Jester:

It's a crisp but clear day as you stroll into the hangar. Plans of further maintenance on the Hind are immediately cast by the wayside as you notice that you have a message on the business line. The thick layers of an arabic accent make the speaker difficult to understand, but you do catch a location for a pickup at noon, the name Lucretia, and a sum of 10k. A run into Redmond and back to Tacoma, by no means the most dangerous airlift you've ever given.

Calisto:

Applying an almost surgical precision, you force the blade in deep and feel the hard armor give way. You twist to cause the most damage and cut a section of meat free. The crab is halfway to your lips when the pager at your belt begins to vibrate and interrupt your lunch. A text message crawls across the screen, Jaron's grid--a private chatroom at 10:30 tonight.

Trixie:

The mall in the arcology grid looks nothing like it did the last time you were here in flesh. You sense, almost before you can see, a small falcon flying past digital sararimen--it's purpose obviously leading it inevitably toward you. Extending your hand for it to perch, the bird rolls and transforms into a small box which drops into you open hand with the last of its momentum. Tied with a red ribbon, the package has a delicately scribed note saying "open me."

Daedalus:

Visions of arc welders dancing with termites have always been disconcerting, which is why you didn't mind being woken up this time by the neighbors across the hall and their morning shouting match. All the walls seem to have lost thier sound insulation during the renovations that the building manager is doing. You motion to G.O.R.T. and he follows behind you as you move into the kitchen. The trid comes to life with a word and begins to read off to you today's agenda. Stop, go back two entries. You don't remember setting up a meeting with Mr. Falcone for tonight at 10:30 but it is in your system along with a matrix address.

Wren:

Another day brings with it, bill collectors for specialists and experimental treatments hounding your steps. You've bought yourself an extra week before they put a lien on your wife's wages and right as you ask yourself what you're going to have to do this time for a quick couple thousand, you're work phone rings. Jaron Falcone's clear timbre comes across the line.

"If you're free tonight, I'm arranging a meeting at 10:30." Your pocket secretary chimes with the incoming data transmission of a new calendar item--A matrix address is given as the location.

Trixie looks the box over carefully, examining the code for anything that would cause her undo harm. Satisfied that the contents are safe, in as far as something being able to track her down here and get a message her can be called safe, she pulls the ribbon and lets the package fall open...

Trixie senses remnants of a trace program that have been rendered inert as the smart frame dismantled itself to deliver the package. Sliding the ribbon out of its knot, the box reveals an engraved invitation inside. You're presence is requested in Mr. Falcone's private grid this evening at 10:30. An address is included for the private chatroom.

Wren responds with a lightning quickness to Jaron's question."I'll shall be there promptly at 10:30,my friend.As always your call is well placed"His slender fingers flip the pocket secretary open to reveal the address.A slight shudder washed over the elf as he saw it was a matrix address.He had never been fond of the matrix,but being able to access it was something the military had required of him,and now in the shadows it did have it's advantages.Jobs that may have slipped through his fingers if not for the ability were available.Still the thought of being in a cold computer generated world made him a touch queasy.

He pushed the thoughts of the Matrix to the back of his mind and continued his cleaning of the doss.His wife would be arriving shortly,and the news of some possible work ,along with a clean house,would make his life that much easier.A quick check of of his retinal clock.4:35.Plenty of time to get a few things together before the meeting.

Jack:

The weight of your long coat has always been one of the comforting reminders that the world is in fact real. Adjusting your stetson to block the sun out of your eyes as you walk down to Lestat's Coffeehouse, your mind flashes back through memories. Caught up in your reverie, you almost failed to side step the customer leaving the door open for you. Shaking off the cobwebs, your eyes acclimate to the darker environment inside and you step across the room to meet Hafiz, Falcone's driver and errand-boy it would seem.

A job. Sweet, time to get the old bird ready to roll and kick some Corporate butt.

A thick smile spread across the old mans face as he limped quickly to the supply bin. It didn’t take long for him to change into his work overalls and start the hour long PMCS on the 30 year old helicopter. The frame itself was just about the only original piece of equipment on her. A solid titanium alloy made back in the days when they made things to last. Not like today all plastic an ceramic.

