Last Laugh

• Chapter 1

1 month ago…


Class is secondary. A mere glimpse of Alberto Lanzara’s thirty room mansion would immediately afford the observer the understanding that this was the central belief that the multimillionaire adhered to when he renovated the old building. He bought the place because it was something of a historical landmark in the area, and he believed that dressing it up with lavish decorations and expensive luxuries would just dilute the sense of timelessness that had so enraptured him the first time he set foot into the building. Lanzara is a practical man if nothing else, and his pragmatism is reflected by the clean, neat, and ultimately spartan rooms that together make up the estate in which he resides.

Spartan does not, however, mean that the house lacks the essentials necessary to maintain the continued comfort of the owner, such as a state-of-the-art electronic defense system and a top-notch security team that remains constantly vigilant of potential threats to its employer, monitoring everything with an invisible eye. Many an aspiring assassin have made the mistake of such an assumption and paid the price for it. Considering the activities that Lanzara engages in on a daily basis, he is of the thought that nothing less is adequate. Though he can afford the habit, he is not a reckless spender, and also believes that nothing more is necessary. At this point in time, no one has proven him wrong.


---


The warmly heated living room was a stark contrast to the skin-freezing winter raging outside its walls, and Lanzara was sitting in his usual recliner nursing a cup of hot chocolate. Somewhere in the urban wilderness outside, a strangled scream reverberated across the night. Moments later, the digital clock on the flower table chimed as eight wrestled the hot spot from seven.

It is time.

“Channel 76,” he said to the empty room.

The black mirror of the flatscreen television was filled with color as it automatically responded to Lanzara’s command. The colors came together to show an attractive blonde woman dressed in a snow-sprinkled parka, standing outside a plaza in Downtown Seattle with a microphone in her hand. A distinguished-looking ork stood beside her with a crowd of spectators watching in the background. The brilliant white logo of the Independent Information Network radiated conspicuously in the lower right corner of the screen.


“Hey ya’ll, this is Joanna White,” the woman said cheerfully into the camera. “I’m out here on the Seattle Center waterfront with Arkady Killinger, who just stepped out of the Space Needle after a round of intense negotiations with the Empowerment Coalition. Mr. Killinger is the president of the Ork Integration Alliance, one of the youngest and most controversial political organizations on the Seattle scene today.”

She held out the microphone to Killinger. “Mr. Killinger, can you tell us more about the OIA?”

Killinger beamed. “The Ork Integration Alliance is a team of likeminded individuals motivated by the injustice that is plaguing orks and trolls in our society today. Our purpose is to help people recognize that we’re not the malicious goblins that centuries of fairy tales have made us out to be, that we’re just like everyone else, except with slightly greener skin and a pair of tusks.”

Polite laughter.

He continued in a crisp and amiable voice. ”Our ultimate goal, as our name implies, is to bring about the understanding and compassion necessary for orks and trolls to integrate as equal members into society. I look forward to the realization of this goal as soon as possible, because I believe that we have much to offer to the rest of metahumanity, that they have much to offer us, and that nothing but good can come from such a friendship.”

Joanna smiled, her eyes sparkling. “My heart goes out to you and your brothers, Mr. Killinger. However, I’ve heard that the OIA has faced opposition from a vast portion of the ork population, which many believe to be a very strange phenomenon, all things considered. Could you possibly shed some light on this?”

“Though we want the same things, many of my associates are very traditionalist and inflexible in their views,” Killinger said with a sigh. “One of our more immediate goals is to encourage orks to move out of the Underground and into the surface world. The reasoning behind this is that as long as we stay separated from everyone else, we’ll continue to be viewed as outsiders. In order for society to accept us, they must first know us. Unfortunately, a lot of my comrades disagree with this idea, and maintain that they should remain secluded from the rest of metahumanity.”

“Do you believe that this schism will ever be resolved?” Joanna inquired.

“Hopefully, I’ll be able to free my brothers from the chains of custom that bind them down and get them to see that change is vital if we are to succeed in our mutual purpose,” Killinger replied. “History and the current status of orks and trolls in the country, or lack thereof, is proof of this.”

