Pimlico Wilson left the message for Sandman, A Johnson's calling for a crew for quite the quiet caper. May you muster your motley mob to Matchstick's for a meet on the morrow at midday?



"Hey, Sloan," Mike said, "a guy just reserved a private booth for noon tomorrow. Told me you might be interested in sitting in from what he's heard through the 'vine."

What a crumpet...

Sands jabbed at the "delete" key, ending its flashing request and flopped away from the telecom, dropping onto the bedraggled, holed sofa which acted as both his "entertaining friends" couch and his "too drunk to find the bed" sleeping aparatus, as the mood took him.

Lighting a cigarette, he pulled his scuffed-but-functional P-Sec from the pocket of his coat - laying in its customary place piled on the floor. Scanning the numbers in its memory, he tapped out a message for the attention of Seymore.

"Buttboy... Meet. Matchsticks at noon. Don't be late, or I'll cry my fraggin' eyes out. Love and hugs, S. and S."

Unceremoniously, the secretary took a lazy arc - thrown on top of the coat. Pulling his Max-Power from its shoulder rig he checked the load and stripped the flashlight - wouldn't need it for a midday meet. Placing the redundant illuminator in the Browning's foamed case, he delicately returned it to its home beneath his dresser and returned to the couch, grabbing the remote as he went...

Five minutes 'til "The Odd Coven," then the news, then maybe a beer and bed. Or not... we'll see...

Seymour gets the message, his eyebrows and pulse raise as he realizes he's going to get a chance to do another Shadowrun. He'd bought a black turtleneck and black jeans this time, not that it was especially needed with his Ruthenium, but it made him feel cooler. He looked around and realized he was already sitting in Matchsticks, his regular evening hangout after work, so he slid off the bar, and into a back booth, where he could put on his shades and watch for the criminal element. He dared anyone to come up to his table and say anything, he was the epitome of bad ass and he'd kick anyone's ass for try... "Scuse me, you mind if we steal this chair, one of my girlfriends wants to sit at my table with me.", some cocky looking elf asked, "Uh... no; it's ok", replied the ever vigilant Seymour. But if anyone ELSE comes up and wants to say something.... Well, there's just no telling what Seymour would do. He was only nice to the elf cause the elf's girlfriend really wanted to sit with Seymour, he could tell by the way she kept avoiding looking Seymour directly in the eye. Avoidance was a sure sign of desire.

Thyrian sat in the middle of his bed quietly meditating, feeling all the tension flow from his shoulders. Each breath slow and deliberate. In the nose, out the mouth.

Things had been quiet, prehaps too quiet. The last job had gone done pretty well, mostly straight forward, but then as they say any run you walk away from is a good run.

Standing up from the bed, stretching out his loosened muscles he moved over to the large work bench dominating the far end of the room. Various tools and contraptions littered the bench, wire cutters, small knives and various odd bits and pieces. Thyrian picked up a small pen off the bench, flipping it over his fingers the contemplated it a moment then placed it back down on the bench, grabing his jacket he headed out the door. Time for a break, wonder if anythings going down at Matchies tonight.

"Thanks for the head's up, Mike." Sloan raises his glass in a salute to the bartender and polishes off the remains of its contents. He tosses down a 10 note, "Again."

Mike smiles, "No prob, omae." The snappy dressing irishman holds a glass up to the light to ensure that its free of spots and lipstick stains. Satisfied, Mike fills the glass with crushed ice and places it in front Sloan before pouring an amber colored liquor over it. The bartender focuses on something over Sloan's shoulder, "hey, who's that poser?"

Without turning around Sloan picks up the motion of a black clad man in the mirror behind Mike. He smiles as he watches the man slide into a booth and slip on a pair of shades. The elf prick was practically icing on the cake. Sloan chuckles a bit and motions the bartender closer. "Mike, can you keep a secret?"

Mike puts his elbows on bar and leans in close. "You know the answer to that. Get on with it, man."

"That, Mike, is one BAD-ASS shadowrunner." Sloan winks. "You should treat him right."

"Bulldrek. He almost freaked when that elf took the chair."

"Its all an act, omae. Its all an act..." Sloan give his full attention to the liquor.

Mike shrugs and runs a had through the receding shock of red hair on his head, "Whatever you say." The bartender goes back to polishing the glasses.

Sloan laughs. "No. Seriously, chummer." He nods with a big smile on his face.

Mike does not appear as amused as Sloan.

"Okay, okay...don't worry about him." He waves his hand dismissively. "He's a good fella. A little misunderstood, but who isn't, right?"

Mike just stares at the runner.

"A'right forget about that." Sloan places a 50 note on the bar and pins it down with two fingers. "I'll have another."

Mike rolls his eyes, "You're not done with that one." He nods toward the drink Sloan is still holding.

"We both know I'll want another," He takes his fingers off the note and smiles. "You wouldn't happen to know anything about the guy that reserved the booth, would ya?"

Sloan fishes his cell out of his jacket pocket and dials Sandman's number from memory. "Hey Dip Shit, its Rook." He uses the loose code that they had come up with recently so the mage will know its biz transaction. "We should grab lunch tomorrow. Noon. Matchsticks. Tell the kids. I'm busy drinking. Get bent." With that, he closes the cell before Sands can blast him back.

