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Drain Brain
London, like many cities, is not the healthiest of places to live. It is a dirty place - to be sure - and there is the oppressive smog, which inspired the oh-so-delicate naming of the place as “the Smoke.”

But that’s not the worst of the health-issues. No, no… there are far worse things on the streets of Old London Town than the occasional McHugh’s wrapper. Things that can choke the life from a man faster than any polluted air. It’s the people, term, the people. London is like one big apathetic sore on the world, where nobody cares about anything – except themselves.

So, pretty much like any city then.

For the people that have to live there, there aren’t many options. Sure, if you have money, power, or at least a job, it’s a different story. There’s the likelihood that you’ll have food on the table and a roof to keep out the periodic acid rains which whip down through the skeleton of the city’s cursed weather protection dome. If you lack these things, however, the future is bleak without outside help. Communities band together for protection. Gangs of all shapes and sizes alternately help and harass the populace. Corporations do little for the dregs of London save exploit them as cheap labour.

But they do have one use…

London has a thriving Shadow community. Not, perhaps, as busy or boisterous as say Seattle or even Philly, but it’s there and its steaming.

That’s why there are people like you around. Runners. Hunting in the Smoke.


The following messages are received by the runners…

Sandy Jackson:
Timed at 0415 hours in the dark of Thursday morning, a video message reveals the leering visage of Blue Sam on the tiny screen of Sandy’s Pocket Secretary.
“Alright there gorgeous, s’Sam. I’m guessin’ that you still don’t wanna come work for me in the way I’d like,” he winks, “so here’s something else for ya’ – an invite from a Johnson passed to me by a mate. Lookin for someone real goodlookin’ who knows how-ta talk their way about, right? Obviously I thought of you first…
“If you’re interested, go to the Siren – 53 Commercial Road – tonight at ten. They say time is short, so it has to be today.
“Catchya later, petal.”

Stone:
Whilst taking his morning exercise, the Stone is disturbed by the incessant ringing of his ‘phone…
“Stone?” the raspy cockney voice grates on ears more used to softer Korean accents. “Badger here… a little job has come to my attention, ya’ follow? Seems there’s a bit of a rush, so they are after the best and right-quick too. If you’re not busy, Johnson’s meeting a crew at The Siren tonight at ten-oh-five. Don’t know why the weird time. But listen – I want a good cut this time…”

Piper:
Despite the lack of an official trumpet, Piper was still up at the crack of dawn, exercising and running through his katas. Fresh bread and hot coffee had long since passed his lips when he finally noticed the winking indication of a message on his P-Sec.
A French accented voice fairly assaulted the room in its intensity. “Monsieur O’Toole, zis is Eric DeLande of Mr Whelan’s agency… we have you on our books as available for work in ze area. We may have a… casting for you zis evening at ze Siren in Commercial Road. Please arrive at twenty-two-ten for your appointment. Contact’s name is Johnson. Good Luck…”

Fridge:
Luckily, the fare in the back is slotting some chip or other when Tyrone’s radio blares out with George’s excited voice.
“Ty, Ty… we’ve had a call, but it ain’t no fare…
“Asked fer you specifically by the “Fridge” moniker too – said to come to the Siren tonight at five to ten to talk about a few days’ work.” George could barely contain his curiosity. “So, you gonna go or what?”

Deuce:
A man – or rather a gargantuan Troll – with the rather inspired name of “Fist” greets Markus from the telecom’s screen. As a higher class of pro-bodyguard, his well-doctored teeth gleam as he grins, speaking coolly accented English. “Hey there, term. I could use a hand, if possible.
“There’s a meet going down tonight, 9:45 at the Siren – you heard of that, right? – and they’re apparently after some discrete muscle for a little work in the Smoke. I’d go myself, but there’s a new client in town…”
Kurukami
Despite his distaste for the upjumped human, Stone kept his voice polite and even as he replied. On a professional level, Badger was a useful resource, and there was no need to have him get irate over such a small thing as his percentage.

"You will get your usual percentage, Badger. The size of it depends on the size of the job you have brought to my attention."

"Yeah, well... just you make sure I get wot's mine," replied Badger over the cellphone. Stone could picture him even without a vid-pickup, straightening the out-of-fashion tie he habitually wore and glaring out from under the rim of his bowler hat. "After all, I remember wot happened seven jobs ago. You've done right by me since, and we done some good business together, but I want wot's due me."

Stone reassured him again with a quiet tone, then disconnected. Badger had an irritating manner, that could not be denied, but it also remained true that he lined up interesting work. Stone looked around the apartment, then began to crack his joints in the pattern he always used to relax. Fingers, wrists, elbows, shoulders, and finally a slow clockwise roll of the neck completed the routine.

Work. Things have been so slow recently I had nearly forgotten how much I liked the anticipation. With a half-smile skewing his craggy features, he stretched his broad, three-meter frame and went to make breakfast.
Rakshasa
Way back in the 17th century London was known for its fog. During the 20th century, 1950's to be exact, smog, as it was called, killed 4000 people in one week in good old London Town. No wonder the City is called the Big Smoke.

Piper rolled over, trying to get comfortable and failing dismally. It didn't matter much, the glimmer from his alarm told him it was nearly 6am and time to get up anyway. He had a lesson to teach at seven. Why wannabe kung fu artists wished to take a lesson before going about their business, Piper neither knew nor, really, cared. He just sometimes wished they wouldn't.

