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October 12, 2061

The pelting October rain washed across Seattle with more force than the usual mist. This rain was from out at sea, where nature still maintained some semblance of purity and hadn't turned three degrees from toxic. This ran made things clean in its wake, at least in downtown. Even in the depths of Redmond, however, the water falling from the sky was less caustic than most, afording a reprieve to the SINless as they tried to scrape out a living in the urban jungle.

Midafternoon saw a break in the clouds and shortly thereafter, the sky cleared, letting the weak sunlight of late autumn fall on the dampened streets and turn a portion of the fallen rain into mist which would again rise skyward.

It was in this time that phone calls went out. Fredrick ran down the database he kept encoded in his pocket secretary, the entries only half in the database and half in his own head or in code. The calls, about a dozen in all, went much the same way.

There was a job coming up. It was supposed to have a pretty descent payoff, but it was going to be outside the sprawl. Where, exactly, was still unknown, but every indication pointed toward the Salish-Sidhe lands.

He got two direct declines but those willing to hear out the offer needed to get to the Bear and Owl, a bar overlooking the Snohomish river in Pinehurst, one of the seedier parts of Everett. The bar was fairly well known in the shadows as a stopping point for smugglers going in and out of the Sprawl, a fact which may or may not have been significant. The meet was at 1900 hours, which left little enough time for planning or legwork as the last call didn't go out until 1500.

"This sounds like a rush job," he added to each call. "I'd be ready to go straight from the meet, from the sounds of it. And bring the bug spray."

Evans tapped his Earpiece phone and breathed a sigh of relief. When was his last run? A month or three, perhaps half a year even? His credstick was running dangerously low and he’d never be able to retire at this rate.

“Something bothering you, Evans?”

Evans snapped back to reality, almost dropping the empty, rusted antique Enfield magazine he had been mindlessly flipping about in his hands. The rain persisted outside the quaint café, forming a mist that gave the whole street a very ethereal, yet calming feel. On the other side of the table sat Evans’ long time friend, Walker.

The cleanly shaved rigger took a sip of his coffee and repeated his question.

“No…no, not really. Well, I’ve got a job offer you see.” Evans slid the magazine back into the pocket of his overcoat. Walker nodded and smiled.

“Good on you, Evans. I knew Lancer HQ would tap you eventually.”
“It’s not the Lancers this time, not directly anyway.”
“Who is it then?”
“Some fixer named Fredrick HQ fixed me up with.”
“Fredrick, Fredrick…I believe I’ve heard of him somewhere.”
“Come now, there are many people who are named Fredrick.”

Walker half-shrugs, half-nods and finishes up his coffee, then waves for the cheque. A waitress grabs a leather-bound book and walks over.

“Ah, did I not tell you this café was simply heavenly?” Walker gestures to the mist and falling rain outside. “Almost makes you feel you are no longer on Earth, does it not?”

Evans gets up and brushes off his coat. “Walker, would you be so kind as to do me a favour?”
“Heh heh… my friend, I am already picking up the tab. Mmm, but tell me, what is this favour?”
“I need most of my gear transported. Can you drive me somewhere?”
“I shall need the truck then!” He laughs. “Of course, of course. Where to?”

~_~_~_~_~_~

“A bar?” Walker huffs comically as a drone of his loads Evans’ gear into the back of his custom-built, top of the line transport truck. Evans is frantically searching through the stacks of crates in his warehouse for the weapons he’s looking for. Straw, crates, ammunition and spare magazines go flying all over the place as Evans frantically tries to find his Assault Rifle stash.

“Yeah, a bar, named the…uh, what was it? Ah, the ‘Bear and Owl’. Can you drive me there?”
“I do believe so. But that’s hardly original. Why can’t they meet in somewhere else for once. Would gathering in a café kill them?” He chuckles.
“Grunt…Well, you know how shadowrunning is…where is that *%&^ing…AHAH!”
“Hmm? Shadowrunning is what?”

The sound of a rifle being cocked echoes through the green metallic walls of the warehouse.

“Nothing ever changes, Walker. Come now, by Lancer records shadowrunning has existed for how long, 15 years?” Evans carefully lays down a stash of gear in the back of the truck with the help of Walker’s drones. “Whew… Anyway, nothing ever changes. Fifteen years of running and the evil corporations are still about, the people on the lower rungs of society still suffer.”

“Really, Evans. A runner doesn’t save the world. We’re mercenaries.”
“But we have zero impact in the long run. We do things for and against corps…nothing happens. In the end, I’m still hitting corporate America.”
“Sigh, we had this discussion many times before, have we not?”
“Yeah. But we always came to the same conclusion.”
“Exactly.”

“The world wouldn’t be interesting otherwise.” They say in concert as both of them hop into the truck and take off into the streets.

~_~_~_~_~_~

“Here we are.” Walker pulls up a close to the bar. “I’ll park somewhere around here. I’ve got the night free, but get me a drink when you come back, eh?”
“I’ll try.”
“Say, why do you need me to haul this for you here anyway? Another rush job?”
“Apparently.”
“Corporate America?” Walker grins.
“Hopefully not. I have the feeling bugs are involved this time.”
“Nasty critters.” Walker nods in assent. “I hate scraping them off the windscreen.”
“I mean bug spirits.”
“What are those?”
“I don’t really know, actually.”
“And That’s why you brought the flamer, just in case.”
“Correct.”
“I see. Good luck then.” Walker waves his friend off and sets his drones on sentry mode as he tucks into a good book.

~_~_~_~_~_~

Never know how a meeting with a fixer or a Johnson would turn out. Especially in a bar. Those have a penchant for becoming outrageous firefights for no reason whatsoever. Evans double checks his Browning and Viper before leaving the truck, sliding both into their concealed holsters within his Overcoat, then walks up to the bar’s entrance.

Swift Eagle was looking forward to doing a run. He hadn't done one in three months, and was starting to miss the thrill of combat. Perhaps more importantly, he was running low on cash, despite saving money by hunting for his own food and selling the hides of animals he killed.

With four hours to the meet, he had just enough time to cook up some poison with which to coat his arrowheads. Setting out the contents of his chemistry kit, he got to work.

After making the cyanide and coating a few arrowheads with it, Swift Eagle gathered up the gear for the run. Fredrick had indicated that this might be a rush job, so he would take everything with him to the bar. Putting on his form-fitting armor, rapid transit jumpsuit, helmet, and forearm guards, strapping the sheath for his sword onto his back and looping his belt through the sheath for his knife, he stuffed everything else into a large duffel bag and hailed a cab.

It's a seedy hole in the wall bar. Outside, the old and the sinnless drift along streets too poor to interest even the sprawl gangers, fading in and out under the flickering neon lights of Old McDonnal's Pub. Inside, smoke fills the dark room, and a few regulars sip beers quietly. A phone rings, disturbing the tranquility, and the barkeep pulls an ancient looking corded phone from under the bar.

"Yeah?"

One of the bar patrons wearily drops his head to the table. He cries, and the poorly made table shivers with him.

"No, this is Joe McDonnal. Who are you calling for?"

The harsh neon mixes with the swirling smoke, creating ghost images on the walls and floors.

"Uh huh. Yeah, he's here."

The barkeep drags the phone over towards a younger looking elf hiding in the shadows at the end of the bar. He's positioned himself with his back to a wall, with a good view of the the bar, and with an old baseball cap shadowing his face. The barkeep gives a quick nod of his head and hands him the phone.

Raven quickly scans the room. He checks outside... no one lurking there. No one giving casual glaces inside the bar to see who picks up the phone. Everyone in the bar is too old to be a real threat.

As if anyone around here cares who I am he thinks darkly. With a sigh, he takes the phone from the bartender. His speach is dry, worn, as though he were far older than he looks.

"Yes?"

A troll ganger wanders past the door, headed somewhere else. His broken teeth and scars tell of recent battles.