“Thank you, Mr. Killinger, for that inspiring interview” Joanna said, turning back to face the camera. “This is Joanna White, for IIN News, and I know what political group I’m going to use my vote to support this year. Back to you, Trisha!”


The scene at the waterfront faded away as the faces of the two anchors took its place. Lanzara’s face broke into a genuine smile as he raised his cup of chocolate in a toast to the television screen.

“Cheers, Arkady. I applaud you for trying, even though your cause will never succeed. Your enemy’s numbers are far too many. Nevertheless, old friend, you have my support all the way.”

8:23:05, December 5th 2062 - Seattle

Winchy:

“Winchy! Winchy! Wake up! Wake up!”

The fog of your slumber is violently swept away as you feel your body trembling as though it has been seared with a couple of thousand volts of electricity. As you open your eyes, you find yourself staring directly into the face of your roommate Henry Thick Skull, who happened to be grasping you by both shoulders and shaking you like a wet towel. His face is a mask of sheer terror, and you know that there’s little on this world that can frighten Henry like that.

“Dur?” you mutter intelligently.

“Lookit dat!” Henry hissed, pointing at some place in the distance.

You rub your eyes and look. Cracked walls with peeling paint and broken down furniture slowly come into focus. Standing, or rather floating, in the air in the middle of the room is a twisted caricature of a telecom with two eyes and a mouth.

“I try beatin’ it, but it no die,” Henry said. “I try shootin’ it wit my gunner, but it still no die!”

You stare at it for awhile before realization finally dawns on you. You bark out a coarse laugh.

“Henry, dat’s a watcher spirit,” you tell him.

Henry’s face falls. He scratches his head sheepishly and mumbles, “Surry.”

You turn to the ghastly telecom and ask, “What’s your message?”

The watcher fixes its gaze on you and speaks. “Korbin here. I hope you’ll excuse my little joke, but you seriously need to settle down somewhere because finding you is a bitch. Anyway, there’s a possible job for you if you’re willing to take it. I checked the guy out – he’s clean. You of all people have probably heard of him, but I won’t ruin the surprise. If you’re game, meet up at the Eye of the Needle, room 24 at 3:00 sharp. Korbin out.”

Caitlin and Warden:

You’re both busy with your own morning routines when you receive identical messages on your telecoms from your mutual fixer:

--I know work’s been dry lately, so I’ve brought you some good news. There’s a potential job waiting for you at the Eye of the Needle restaurant at 3:00. The Johnson’ll be in room 24. I don’t think I need to tell you to dress well. This guy is legit, and is willing to shell out some serious cash for good talent, so don’t fuck this up.--

Slacker:

Your eyes widen as you realize your enemy’s tactic. You swivel around, bringing up your weapon simultaneously, but you’re not nearly fast enough. You could do nothing but watch as your foe’s sword skewers you in the abdomen, killing you instantly.

You groan as the virtual surroundings fade away into the room selection area. Lost again, to the same guy. Your mailbox icon flashes red, indicating that you’ve got mail. Activating it, you find two messages.

The first one is from the guy who defeated you, and simply reads, >>Noob.<<

You take a brief moment to wish the curse of a thousand sexually-transmitted diseases upon him and his progeny before opening up the second message.

>>This is your boss. I hate communicating over an insecure channel like this, so I’ll just tell you that work is available. Contact one of your teammates for details.<<

When the Watcher is gone, Winchy smiles to his friend. "Henry, nex time you see sometting strange like dat, you betta wake me up first, okay ?"

Winchy goes to grab something from the dirty fridge they've been using. Finding it empty, he leaves some nuyens for Henry to buy something for himself. His assault rifle was still in its big suitcase; he takes it and leaves the apartment. "Henry, I'll be back in a few days, take care of yourself." He says walking out to take the bus.

Once arrived in his downtown apartment (which he legally rents), Winchy takes a long shower until he's clean, puts on some deodorant - he doesn't usually do that in the Barrens since everything stinks anyways down there -, and dresses up in a nice black suit appropriate to his size.