The short Irishman heaved his legs over the edge of the futon and made it to his feet in one easy motion. Standing there momentarily, naked and feeling the cool breeze coming through the open window, Alex Murphy O'Toole felt as alive as he ever had been. Today would see the start of something big, he was certain. No idea what it would be, nor where the call would come from but, to the one time Master Sargent, his fortune was about to arrive around the corner any moment now.

But then, he thought that every morning.

The lesson went well, unexpectedly, and Piper had nothing scheduled until noon. It was time for breakfast. Fresh bread with lashings of butter, followed, or concurrent with hot black coffee, set the ex -Master Sargent up for the rest of the day. He meandered up to the flat roof above the dojo, where he could go through his own routine, looking out over the polluted stream, which was the Thames.

Sweat glistening on taut, vibrant skin, Piper finally noticed the winking indication of a message on his P-Sec as he came out of the small shower down in his attic room.

A French accented voice fairly assaulted the room in its intensity. “Monsieur O’Toole, zis is Eric DeLande of Mr Whelan’s agency… we have you on our books as available for work in ze area. We may have a… casting for you zis evening at ze Siren in Commercial Road. Please arrive at twenty-two-ten for your appointment. Contact’s name is Johnson. Good Luck"

A casting? It took the Irishman a moment to remember that his Theatrical Agent also found him work, infrequently, for his other, more militaristic skills, rather than his acting ability or stunt doubling. The Siren. I know that place. Along the Commercial road in the old garment district where sweat shops abound. 30 pence Sterling for each garment completed. And the slaves, for such they are, have to complete their daily quota of fifty per day. Truly sweated labour.

Piper sat down, pondering on the possibility of a job as he leafed through a copy of Modern Merc - Swimsuit edition.

Ten-o-clock saw him entering the Siren, it's smoky atmosphere hitting his fit lungs like a sledge hammer.
Digital Heroin
`Georgie, Georgie, slow down a tick boyo. If that there fellow back behind me wasn't chipping up at the moment, you'd be in a site bit of shite right now. As it is, I could use some splosh, so I'll be droppin' this 'ere berk off 'n be taking my leave for the day. Cover for me, will you Georgie lad, I may be gone a few.`

When the fare's dropped off, Tyrone heads back to his garage, to give the taxi it's daily check up, then he tucks in to his mid afternoon meal, and grabs a bit of a nap. Some time going over the transmission of his rally truck follows, when he realizes he'd best be off. A quick network check, and he triggers to door release, taking off with his two slave taxis following at a decent clip behind.

At ten to ten, the massive troll pries himself out of the front seat of his cab, which is parked just down the street from Siren. The other two cabs are parked a couple blocks beyond that. When five to ten rolls around, Tyrone makes his entrance, adjusting his cap as he lets his eyes get used to the light.
Kurukami
0845 - atop an apartment building in Notting Hill

The loose gravel that had escaped the roof's tarry grip gritted under Stone's bare feet as he took his stance and began. He always enjoyed the morning ritual, getting out and having the space all around him in which to run through kata. His apartment, large as it was, was not quite spacious enough to permit the sweeping motions that the hapkido kata required.

The rising sun shone with a bloody light through the haze that fouled the air. Away to the east, across the archipelago of rooftops, the usually green expanse of Kensington Gardens was tinted with shades of rose. An omen, perhaps?

Time will tell. And speaking of time... Five minutes after the hour was a strange moment to rendezvous. Maybe the employer in question was just being clever about the meet, though, trying to throw off any impressions generated by a substantial number of questionable people crowding through Siren's front door at the stroke of ten.

He let his thoughts drown in the patterned movements of the kata, putting distractions aside as he flowed through the motions time and again. Half an hour later, with patches of sweat darkening the athletic shirt he wore, he straightened from the final sweep, bowed to the east, and descended the stairs back to his apartment to shower.

At the very least it will be a welcome change of pace. I will have to contact those above me, though, and inform them of my engagement.
Kurukami
2203 - down the street from Siren's

Stone waited in the darkened mouth of the alley, taking in the panorama of Commercial Street. Siren's was a good fifty meters away or more through the light evening drizzle, but the magnification hardware that nestled behind his retinas allowed him to study faces as though they were only a few meters in front of him. Most of those who had entered the nightclub in the past twenty-five minutes were nothing but toffs and suits, but there were a few...

At five minutes to ten, the troll who was only a few centimeters shorter than he, prying himself out of the cab which was parked halfway between Stone's position and the club.

At ten p.m. precisely, with the carillon striking the hour, the short human who from his features was most likely Irish. The way he moved, smooth, always balanced, suggested a practitioner of some form of martial arts.

There were a few others who had caught his eye as possibles, but... well, time would tell. Stone glanced at his wristwatch one last time and stepped fluidly away from the alley's wall. Time to go to work. He walked swiftly down the damp sidewalk, the hood of his Ulysses greatcoat keeping the rain off his scalp, and ducked through the entrance to Siren's with five seconds to spare.
Rakshasa
Some would say that O'Toole had tunnel vision when it came to work. Not his eyesight, you understand, that was 20-20. No, it was to do with concentration. But then, those that said such a thing didn't really know the soldier at all.

The Siren was, as expected, crowded out. Where people got the money to party all night in the back end of Whitechapel, Piper couldn't figure. Besides, the whole area was sleazy, certain to end in a fight, or the death of some misbegotten term before dawn broke.