"This is he."

Outside an old man wanders by, gesturing wildly and talking to ghosts. Maybe he's a BTL addict, or maybe he's beyond the point of needing the chips to talk to ghosts.

"Hard to be ready for that without knowing what it is... will supplies be provided?"

The barkeep poors a fresh drink, and downs it.

"I see."

A drip falls from the ceiling to the floor. Evidently, the roof isn't as rainproof as Joe might have liked. McDonnal looks at where it fell mournfully.

"Yeah. I'll be there."

Raven gives the handset back to the bartender. Ignoring Joe's questioning glance, he pays the tab and, after a quick scan of the room and outdoor areas, walks out the bar via the back entrance.

The woman strode out of the building. Moving like she was listening to music no one else could hear. In truth she was. She was listening to the beating of her own heart, and the beats in her head she had laid the operation down on. To the outside she was another elf with a pretty face.

If the world could see past the full lips, emerald green eyes, and incredibly athletic body, they would see the truth. But the world likes it’s illusions. If someone on the street could see past her stylish coat, white poets shirt, and leather pants, they would see the half inch layer of armor fitted to conform to her skin. They would notice the way the underside of her coat, the part under her left arm, bulged slightly from where the Five-seveN sat nestled in it’s holster. But no one did. They noticed the sway of her hips, or the way her raven black hair flowed behind her like a wake.

Raven picked up the pace. Her internal timer was counting down and she had ten seconds left to get to her car before the alarms…

The shrieking wail of a klaxon chopped of her thought. The tall elf took off in a run. She didn’t look behind her as she vaulted down the steps of the Nova-Tech building. Her car was fifty feet in front of her when she heard the first bullet impact the pavement next to her.

Good upstanding corporate citizens, on their way to work in the big Mega’s Everett office, dove for cover as the guards ruthlessly opened fire. Raven spun sideways behind a large van that was parked next to her sporty Saab-Dynamit. Heavy caliber pistol rounds peppered the side of the van, shattering glass and puncturing tires. She peeked carefully over the broken glass, three guards were running down after her, each was armed and firing as fast as they could.

“Time to fly.”

She triggered the door catch with her foot and shrugged off her coat. The coat whent into the passenger seat as she settled herself into the drivers. She could hear the *thump* *thump* of bullets pounding into the van, she waited half a heart beat. The bullets stopped. Reloading. Her seatbelt went on, her Oakley’s went with the coat. She started the engine with a roar and through it into reverse. With her right hand she jacked the wheel all the way over to the right, spinning the car out of the spot, and bringing the nose to bear on the guards. With her left she drew her Five-seveN.

The smart link instantly engaged. The display in her eye telling her the gun was fully loaded with 20 rounds of ExEx and the safety was on. The menu in her eye flashed as she changed the selector from safe, to full auto.

The image in her mind was perfect. The three guards were standing in the open reloading their Novatech knock-offs of Ares Predators. She hit the gas. The front tires screeched as they spun, spewing smoke as they pushed the car backwards. Raven pulled the trigger, sending ten rounds down range in a roar of full auto fire. The gun bucked wildly as she sprayed the guards.

She didn’t hit a damn thing.

With the guards well behind her, Raven tossed the smoking pistol next to her glasses and put both hands on the wheel. She spun the car around and slammed the stick into first. She hit the gas. The engine roared and the tires smoked, leaving a trail of rubber as she exited the parking lot and turned onto Aberdeen Avenue.

She smiled to herself, the job had almost been perfect. Almost. She reached up to trigger the cell phone in her ear. It rang, startling her.

“Hello?”

“Raven, Fredrick here.”

Raven glanced in here mirror, she half expected to see a bright blue V-tol behind her, but either they didn’t scramble fast enough, or they were waiting to see who she took the package to.

“Go,” she said to Fredrick.

“Gotta job for you, I know you are trying to broaden your horizons, thats why I took you from Zoe, lady says you are A plus, and I take her word for it. There’s a bar in Pinehurst, Bear and Owl, you heard of it.”

“No, but I can find it.”

”Great, be there tomorrow at 1900 hundred, and show in your working gear, I think it’s a rush job, and that it might also be out of town. Good luck” the line died.

“Great,” out of town, meant allot of money, and that meant something stupid, hard, or both.

Sedryk stared out the rain sparted window counting the drops waiting for Mellow to get home from school. He'd already checked and re-checked gear bags for both he and her. He made sure to include the hermetric library he'd just gotten for her.
Shortly after 1530 Mellow entered the house. Usually she dropped her books by the shoe rack and walked into the kitchen for a snack.
She noticed that his combat boots weren't sitting there, she knows. A grim smile slid across his face.
"How long will you be gone for?" Mellow entered the kitchen not looking at Sedryk sitting at the table.
"Not sure, sounds like a rush job in the hills, I already talked to Maria."

An hour later a black Dodge ram infront of a multi-story building just inside Touristville. Mellow smiled and kissed Sedryk's cheek.
"I'll see you when I see you." She said as she slammed the truck door.
I'll have to bring her back something nice.

1745 Sedrky pulled up to the Bear and Owl bar. "Now for the fun."

"Gillian."

Brand opened her eyes. She'd been lost in thought, listening to the gentle strains of Dvorak's Rusalka filtering through the tea room's speakers. The other sounds and senses she had momentarily blocked out crowded in. The oddly genteel chatter, the clinking of silver against china, and the sound of rain pelting against the wide bay windows. The aroma of cherry blossoms filled the room, and the scent of umistakeably french quisine. Not food. Quisine.

"I do hate it when you do that, Gillian," her mother sniffed at her from across the table, sipping at her delicately patterened teacup. "It's terribly impolite."

"Sorry, Mom." Brand ignored the odd mess of something very small and fussy-looking the waiter had set on the table in front of her a few moments before. He, like everyone else here, looked impeccably starched, and Brand momentarily wondered what he'd look like with a bit of carbon residue on his face. It required some self control not to laugh. "Is there any way Jay can make sweet with the headmaster?"

Gillian's mother sighed, tipping back the brim of her wide, ladylike hat. "I named him Jerome, Gillian. I hate that awful nickname. And, yes, he might. If he was inclined to." She leaned across the table, touching Brand's arm with a gloved hand. "Darling, couldn't you speak to him? He listens to you. He thinks you're his hero or something." She spoke the word dripping with irony.

"I'd love to. What does Dad think about it?"

Her mother almost--almost--snorted. "What does that have to do with anything? Yes, he's still quite upset about the... path.. you've taken. But he'll learn to get over it."

The low trill of Brand's cell buzzed in her ear. "Hold on, Mom."
She excused herself from the table and took the call in the coat room.

"Yeah?"
"Hey, it's Fredrick."
"Got it. What's up?"
"A job. It's out of town. Feel like taking a bit of a holiday?"
Brand glanced back at where her mother was waiting impatiently at their table.
"Not sounding so bad."

Fredrick gave her the scoop on when and where. It was soon, she'd have to head straight home. She clicked the cell off, recovered her trench from the attendant, and headed back to her table.

"Mom, I've got to run."

Her mother shot her an annoyed glance. "You haven't touched your food."

"Yes I did," Brand lied blithely. "It was great." She grabbed her coat and kissed her mother on the cheek. "I'll talk to Jay. Good to see you, Mom."

She didn't leave much time for protest. She shrugged into her coat and exited into the cold autumn rain.

@ The Bear and Owl

The Bear and Owl is owned by Jason Rainwater, a Salish who came to Seattle to find work. He found some, but not the kind he'd hoped. The Snohomish River is a secondary entry route into the Sprawl for smugglers and does a fair amount of business for those willing to go that far north. Rumor says that Jason has a mind for politics and has bought himself enough influence in the city government to make sure that the sensor network along the river hasn't been upgraded in over a decade and experiences frequent glitches and outages.