Happy with his appearance, he sits down to attack a huge meal consisting of a pound of soyham, 12 soyeggs, some soybeans and soywheat, and several cups of soycaf. Full, he rests a bit, watching the newschannels on the telecom. He eats some more before calling a cab and going to the meet - you never want to go to a meet on an empty stomach.

Winchy arrives at the Eye of the Needle a few minutes before 3:00 and asks directions to room 24.

OOC: Physical Description: Basically a gigantic cube, Winchy is short for a troll but extremely big and fat; his body is well-built and muscular. He’s not very pretty to look at, that’s for sure, but he’s well-mannered for a troll who lived all his life in the streets. He has a dark beard and his head is shaved. He has medium sized curved horns sprouting from his forehead and his bottom teeth appear out of his mouth more often then not, and that makes him seem extremely dumb and it affects his speech in a bad way.
He likes to wear ample, dark clothes. He can finally afford good quality clothes though, yet his physique is so that it never seems to fit really well on him.

Still grumbling to himself about the bastard that kept killing him, Slacker dials up Caitlin's number.
"Hey Queeny. Got a message from Korbin about a job. He told you the details yet?"

After Caitlin tell him what she knows, Slacker idly scratches at his cheeks and the 3 or 4 days worth of beard growing there. "Damn. Guess that means its time for me to shave again. Ok, see you there."

As he disconnects the call he thinks 'I suppose I should try to clean myself up a little...nah that can wait first let's have another go at that punk.' He logs back into the game and quickly loses track of time.

Almost too late, he notices that it's getting pretty close to the meet. He quickly rushes through a shower and quick shave. Throws on his best clothes, sniffing them first to make sure they aren't too bad. And dashes at the door.

When he gets to the Needle, he looks at his watch...hmm...3:06. 'Wonder if I am late.'

Lucky for him he has the habit of setting his clocks ahead a few minutes(20 minutes on the watch). It's the only way he is ever on time.

Caitlin, meditating in the twilight of her dimly-lit apartment, opens her eyes as her telecom beeps. She idly drums her fingers on the counter top as she listens to the message, thankful for the battery pack that keeps her from missing important messages during non-power rationed times. She is also thankful for getting the message in the morning, leaving her plenty of time to prepare for the meet... it sounds like she really needs to make a good impression for this one.

A few minutes later, the telecom beeps again. This time it is Slacker calling, asking for the details of the meet. He was probably fast-forwarding through his telecom, and deleted the message before he heard it all. She dutifully briefs him, then briefly considers admonishing him to be on time, before deciding it would be a wasted effort. A slight smile flits across her face. At least Slacker's probably-rumpled appearance will help her look even sharper by contrast.

She gets a bite to eat shortly before preparing herself for the meet. Like Winchy, she doesn't believe in going to a meet on an empty stomach. Unlike the troll, though, she only has enough of a light meal to take the edge off of her hunger. She will still be able to eat, but the food won't distract her.

She prepares herself meticulously, then critically inspects herself in the mirror. Minimal cosmetics, but artfuly applied. A shock of pale blond bangs that make her blue eyes even more startling. A conservative navy skirt and blazer, worn with a silvery dress shirt. She likes the shirt, which complements the suit, and goes with her snowflake earrings and silvery lipstick. She frowns at the slippers. Silvery and dressy, they are not out of place, but high heels would really be better. She refuses to wear those infernal things, though, and doesn't know how to walk in them at any rate; the slippers will have to do.

She gives herself a final check, making sure that she is immaculate, before setting out. She wistfully glances towards the closet, which holds her stylish armored jacket. But any armor at this meet will need to be discreet, so the slim ultra-vest will have to do. The taxi is an unusual luxury for her in her current circumstances, but she won't risk getting mussed up by taking the subway.

As she approaches the Space Needle, she takes a deep, calming breath, slipping into her usual cool, collected, and confident mask. She is 40 minutes early.

The Space Needle, while stretching only 185 meters above the ground, dwarfs all the surrounding buildings in the Seattle Center area from sheer presence alone. The expertly conceived and futuristic architecture oozes such style, charisma, and extravagance that its irresistable charm is felt even by those not privileged enough to set foot inside. It's no surprise that the Needle is one of the first stops for tourists sightseeing in Seattle, and the favorite playground of the city's high society.