He headed for the bar, eyes nowhere and everywhere. Suits abounded, along with their female attachments, but that wasn't what Piper was looking for. Runners have a certain aura about them. A kind of `I'm not really here so don't look at me' feeling to them which, over the years, Piper had learnt to identify.

Even a place like the Siren attracts all kinds, you name the breed and it'll be somewhere in the joint. The troll by the door. The one in the greatcoat. Yeah, probable. Maybe even that tasty piece of skirt that had just wandered in. "Gimme a shot. Irish." Piper's voice was low but penetrated to the trained ears of the bartender. A single woman without a friend was either a brass or a runner, almost by definition. By the look of her, either could be the case.

The shot glass appeared like magic and filled with a light amber liquid. No chance of it being what he ordered of course, but drinking it would while away a few minutes and put something in the adept's hand - just in case - without raising suspicion. Piper paid for the sour tasting spirit, no better than 5% proof by his reckoning, and leant his back against the bar, continuing his survey of the Siren's denizens.
Kurukami
Stone made his way carefully through the crowd towards the bar, fully aware that his size made moving quickly a difficult prospect. The Irishman was already at one end of the countertop, sipping at a shot glass and studying the crowd. Stone headed for the bar's middle and drew the pourer's attention. "Guinness. A pint."

Once the stein was in his hand, he glided off towards one of the darker corners, where hopefully they had a reinforced chair or two. The thought of trying to perch his 700-kilo frame on one of the barstools was preposterous. He arrived at one such chair just before a pair of entwined, amorous elves who were clearly planning to use it as a snogging sofa, gave them a glowering stare, and took his seat.

And now, we wait. He took a sip from the stein of ale, which fit inside the breadth of his palm as neatly as a coffee mug would for a human's, and studied the figures and faces and heat-patterns of those around him.
Rakshasa
Sipping the foul tasting, so called whiskey, Piper let his mind wander over what he knew about this deal. What was it DeLande had said in that abominable French accent of his? The contact's name is Johnson. Jeses! The contact's always called Johnson! Whoever the original Johnson was, he must have had a bike and a girl in every port, to mix adages.

The troll had taken up a nice position, Piper noted. Far enough back and out of the way to watch the whole bar, almost, yet, with his large frame, quite capable, the soldier guessed, of getting to any corner of the place should the need arise. So far, according to the short hairs along the nape of Piper's neck, said `need' hadn't, and didn't appear to be about to `arise'.

He gave the bar another broad scan. "Come on Mr Johnson. Where the hell are you?" Piper, getting bored fast, decided to check out his assumptions. Well, one of them at least. He drained the shot glass and called the barman. "Two pints o' Guinness." He laid nuyen on the bar and lifted the dark ale, one in each hand. Side-stepping inebriated patrons, the soldier made his way into the gloom and the seated troll.

"Seat taken?" Piper nudged a chair nearer the table and sat on it, putting a glass of ale down and sipping the other. "Kinda crowded, an I'm waiting for someone. Hope you don't mind?" He sipped again, watching the troll over the rim of the glass. Of course, if he was wrong, he could always apologise and shift his ass somewhere else - if the troll'd let him that is.


Kurukami
Stone raised an eyebrow at the Irishman's audacity. Still... If his guess as to the vocation of the small man was correct, there was little harm in being social. "Not at all," he replied, forming each word precisely. He narrowed his Asiatic eyes at the Irish in consideration. "I suspect that there are many people in this place tonight who expect to meet someone shortly."

He drained what little remained of his stein of ale with a single motion, then set the empty gently on the wooden tabletop. And that leaves me with a solid item to fling if it comes down to it.
Mysterio
Deuce strolls into the Siren, cocky as always. Cigarette in his mouth, he flashes his sly elven smile at some of the ladies. They in turn give a sexy smile back. He's dressed fine and didn't care if they wanted him for his money or his looks. The two complimented each other nicely he often thought.
He wanders over to the bar and puts out his cigarette.
"What'll it be sir?" asked the barkeep. Deuce, not even glancing at the barkeep orders himself a glass of chardonnay. Being told that such drinks aren't served there, he agrees to have the house wine. The barkeep quickly fetches him the tall glass and deuce lays down some nuyen on the counter. The barkeep scoops it up and while Deuce begins to light a cigarette, he remind the barkeep that he wants his change.
"And be quick, I'm meeting someone..."
Kurukami
Stone threw a glance over towards the bar, scanning for whoever his contact might be. He doubted it was the Irish -- if it was, the man would have known his identity and not beaten around the bush. The other troll had taken a seat against the eastern wall, which was hardly the wisest position to observe from, and appeared to be waiting similarly. That ruled him out in Stone's mind.

And then... then there was the chain-smoking elven dandy who had just strolled in as though the place belonged to him. The amplifier and sound filtration hardware cut the ambient noise in the room to a dull background hum, and Stone listened with curiosity as the fop tried to order Chardonnay and settled for the Siren's undoubtedly watered-down house wine.

No, definitely not him either. Johnson's tend to be a bit more... discreet.
Rakshasa
Piper realised that the troll was scanning the bar in much the same way as he was himself. Seemed like there was every chance that he would turn out to be a fellow runner on whatever the caper was.

The noisy Elf who had just arrived, calling for some posh drink and eyeing up the talent, captured Piper's attention. There was a certainty of recognition, at least of the type, if not the person. You don't run without gaining a knowledge of who else is in the game, and this Elf fitted the descriptions Piper had heard from various quarters.