Jason has banked his influence to keep himself the only real drop point along the river inside Everette. He keeps an eye on what's moving through his premisis, however, and keeps the Star apprised of anything too serious. (There was an incident a few months back with Gamma-Anthrax which ended badly for the smugglers. Rumors said Jason was responsible for ratting them out, but no one has proven anything. Considering the likely result of that Anthrax, no one has held it against him, either.)

The bar itself is two stories with the bottom floor looking out on a dock. The bottom area is generally reserved for private parties. The first floor is something of a cross between a bar and a recreation hall. Across from the bar, a pingpong table has been set up, though it is currently hosting a large, though old, trid. Half a dozen tables and chairs have been arrayed around the room, along with several stools along the bar.

Across from the entrance, an old fashioned piano sits, though no one seems very interested in playing it.

1700 hours

Fredrick arrives in a late model Jackrabbit and has a seat at one of the tables with a view out the window and a good view of the door. He orders a cola concoction as he settles in to wait for the team and the Johnson to arrive.

The parking lot is relatively empty at this early of an hour.

Skeeter looked longingly out the window toward the twin, parallel trails of mud.

"No, don't even think about riding your cycle in that mud. You know you won't clean it up afterwards, and I'll be fragged if I'm gonna," Sammy said. "Besides, you better get ready to go to your meet.

"Don't give me that look. I told you Fredrick called and you better get moving in case you have trouble finding the place. I put the directions on your pocket secretary for you. They're with a map I downloaded. If you have a problem, punch 'one' on the insta-dial. Do you have all your equipment?"

Skeeter nodded.

"Let me see. You better not take your leather clothes. You know how bad you'd feel if you got a hole in them. Everything else looks fine.

I put some of your favorite ration bars in for you and some extra water. Yes, the strawberry flavored ones. Now get your helmet on and be careful. Bye."

"Bye, Sammy," Skeeter said and headed out to the sidecar equipped, off road bike.

Skeeter arrives at Bear and Owl without getting lost. He goes inside, sits down on a bar stool, orders a Red pop, and starts spinning around. The Bartender frowns as he places the soda in front of the big ork. The smile leaves his face from the bartender's silent reprimand but when Skeeter notices Fredrick another replaces it and he unabashadly waves. Skeeter feels the temptation to spin on the barstool again, remembers what Sammy said about acting professional, and goes over to sit at Fredrick's table.

"Hoya, Fred-rick. I brought my Off. Well, really Sammy packed it for me. What did you need me for?"

Raven stood in her apartment contemplating the run. She had a very nice apartment over looking Puget sound, with a balcony that aloud for a wonderful view of Eliot Bay. She used it often. But neither the warm sun, or the fireplace within could banish the chill from her heart.

One more year had passed. On last chance. The dream was sipping away from her.

She leaned over the faux wood railing. Her hands clenched the wood as tightly as she could. No matter how hard she struggled, it was still beyond her reach. Not good enough, get cyberware. Now your good enough, but the ‘ware isn’t. Now it was too late.

Too late for her to compete again. She could try again in two years, then maybe, if she was still good enough. She could get on the hopeful team. Another year and a half of yet more hard work…

College was almost over. Her limited time as an amateur was coming to an end. If she didn’t compete professionally then she would lose her edge. Once that was gone. It was over.

The wind came up, blowing her night gown behind her, the cold chills of the post rain sky sending goose bumps up her light brown skin. Shivering, she retreated to her apartment.

A brisk work out later and the woman known as Raven was ready for work. She had carefully laid out all her weapons and ammunition the bed. Each peace given it’s own area, and all of it was perfectly symmetrical.

She was dressed in her working gear, layers of armor, combat boots, and a trench coat. Her hair was pulled back into tight pony that ended at her hips.

She grabbed the Five-seveN. The weapon that had served her so well over her three year career has a Shadowrunner. Having worked at the Shoot & Ski shop, she had been in a position to try out many firearms before finally choosing on that fit her hand, her weight, and her balance. The lightweight pistol packed a devastating punch and without any special ammo ate through body armor like termites in a wood house.

She slid it securely in her holster, fitted snugly under her left arm. Two magazines of hi-explosive ammo followed.

Next she prepped her rifle. The Walther was a highly modified version of the MA-2100. It was a carbon copy of the weapon she carried when she competed. It had perfect balance, and deadly power.

The rifle and all it’s accessories went into the big black nylon duffle. In with it she placed all the extra ammo for both weapons she could ever need, along with all her standard gear she took on any extended run.

She was ready.

The smell of the squatters below reaches all the way to the tenth floor of the abandoned hotel where Raven is neatly preparing his gear. An old military issue duffel bag lies open with perfectly arranged gadgets, weapons, and clothing lying in front of it. His sniper rifle is already disassembled and placed in a small carrying case. He places his Camouflaged armour suit in first, wrapping it around the assault rifle and ammunition. He quickly checks the windows again... but of course no one is watching. Nobody around here cares. His tool kits go in next, in case emergency repairs to the weapons, or in case penetrating maglock systems will be necessary. Carefully concealed in one of the kits is a radio detonator and a few kilos of C4. A survival kit goes around this, with a Medkit in a side pocket, easily accessible. Finally clothing is placed around everything... a cursory search of his pack will show him to be a traveler with clothes and camping supplies.

Satisfied, Raven begins to dress. Black military surplus cargo pants, black shirt, Securetech Ultra-Vest on top. Dark, dusty hiking boots with a survival knife hidden around the ankle. A taser in one of the side pockets, pressed close to the skin by a concealed holster, an Ares Predator at the small of his back, a Slivergun under his left arm, with extra ammo for each tucked into the pockets of his pants and stowed in the bag. He arranges his communications gear, testing each piece of equipment. He puts the flashlight in a pocket and the GPS device in another, the latter with recently downloaded maps of the area around the Bear and Owl and a few ares smugglers are most likely to go from there.

Throwing on his overcoat, he mentally runs over the location of each of his supplies, then picks up the bag, throws it on his back, and heads out to the Bear and Owl, timed to arrive one hour before the meet.

Brand slung her duffel over the back of her bike and fastened it there. Getting on the bike, she took a moment to go over her checklist, making sure she hadn't left anything behind.

Shotgun? Check.
Predator? Check.
C12 and miscellaneous related... check.

Pause.

Oh, yes. That's right. I'm a girl.
She adjusted the mirror on her bike and dabbed on some inconspicuous lip gloss. She grinned ironically at her reflection, and then fired up the engine.

It didn't take her too long to find the bar, and she arrived just before 1900. She had to draw on some of the knowledge she'd picked up while tagging along with the Ancients. Or were they tagging along with her? It wasn't clear at the time, and was all the more fuzzy a few years later.

She chuckled to herself as she remembered the look on her mother's face when she "accidentally" bumped into Brand and her ganger then-boyfriend.

Those are the memories you treasure forever.

Brand found a relatively out of the way place to stow her bike before heading in and snagging a chair not far from Fredrick. She figured if it got stolen, she'd blow the whole place to hell, and they'd be even. She might even be doing a community service, from the looks of the place.

Walking in to the Bear and Owl at 1800 hours, Raven notes Fredrick's location, and takes a seat at the opposite end of the bar, where he can watch the table. He orders a soda and waits quietly until five minutes before the time of the meet, observing the patrons and the runners as they enter.

JaronK

Hurrying against the clock, Swift Eagle arrives outside the bar at 1858 hours. Hurriedly paying the cab driver, he strides through the doors into the main room, jumpsuit set to solid black, blades sheathed, and other gear stuffed into an oversized duffel bag. Looking around the room, he sees Fredrick sitting in at a large table. Walking over, he sits across from Fredrick. "So, are we waiting for the Johnson to arrive, or are you going to do this yourself?"