Mike eyes Sloan as he wipes down the bar and the cred disappears as if by magic.

"I don't know the guy, never saw him before, or this time either for that matter. But when he called in the request from a voice only line, he seemed to know exactly how to go about reserving a private booth," Mike says in a low voice. "When I heard you were involved, and knowing you, I did a little checking."

Mike makes a tapping motion on the bar with a couple of fingertips mimicking the motion a lot of drinkers make for a refill. Sloan fishes out another 50, passes it as he sets down his drink and watches as it smoothly disappears.

"The same guy used the accomodations a bit over 2 months ago. He's in no way a regular here, but it looks like he's done something along this line before."

"Tell the kids... Get Thyrian, Get Carter. Hmm... Get Carter... sounds like a good title for a flick.."

Sands rolled off the couch, unceremoniously killing the Odd Coven on the tube and making his way to the jon for a dump. Between "pushes" he opted to call the final two team members - audio only of course.

"In nomine Thyrian, et Carterian, et Spiritus Jack Danielus, aaaaah-me-eh-en..." Sands made a little plainsong out of his task before dialing. Still in a "spiritual" mood, he opted to try and take the piss out of Thyrian as much as possible, but resigned himself that the stoic individual would not rise...

"Good day to you, most holy, humble and centred Thyrian. It is I, the calming, soothing and stable Sands on this apparatus of not-so-holy communion. Come to Matchsticks tomorrow at noo-oo-oon for a pilgrimage to the holy Lord Johnson. Come sooner if you want a beer... sanctified, of course."

Hanging up, he tried the Englishman, affecting a (rather good) British accent picked up in his school days on the island.

"Lucre, Sands. Matchsticks at 1200 tomorrow. Sooner for cocktails and a little work persuant to your personal inclination. Toodlepip."


The "kids" on line and all ablutions completed, Sands donned his coat and made for matchsticks himself, sending a message to Pimlico as he went:

"Pimlico - a possibility, perchance, of promptly placing a personal call - a call to capture a character on the chap who contracted for the convergance at the club? Callback. Sands."

Seymour sips on his drink, realizing suddenly that a Beer wasn't a good shadowrun drink. That was something to drink when he was roleplaying a dwarven fighter, now he'd need a good Shadowrun drink, and an old movie immediately came to mind. He waved the waitress over, the one that liked him, he knew that cause she also always seem to avoid looking at him directly. Finally noticing Seymours arm flailing wildly through the air, she made her way over, and in an exasperated sigh, which was unmistakenly a love sigh, she asks, "What?".

"Martini, shaken, not stirred.", Seymour replied in his best Sean Connery voice imitation. The waitress raised an eyebrow, she'd never done that before, but the curled lip thing he'd seen before, "A What? Never mind, I'll let the bartender know.", she quickly added on, realizing that she was too bashful to want to continue a conversation with Seymour. She was often bashful that way, one day she'd get up the nerve to ask Seymour out though, Seymour was positive of that. Not that he was too chicken-shit to ask a girl out, but he was waiting for just the right woman, not all these toothpick women who wouldn't make their own moves.

He took another sip of his beer, then pushed it away, as he suddenly realized he'd almost slipped into his Dwarven Battlerager persona. He'd wait for the Martini, which looked oddly the same as a beer, only in a smaller glass. "That'll be 5 Buttz.", the Waitress said as she placed the much smaller glass in front of him. Wow, it was twice as expensive as a large mug of beer, but he needed it to get into character. He slipped her the 5, and gave it a taste. Hmmm, tasted almost exactly like his beer, not sure why they'd pay twice as much for half as much of something that tasted the same, but if the Shadowrunners did it, so would he. He had a new favorite drink in this bar.

Seymour sips on his drink, looking out at the denizens, wait that's not right. Seymour sips on his drink, looking out at the wastes of society. Each wanted a piece of his pie, but he was a bad-ass Shadowrunner, and he wasn't going to just give them his pie. Hmmm, he tried to listen in on the barkeeper who was currently in a fit of laughter over something. He'd better not be laughing about Seymour, or there's no telling what Seymour might do.

Flashes popped. Onlookers goggled. Beautiful women jandered along the catwalk, clad in a variety of improbable, impractical and obscenely expensive outfits. It's a hard life, Lucas thought dryly. Swinging an invite to the fashion show had been worth it, in more ways than one. Keeping up with current fashions was important for his modus operandi, the social scene kept his skills sharp and as a side benefit - well, catwalk models, frequently wearing nothing much. Nuff said, really. Some part of him had wanted to bring Seymour with him, as a spectator sport if nothing else - a scene like this would have brought on Instant James Bond Mode - but Lucas was not a naturally cruel man.

The phone in his head bleeped - a message on his answering service.

-autodial 1

"Lucre, Sands. Matchsticks at 1200 tomorrow. Sooner for cocktails and a little work persuant to your personal inclination. Toodlepip."