The Hind F checked out good, the PF level was %100. Ammo bin was at 500 rounds. Excellent. The checklist continued for nearly an hour as he ran through the numbers making sure the helicopter was good to go.

Jester smiled as the egg beater came together. He reached over and activated his cell phone, trying Dade’s line.

“Hey buddy, I got a lift, wanna make five hundred? Get your butt to the airfield by Eleven-thirty and we can roll. I’ll need your typical gamma shield, so you get to fly co-pilot.”

"Sure thing chummer. I can be there," Dade's voice is as calm as ever. With the exchange of a few pleasantries, he hangs up. By 11:25 he is at the airfield and by 12:30 you're in the air.

The flight is brief and you arrive at the location without any difficulties. The only problem is no one is there to be picked up. A quick sensor sweep later, you detect two lifeforms about to turn the corner onto your street. A pack of ten to fifteen more are running behind them about twenty meters.

Seconds later, a tall thin elf female wearing a white longcoat with a red Second Skin underneath it and what can only be described as a handsome orc male in an Armante suit come running around the corner. They both appear somewhat injured but not too badly, she carries an SMG matched by his dart pistol.

When last we left our intrepid hero, Daedalus had just received a mysterious message from the enigmatic Mr. Falcone only moments before his old friend, Jester, called to offer him what seemed to be a simple job.

"I do need to finish working on my Erdstrahlen Coincidence Augmentor, but..." the stalwart human replied to Jester just as he stole a glance towards the kitchen only to find G.O.R.T. -- the Gernsbackian Occult Robotic Technician he had designed a year ago to help out around the lab -- burning his All-American breakfast. He remained surprisingly cool and collected despite the robot's panic as he continued the conversation. "...I suppose I can put that on hiatus for today. As long as you can guarantee my return by nightfall, you can count on me to be there, chum of chums."

Three hours later, Dade was true to his word. Within an hour, the two cohorts in crime -- Daedalus and Jester -- were arriving at the destination point just in time to see a pack of n'er-do-wells pursuing what he could only assume were their clients. He instinctively pulled out his Mauser-like pistol and flashed a look towards his old buddy. "I'll keep 'em covered until they're aboard."

At that, he actived his Mobius Strip Destabilizers and lurched from his seat with nearly superhuman speed. Within moments he was in the back, sliding the side-door open and preparing for the worst...

“Oh frelling drek.” Jester mutters to himself. He triggered the internal com with a mental impulse. “Dade, looks like a hot extraction, I am going weapons free and jacking in.”

Jester was already connected, he simple had to flip a switch to complete the process. His mind slipped into the virtual world of the big helicopter. He instantly powered up the rotors. The blades chopped through the air as the engine poured power into them.

The big helicopter lifted off the ground slightly, it’s wheels tucking up inside the body. Jester turned the chopper on it’s axis, rotating the helicopter so the nose was pointed at the incoming passengers.

Over the external loud speaker, “Someone call a taxi?”

Upon hearing the call about a taxi, Lucretia and Ash push it harder to the chopper. They dive into the vehicle, Lucretia using Ash to cushion her landing. Simultaneously, the pack of gangers come around the corner Predators in hand. Seeing their victims get away, they stupidly charge forward. You easily note the five that turned and ran back down the alley rather than follow their friends.

Whoever this Mr. Falcone is, he's good. There aren't many trace utils that could track me down like this... I wonder who he is anyways?

Trixie reads the message over one more time, her photographic memory taking in the trid address for the meet. She then takes on last look around the Arc's host, once again feeling that shiver down her spine, before backing out into the Seattle main grid. From there her search begins...

Jester's voice rolls out over the internal speakers.

"Alright folks go ahead and buckle up, and welcome aboard Seattle Hoppers flight 001, if you could let my co-pilot know the destination we will get under way here shortly."

He then switches to the external loud speakers.