And that makes four. Two heavies, a dandy Elf and me. He glanced again at the eye candy which had come in earlier. Maybe five. Now all we need is the Johnson.
Mysterio
Deuce sat at the bar and surveyed the room. He wasn't looking for anyone that may appear to be a runner, or a Johnson for that matter. Deuce was more interested in the women. There was one girl in particular, a burnette human, dancing not too far away that caught his eye.
Doesn't seem to be with any guy, looks like she'd here for the pick-up. He downed his drink, and lit another cigarette.
Where the frag is this damn Johnson?
It was at that moment that the dancing burnette glanced in his direction and then quickly looked away. Deuce smiled and gave a puff on the smoke.
Maybe Mr. Johnson can take a little while longer...
Drain Brain
Engaged as they were in various conversations, their own thoughts, or clandestine inspection of the Siren’s multi-faceted clientele, the runners could well have been forgiven for failing to notice the arrival of their Johnson. For the more perceptive amongst them, a middle aged man in a now-drying raincoat could be noticed stepping in from the cold outside, shaking off an umbrella and frizzing unkempt, wet hair with a gloved hand.

The man stood by the door for a short time, shrugging a small leather satchel off his shoulder and peering across the bar. Although he could have been anybody, his making a point of lingering on each of the runners was at least indicative of recognition. With a brief detour to the bar, he made his way to an empty booth, squirming to the far end of the bench seat, with his back to the door – which in and of itself was odd. He did, however, continue to stare in turn at six of the bar’s patrons…

It was quite clear that this man, sweating brow hidden under lank brown locks, wanted to somehow get the runners attention, but even still it looked like he was going to jump out of his skin when the first of them - a diminutive human man with a long black coat - bit the bullet and crossed to Johnson's table
Rakshasa
The time had long past for the Johnson to appear, very much to the irritation of Piper who, with his military background, was used to punctuality. Yet none of the patrons of the Siren looked like being someone with a task they needed sorting. Let alone having the money to hire runners.

The bat wing doors clattered, allowing cold wind and the smell of rain to waft into the bar, along with a raincoated dweeb of a man. For the briefest of moments, Piper found himself in eye contact with the newcomer, but it broke almost immediately as the nondescript continued to cast his gaze around the bar.

Piper watched as the man moved, not going to the bar, as he had expected him to but, instead, making his way to a small, surprisingly empty, booth where he sat, back to the door. The back end of Whitechapel was clearly not one of this guy's usual haunts. No one who had the first inkling of this part of London would sit with their back to an entrance. And certainly not in the Siren with its notorious reputation.

That's it! Piper realised it was the rep which had made this place the obvious choice for a meet. A Johnson who had need of runners, particularly if he had never hired some before, would choose a known `sleazy dive'. Naturally, he would think, runners on the lookout for work, or a good workout, would frequent such a place. And this Johnson was a novice when it came to the shadows, as evidenced by his lack of care in where, and how, he sat.

Piper glanced at the troll. "Think that might be my man." He pushed the other glass of Guinness toward the troll. "Here, you might as well have this." He carried his own glass, half full, and moved toward the jumpy and sweating man in the booth.

Before he could shoulder his way through the crush of half drunk patrons, Piper found himself pre-empted. A man, smaller than Piper himself, made it to the booth and sat down.

Piper hovered, sipping Guinness, and waited to see what would transpire, still certain that this was the Johnson he, and the rest, whoever they turned out to be, were waiting for.
Kurukami
How curious, thought Stone. The recent entry certainly could be the Johnson, given the way he behaved -- clearly looking for someone, somewhat discreet, yet not in possession of the presence that had identified some of the others to Stone's eyes. The prospective Johnson's choice of seating was abysmal, though -- first, with his back to the door; second, in one of the booths that was far too tiny to fit a troll of Stone's stature. Additionally, any attempt by him to communicate with the man now sitting in the booth near the door would draw a substantial amount of attention, which Johnsons usually preferred to avoid.

He leaned forward to sniff at the Guinness the Irishman had left, focussing his augmented hearing on whatever conversation might be going on across the floor.
Silverspur_2020
06:00

Waking to the sound of the beep of her terminal, Sandy got out of bed and pulled on her dressing gown before watching the message play several times over making sure that she understood what the client would want. Just the sight of this pervert on her video phone made her feel dirty, so without hesitation she deletes the message and decides to go and shower. Enjoying the powerful hot water jets pound her body she plans her day, making sure she has plenty of time to get ready for the evenings meet.

Later on, dressed in a smart and stylish Zoe~ Trouser suit she rings Pete to make sure that he will be able to pick her up this evening and see if he can work the area so that he can pick her up when needed, letting him know that even though he doesnt usually work that patch... she will reward him enough to make up for any money he may or may not have lost out on. Then she checks the stock market to see how things are shaping up... happy that eveything is going fine she sets the alarm and heads into town.


08:30
Stood at a distance, she watches a young and very beautiful Elven girl climb out of a car and go running into school to meet her friends. Sandy smiles, even though her heart feels heavy at being so near yet far. Maybe one day....
Turning on her heel and walking back to her car she gets out the well used pocket secretary and dials up a couple of people who she knows are in need of work. "Listen, Ive got a job for you which I think you might be interested in...." Being the middleman was always a fun game, like a skilled game of chess you always made sure you kept the upper hand from the other player and only put them into check when you were sure you could get mate


18:00
Her own bussiness having been taken care of, and all instructions having been given, Sandy puts on some music as she stands in front of her ample wardrobe and looks for the most appropriate outfit. Knowing the club, she knows she needs something slightly slutty yet professional enough to show that shes good for the job. Too much of one of the other and it could all go horribley wrong!