Lucas hung up with a twitch of the jaw that produced a wholly appropriate wry smile. Sandman's British accent was pretty good, just about seven class levels above Lucas' own rather more humble origins. As he left the fashion show he caught a glance of himself in the mirrored walls. Not bad for a street rat from Watford, he mused philosophically, smoothing his lapels.

His car rolled up as he got to the entrance. Good service he thought, smiling cheerfully at the valet. "Thank you Jim, I trust she gave you no trouble."

"None at all, Mr. Kilroy," the young valet said, flattered the man he believed to be a fashion reporter had remember his name. Lucas tipped the kid and slid into the car. To Matchsticks, then.

Mike listens to the waitress relate the drink order. He looks at Sloan to see if this is for real, but he doesn't get any visual cues one way or the other. The bartender draws a draft, places a coaster over the rim and swirls the drink around a bit then pours it into a glass and sends it out.

Sloan gives him a funny look. "Well? What?" Mike asks.

Dear Sandman,
The dude thou do desire detailed did deeds as decker in days departed, demanded discrete doers for drama.

Devotedly, Pimlico Wilson

Pimlico,

Thanks for thoughful theories on the theme of things clandestine,
Caper cannot crumble if his story you are testing,
Tell of tales he trotted through the 'tron world in the past,
and Pretty yen will pile in to your purse for what you pass...

Suddenly sychophantic,
Saying Similies,
Seeking the Sight of Simple Stories,

Sands.

Thyrian had just stepped out of the buildinging as his phone rang. Shifting his jacket to his other shoulder he braced the phone between his ear and his shoulder as he dug around for his keys.

"Ah Sands, as stable as that whereafter you are named, shifting through time. You know I am not one to turn down the brew of the devine. As it happens I am over there as we speak. Prehaps we can discuss the art of self empowerment, through aquisition... of other peoples goods of course."

Starting his vehicle he hit the road, quiet meditative music playing over the disk.

Lucas parked across and a little down from Matchsticks, setting the antitheft and making sure the local toughs saw him set it. "With any luck," he said as if to himself but just loud enough to be heard, "nobody will get zapped this time."

Matchsticks was already buzzing when he entered. Some of the regular crew were already there: Sloan, pumping Mike the bartender for info; and Seymour, dressed up in black like a refugee from a trid show, trying desperately hard to look like a mean-as-hell-mofo in a corner while his tongue unrolled every time a good looking lass went by. Bloody good sec-rigger in a tight spot, Lucas thought dryly, but that boy really needs to get laid...

He slid onto a seat a little down from Sloan, nodding to the man briefly. "Mike, vodka and Red Bull please."

Sands tossed his carkeys onto the bartop and sat down on a stool with a huff. "Hey Mike... gimme a beer, huh?"

At his comrades' glances he spoke again. "I'm sick to death of wracking my brain for rhymes and alliteration and... stuff for that dick I call a fixer. Here, listen to this - it's what I just sent him for this job:

To give me advance information,
In detail or just in summation,
Will prove really good,
When we're out in the 'hood,
and beset by the whole of the nation.

I thought you might find me a Name,
Decker's good, but no more is a shame,
To provide what I Wondered,
Will earn you Two Hundred,
an Employer will earn you the same.

I know it's not duck hunting season,
But we could do with knowing his reason,
Turns out he's a quack,
Stabs us in the back,
I'll not find the whole game too pleasin'.

"Pain in the ass..."

Sands looked around the bar, taking a swig of the bottle Mike had provided. "I'm gonna sit with the Butt. See y'all in a bit..."

He moved slowly over toward the table occupied by the resident badass. It was missing a chair, so he grabbed one from an adjascent table. There were three elves there, but four chairs and glasses... odd. They spoke to him, but he ignored them. "Whatever..."

Turning the chair backward, he perched on it, resting his elbows on the back and leaning low over the table, affecting as conspiratorial a manner as possible.

"Seymour - what's going down, man? You look ready to pull someone's ears off... Seen anything to report, chummer? Anything important? Huh, omae? And what's with the girly glass of beer?"

Seymour smiled, it was one of those, "Hey, my long lost friend whom I never see, and has finally come to see me" type of smiles, often confused with the "Wow, someone's talking to me" smile that looked very similar under a certain type of light (that light level being anything above absolute darkness, btw).

He looked up at the elves stupid enough to be harassing his friend, he knew his glare would tell them he was not someone to trifle with. He waited til one actually met his gaze to finally drop his glare. He'd made his point. "Beer? Oh this, yeah, the bartender thinks he's funny. I asked for a martini and I get this, go figure, but I've never really accused him of having a brain or anything, so we'll let it slide.", he says with a wink. Damn... I KNEW it was a beer....

"Anywhos", he liked that word, it was so much cooler than saying 'anyhows'. "I was just kinda lookin over things in my head.", the annoying rambling of the elf behind Sands was distracting, but he'd learned from his mom years ago, she use to say, 'Ignore them, and they'll go away'. "Did you know that the east glacier end of Antartica was found to be resting on soil that has been deteriorating from beneath it? They give it 200 years before the eastern tip sinks and we all are walking with our heads underwater."