Climbing into the back of his truck, Sedryk began strapping on his gear. Cursing at himself for taking so long, he strapped a combat harness over his jeans and black t-shirt. A HK USP in a shoulder holster and another tucked behind his back. Double barrel shotgun and LAW strapped to ruck sack. Extra ammo for all of his weapons secured on his person.

At 1858 Sedryk enters the bar and orders a water before heading to Fredricks table.
"Evening one and all." Looking over at Fredrick, "To what do we owe this gathering?"

Thor stammers out of bed, groggily scanning his surroundings. He had way too much to drink last night. As he trudges into the kitchen, he notices the flashing light on his telecom indicating that he has a message. The surly dwarf presses the button, and listens to the audio-only message from Fredrick. As it ends, he quickly snaps alert. It is already 1823.

Thor hurriedly throws on his armor and stuffs his gear into his hovercraft, a modified GMC beach patroller. Barrelling down the road, he speeds to the bar, managing to avoid crashing the low-friction vehicle on every turn only through great skill and heavily cybered reflexes. Parking the hovercraft in the run-down lot in front of the bar, he activates the security system and races inside, taking a seat next to Fredrick.

Fredrick watches runners arrive one by one. Some heading for the bar or the tables in a professional manner while a few walked right up to his table.

He greeted Skeeter with a soft smile. The boy was dumb. Dumb as a box of Stuffers, but he was a holy terror in a fight. "Hey, kid. How's the new bike workin' out for you?"

He strikes up a light conversation with the kid. He only called him in for runs which didn't have a lot of thinking required, which wasn't many these days. He mostly did it to stay on Sammy's good side, since he owed the kid's warden for past services.

When Swift Eagle comes up and bluntly asks about the Johnson Fredrick blinks. "Mr. J will be here at 1900. I'm just here to get paid and to see who shows up."

Raven watches the various runners as they enter, taking mental notes. Watching Skeeter bounce about, he chuckles to himself softly.

At least it'll be interesting...

Finally, moments after Swift Eagle and Sedrik take their places near Fredrick, he gets up and moves to the corner behind the table, leaning there on the wall and making his presence known. Proped up next to him is the green duffle bag.

JaronK

BELFAST
October 12th, 2061, 3:47pm

A decaying building dominated the rustic outskirts of a quiet little neighborhood in Snohomish. The rusted tracks and the faded logo of a company long forgotten hinted at the structure's origins as a railway warehouse over a century ago. But for those in the know today, this lonely building has since been transformed into a bevy of ramshackled lofts by those who were down on their luck. The local authorities tolerated the rabble collected therein but not out of sympathy or pity, but because it kept them out of the hair of the other local residents. Being Snohomish, there just wasn't as much crime there as there was in other parts of the Emerald City, so as long as the residents were peaceful there was no need to disturb the tranquility by stirring up unnecessary trouble.

Inside one of these lofts, a heavily tattooed man of Irish descent was lounging on a seedy couch in a pair of boxers while enjoying what turned out to be another dreary Friday afternoon. He was casually flipping through a well-used copy of Buxom Nuns while sipping on a beer as a leprechaun and a hearth spirit in the form of a young lady dressed in 19th-century finery were busy indulging in a heated game of checkers on the other side of the apartment... and by the sounds of his constant bickering and swearing, the leprechaun was losing. Luckily, the majority of his squabbling was drowned out by the heavy rains pelting against the tin roof outside.

In summation, it was just another quiet day in another quiet home of another quiet neighborhood in quiet Snohomish.

And then in one fell swoop, the peaceful serenity was shattered by the ringing of his cellphone.

"Pike me raw."

The young man, a mage-for-hire known only as Belfast in the shadows, reached across the short distance to the coffee table and fumbled around until he found the cellphone. The receiver popped out as he brought it to his lips.

"Speak."

"Liam? Izzat you son?" a voice slurred on the other end of the line, "Wha... what in the blue blazes are ya doin' answering the phone like that, boy?! Ain't I done teach you any better'n that?"

There was a beat as realization hit. "Ma?"

"You damn well better believe its your mum, you fookin' twat! Answerin' your phone like that... why, I should fly up there just so's I could take you o'er my leg and teach you a bit of manners, I should fer gettin' above your raisin'..." She complained before taking a moment to indulge in a swig from her whiskey bottle. "So how've things been going out there? You find yourself a fine young Catholic lass to gimme a grandson yet, hmm?"

"Well, I guess you could say I met a 'girl' last night," Bel replied, the question provoking memories of a recent encounter at the Pig & Whistle the night before. His mind recreated the scene with him just sitting at the bar shooting the breeze with one of his mates. Not more than a minute later, this huge troll came strolling in and took a seat at the other end of the bar. When Bel cracked an off-color lesbian joke involving two mules and a priest, all hell broke loose. "But if she was a girl, I want to see some fookin' papers! Ma, I'm tellin' ya, she had to be pre-operative! She musta been twelve feet tall and was packin' more meat up her dress than ol' man Cassidy did at his butcher shop back home!"

"Now hush a minute and calm down! Tell yer dear ol' mum what happened..."

Not exactly hyped up to begin with, Bel casually flipped a page of his magazine while continuing the conversation. It's amazing what a woman can do with industrial power tools these days. "In a nutshell, I just tried to make friends with her after a bit of a misunderstanding and the skag went and clocked me in the jaw! Can ya believe it, ma? Right on the kisser, she did."

"Wha...! That dirty slitch! I hope you taught her a bit o' respect and trounced her good fer that."

"Don't you worry, ma, I respected the hell outta her. She'll be eating through a straw for a few weeks, I'd be willing to wager."

"That's me boy," his mother replied with a sign of relief, "that's me boy. All right now, Liam, it's only seven o'clock out here and I still have lots of drinkin' to do, so you listen to me now 'cause I just remembered why I called ya in the first place." Bel could hear his mother taking another long swig just before there was a total change in her demeanor as she prepared yet another guilt trip for her only son. "You listenin'? Good. 'Cause I just wanted to call and remind you that it's all your fault, you li'l bastard! When you was nearly too young to remember, your father -- God rest his thrice-damned soul -- was always telling you to 'do me right and make me proud,' but oh noooo, you couldn't do that now could ya?!? All ya ever did was get into trouble back in the old country and got us kicked out, ya fookin' bastard! And now I ain't got nothin' to live for! I just have some old fart at your cousin's bar sliding his hand up me skirt all the time, tryin' to get up into me panties and..."

"Fer Christ's fookin' sake, woman," Bel quickly interupted, throwing his porno mag across the room while simultaneously doing his best to erase the mental image that was beginning to form. "I don't wanna hear about that!"

There was a pause on the other end and his mother was left flabberghasted at his blasphemous declaration. "Lord's fooking name, boy," she yelled!

"Sorry ma" was Bel's only retort as he proceeded to perform the sign of the cross while muttering a Hail Mary under his breath.

"All right, then. Just listen to your ol' ma, and I'll steer ya right. Now then, I know how me boy can take to scrappin' when he takes to drinkin'. I carried your worthless hide around in me belly for nearly a year, you ungrateful piss ant!, and you ruined me girlish figure in one fell swoop. Then you had the nerve to suck me dry, you did. Why, me breasts are hanging so far down past my knees that I'm practically trippin' o'er 'em for Christ's sake. So you listen to me, and you listen good: No more fightin'! You hear me, Liam? No fightin'! It's only right that you do me that one favor in return for all the shite I've had to endure just to bring your fookin' hide into the world."

"Yes mother."

"Promise me, boy..."

"I promise, woman."

"Well now, there's me boy. All right then, I suppose I should be letting you go now. But you remember what your ol' mum told you, and you best get started finding a fine young lass to give me a grandson, ya hear? Now gimme a kiss and say goodbye."

Bel blew his mother a kiss over the phone. "I love ya, ma. I'll probably see you this Christmas if not sooner. Take care."