"Ladies and gentleman, please put down your weapons and step away from the heavily armed," he punctuates his statement by triggering the hidden turret in the nose of the chopper "and armored helicopter. You have five seconds to comply."

The Vindicator begins it's power up sequence causing the barrels to spin rapidly.

Like roaches when the light's turned on, the gangers scatter as the Vindicator comes online. They obviously were not paid enough for this.

Inside the Hind, Lucretia looks over at Daedalus.

"I see Hafiz got the message to you in time. Tacoma Highrise on Jackson. You can use the helipad on the roof. Oh, and Mr. Jester in exchange for arranging this lift, I'm supposed to see if you're free to do some work for the next few days. Jaron is pulling a team together and needed a driver."

She looks at Daedalus waiting for his reply with an obvious case of mistaken identity.

Trixie:

Massive archives of data stream past you in the form of countless books and data chips. Occasionally items pull off their shelves to land in your hand and open to the exact page you needed. Data chips plug themselves into trid displays with video feed and sound bites of Jaron Falcone, CEO of Falcone Enterprises. It's a C rate corporation that specializes in corporate retreats and leadership training seminars. He drives a german sportscar and lives primarily on a horse ranch in Snohomish.

As you press deeper into the dark corners of this digital archive, you brush cobwebs out of the air and are forced to help the books as they try to pull themselves free but remain stuck in place. With an effort, each one comes loose in your hand--here the story of Falcone is different. Runners weave ghost stories of protoypes being collected, paydata that included brainscans of individuals being purchased by Jaron. He got his hands on a PLTG through a series of machiavellian exchanges and obvious wetwork, though he never pulled the trigger. Recent data searches coming out of his grid have focused on the name Markham Zeidel.

Sensing the necessary link with this name you shunt the dead end of Falcone away for a moment and begin a data search on this new lead. Zeidel initially comes up in Seattle newspapers with dates as recent as three days ago, but it seems like someone is actively deleting them, trying to erase all memory that he ever existed.

Wanting as much information as she can get, Trixie goes to work pulling as much info on this new lead into her offline memory as possible. Taking only a moments thought to Switch, she becomes a ghost, fighting to keep the data active long enough to pull off the download. She keeps her eyes out for whoever is trying to do the deletes, knowing that by causing the deletes to lag, she will likely bring attention into the sector, even if she can't be seen on it.

"Thank you for your cooperation," Jester chuckled as he closed off the comm.

Jester flipped a virtual switch. His meat body spasmed and resumed life as the helicopter continued to hover.

“Alrighty folks, here we go,” he said over the comm. as he lifted the big bird into the sky. The helicopters blades clawed at the air and lifted the chopper up. At seventy five feet he pushed the stick forward. The helicopters collective changed so that it was sill gaining altitude, but now it was also moving forward.

“Sea-Tac control this is Sierra-Hotel-zero-zero-one, my flight plan is five-six kilo south, at an altitude of five-zero-zero feet. My destination is the city of Tacoma.”

Once Sea-Tac confirmed his flight plan Jester really laid on the juice. The Hind took off and accelerated to one hundred klicks an hour. Not fast by aircraft means, but faster than a car could go during the lunch time rush hour. Also quicker since he didn’t have to wait for lights or follow the roads.

He did a per functionary sensor sweep somewhat sure that the gang couldn’t mount anything that could follow the Hind into the air. He checked his displays and the passengers were settled in and locked in their crash harnesses, just incase.

“Alright ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking, what’s this about a job?”

Daedalus' orbs scanned over Lucretia and her escort as she said what she needed to say.

"I'm afraid you have me confused with the pilot of this bird, madam. The name's Daedalus and it is a pleasure. I'll be sure to..." and before he could finish, Jester's voice eeked through the intercom. Dade just smiled and offered his hand first to her and then her ork companion.

Once the rigger was finished and just before he had a chance to ask for more details on the job offer, Dade jumped back into the conversation. "Do either of you need any medical attention before we arrive in Tacoma? If not, I'll be heading back to the cabin."

Calisto's face lights up at the sight of Jaron's name. She quickly taps back a message confirming her presence at the meet. She quickly finishs up her lunch and heads out for her place to get her things together in case more pans out from the meet.