Seymour noticed that Sands was kinda ignoring him suddenly, but Sands was one of the cool types. He could be mean sometimes, but there was something to be said for someone who always had your back. Seymour would have Sands back in any fight, he almost dared those elves to keep pushing. There's no telling what Seymour might do if Sands hadda get in their loud faces.

Sands continued to stare at Seymour, concentrating on ignoring everything else, and trying to catch any reflections in the geek's oh-so-cool dark glasses that might signal someone finally getting upset with his pretend-glaring.

He took out and lit a cigarette, puffing a little cloud of smoke into the air over his shoulder.

"Seymour - stop glaring, you'll make them shit their pants... Cigarette?"

Here we go again, Lucas thought as Sands came in and swiped a chair from a nearby table over the protests of its clientele. Sands flopped down across from Seymour; Lucas, meanwhile, kept a wary eye on the elves in case any of them were drunk enough, testosteronal enough, or outright stupid enough to get in Sands' face about it. The elves looked like civilians, but even civilians these days had access to enough nasty toys to make life "interesting" - if taking a bullet was your idea of interesting. Personally, Lucas blamed... what was that trid show that ran in the 50's? Oh yeah ,Tek Trak Tonite. Suddenly everyone was getting the latest and greatest technology stuffed down their throats every Friday night, usually via some poor bastard runner cornered by the TTT staff and interviewed on some piece of gear. Idly, Lucas wondered what had happened to TTT. Probably the whole shebang were blown away by some samurai with hyped reflexes they ambushed for an interview, he reflected with a small smile.

The waitress warily winds her way toward the badass and his buddy's booth. She extends a datapad to Sands It displays a message: Sands, slot stick. Sandman supposes it is Pimlico and cringes as the cred slips away, replaced by another message.

Decker’s dubbed Willy Jack. Freelance for fathomable former time frame. Willing to wager Willy wants to enrich and expand electronic equipment.

Thyrian pulled into the nearest parking lot with a screeching of tires.
The sound of Enya pumping loudly from his ride. Adjusting his shades and pulling his leather jacket on he headed towards the club. Nodding at the bouncers at the door he moved straight to the bar. "I'll have whatever is blessed this fine hour." I hope he does not have some cheap crap on special this time.

Tossing some cred onto the bar Thyrian threaded his way across the room to the others. Noticing the lack of chairs around the table he paused a moment.

Turning to the other table occupied by the elves. "Ah excuse me good folk." When he has their attention he continues. "Would you be so kind as to let me use your spare chair."

Without awaiting an answer he picks it up and drags it over to the rest. Seating himself in it backwards, taking a gulp of Mikes "blessed".

"Greetings and salu.. ah bugger it.... Whatzup?"

DAMN! Forgot I had sunglasses on, they didn't notice my glare. Must try again, with a cool movement of the hand, well cool in that he didn't slap his face with it, but he did miss the sunglasses on the first attempt, Seymour removes his shades Oh... that's a guy elf.....

He prepares for his glare, contemplating how many dice he'd get to roll on intimidation if this were a real game. The thoughtful distraction, though not being enough to make his glare any less potent, did make him forget to glare, as he stared almost absentmindedly at the elves, who by now had turned away anywhos, damn he loved that word, as they seethed their way out of the Tavern.

"They were only 1st or 2nd level anyhows, they weren't worth the XP", he says out loud, eyes suddenly opening wider, as he realized it was truly said out loud. "I mean.... anywhos", heh, he got to use the word again, "round of drinks on me?"

He started to complain when none of his friends offered to buy a round too, and instead told the waitress that Seymour was buying drinks for the rest of the night. But, they were his friends, so he went with the flow. "Yeah, I get them tonight, you get them tomorrow", he added cheerfully. Though somehow tomorrow never seened to get him free drinks. Nonetheless....

Seymour leaned over, and in a hushed tone said, "So, we got some work to do?", he was definitely the leader of this group, he'd have to make most of the decisions, and getting them started was his job. That's because he was blessed, or perhaps cursed, with an 18 Charisma. He realized that he posed an intimidating figure, his size was nearly that of an Orc, people were scared of him, he figured with his Intimidation skill of 12, he wasn't necessarily the scariest, but it was high. He'd already calculated that he was at least a 6th level character, but he was confused about what Class he was in.

Oh... somebody was saying something.... Gotta quit daydreaming.

Sloan nods in greeting to the other runners as they arrive.

Turning back to Mike, he places another 50 on the bar, "Any chance you remember the crew he hired?"

Sloan used the mirror to keep an eye on the surly mage as he swiped the chair from the elf's table. The sam resettled his weight on the stool in case he had to move fast. The familiar itch started to creep up his neck. Sloan resisted the urge to scratch it.

Sands let a little grin slide onto his face as he noticed Thyrian pull a reprise of his chair-trick. "Yo, buddha, take a seat..."

"Greetings and salu.. ah bugger it.... Whatzup?"

"The usual. Buttboy has been scaring off the locals with his piercing, petrifying gaze."

"...weren't worth the XP" The two chair-thieves looked at him, perplexed. "I mean.... anywhos, round of drinks on me?"