"You, too, son. I loves ya, too. And son..."

"Yes, ma?"

"Happy birthday to ya, boy. HA! You thought I'd done forgot you fookin' brat, didn't ya?"

Bel simply stared blankly before he stole a glance at his watch to check the date. She was only four days early this year -- that's the closest she's ever come. Impressive. "Yeah, I did, ma. Thanks for remembering. I really hafta go now, though. I'll talk to you soon. I love ya. Bye."

Before she could get another word in edgewise, Belfast quickly clicked the phone off. Without missing a beat, the leprechaun replied without so much as even bothering to look up from his game, "that's your mother talkin' like that, you know."

"Shaddup and get back to losing, you bastard." was the mage's reply as he frumped back on the sofa to relax.

"Well at least I be knowin' where you get it from now."

Bel was just about to toss the phone back on to the coffee table when it started to ring again. A disgruntled sigh escaped his lips as he reclined back on the sofa and checked the Caller I.D. "Frederick? I haven't heard from him in ages. I wonder what he wants." The mage tapped a button and the receiver popped out again. He always answered with another 'speak' but thought the better of it. "Hello?"

Recognizing Bel's voice, Frederick immediately proceeded to explain that an associate of his was looking to put together another team of runners, and the mage he usually called on for these matters wasn't available. Since word on the street had Belfast looking for work recently, he thought he'd throw the Irishman a bone by asking if he wanted to step in.

"Sure. Lay the details on me," he responded as he picked up a notepad and scribbled the details down as they were related to him. "I'll be there." Without any more ceremony, he clicked the phone shut and tosses both it and the notepad onto the coffee table.

"Well guys, looks like we have a job offer. Red Tom, help me get ready and madam," he paused, turning to nod towards the unnamed hearth spirit, "if you don't have anything better to do, think you'd like to tag along?"

Raven tossed the duffle into the trunk of her white Saab. The vehicles small cargo space was filled to capacity with the one bag. She shrugged of her coat and slid into the waiting grasp of the real leather bucket seats. Her trench went to the passenger seat revealing the brown leather wrap-around shoulder rig she stored her Five-SeveN in. She put on her Oaklies and driving gloves after she was situated.

Once on the open road, with the heater off and the windows down, despite the temperature, Ravens mood began to improve. Thoughts of the impending job, and the excitement it could bring drove her to drive the car faster, and faster. Till she found herself doing one-ten over the Ship Canal bridge.

The looming silhouette of a Lonestar cruiser had her drop the clutch and hold the break down till she was traveling just under sixty-five. She kept her eyes strait ahead as she passed the patrol car.

Suckers.

When it was out of her rear view mirror she hit the gas again. The electronic speedometer shot back up to ninety in a heartbeat.

The white turbo charged car made quick work of the twenty minute drive to the bar over looking the Snohomish river.

Raven parked as far away from the exit as she could and still be in the parking lot. She left her glasses and gloves on as she pulled her coat back over her slim figure. A quick brush of her Five-seveN fed her the information she needed to know it was fully loaded.

She hustled up the steps and plowed through the door. The clock in her eye told her it was Nineteen-Hundred hours.

Perfect.

She cocked her head to the side and scanned the bar. Her left eyebrow lifted up slightly. The contents of the bar were… repugnant.

Her eyes locked onto Fredrick. The Ork boy and the other elf were seated at the same table so she figured they were part of the crew.

“Sup Fredrick,” she greeted the fixer. Not terribly pleased with the location for the meet.

Zoe did say he was ‘up and coming.’

She snagged a chair next to the other elf, and nodded politely as she sat down. She put a booted foot on the lip of the table and pushed back till the chair was resting on it’s back two legs. One foot on the floor, the other against the table. Her coat fell open revealing the butt of her pistol.

Out of a pocket she pulled out a stick of gum. She methodically unwrapped it being careful to leave the tinfoil in one piece. She placed the package back in her coat. The gum went into her mouth.

It’s not very nice when you have a rigger outside twiddling his toes for you without any form of payment, especially a bored rigger. Evans strode into the bar and made straight for the counter, made several wild guesses at what Walker liked to drink, then paid and muttered thanks to the barkeep and walked right out again, two bottles of alcohol in his arms. Fredrick was about to wave him over; but it wasn’t as if the bloke was late. Still got a good half hour he guessed, glancing at his watch. As long as the man doesn’t forget to come back in.

Evans was right. Walker had already begun to dig through the plethora of gear he had shoved into the back of the truck cum mobile armory.

“Evans! I didn’t realize you had all this shit…I mean, I knew HQ fixed you up real good, but this is amazing stuff.” Walker greeted his friend as Evans walked over with a somewhat blank stare on his face. After a few seconds, Evans remembered the drinks, and tossed Walker a bottle.

The rigger caught it in an extended hand without so much as looking his way, then set it down next to him and continued to raid the truck. Evans sweatdropped. “Hey, some of that’s delicate…!” “You mean like this one.” Walker pulls out the Shiawase Blazer and points it casually at Evans, who jumped back slightly in reflex. “Aiyee! WOULD YOU KINDLY PUT THAT DOWN?!”

Walker chuckled and tossed the Blazer over his shoulder as he walked out the back of the truck. Evans shivered, half expecting the truck to burst into flames. The rigger then closed the doors and climbed back into the driver’s seat, pouring himself a glass of the whiskey Evans had tossed him. Evans jumped back into the passenger’s seat and helped himself to some. It was quite some time before Evans realized Walker was staring at him.

“…What?”
“Why are you still here?”
“What do you mea-?”
“I really doubt Mister Fredrick hired you and you alone for this job.” Walker paused to sip his glass. “Get in there and socialize, boy! Know thy team and all that.”
“Ugh, I-“
“Nono, get out and mingle! Especially talk to the rigger, see how much he can transport for you. I’m not going to follow.”
“Even if I pay you?”
“Tempting… but no. They DID hire a rigger, right?”

Evans nodded, setting his own glass upon the dashboard of the truck and walked back into the bar, eventually spotting Fredrick in a corner. A few minutes from the appointed time. Evans took his time to properly introduce himself to the people already gathered, then pulled himself a seat.

1855 hours

Various individuals float in and out of the bar as darkness falls on the area. Most of them are urban tribals or the kind who like to associate with them. Some have "smuggler" written all over them.

Jason Rainwater, the owner of the place dropped by about half an hour ago to let Fredrick know that the room was set up. He nods but makes no move to lead anyone down there.

Finally, five minutes before the meet is to start, a very large gentleman in a dark suit wearing equally dark sunglasses steps in from the last edge of twilight outside. He gives the bar a scan which appears more than a little mechanical and steps inside. Another man follows him, this one dressed in a light grey business suit.

The second gentleman moves to Fredrick's table and shakes the man's hand. Fredrick leans close and whispers something before sitting back, pocketing the credstick which had moved between hands in the handshake. The Johnson nods and moves toward the door to the back area which Fredrick indicates. He steps through, accompanied by his bodyguard and vanishes.

Fredrick rises and gives Skeeter a goodnatured pat on the shoulder. "Be careful, kid." He then walks out the front door. In the back of the bar, the door to the office area is still open and beyond it, the door to a narrow circular staircase which leads down to the bottom floor.

The bottom floor itself is smaller than the top floor. Half of it is given over to storage, but the other half contains a large table and a dozen mismatched chairs. When the first of the team comes downstairs, the Johnson has just finished setting up a white noise generator and sweeping the area for bugs. His body guard has taken the time to pull the shades on the windows and checked the dock area, just in case of an ambush. It is fairly clear that the chairs are meant for the team.

1840
Hellcow rolled out of bed, and pulled a silk robe off the dura-marble hanger. Damn. Out of milk again. he thought, closing the refrigerator door. What's that? He walked over to the package leaning against the door. Must be the new ID and phones. Right on time. Tearing open the package he saw the familiar glimmer of a credstick, and the message light blinking on the wristphone.