Jack tips the brim of his hat up, the trademark grin evident beneath.

"Hafiz, how goes? It's been a coon's age."

Trixie: You create a bag out of the aether and begin scrambling for documents. Most of them disintegrate in your hands as you try to shove them in your storage. Finally you just tear one and watch the lower edge crumble into nothingness but the part you hold in your hand stays firm. Repeating this process, quickly you grab the remnants of the data archive as it pertains to Zeidel.

Jester/Daedalus: Lucretia shakes her head at the offer of medical attention and speaks up.

"I don't know most of the details, I'm just supposed to have you contact Jaron. I got the sense that it was a pressing matter, a team could be coming together as early as this evening." As she speaks, Lucretia and Ash move towards the reinforced bench and buckle in.

"I have a contact number if you don't have one, but Hafiz seemed to think you'd recognize the name."

Calisto: With the message sent and lunch paid for, you rejoin the flow of the city, watching Lonestar patrolmen pick up kids laying on park benches obviously lost in the mindless realm of BTLs.

Jack: Hafiz rises, offering you his hand. "It has been, as you say a coon's age. I am well. Can I get you coffee? This meeting sadly is not personal but rather I am to bring you an offer of employment. Mr. Falcone is collecting a team and believes that your skills could be useful. The team is meeting at 10:30 tonight, in his private grid. I am having the address if you are willing."

Jester eases the helicopter into a shallow bank. The big machine rumbles as stress is put on the airframe. The tail swings around and Jester increases the power, the 'whup' 'whup' get's really loud just before he touches lightly down at their destination.

"Here you go, and I could use that contact info if you have it."

Despite the declination of medical attention, Daedalus insists. "This won't hurt a bit and you'll feel better than new when its over." At that, he goes ahead and activates the Biometric Enhancers on his Æthercasters and watches the biomonitor until they're both patched up. "See, what did I tell you?"

He flashes a smile despite whatever their response is, then turns to head back to the cockpit. "If you need anything, just tap the intercomm right behind you and Jester'll be at your disposal." With that, he slides through the cramped door leading to the front of the chopper and resumes the co-pilots seat until their arrival.

They both thank Daedalus for his attention. Lucretia taps the intercom button as requested and gives Jester a matrix address. As you arrive at their destination, the thin elf reaches into her longcoat and pulls two credsticks from a hidden pocket. She tosses them to Daedalus and exits the aircraft.

"Thanks for the lift!"

And with that, they are gone--running into the stairwell door.

"Looks like we got ourselves a job Dade," Jester said over his shoulder as he lifted the Hind up into the air.

Looking at the Matrix address, Daedalus' brow cocks up a bit. "Indeed it does. That Erdstrahlen Coincidence project must be coming along nicer than I did, as I received the same address earlier this morning. Fascinating.

"Is there anything else we need to do, or was this it? If so, don't worry about the 500¥. Just foot the bill the next time we go out to eat and we'll call it even. I wouldn't feel right taking your money over something this simple."

Jester's voice loses it's usual haphazard quality. "Yeah, this was it. I haven't had any other calls all week."

"We need to hook you up with some advertising agency, then..."

"Of course I'm interested. Besides, couldn't turn down a chance to poke around Mr. Falcones personal grid." Jack says jokingly with a wink.

Jack:

"Very good, Mr. Falcone is wanting that you be at this address at 10:30 tonight."

Hafiz hands you a small card with a matrix address written on the back of it. The front appears to be a business card for Hafiz's vehicle customization services. There is a disclaimer at the bottom, "Vespa owners will be declined."

"That is settled faster than I was thinking, come I have time before I must be leaving. Have coffee with me and speak of older days."

Trixie can feel her brow start to drip sweat as she rushes to grab everything before it disappears. Finally, she sees that shes got everything she's going to get and desides its time to back out and go over everything offline.

back at home...

It takes a few hours for her skills with sorting through info to bare fruit, but when it does, Trixie leans back on her bed and smiles to herself...