"Dude... HEY SLOAN, SEYMOUR'S GETTING THE BEV'S IN TONIGHT..."

"Yeah, I get them tonight, you get them tomorrow. So, we got some work to do?"

"Indeed. Let's wait for the big-man and the dandy..."

The trio waited, sipping drinks, while Sloan spoke with the bartender. Only a few minutes later, and he and Lucas had joined them at the booth.

"So," Sands began, "Got a call from my fixer about a meet here tomorrow at noon. Done some checking on the matter, seems the principal may well be one "Willy Jack" - a freelance decker." He waited for a snigger at the name from the Brit, but he was too cool to let it out. "Figuring on some sort of tech-heist, if my source is to be believed. Sloan, you get anything from Big-M?"

A heartbeat's pause; then the elves obviously decided that they weren't going to push the envelope tonight after all. With a nod to himself, Lucas drifted over to the table in time to receive the benefits of Seymour's largesse.

"So," Sands began, "Got a call from my fixer about a meet here tomorrow at noon. Done some checking on the matter, seems the principal may well be one "Willy Jack" - a freelance decker."

A mouthful of vodka/Red Bull tried to go the wrong way down Lucas' throat. Knowing Sands was watching gleefully, he managed to keep a straight face, but any comment was forestalled by the need to breathe. Disappointed, Sands continued his impromptu briefing. "Figuring on some sort of tech-heist, if my source is to be believed. Sloan, you get anything from Big-M?"

Lucas cocked cocked an eyebrow at the large man; in the back of his mind, some part of his thoughts were already considering potential personas he might have to adopt to do his part of scouting out the objective.

"HEY SLOAN, SEYMOUR'S GETTING THE BEV'S IN TONIGHT..."

Sloan gives the mage a smile and the "thumb's up," before turning back to Mike.

With a final nod and a hand shake to Mike, Sloan heads over to the conspireing criminals and pulls the last chair from the elf's former table. He sits down normaly and leans one elbow on the table before draining the glass in his hand. The sam flags down the cocktail waitress and signals her for another.

So," Sands began, "Got a call from my fixer about a meet here tomorrow at noon. Done some checking on the matter, seems the principal may well be one "Willy Jack" - a freelance decker." He waited for a snigger at the name from the Brit, but he was too cool to let it out. "Figuring on some sort of tech-heist, if my source is to be believed. Sloan, you get anything from Big-M?"

Sloan absently scratches the back of his neck. "Well, all I got so far is that the guy that's gonna buy us lunch tomorrow has done this sorta thing before. Here. He's apparently not a regular but Mike gives me the impression that the J is probably a pro--or at least a vet." He shruggs and shuffles a butt out of the Llama Lights soft pack he produces from a jacket packet.

The waitress arrives and places the drink in front of Sloan. "Put it on his tab," he nods to Seymour. She flashes the sam a smile and nods. The runner takes a sip and lets the flavor seep into his taste buds. He looks up at the watiress and taps the glass with his free hand. "Damn, that's great. Do me a fav, honey, bring another one for my friend with the big credstick, 'kay?" As she turns to leave Sloan gives her a slap on the ass. She giggles her way back to the bar. "And tell Mike to use the stuff he gives me." He shouts over his shoulder at the retreating server. "Not any o' that other drek."

He lights the cigarette and takes a drag. "I asked 'bout the last crew, too. Figured we could look 'em up if something don't seem right, ya know? See if they're still walkin' and talkin' anyhow." Sloan takes another drag. "If it turns out these guys ended up as spare parts, might be worth a li'l more diggin', ya know?"

"Willy Jack.... I know that name. He ain't all that, only reason he's so good is his tech, but I could take him.", Seymour grinned as a thought crossed his mind, "I bet he's one of those nerd types that sits behind a computer all day, overweight, living in momma's basement, only bad-ass cause he ain't got to look you in the eye when he calls you those names." It's frightfully obvious that Seymour really doesn't think he just described himself in a way, after all, he's a Shadowrunner, not someone fantasizing about what it would be like to run in the shadows. "Hah, *snort* Heh I bet his mommy even does his laundry!", he starts to laugh so much that he can't control himself. Tears roll down his eyes everytime one of his gutteral throat snorts breaks his laughter. The wide eyes and raised eyebrows of those around him doesn't seem to have even the slightest deterrent on his laughter, and soon almost everyone is laughing from the contagious laughter. Not so much because Seymour is funny, AND HE IS FUNNY!, but because you just can't keep a straight face when someone is laughing this hard. Every once in awhile, he almost straightens up, then says "laundry" out loud and is off into bursts of laughter again.

After a few minutes he does calm down, but with all the attention on the table, the conversation gets delayed even longer, which throughout Seymour apologizes, though often through weak giggles. Oh well, it wasn't that funny anyhows. Seymour had only started doing his own laundry recently, and only cause his mom walked into his bedroom and noticed that he always had the same 3 outfits washed, and everything else was dirty and on the floor. She's probably go back to doing his laundry again once he got his room cleaned up, but drinking beers with the guys was a higher priority. Even she agreed with that.

"Erm, riiiiiight." Sands leant back a little and stretched out his shoulders.