"....bring the bug spray". Hellcow heard as he slid into his 'business' suit. Another job. That meant ordering another ID <sigh> Can't really complain about good business though. Maybe it was time for some retinal tailors? Nah, he wasn't that hot yet. Mentally dialing Foxy took a half second. "Foxy. I need some camping gear ready in about 5 minuites." Bug....spray? Insect spirits? "Better add a clip of EX rounds too." Walking down the hall the elf couldn't help but stop and pose for a few minutes in front of the gilded mirrors.

1846
The bike screeched to a halt. As he waited he cycled through his catalogue. New wires feel good. He'd been told once you go custom you never go back. If only the really wiz stuff was visible. I didn't know dad had that kinda pull with.......whoever he works for.. Most of his upgrades had been a present from his parents, a reward for going it alone and making good on his first run. 3rd alley down from the pawn shop...there she was.

"Hey baby, looking fine." Giving the dwarf a hug he slid the credstick into her back pocket. "That the bag I left by your place? Thanks babe." The duffle strapped in place, Hellcow peeled out of the alley. Here to Everett, during rush hour. No problem. DREK! Yanking the handlebars over, he narrowly avoided being run down by a GMC hovercraft. "Learn to drive, moron!"

1857
Rolling into Everett, Hellcow switched his DocWagon wristband to 'vibrate'. Didn't I used to have an apartment near here? Wait, I still do. Pulling into the neighborhood of the Bear and Owl he checked the fit of his pistol. Everything in place, he rolled into the parking lot. Yanking off his gloves and helmet, he saw a white Saab pull up. Nice wheels for this neighborhood. A lovely lady stepped out and headed for the bar. Ms. Johnson? Nah, no muscle tagging along. Competition or coworker? Walking to the front door, he opens the massive portal to see Fredrick turning towards him.

"Fredrick! Whats the word, chummer?" The fixer points at the retreating backs of the other runners, mute as Hellcow rushes past him. Fred just shakes his head and steps outside.

From the Fey Mind of "Red Tom" O'Malley (Belfast's Familiar)
October 12th, 2061, 4:03pm

Wot! I cannae believe that barmy son of a pig farmer just invited 'Lizabeth along with us. She's a no-good cheatin' Mary Hick, she is... I'd swear me pot o' gold on it! (On second thought, no I wouldn't... did that once, and look where I ended up.) I donnae know how she did it, but I know she did. Oh yes, ol' Red Tom knows all right, just like ol' Red Tom knows she'll get hers in the end she will. Ha ha! Yes she will... yes she will.

But the invitation is still Liam's bidness, and I ain't one to be telling him what to do. I'm just a lowly leprechaun, I am. No one ever listens to us wee folk, now do they? Just walk right over us as if we weren't there. But by the frosted breath of me forefathers, I love the wry bastard as if he were me own... yet I'd still kick 'im to the mud for a pint of fine whiskey if it came down to it.

Now where was I? Oh yes, that bloomin' witch, 'Lizabeth! Look at her sitting there all smug while I go about getting Liam's things in order for him, and doin' it out of the kindness of me ol' heart I am! But no, she can't be bothered to help, oh noooo, anything but that. She'll just sit there as pretty as she pleases, mocking me with that devilish tongue of hers. Fekkin' hearth spirits, always thinkin' they own the place. Pshah! (But don't you be tellin' no one that I stuck me tongue right back at the wench!)

Well all right then, everything's in order. Now we just have to sit here and twiddle me fekkin' thumbs while I wait for his royal heinous to get done dressing so's we can blow this pop sta.... oh great, that bloomin' spirit's wanderin' over here again. Maybe if I pretend like I'm busy she'll just keep on goin' so she can pester a potted plant or something.

"Hello again, Tom. Mind if I join you?" she had the audicity to ask, her sing-song voice dripping with a vinegar most foul but keenly coated with sugar.

Feh. I cannae stand this hag, but as Liam's mum is always sayin', it's always nice to be nice. "Sure you can, lass, sure you can. Have yourself a seat right here." I even patted the cushion on the couch for her, and of course she took it. Feck.

"I can't believe he's actually taking me out with you boys! I've always wanted to see the outside world. I hope it's as exciting as they say back home!"

"What are you babblin' 'bout, woman?" All right, so much for the being nice part... but it's not like she's really a lass, yanno. "It's a dirty cesspool of scumbags and n'er-do-wells out there. You should be thankin' your lucky stars that you don't have to deal with it on a regular basis."

"Oh, but it's still going to be ever so exciting! I can't wait! You simply must show me the sights when you get the opportunity. And if I'm really good, maybe our master will take me out more often! Wouldn't that be grand?"

Oh for cryin' out loud. I think I'm gonna be sick. "Of course, lass. I'd be more than happy to." Oh begorra, tell me I didn't just say that! Mr. Mouth, say hello to Mr. Foot.

Luckily, before the wee brasser had a chance to spew what was undoubtly going to be a bucketload of feigned gratitude my way, Liam showed up. By the hair of St. Patrick's ass, I'd never been happier to see the bastard.

Oh, and speakin' of the boy, just look at him! He's the spittin' image of his fadder, he is. And if only I looked that good in a pair of faded blue jeans and a black turtleneck, I'd be able to reel in the ladies as well as that lucky sod does. He muttered something about just needing to put on his hiking boots and find his coat and then we'd be out of there, so I set about looking for it while he geared up. By the time I found the peacoat hiding behind the simdeck (no doubt because that bloomin' 'Lizabeth hid it there!), he was decked out with all his weapons and ready to make his mum proud. It's a bleedin' shame she hadn't a clue about what he really did, though. It'd break her heart at the same time, what, considerin' what became of his fadder when he was in the same line o' work...

But that's another tale and we don't be havin' the time to indulge in that sorta thing, now do we? The clock was tickin' down and we only had a few minutes to make it to the bus stop, but being the boy scout Liam is, he just had to stop and help old Mrs. Jenkins carry her groceries upstairs, so naturally we didn't make it.

Oh feck all this bleeding blow-by-blow transcribin'! To make an already too-long story short, we managed to hitch a ride in the back of some dwarven farmer's truck and made it to that Bear and Owl joint in Everett with nary a moment to spare. The skirt Liam insisted on draggin' along wouldn't shut up the entire way, but what do you expect from a fekkin' hearth spirit? I mean, honestly... someone should slip her a shot of whiskey or at least shove a cork down her piehole already...

Raven watched Fredrick get up and leave without so much as a ‘how do you do’. The dark haired girl leaned over to say something to the other elf when she was interrupted by a figure entering the bar.

Good looking, impeccably dressed and an elf, “our face has arrived,” Raven said.

She dropped her foot. The chair fell forward letting her ride the momentum to stand. The majority of the group still did not impress her.

She stopped before going down. Butterflies filled her stomach. This was always the part that could potentially be the most dangerous. It was full of unknowns. Full of danger. At least once the run was under way you knew what to expect.

She hesitated for a beat, and then headed for the bar. She would need something to drink to ease her stomach.

“Orange Juice, neat.”

The bartender grunted his displeasure at having to serve the girl something other than the expensive liquor he stocked.

“Thanks.”

Her hand shook a little as she put the glass to her mouth and pulled deep of it. She drained the glass in one long swallow.

Her hands trembled as she turned around and leaned back against the bar. Her stomach settled. She took a few breaths. She was ready.

A few moments later she was downstairs. The placed smelled of mold. As often anyplace does when it’s near a great body of water. Other than that it seemed clean. She grabbed the furthest chair away from the deck and dragged it to the far corner. She leaned back in it until she was resting against the wall. From her vantage point she could see the balcony and the door. And, if she had to, she could get behind the big desk in a hurry.