22:00
Having just got out of the cab, Sandy turns and thanks Pete and pays him for his work so far as well as the plentiful tip that she promiced. "You take care of yourself Miss Jackson, I know you can but that doesnt stop me worrying! When you need me just give me a call and I will be right over" She couldnt help but smile at this mans genuine feelings. "Im sure I will be fine Pete, but thanks for the thought! See you later!!"
and with that she walks into the club, feeling and looking fantastic! Wearing her hair pulled back into a ponytail, she has obviously spent time expertly applying her makeup to show her Elven features and ebony skin tones. There is just the hint of blue glitter applied around the eyes to not only draw attention to them but to also match her top, which was a tight black little number with blue sparkles and cut low enough to give men an idea of her ample cleavage but not too low to have it on display! Wearing a plain black thigh length skirt it looks innocent enough to the casual observer, but if a man were lucky enough to get his hand up it (which he wouldnt be!) he would find a small concealed holster housing a Walther Palm Pistol! and as she hadnt antcipated any need for running tonight, she was wearing black stilettos to make her legs look that bit longer!
Mixing with the other women in the club she orders a bottle of orange from the bar... doing this for two reasons, one because she wanted to make sure she was clear headed, and two so that she knew it wasnt spiked! To anybody who was watching, she was just anther women out for a good time.
Heading out to the dancefloor she starts dancing with a human women who appears to be enjoying herself, this was she can just tell the men that she isnt "that way inclined" but it also gives her the perfect excuse to move, look around and watch the room without sitting in the corner and looking conspicuous. Just like that Troll over there....
As the man walks into the club, she spots him straight away and would have gone over and made it look like she was flirting with him and some man not walked over there. But nevermind... instead she changes tactic, and leaves the dancefloor as though she has had enough for a little while.
Heading over confidently she looks directly at the man and smiles sweetly...."Mind if I take a seat hunny?"
Mysterio
Deuce was enjoying himself at the club. The sights, the sounds...the women. The burnette lost Deuce's attention as soon as he saw the elven girl come into the bar. Gorgeous he thought. He watched her go on the dance floor
And a great body...nice moves Finishing his cigarette, he puts the butt out and stands up, adjusting his tie, straightens his jet black ponytail and then begins to head over.
Much to his dismay, the gorgeous elven woman makes her way off the dance floor and over to a booth in the corner.
She didn't come in with him...and if I have anything to do with it, she ain't leaving with him
Deuce confidently makes his way over. He's picked up many women in his time, She won't be any different As he approached the booth he noticed the man sitting there. What would she want with that guy?
"Mind if I take a seat hunny?" He over hears her say to the seated man. before he could answer Deuce says "Excuse me, I was wondering if i could buy you a drink, or at the very least, have a dance?"
Kurukami
Damn it. Chances are that's the man I'm here to meet, Stone grumbled to himself. The primary difficulty was that any of the three alternatives to approaching the contact were likely to draw a great deal of attention.

First, of course, he could simply walk across the crowded floor, but with no way to fit into the booth across the way he'd stand out like a sore ten-foot thumb.

Second, he could walk across and sit down on the floor near the contact. That, however, had the double negative of both drawing attention and demeaning himself by sitting on the less-than-clean floor.

Third, he could pick up the chair he was sitting in, assuming it wasn't chained to the floor, and take it across the room to the booth. That was the most tempting, but the sight of a troll hefting a sofa across the dance floor would undoubtedly draw far more attention than either of the previous options.

There was, however, a fourth alternative that suddenly popped into his mind -- a quiet method which could bring all interested parties to the far more controllable location where he was currently sitting, and which meant he didn't have to wade across the dance floor.

He slipped his hands into his pockets to retrieve a Euro coin, a pen, and a small piece of paper from his notebook.
Silverspur_2020
Feeling slightly irritated at this slimy little Elf trying to chat her up... Sandy sits down just accross from the suspected contact, "No thank you, In case you hadnt realised, I have just left the dancefloor and I have a drink already!" and Sandy indicates her bottle of OJ. Hoping that he would clearly get the hint that he stood no chance.
Mysterio
Deuce smiled. "Of course, how silly of me"
A challenge...
Not paying any attention to anyone else at the table, he sits down across from her. "My name is Deuce" and he extends his hand for a friendly handshake
Silverspur_2020
Still wondering if this was just another tactic to get into her underware she simply shook his hand, "Sandy"
Silverspur_2020
Still wondering if this was just another tactic to get into her underware she simply shook his hand, "My names Sandy... no jokes please, ive heard them all" and with that she hoped this was the end of it.
Mysterio
Cold, very cold... Though not one to give up so easily, Deuce knew if he kept up the pressure, then there would be no chance of...well...drinks afterwards. He smiled sweetly, "Pleasure is all mine..." then fished a cigarette out of his pocket
Drain Brain
Looking somewhat like a rabbit in the headlights of an advancing truck, newbie-Johnson stared at his visitors. As they introduced themselves he looked at each, confusion clouding his face. Then, with a resigned sigh, settled back into his chair to waot until they had finnished their pleasantries. As Deuce lit his cigarette, the Johnson cleared his throat.