Though most of the files are fragmented, Trixie is able to assemble a rough outline of Markham Zeidel's life and research. A UCAS native, he studied at MITT for his doctorate in cybertechnology. His thesis dealt with research into the X factor in AIs and attempts to recreate the process in a laboratory. All of his experiments failed, though his research was still widely accepted. Two weeks ago, he was found dead by his personal assistant. The researcher had died from obviously self-inflicted wounds and, later, it came out that he had been non-compliant on medication to deal with schizophrenia that had developed late in life.

The call was put out by numerous fringe members of the population that he was murdered, but civil officials have found no proof to corroborate this and have written it off as the rumormongering of criminals and conspiracy theorists.

Day 1, 2230.

As requested you meet Jaron in his private chatroom. The motif is designed to be his “living room,” a sculpted foyer to his private sector of the grid built on a model of Seattle. Looking around you don’t recognize most of the runners except by reputation, their identities masked behind the personalized iconography that proliferates the Matrix. He hands out small data tablets, dumb frames that respond to your touch by scrolling an essay written by Dr. Markham Zeidel on the nature and evolution of AIs in the Matrix…

“Imagine a world if you will, where over a billion people are—at any given moment—participating in the formation of a vast web with streams of data functioning as the axons of the human brain. It’s conceivable that this gestalt of information could be comparable to our own neural cortex.

Now let’s examine the millions of people within this subgroup of Humanity that are constantly interacting with the Matrix and controlling their actions through Direct Neural interface, ASIST Converter, or transduction. Remember that the human subconscious produces stimuli faster than the conscious mind can control; stimuli that match in every characteristic the active commands that the cyber-implants transmit. In these instances, the machine is given a nanosecond or less to determine whether or not to transmit the information and 99% of the time does so. Now compiling all of these trillions of emotional impulses, layering them over the tera-pulses of public shared knowledge—History, Language, Personal memoirs of experience, and you get the basis of consciousness.

This consciousness is a purely inorganic thought that resonates through the void of Simulated Sensation and courses through the hardline arteries that create a unified reticulation. Watch the pulse of data surge, the ebb and flow of ones and zeroes. Watch IC and forgotten programs scour the system to destroy viruses and purge the grid until it is clean. Watch the cameras, as shutters open and close, blink and watch us. Watch all of these things and tell me the world has not created a mockery of life. Tell me that there is not intelligence within the machine.”

The paper continues but it swiftly loses life and begins creeping forward in the uniquely tedious drawl that only scientists are meant to write or understand.

After you finish, absorbing the information dumped into you by the dumbframe, Jaron clears his throat.

"Doctor Markham Zeidel was researching the presence of and activities of Free AIs within the matrix when he was killed. There is no sign of equipment failure and the diagnostics show that the RAS system was still engaged at the time of death, however he was able to draw a knife from the workbench and carve these marks into his body."

As Jaron mentions the marks, images are pulled up into your datapad showing the open wounds across the good Doctor’s arms and torso. They have obviously been cleaned and sterilized but have the textbook feeling of a corpse.

"As far as we can tell, these marks are strokes necessary to draw out several kanji which when pronounced phonetically sound out “Todo o pai” which my linguasoft translator says is Portuguese for “All-Father” What I need your team to do is determine who and what killed him, besides the obvious self-inflicted wounds with a knife, and if it had anything to do with his research. While most of your team is composed of deckers by profession, one member of your team is awakened, I have contacted a driver for your needs throughout the Greater Seattle area, and just in case you meet resistance in your investigation--one wetwork specialist is onboard. After the investigation has been completed in the unplugged version of Seattle, contact me with whatever information you have been able to gather and I will arrange for any additional hardware necessary for your matrix outing. Do you have any questions before we discuss compensation?"

Trixie listens to Jaron with interest, while at the same time compairing the data she was just handed to the data she was able to track down earlier in the day, trying to see if what she was just given had been altered in any way.