She snapped her gum while she waited for the rest of the team to arrive.

Big team... what kind of job needs a whole damn squad? And half these guys are drunk or crazy. Now or never though, eh?

Raven waited in the corner until the first of the team headed through the door. Silently activating his wired reflexes, he reached over and slung his olive green duffel bag over his shoulder and followed down into the back room. Upon entering, he sized up the Johnson, then took his place in one of the southern seats where he'd have a good view of the door. He placed the duffle bag next to him neatly, then, seeing no ambush just yet, let the reflexes turn off. He waited silently, eyes flicking from person to person, appraising each one in turn.

Skeeter wanted to warn the lady not to lean her chair back on two legs, but something about the way she looked at him made him keep quiet and hope she would fall. That would be funny. Then he saw the but of the pistol, and his mind switched tracks.

Sammy always told Skeeter "you are not to play with my guns", and Skeeter didn't have one of his own to play with. But this wasn't Sammy's gun. He wondered if the elf lady would let him play with her's. Probably not, she looked mean. Maybe it was just the way she looked at Skeeter, like he wasn't worth more than a sack of poo. No, she wasn't going to be his girlfriend, either.

When Fredrick is leaving, Skeeter says, "You be careful, too, Fred-rick," remembers something Sammy is always telling him and adds, "and be sure to buckle up." Hah ha, Fredrick was only nice enough to speak to him. Not to the mean elf lady. Hah ha.

Wearing a big toothy grin, Skeeter heads for the spiral staircase. He had suppressed the urge to bound up and down it when he saw it on his trip to the restroom after his fifth Redpop. Redpop was good, it tasted like strawberries. Now he was going to get to use the spiral stairs. But the mean elf lady brushed past him, heading toward the bar. She had been quick to get in front of him to go downstairs, now she bumps him to go get a drink.

Skeeter noticed her slight tremble. Was she cold? She shouldn't be, she looked dressed warm enough. Maybe she was scared, and he felt a little warmer toward her. But there was those stairs!

He looked in fascination at how one end of the step was wide enough to comfortably stand on, but the other end, the one toward the center, dwindled to nothing. It would be fun to see how little of the tread he could use. He wondered if he turned around backwards and held the center pole, if he could skid his feet down the pole, bumping along the almost not there treads. No. Better not. Must act professional. But Skeeter couldn't resist backing up the next to last step just before he got all the way down, extending the fun just a little.

He walked through the storage room, temporarily distracted by all the "stuff". But none of it seemed to neat as he drifted with the stream going into the next room. Then Skeeter saw the chairs with rollers at either end of the table. Oh no! The people ahead of him were grabbing all the rolling chairs over toward the wall. Skeeter hurried and snagged one of the rolling chairs on the side of the room facing the river. He spun around in it once, taking in the view, and as he came back around to the table, remembered how the bartender had looked at him when he spun the barstool and reminded himself to act professional.

Man, this is a big table. I wonder how they got it in here? Not down that staircase, that's for sure. Maybe it was here when they built the building. Or maybe magic. Yeah, it's probably a magic table.

Skeeter very professionally watched the other runners come in, and was quiet for Mr. Johnson. He wondered if all the Mr. Johnsons he had met were related. They didn't look related, not really. It was really odd to him how they were all called Mr. Johnson, what a coincidence. Skeeter smiled at the Johnson as he thought about the odds of another employer being named Johnson. He could smile and still be professional, right? Yes, he could smile and still be professional, not like all the other grim, mean, tough looking people in the room.

Brand watched the others filter in, and Fredrick leave, with distracted interest before heading downstairs at around 1900.
She was mentally cataloguing everyone, but not really drawing too many conclusions. It was always hard to be accurate this early on.

She grinned at the kid playing on the stairs as she passed him. He had to have a mind of a six year old. She wondered what else he had up his sleeve. Then there was the absolutely stunning raven haired elf. Brand herself didn't generally have tendencies in that direction, but could still appreciate a pretty face. The girl really looked like she thought she was something. But then again, perhaps she was. Only time would tell.

Brand settled into a comfortable corner seat not far from the idiot, allowing herself some amusement at his unabashed childishness. A bit refreshing, really, from all of the self importance and seriousness these little stare-downs usually exuded. She only hoped he had what it took when the time came.

These little meetings always went exactly the same way. The formula was rehearsed, or sacred, or both. The same words, the same attitudes, the same outcomes. Brand had, on more than one occasion, had to fight the impulse to whip up a little something "special" just to spice things up. Even now, as she leaned back in her chair and propped her heavy black boots up on the table, she felt like looking over at the Johnson and saying "Hit it!"

Maybe he would give her points for originality. Then again, maybe not.

After a few moments of awkward silence, the Johnson takes a seat on the opposite end of the table and his bodyguard takes the seat beside him. He waits patiently for the last stragglers to come in and be seated, and once he's done so, he very matter-of-factly nods.

"I have a matter I wish resolved, and resolved quickly." He pauses to look at each and every face around the table before continuing. "I have information that a certain location may have significant exploitable resources. Those resources were likely overlooked by previous and current occupants of the area. For political reasons, I cannot send an overt team to survey the area."

"I don't expect this task to be overly dangerous, but the speed of its completion is of the utmost importance. I am able to offer you 20,000 for operating expenses and 1% of the total value of what you find."

He pauses to allow the offer to sink in.

Skeeter thinks he understood Mr. Johnson's big words, but it is hard to tell if it is a good offer. After all, Skeeter is no math-a-magician. He looks around at the other runners and waits to see what they think.

Raven thinks for a moment.

Survey team? A covert survey team would require a small number of people, all easily able to use stealth to the utmost. He's hiring a full squad here and they don't look designed for stealthy recon...

He waits to see if anyone else will pipe up before he does.

Swift Eagle isn't so sure about the lack of combat. "The Amerind tribes get kind of pissd of about mining. Even if this job isn't illegal, which I assume it is, eco-vigilantes might be a problem."

Hellcow looks at the Johnson with a puzzled look.

"That's an.....interesting offer. However i'm not sure of our capability of removing, or even estimating natural resources. I don't know about my fellows, but I am not a miner or logger."

The elf's brow crinkles. What a strange, and so far vague mission.

"Maybe I just don't get it but, the vectors don't seem to work well together. Removing natural resources isn't something usually associated with speed and secrecy. On top of that, most operations can take years to complete. How are you proposing to pay us that 1%? Installments over the next several years? Or company stock? I'm sorry, but I really think we need more info on the job before we can even begin to talk price."

The elf looks mournful, apologetic, as he scans his companions for reassurance and settles his eyes on the Johnson.

Sedryk watches Fredrick leave the table and head to the door. Slowly he rises and heads to the bar, ordering a straight shot of whiskey. He lets the burn travel down his throat, calling him, making him strong and sure.

Without thinking, he lights a slim black cigarette and begins working the burning flick-stick between his fingers. As he descends the staircase he watches the man spinning on the chair. Reminds me of Chuck from back in the home.

After hearing Mr. Johnson's offer a slew of questions form in Sedryks head. "Are we to bring back a sample of what ever it is we are looking for?"

Thor sees the glaring problem with this payment plan. "Surveyors can only find a small sample of the stuff in an area. You won't really know how much mineral wealth there is until you've built a mine. Are you proposing to stay in contact with us, possibly for years after this run, paying us installments every month or so equal to one percent of your profits? That takes a lot of trust on our part, and it would really hurt your ability to deny having hired us for this run."

BELFAST
October 12th, 2061, 7:59:47pm

The time was ticking down until the meet at the Bear & Owl was planned to take place. At the very last minute, the front door opened up to reveal the silhouette of a lone figure stepping out of the rain.