"Erm, excuse me," he said quietly, " I think I'm meant to be meeting some people here... are you Ms. Jackson?" He faced the elven woman as he spoke, pointedly ignoring the puffs of smoke crossing the table in his direction. Her nod was enough encoragement for him to continue.

"I think I've seen some others in here for our meeting - would you like to help me? I understand you're... fairly good at talking to people. The troll on the far side of the room, aparently called "Fridge?" - he's one. And the other at the table in the back... and, oh... this gentleman here in the soldier costume, sorry uniform and Mr - er, Bandwidth Bob here. Erm..." He took out a small sheet of paper from his top pocket and scanned it once before continuing. "My employer has arranged with the management here for a room to be set aside "out back." If you want to come through when you're ready? I'm sure there will be drinks and nibbles..."

Leaving a trio of astounded and/or confused runners around the table, he picked up his soda and crisps and made for the bar and the rooms beyond.
Rakshasa
Piper stopped in his tracks. The dweeb, in agitated conversation with a couple of elves and a strange, blond headed guy in a raincoat, suddenly up and left the booth, heading for the bar.

What was there to do? He turned and looked pointedly at the Troll he had just left and shrugged.

Although there was no doubt in Piper's mind that the dweeb was, indeed, the Johonson. Who else would collect such a disparate band around him and then have them follow wherever he was off to? The Irishman considered it prudent to hang back a little to see where the little party was headed.

Watching them, he felt air pushing toward him and realised that the Troll had vacated his large seat and had joined him.

"Might as well tag along, don't you think?" Piper looked at the Troll, waiting for his approval.
Kurukami
"Indeed", rumbled Stone quietly in reply. "Apparently the contact's choice of seating was not as unfortunate as I had originally thought."

"Thank you for the Guinness, by the way. I find it a refreshing substitute for... food." He raised his stein in salute and began to slip around the dance floor, angling to intercept the Johnson's party without disrupting too much of the mass of dancers.
Mysterio
Holy drek, is this our Johnson? Can't be....can it? sitting puzzled for a second, Deuce finally figured that it was, indeed, their Johnson. Well at least that'll give me a chance to show Ms Sandy there what I'm made of and he grinned, hoping no one was watching.
Finally, as the Johnson headed towards the back room, Deuce got up and followed him.
Digital Heroin
While he was waiting, Fridge had scored himself a pint of the black stuff, and lifted a whole bowl of peanuts. When he sees the others gathering he moves to join them, much to the releif of the stool he'd been sitting upon. No sense in being left behind for a meet, now was there?
Drain Brain
For anyone who's actually been in the back of a British pub, the room would come as no surprise. Anyone else would be forgiven for losing their lunch.

The space quite obviously hadn't been re-decorated since the 50's - the Nineteen-50's - and was curiously dimensioned. The ceiling would certainly be no trouble for the trolls at well over 12 feet, but squeezing them all in amongst the stacked red-velvet chairs and folding tables would almost have been an issue were there but a few more of them.

As the Johnson had promised, there was a table of mediocre-looking buffet food, complete with pre-corked bottles of the house wine, both white and red, of course...

It was shaping up to be a party...

The runners entered the room after the Johnson, who appeared to be a little more at ease now, out of the sight of the general public. He was seated at the far end of the room with a glass of wine in hand, munching delicately on a breadstick. He watched them enter and gestured to seats already laid out for them.

"Hi... thanks for coming." He mumbled. His words gave an air of the old cliché: "Unaccustomed as I am to public speaking..." He grabbed his case and pulled forth a top-of-the-line pocket secretary, smartly plugging it into a battered looking wall projector. He took out his little paper note once more and faced the group.

"Right. Hello everybody, my name is Johnson. You're here because my superiors have a job they need doing, urgently, and you all come highly recommended." It did seem like he was reading from the sheet of paper. "Understand that I can't tell you specifically what it is until you have agreed to the task, so the basics will have to do: You must find something, somewhere in London, as soon as possible. We don't know who has it, but we know a place to start looking. Opposition should be minimal, if at all, and the payment offered is five hundred nuyen per day, with a final payment of two-thousand upon return of the... item... pending confirmation of it's validity. Additionally, for every day under 1 week that you come in, there will be an additional bonus per head of one thousand nuyen."

He looked up at the runners. "Any takers?"
Rakshasa
Piper had sauntered into the back room not knowing what to expect. The sight of the manky buffet and the dweeb, sitting like a Lord, at the end of the room made him laugh aloud, but he recovered quickly and turned the bellow into a sort of strangled cough.

He pulled a red velvet chair around, preferring to sit across it, and plonked himself down to listen as the room became claustrophobic, despite its height, filling with two trolls, two elves and three humans all in the same space. Least, Piper assumed the blonde and the dweeb were human.

The brief on the job didn't say very much, but then, Piper thought, it isn't meant to. Even so, Find something, don't know what, who has it or where it is, and deliver it. wasn't a lot to go on. But the money sounded good, and that's what they were all here for - wasn't it?

"Count me in, Mr Johnson." Piper rose and lifted a small triangular sandwich with curling crusts from a plate on the table, opened it and peered inside at the smeared fish paste. He replaced it, shuddering, and picked up a breadstick instead before returning to his seat.