"I have to pop to the 'mongers if we're going to be getting some serious work, see what I can get my grubby paws on. I'm all out of useful contacts for the technical side of the world - maybe you guys can come up with more.

"Bell me on the cell if you need me... laters..."

Standing up from the table, Sands kindly returned the chair whence he found it.

Outside, in his grubby old Americar, he lit a cigarette and pulled out into the traffic, heading for Diore's Talismonger shop, "Magicae Pulcher Novus."

Seymour watched as the elves returned, their demeanors showing they were looking for a fight. The others at the table looked scared, but Seymour wasn't scared at all. Time seemed to stand still as Seymour leaped over the table, one hand remaining on the table as he did a spinning whirlwind kick, catching 2 of the elves in the jaw. They went down, and good. Seymour pushed himself with his one arm, and went sailing over the other 2, coming up behind them and with a deft move, clipped one in the head with a drop kick, while the other stood there, a look of shock on his face. With strength beyond what Seymour looked capable of, he grabbed the last elf by the head, and flipped him so hard that he spun 360 degrees beflore slamming into the ground head first.

"Seymour! Seymour! Quit daydreaming...."

Huh? Seymour shook his head, he coulda taken those elves, nobody else better try anything or Seymour just didn't know what he might do.

"Decker tech, presumably," Lucas mused. "Not my area of expertise, but I might know someone a bit more clued in." His eyes unfocussed slightly in the manner his colleagues knew to mean he was using his headware phone.

-autodial oracle

*You've reached Mortimer Ficcatore's Funeral Parlour. Nobody's in right now, so leave a message. And don't worry - the dead seldom get deader!

Lucas grinned. Mortimer Ficcatore - Morti-Ficator, a hash word for someone who makes others dead. Just what you'd want in a funeral director... Oracle's sense of humour was getting weirder. Still, anyone dialling the number by accident would almost certainly hang up straight away, which was the point. Lucas had left messages for Werewolf Therapy, Kidneys-R-Us and Cenosilicophobiacs Anonymous before now.

-Hello Oracle, Lucas here. I was hoping you might be able to help me out. Seems one Willy Jack is putting a team together, including yours truly, to swipe some technology for him. Being as how he's one of the decker fraternity, I wondered if you might know anything about the gent or his technological tastes - or, for that matter, if his previous teams have eaten undue amounts of lead.

A thought impulse through the transducer cut the line, and he picked up his drink again. "Well, I've left a message. Whether my friend gets back to me or not - we'll have to wait and see."

[Double post... apologies...]

Pulling up outside Beautiful New Magic, Sands craned his head forward, looking through the windows. It was dim inside the shop - but then it often was - and he could not make out whether or not the establishment was "open for business."

Just in case, he took out the pencil stub kept always in his cigarette tin and scribbled a note on the envelope of some old circular mail he'd picked up... somewhere...

"Ella,

Sorry I missed you, my love, but I had business to attend. Those spell formulae you supplied worked out just fine, bu tI had to tweak them a little. I'll be needing some bits to make them work. If you could set your gorgeous mind to thinking up something appropriate, I would appreciate it - you know what I like - simple and effective.

Since I have your attention, there might just be a chance you have knowledge I could use on a matter... I was wondering if any of your clients ever mentioned the name "Willy Jack" in passing - either as Matrix Support or Johnson... I know the technical isn't necesarily your scene, but I do know your ears work just fine...

Let me know,

Love Nate

There was a ringing in Lucas' head. The call connected. Oracle appeared as a yellow ball bouncing over a transcript of the conversation.

In a French accented voice, Oracle says, "So Lewcas Carterre, Willee Jacque ees steel alive."

Lucas voices his puzzlement, "You sound like you thought he wasn't."

The ball bounced some more. "I have not heyered aneetheeng aybout leettle Willee foor at leeast trey months. Theyarre has been someone who might bee heem daykeeng around een thee last feeyew weeks."

"Might be?" Lucas repeated, catching himself before he applied the accent.

"I deed not know eef eet was heem. Hees eyecon ees not nearlay as reefined as thee old wone aynd hee dooes not seem to bee useeng thee same qualeetee eequipeement," explained Oracle as the yellow ball bounced over the grammatically correct spelling.

Lucas asked, "Any idea who he worked for or with?"

"Eey whas een eendeependeent, noo staydee eemployeer or cahroo."

"What's this guy who might be him been doing?"

"Ees beeyn asskeeng eenformaytion ayboot summ runnayrs whoo deed not feeneesh ay job they weere payed to do. That ees ayboot all I know. Thees helps, no? I can eexpayt some reenumayraytion een the yewzuayl maneer? Een line weeth thee valyew of thee dayta?"

"I'll slot the credstick in the ATM on 4th and Pine in..." Lucaschecked his watch, "half an hour. Thanks, Oracle."

"Day reeyan," Oracle said cheerfully, cutting the call. Lucas tapped the table thoughtfully, drawing the glances of the rest of the team.

"We may have a problem," he said. "Or at least... One moment, I'm going to conference call Sands in on this."