He was dressed in pair of well-worn blue jeans, brown hiking boots that've seen better days, a heavy black turtleneck, and an equally black naval peacoat. As the stranger came further into the smoke-filled light of the pub, his features revealed him to be an attractive but otherwise humdrum young man with brown hair and eyes. He walked up to the bar in between a tribesman and a smuggler -- it was odd, but he looked like he could fit in just as easily with either one even though it was obvious he was neither. So much so that neither even seemed to notice his presence.

"What can I do for ya, bub," the bartender piped up.

"Just call me Belfast. And hmm, let's see. I think I'll have a scotch and water, but hold the scotch," the stranger replied as he flashed a charming smile.

The bartender gave a gruff nod and turned to get started on the drink, but paused and looked over his shoulder. "Was that a joke?"

"Yeah," Bel replied, his smile evolving into a wry grin as he leaned forward to whisper. "I just didn't want anyone thinking I was a pussy."

The bartender just gave a quick laugh as he brought a scotch glass up and slammed it on the bar. It was filled with a substance that probably passed for water in this neighborhood, but whose brown color might just pass as a hard drink if anyone took a careful look. He grabbed a handful of ice and dropped it in before sliding the glass forward. "That'll be ten bucks. How'd ya like that punchline, 'Belfast?' Ha!"

Bel let a quick laugh escape his lips as he pulls out a small roll of corporate script and tears off two bills. "I see I've met my match," was his only response as he slid the two fives across the bar and took the glass.

He turned around and leaned against the bar as he watched a few less-than-savory individuals begin to make their way downstairs. Recognizing his own breed, Bel was quick to figure that the meeting must be taking place wherever these bubbers were heading, so he decided to do the same.

"All right, Red Tom, time to get on the clock. You know the routine," he thought, sending the telepathic message to the leprechaun familiar sitting on his astral shoulder as he made his way down the spiral staircase. He could sense Elizabeth following close behind while peppering Red Tom with question after question, her eyes filled with wonder at all the macabre things she was assensing from her sheltered perspective.

"Aye, lad, of course I be knowin' it! You'll be the first one to know if anything's amiss. Now if you don't mind, I need to shut up this bleedin' witch you invited along 'fore she drives me barmy!" Although Bel couldn't see it, he had a sneaking suspicion Red Tom was looking around for a cork...

Bel appeared at the entrace of the room where the meet was taking place. Only two seats were still available, and he quickly scanned each of them to see who he'd be sitting next to.

"Hmm," he thought to himself, "decisions, decisions. Do I want to sit next to what looks to be a complete and total idiot, or do I want to sit next to the hot brunette over th... oh wait, she's a fookin' elf. That's gonna make it tough afterall. Lesse: Idiot... elves... idiot... elves... idiot... elves... The whole world's against me."

"Oh fer Christ's sake you pansy, just sit next to the hottie," Red Tom interupted. "Quit being such a baby. 'Boo hoo, the elves stole my homeland.' Just look'it her for cryin' out loud! So grow a pair already!"

"Feh! Fine, just shut up and get back to doing what you do," he retorted. Then, with a determined sigh that never manifests in the physical realm, Bel unfastens his peacoat enough to reveal that he's packing a bit of heat before taking the wooden seat next to Raven.

He flashed a polite smile but before he could say anything to her, the Johnson appeared and made his proposition. When he was done, and after the others asked what appeared to be rather odd questions, Bel asked only one thing in his heavy Irish accent.

"Could you be a bit more specific?"

"How deep do you want us to explore?" Swift Eagle asks.

"Alright, let's slow down a moment" Raven says, removing his sunglasses and leaning in to the table. "Now, we're going to need to know a good bit more before we can even consider that offer. We need to know expected resistance and or security levels in the target area. We need to know the estimated value of the substance we're prosepecting for. Without any idea of the difficulty of the mission, nor of the expected returns, you can hardly expect us to jump on board. Plus, given the size of the team you've assembled here, you're only offering us 1,000 nuyen for every million you make... assuming there's actually something there. So, what we need to know, before even expressing interest, is the following."

Raven draws himself up, observing the Johnson's reaction to his statements as he continues, remaining buisinesslike the whole time.

"A. What is the expected value of the resources in question? B, who will deterimine the value, once found? C, what is the time period for this payment plan? Is this really something that we'll know the total value of instantly, or is this a long term operation we're setting up? If so, calculation of the resource value will take time, which means a payment over time plan, something I think few 'runners would appreciate. D, what is the relative resistance ability of the natives? E, when you say speed is of the essence, what is the time table here? Will we have time to shop for supplies or are sending us directly out? F, if nothing is found, what payment will we recieve? I know I'm not sticking my neck out if the result could be no payment because your intelligence on the area was inconclusive.

Once we know these things, we reasonably consider your offer. Of course, if you wish to divuldge further information, such as the exact target region and the resource in question, that would help us towards a descision."

The elf's eyes remain on the Johnson, his face still nuetral and professional.

The Johnson answered the questions as they were raised. All of the issues coming up had apparently been though of, at least in passing, beforehand.

Raven's eyebrows peak at the mention of the large some of money. From her position in the corner she watched everyone else’s reaction. She figured no one would back out. Not with that sum of money on the table. Of course, with the J offering that much money the odds of them all surviving this run were less than good.

She gave a half smile to the man, apparently the only human on the team, to her side. She piped up in her cool contralto.

"I'm in."

Brand's eyes flickered towards the attractive young man that entered and seated himself ingratiatingly next to the beautiful raven-haired girl. Brand's arms were crossed over her chest as she watched the Faces do their back and forth over the toes of her propped up boots.

She picked up one strand of long, straight red hair and squinted at it, examining for split ends.

Resources, this. Estimates, that. Blah, blah blah. The only time a flicker of interest crossed her face is when it occurred to her that the might have to blow this stuff out of the ground. But no, this was not a mining expedition. Then, perhaps, they would have to blow something OFF of it. Or someone. There was bound to be some resistance. One could only hope.

A smile most curious found its way onto Belfast's face, and it only increased two-fold when Raven agreed to the run.

"Count me in, too" was his only reply as he did his best not to notice the redhead's attention while he fumes a bit about not only sitting next to an elf, but having another one checking out his package as if she worked for FedEx.

"I'm in," Swift Eagle says after a moment of contemplation. If they found as much as the Johnson was expecting, this could work out to several hundred grand each. They would probably run into some unexpected difficulties, but that was to be expected, so to speak. in any high-paying run.

Skeeter had trouble following all the conversation, but that last part about 5000 he understood. "Me, too," he said through a grin a bit more toothy than everyone elses.

Raven sits back for a moment and considers, calculating numbers and attempting to read any last information he can from the Johnson's face. He nods slowly for a moment.

"That sounds reasonable. Alright. I'm in."

He leans back, relaxing a bit, surveying the other members of the team.

Thor states his agreement. "I'm in." Once everyone has assented or left the meet, he adds "Now what kind of stuff are we looking for exactly? If it's radioactive, or toxic, we'll need to make sure we wear protective gear."

Sedryk sits quietly working the cigarette between his fingers, ocasionally taking a puff off of it. "I'm in" he replies grinding the cigarette into the ash tray.

Evans had been listening intently for some time. He couldn't think up much to say; his whole life he's reacted to whatever events life threw his way, and, well, forethought wasn't exactly his strong point.

Evans rubbed his brow as the rest of the team threw their questions forward. Something didn't feel right, as always. Well, not much left to do but sit through the meeting. It's not like anybody else noticed him when he slinked in (almost) late.

Well, he needed the money anyway.

"I'm in."

Brand's mind had been made up fairly early on. The money itself was more or less a non-issue. Usually, the only thing that could get her to turn down a run was blatant idiocy on the part of the Johnson or the team. And while there were some flickerings of idiocy here and there--not counting the kid--it didn't seem to be anything she couldn't handle.

She droppd the strand of hair she'd been examining and raised one slender hand.

"Done."