Silverspur_2020
lets see if we can squeese a bit more out of this little man... Sandy thought to herself as she flashed one of her brilliant and knowing smiles towards the nervous looking Johnson. "Well, it certainly does seem like a sound offer. but then there are other costs involved... such as petrol, bribing of people if need be to name but a few! how about we increase the amount by a pleasent sum for both parties? by say 50% per head?" Lets start with a high ball and see where we can go from here...
Mysterio
Sitting down in the little room, Deuce looked around at the dump that was to be their meeting place. Holy drek, this place should be torn down. Street meat live in better dumps than this
He looked around at the rest of the crew. Amateurs...I'm always given amateurs.
The Johnson began to give his obviously poorly rehearsed speech and terms. "...You must find something, somewhere in London, as soon as possible. We don't know who has it..."
FRAG what do you know!?!
"... but we know a place to start looking...."
Well that's a start
"Any takers?" asked the Johnson
Deuce had to admit, the payoff sounded good. Too good to be true. Minimal opposition, find some item..how hard could it be? Heck was a team of runners needed? He could probably do this on his own and still be home in time for dinner.
"Count me in, Mr Johnson." said someone from behind Deuce. Great...dead weight...
"...how about we increase the amount by a pleasent sum for both parties? by say 50% per head?" asked the lady Deuce had already had the pleasure of meeting.
Deuce was somewhat amazed. He admired her initiative. Most women he knew acted like mindless beings in most situations. just going along for the ride until the money wore out. Hopefully she plays as tough when things get hot as she has so far tonight. he smiled as he threw his cigarette on the floor and stepped on it, extinguishing the butt.
"I'm with her"
Drain Brain
The Johnson frowned at the pair of "uppers." "An expense account will be made available with limited funds, in advance, to cover such costs. Two thousand in sterling, since it's for domestic usage. Any expenses beyond that will be considdered pending completion. The fee itself, however, is non-negotiable I'm afraid, and as we're in a little hurry, I'm afraid we can't afford to argue the point."

Possibly, just slightly, a little bit of a harder edge crept into the voice. "Are you in?"
Rakshasa
The Irishman crunched his breadstick, "Don't sweat it me little colleen, you neither me dandy friend. In my experience, most runs have some sort of side benefit. You just have to look for them. Besides, an expense account is something I, for one, could get very used to."

Piper finished the breadstick and helped himself to a small glass of, what turned out to be, a passable white wine, to wash the crumbs down.

Kurukami
A scavenger hunt. Quite intriguing, that. Having dismissed the chairs as entirely inadequate, Stone stood at rest, eyeballing the food spread across the rather small table and listening to the bartering and bantering. Most of the edibles were of dubious quality, although the devilled eggs didn't look half bad. Ghu only knew how long they'd been out, though, and without any sign of a container of either Tabasco sauce or a fine curry he dismissed what was available as less than appetizing.

With an mental sigh, he turned his full attention back towards the discussion. When he spoke, he kept his deep, rumbling voice relatively soft, letting the syllables roll precisely out of his mouth. It would not do to leave the others with the impression they were dealer with the usually dull trollish individual.

"I conditionally accept your offer, based upon the quality of the information you are able to give us. At the very least, it is important to know the item's dimensions and details, and the last place you believe it was located. The reasons why your superiors believe it went missing would also be useful."

He fixed the small Johnson with an inquisitory stare and waited, motionless as his nickname.
Digital Heroin
`Look 'ere, I'm inclined to think that if you're in a rush, it can't be such a simple thing, and you'd be willing to give some jockey for the consideration that we're all professionals here, and professionals don't expect to be goin' under the lamp.`

Tyrone manages to say this around a mouthful of food, and to keep the disain from his voice as well. He's not exactly seasoned, but a slide show and lecture notes hardly seem pro.

`But if you're gonna be a dicky die doo about it, well I guess I'll have to settle, once I've got some info about what we're looking to haul away with 'ere.`
Silverspur_2020
Sandy supressed the smile that she had managed to squeese some more money out of this guy..."Yeah im in, assuming I am happy with the further details of what you want." With that she simply goes silent, the balls in his court now, and its time to see if he can use it.
Drain Brain
The Johnson regards the runners with growing ease, the "bumbling idiot" receding into the background as a guise more resembling a college lecturer surfaces.

"Very well. It seems that we shall progress no further without more information, so here goes." He taps a few keys on his P-Sec and an unpleasant passport-style 2D image appears on the wall depicting a late-middle aged caucasian man. The Johnson clears his throat and enters into a "briefing."

"This man is Robert Borstad, formerly on the household staff of a prominent member of British High Society. Three days ago, Mr Borstad left his employer's home with a satchel full of documents and other items. It is this satchel that you must retrieve.

"Unfortunately, Mr Borstad is no longer in possession of the case, being as how he suffered a mild case of death."

The Johnson looked around for any response to his hard-sought joke, but returned immediately to the briefing when it wasn't forthcoming.

"It would appear that Mr Borstad was taking the case to... someone... and that that individual wanted it urgently, as he travelled at night. On foot. We can safely assume that he was not of sound mind in so doing, because he entered through the Lambeth Containment Zone. From what we can gather, he encountered a gang therein, who pursued Mr Borstad - probably with the intent of robbing him. Various items of CCTV footage show him fleeing into an abandoned building with them in pursuit." Another keystroke, and a 5 second sequence shows a form resembling the man from the photo enter a building, followed by approximately six adolescents dressed in denim and leather clothing.

"In the morning, a high threat response unit found Mr Borstad lying in an alley adjacent to the building, stripped of any possession of worth, directly beneath a fire-escape which has come away from the wall - recently, it would seem."