-autodial Sandman

For once, Lucas spoke out loud whilst using his headphone. "Sands, listen up. I just got some info that slightly concerns me." He glanced round the table at the others, lowering his voice slightly. "I just had word from a decker friend. They thought Willy Jack was out of the picture - he hasn't been seen on the nets for about three months, but then someone who might be him turned up. I stress the might because my friend said there was something funny about the icon - lower resolution, poor equipment, that kind of thing."

Lucas leaned back in his chair, hands steepled. "This happened to me once before," he said slowly. "What was her name? Diana? Yes, that was it. Except that it wasn't Diana, it was her sister using her gear, looking for Diana's kid. You see what I'm saying here?"

He looked expectantly at the others.

"You're saying "don't believe everything is as it should, pending confirmation," right? So basically you're saying that although we have a (probable) name and a (probable) reason, we don't actually know shit. So what you're REALLY saying, is that we're about to go to a meet with bugger-all info, which is standard, for a prospective employer we don't know from Adam, which is standard, for a purpose which could very well ass-shaft us at the drop of a hat... which is standard. Right?"

Sands paused momentarily, to catch his breath.

"I'm on my way back. See you in five."

Thyrian took a large swig of his drink, listening to the conversation.

"Well he is supposedly dead. Prehaps he somehow managed to escape but lost some his equipment in the process which means he could be looking for some new stuff to replace it. Or... he is dead and this is someone with some cheap junk posing at him to get some sort of rep to get someone to break into somewhere for something, so he can get some good stuff to make him look like some sort of a pro."

Thyrian paused a moment thinking over what he just said. "Um anyone got a better word than some?"

Lucas' brow creased as he considered Thyrian's comments. "I don't know... To look like Willy Jack, the counterfeiter would have to get hold of a copy of that decker's persona chips, or so I understand it; Diana's sister was using her old deck, which is why the icon looked like Diana. I suppose it depends on how bad a copy of the persona icon it is." He shook his head abruptly. "Decking isn't really my thing, I only came across this kind of situation that once."

Slaon takes a drag. "Mebbe Jack got flatlined in person. Mebbe the guy posin' as Jack, was the trigger. Or was there, at least."

"Could be. I think the point that needed to be made is, we may not really be dealing with Willy Jack tomorrow." Lucas shoved his chair back and got to his feet "Speaking of same, I'm going to go get my head down, and I'd advise you to do the same. "

Sands arrived back at Matchsticks only to pass Lucas at the door. The flash limey jumped in his Westwind and sped off in the direction of 4th and Pine.

"He off home?" Sands asked. He got a slow nod from Sloan, who never even took his eyes off his drink.

"So we're calling it a night or what?" Thyrian gave a sagely bow in confirmation.

"Right. Seymour - you want a ride home? Hey, what time do you have to be in by - I thought we might stop for a takeaway curry..."

Seymour laughs, Sands has obviously mistaken him for a nerd.

"I don't have a curfew you nut, Mom gave me a key so I could stay out late. Curry sounds good, this time it's on you.", he says, almost in a questioning manner as if he half expects to have to argue the matter, knowing that he'd be better off just accepting loss here and saving his Willpower for more important re-rolls in the future.

Seymour works hsi way around to the edge of the booth, squeezing himself out until he's standing there, ready to go. He waves to his future-ex-wife, aka the waitress, though she is doing her usual love stance of ignoring Seymour, then follows Sands out.

The chirp of the telecom cuts through the soft jazz tones and thick smoke of Matchsticks. After answering it, Mike passes along messages to everyone that the Johnson is waiting in a private back room. Mike tells Sloan that between closing last night and opening this morning, he has little chance to do anything. Barely time to shower and shave, and not nearly enough to get a decent amount of sleep.

As the invited runners enter the private room they see a human male apparently in his mid 20s with a datajack at his temple. Pimlico Wilson is to the man's left and one of the biggest, ugliest orks you have seen show his face topside is standing to the left of the human. On over in the back, left corner stands an elven female, her hands in the pockets of her longcoat. She would be far from beautiful even without the scar puckering her cheek and tugging her lips out of line with the center of her face.

The man welcomes you into the room and after letting everyone get comfortable starts the meeting.

With a grin he says, "I would introduce myself as Mr. Johnson, but I know you already have an idea of who I am."

Pimlico has a look like he is oblivious and about to start whistling a nameless tune.

"I'm not angry that you did a bit of checking, frag I would, and it is actually a bit reassuring that you did a bit of checking. I usually go by the name Willy Jack, usually doing my thing in the matrix. However, a few months ago I was trying to order an upgrade for my deck and nearly wound up worm food. My deck got fried. I've been using an old deck I kept for a backup, but it is hardly SOTA.

When I contacted Pimlico, I asked him to get a crew together for a little night work. He was going to be behind the scenes, but I thought I'd ask him to make an appearance in case I need my identity verified. It's not like I got a credstick issued to Willy Jack," he says with a grin.

"The job is breaking into a secured building, appropriating a few boxes worth of merchandise, easily carried. Hopefully, without anyone knowing you were there. I can pay the team 100K. If you accept, we can discuss details. If not, we can discuss another job."