Daedalus, whose icon appears to be a cartoonish rendition of a WWI Pilot/Flash Gordon anachorism pulled straight out of 1920's Amazing Stories publication, is casually perched on the nose of his sleek little rocket ship that is jutting through one of the psuedo-windows in the virtual living room. The ear flaps of his leather aviator helmet flap in a synthetic wind as he listens carefully to what Jaron has to say while he simultaneously scrolls through the datapad.

It wasn't until Jaron mentioned that he had hired one of the Awakened for this job that he stopped and looked up. His nose had noticably wrinkled, but he said nothing before returning back to the datapad. "A magician?" he scoffed to his inner monologue, "I can't believe I'll have to work with one of those delusional twits again. But c'est la vie, such is life."

When he finished reading the text, and having little trouble understanding the ingenius Dr. Zeidel's more technical terminology on the subject, he tossed the datapad onto Jaron's coffee table. When the fixer finished, Dade held up a single gloved finger when he asked if there were any questions.

"I have one. Would it be possible for you to get your hands on the knife that Dr. Zeidel alledgedly used to wound himself? Or any other personal belongings of his? I'd like to run them through my equipment to see if any residual psychic impressions have been left behind -- they might prove insightful. If not, do you know where we might be able to procur them?"

Jaron seems to reflect for a second before answering.

"I don't think I can get my hands on the items personally, but I can get the address for his residence in Seattle. I believe the knife is still being held in an evidence locker at a Lonestar archival facility. It is due to be released to the family amidst his other personal effects in two weeks after the last of the paperwork has been filed. I, of course, would need your acceptance of the job before such information could be handed over."

"Oh, yes yes, of course. I can't be left tortured by a perplexing condundrum of this magnitude without learning the answer. Count me in, Mr. Falcone. Count me in..."

"That's one."

"Whats the pay?"

"The pay is tiered. Five thousand for unrefutable proof that Markham was murdered. Ten thousand if you can bring his killer alive to my ranch, five if he is dead. Any travel expenses incurred for this investigation will also be covered. There is also a retainer of two thousand nuyen per day of the investigation, as long as I feel you are working in good faith.

"Are these terms acceptable?"

"I'm in."

Calisto's icon is a generic humanoid form. "Since the late doctor was into AIs and we all know they're out there, what if our 'murderer' is some program gone hay-wire? Are we still going to need to drag it in for the higher pay out?"

"That'll do just fine, r. Falcone." Cowboy Jack's icon is a tall, lean-limbed cowboy, complete with Stetson, leather duster, and the hound dog sleeping at his feet.

"Ms. Calisto, if such is the case, I would ask that you corral it into a location under my direct control. I can partition off a section of my grid for such should it prove necessary. If such is not possible, then you would get the lower payout."

"It's odd but I'll do it, count me in." Calisto's icon assumes a more relaxed pose.

"That leaves only you, Mr Wren."

Wren looks around at the team's icons with an assessing stare.

"I'm in."

Jaron nods. "Welcome aboard lady and gentlemen. You're payment will be delivered on a daily basis to safe deposit box J-37 at the downtown branch of the First Seattle Bank. I will leave you to your planning. This room will be available for your use until futher notice. It is as secure as I can make it, but I'm sure your personal training tells you that any system can be beaten by a determined enough professional."

He sets a blank datapad down on the table next to the door as he prepares to leave.

"If you need to get in touch with me, this will serve as a routing utility to my pager. Good luck."

Falcone opens the door, and you see several IC programs in the form of suited thugs travel with him over the horizon of the node.

Trixie holds up a finger to her lips, "Give me a moment to make sure we're secure before we begin."

She clasps her hands behind her back and begins to slowly walk around the room, her gaze drifting.

The team watches as Trixie passes through the room. Adjusting the curtains slightly to peer out the windows, she takes a bug scanner out of thin air and walks a slow circle around the team. The small device chirps non-commitally at the door and at the archs that lead deeper into the house but makes no other noises. Satisfied that this room will work for the near future, she blows on the scanner and it dissipates into the nothingness it was before.

Trixie looks up and smiles at the group as the code scatters around her. With a small curtsy she says, "Hi, I'm Trixie. I'll be covering your Matrix needs."