"We want that case."
Silverspur_2020
Listening intently to what is being said Sandy starts thinking.....and then when Johnson is finished giving the brief, she says in a bussinesslike tone of voice, "I think I already know the answer to this question... If we take this job is there any chance you would give us the information as to who these members of high society are? because if we can find out who would want to act against them then we will immediatly have a short list of who might have that case. Also, has the body been confirmed both visually and DNA as Robert Borstad? because it has been known for people to do this sort of thing after having left employment"
Rakshasa
The more he saw of the dweeb, and listened to him speak, the more Piper thought there was more to this nondescript man than met the eye. It was almost as though he was putting on an act for the assembled runners. The Irishman had been on enough film sets to recognise a consummate actor when he saw one, and Mr Johnson seemed to be such.

Having already agreed to do the job, Piper felt free to contemplate what the run would entail, despite the lack of actual information. Way back in the early part of the century, there had been several similar cases. A factotum nicking gear, or important papers from the old Royal Household and then selling to the highest bidder. Nothing new there, then.

But getting croaked whilst in the process of nicking, that was new. Borstad was either a patsy and had been set up to acquire the satchel, or he was working alone, despite what the dweeb had said. To Piper's mind the former seemed the more likely. Why else would the man go into the less than salubrious part of town where, allegedly, his body had been found. If he'd been working for himself, he'd have a ready made bolt hole and a ready made way of making the satchel turn into cred sticks. But then, fencing the gear might require him to have a meet where he was found. It'd be easy enough, either way, to pay the young thugs to bump him.

On balance, Piper's gut feeling was that there was a Mr Big, somewhere in the background. A trusted flunkey for the Aristocracy wouldn't know too much about the underworld.

The CCTV footage had seemed familiar to the soldier. Finally he placed it. Warehousing along the Lambeth Bridge Road. Well over two hundred years old, some of them were, despite the various re-developments, and between them was a rabbit warren of streets and alleyways. And, across the river, Horseferry Road, the Embankment and the old MI5 building. not to mention the Ministry of Agriculture. Not that either had anything to do with the run, it simply meant that Piper could visualise the area more clearly.
Blitz
:: Having listened quietly from the shadowy corner, the stacks of rubbish and discarded supplies assisting the shadows in concealing her perfectly, Tyen considers her options. ::

:: The money was fair, if he was upfront about the arraingment. If he was holding back, which they all do, then it could turn out to be moot how much the pay was for. Still, the assembled group seemed capable and the job seemed right up her ally. ::

:: The rich were a hotbed of lies, trickery and conspiracy and perhaps these documents would help her even more than the Johnson. Who knows what secrets lie in those pages. The more she thought about that fact alone, the more she was convinced that she, too, would take the job. ::

:: Sliding silently from her hidden spot, the shadows seem to dwell on her before releasing just enough for her to be seen less than a meter from their host. Her silence, making her appear almost out of nowhere. ::

"Da. I too, weell take job."

:: Her accent is heavily russian influenced, and she definately is not a native english speaker. She stands in real leather pants and vest over a charcoal sweater and a long black secure coat. Her boots are unusual, up to the knee in what seems to be waterproof leather with all maner of buckles holding the bottom heavy soles to the boot. Her hair is long and straight and though it shadows her face, her image is impossible to determine due to a pair of black shades and a black mask over her nose and mouth. ::
Mysterio
Two women eh? deuce raised his eyebrow at the sight of this mysterious woman I could enjoy this run quite immensely
Not really needing or caring about the money, Deuce lit up another cigarette
Find a simple briefcase, pop a few bad guys, show this team how to do things...too easy
Digital Heroin
`You wonts a case? Well that outta be no problem. Y'don't have to worry yourself over that none.`

Tyrone doesn't seem to notice the grim details, but he does. He simply doesn't want to appear bothered. Not that a little gang violence and murder's a new thing to him.
Rakshasa
"Looks like you got yourself a Team, Mr Johnson. One way or another." Piper drained his glass as he looked at each of the assembled Company in turn, getting anything between toothy grins and shrugs.

"So now all you have to do is let us get on with it. Unless there's any more intel you can give us first?" Piper eyed the dweeb's bulging briefcase, guessing there would be some hardcopy in there for distribution, and pointedly nodded at it.
Silverspur_2020
Sandy sits still... watching everyone else say their piece, this was her chance to evaluate who did what and what they were like. She was happy that the team all seemed to be more professional then amature.... certainly the mage (or whatever she was) that had just stepped out from some sort of cloaking spell.
Drain Brain
The Johnson seemed pleased with the outcome, nodding sagely to himself.

"Very well. That being the case, here is all that I can give you." He pulled a small chip case from a pocket and handed it to Sandy, the closest runner. "This chip contains all the information we have access to - mortuary report on Borstad, police report, witness accounts and the CCTV footage. There is a number stored there also at which you can leave reports for me if necesary - although I'd be pleased if you could leave one every 24 hours to update me on your progress." From the same pocket he produced a credstick. "And here is your expense account. Use it wisely. And I think that's all - unless there are any questions?"
Blitz
:: Tyen remains motionless and silent, even her breath is hard to distinguish as she waits for the either the party or the johnson to leave. ::
Mysterio
Deuce watched as the johnson handed Sandy, seated next to him, the chip and credstick
Lucky it went to her, I think she'd be the only other person here I could somewhat trust..
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