Sloan leans back in his chair. He looks at the fixer, then at the Johnson, then back to the fixer.

"Makes sense," he shurgs. "If Pimlico vouches for ya, that's good enough fer me."

Sloan looks to the rest of the group individualy to gauge thier reactions.

"I'm up for it," Sands said, with a little mini-sigh, "But I gotta say, Wilson that I don't appreciate being fleeced for cash for information it obviously took no effort to find - since you know this guy well enough to "vouch" for him. But regardless... the main questions I guess, Mr Jack, are deadline, security, location and expenses... care to share?"

Seymour didn't usually get invited to meets like this, and this proved no exception. His masculinity tended to put people on edge, he was sure it was the masculinity too, so don't try to argue. However, Seymour did greatly want to be at the meeting, so sat in the bar for the duration of the next day, sure that the team would use it as the place to meet the Big-J. Big-J is what the cool people call a Johnson, you could tell the wannabes by if they used the proper lingo or not. Seymour would have to prepare for the meet, he'd learned years ago that if you outstare someone, they knew you were the bad-ass in the group, definitely more bass-ass than they were. Seymour could outstare anyone, especially if they weren't looking. Seymour again sat in the back corner, and used the mirror on the wall to practice his staring. If he could outstare himself, he'd be more bad-ass than even he was.... Dont' ask, it makes more sense if you don't say it and just do it. That's how the team would find him as they slunk in one-by-one, staring right into his own eyes in preperation of the coming meet. Except... nobody on the team saw him, that much was obvious, or they'd have definitely said something to him, letting Seymour know they were there. By a late hour, Seymour realized that the meet must have been somewhere else, and his eyes were red from staring too much. He'd have to work his eyes out some, maybe he could flex them, he thought as he started widening and narrowing his gaze. Unfortunately, the waitress saw him, and mistook his efforts as a form of flirtation, because she started doing that cute giggle she so often did, although others would call out an outright burst of laughter. But Seymour knew better, only he could extract that melodic sound from her lips, and he beamed as she tried her best to stop her giggling. The team should appear at the bar soon, he was ready for them. He was Seymour.

EDIT: double post. Bloody dialup.

Lucas was less than happy that this Pimlico Wilson had been skimming money for nothing off a team member; it didn't exactly speak volumes for the trustworthiness of the man, but he figured Sands would handle it as he saw fit. Lucas eyed the elf woman briefly, guessing her to be a bodyguard and wanting to assess her. With a small internal sigh, he thought at least with that scar Seymour won't try and pick her up. Please God he doesn't try to get into a macho contest with her. He knew the rigger would be around somewhere outside, although out of self-defence the team had taken to discreetly leaving him out of meets.

He listened to Willy Jack's explanations with some tolerance, although he was reasonably sure the man was still lying to them at least in part - on the other hand, these were the shadows, and named so for a reason. After Sands spoke, Lucas nodded once. "As my colleague says, we can hardly be expected to go in blind. Perhaps if you were to offer some details on the site you want penetrating? I think you can understand that we don't yet know if a hundred grand is a fair price for what you want doing."

"Did I demand dinero for the data? You inquired of info I enjoy. Should someone, somewhere seek Sanderson's secrets - I surmise I shall share some I simply see," Wilson says, fans out a few notes of currency, leaving them on the table and walking out. The bodies that fall in to flank him seem enormous compared to his slight stature.

Willy eyes the notes and says, "Sold me out for 500." He smiles and adds, "Looks like about 500 more than it will take to learn about you. Are you guys sure you're pros? I thought everyone knew a fixer makes a living off of what he knows?"

Realizing those surrounding him may not be truly professional and that he could have just irritated them by pointing out a few realities, Willy continues, "Getting back to business, what do you need to know, in general terms, to help you decide?"

"A fixer may make a living out of what he knows, Mr. Jack," said Lucas smoothly, betraying no hint of the anger the decker's comments had engendered in him, "but he continues living by not shafting his runners." And a man self-admittedly using old tech to do his job because he melted his new stuff on the job would be well-advised not to call the professionalism of others into question he added sourly to himself. "However, for the moment let us move on and discuss more pertinent matters. Let us start by discussing the security arrangements at the site. What company is contracted to provide security services? And are you familiar with their licence situation? By which I mean lethal force, paranimals, etcetera."

This meet is falling apart Willy Jack thought. Cheap bastards, I'm probably scaring them off by offering 100K for the job. And the last bunch of drekheads took the down payment and disappeared. What will these guys do? I think I'll find out from Pimlico Wilson. Yes, now is probably a good time to get some info from him and it can only help me when it comes time to bargaining with these guys."

"Maybe you guys aren't the right guys for this job," Willy Jack says, nods to the ork and elf and heads for the exit.

Thyriansat quietly in the corner watching each person, listening to the bantering that was flying back and forth. 100k definatly peaked his interest. Would definatly help contribute towards further self empowerment, and a couple rounds of the blessed liquid.

About to say something as Wilson left, Thyrians mouth opened and promptly shut as Jack continued.

He lent forward as Jack began to describe the various layouts. This was more his field of interest than general chit chat.