like them so I shoot a few extra rounds into what's left of that vehicle with Dip's rifle and ammo. The gift that keeps on giving, I reckon. With that, I reckon the Denver air reeks, so I clean up and make my way out of there, hitching a ride back to the countryside, or as I like to call it, civilisation. When I get there, what do you know, but some slot had broken in and taken all my work, so no more redneck runs. Life is hard.
QUOTE (Tecumseh @ May 4 2019, 02:18 AM)

- Security TBD
- I've never known Shadowrun to retcon canon - unless you want to count quasi-retcons like CFD wiping out nanotech - so this seems unlikely to me
- I don't know if Shadowrunning is a viable pursuit, but I too would like an economist to take a pass at the game's macro- and microeconomics
I didn't really expect an all-out retcon, but a rewrite of the milieu has certainly happened a few times, so that's something to consider. I definitely agree on getting an economist (and maybe a cultural anthropologist) to take a deep, deep look at what they have.