The grand reception hall is busy as always when you arrive. After finding the location of the nearest elevator, you hop on board and ride it all the way to the top, stepping off one level below the observation deck. The faint aroma of food well cooked swirl into your breath as you walk into the Eye of the Needle. Expensive paintings adorn every wall of the restaurant, and old classical music plays softly in the background. The waitors and waitresses, all of whom look like they stepped straight out of a modeling magazine and into a uniform, move about discreetly as they attend to the requests of the customers.

Some of the more snobby patrons shoot scornful glances in your direction, as it's fairly obvious that you're not one of them, but the maitre'd is friendly enough as she leads you to the room that you seek. As you walk in, you find a round table, overlaid with an unassuming red cloth, sitting in the center with enough seating for ten. The back wall seems like it's made entirely of glass, and gives you a breathtaking aerial view of the city from atop the Space Needle. It takes you a moment to realize that it has to be a hologram, since your room is not one of the exterior ones and no such view is possible from it. White noise disguised as the sound of soothing ocean waves wash softly over the atmosphere.

The maitre'd lays down an electronic menu on the table before you, and informs you that everything you order will be paid for before making a tactful exit. You kick back as your teammates begin to arrive one by one.

Caitlin:

A few minutes after you arrive, you feel an odd sensation pass over your body in the empty room. Guided by instinct, you slowly open your third eye to the astral plane, bracing yourself for the onslaught of vivid colors that illuminate that world beneath a world. You're startled to discover the astral form of an elven man floating a few feet away from you. He appears to have been studying the ward erected over the walls of this room, but turns around as soon as he realizes that he's being observed.

He meets your gaze with a smile on his face. Before you can say anything, he blows you a kiss, leaps through the ward and disappears into the depths beyond.

Caitlin frowns slightly. Who was that? Was he part of the restaurant's magical security, someone working for the Johnson, or someone trying to spy on the meet? It may be nothing, but she will mention the incident to their potential employer. That resolved, she relaxes and studies the menu. She quickly picks out what she wants, but decides to wait for some of the others to arrive before she actually orders.

When Slacker arrives, he is quite surprised to find he isn't the last one to arrive.

He runs a hand through his still damp hair and flashes Caitlin a smile. "So how's my favorite Queen of Ice doing? I bet you were worried I wasn't gonna make it on time."

At first glance, it looks like he didn't bother shaving for the meet. But actually it's just that he decided to tryout having a mustache and goatee. His secure clothing looks a little rumpled, but not at least there aren't any obvious stains.

Seeing the menus on the table, he realizes that he had once again forgotten to eat something because of all the gaming. He sits down and starts looking over the menu.

A few minutes before time, Winchy enters the room in his black suit.

"Hello Slacker. Hello Dok."

A waiter comes in with a huge chair - more like a couch - that he has to push to move around. "Tanks a lot."

While taking place at the table to look at the menu, he says to Caitlin with a smile: "Told you my Ragin' Serpents wod mak'it", refering to the Combat Biking match that took place the day before.

Caitlin glances up with cool amusement at Slacker. "Hello, Slacker. Ready for the big time?"


She grimaces at Winchy's comment. "That... was a slop win. I can't believe he skidded out of control, spun around, and knocked down those other two bikers. And don't even try telling me he did it on purpose. Ah well, a pitcher of beer at Matchstick's, on me. Guess that's what I get for betting on those damn Timberwolves."

Oh-five hundred, wake up time. Warden doesn't bother to set an alarm, he hasn't needed one since Basic Training. You just learn and adapt. No matter how little sleep he's getting, he wakes up when he needs to. The morning brings his usual routine, a ten kilometer jog, some calistenics, a half hour shower, then a hearty breakfast. The days have been long since he slid from normal society, almost ruininously so at first. But then comes the chime of his pager; work calls. His apartment has no ties to his actual work, no number known to anyone save Caitlin, none of his gear working gear except for the Manhunter, and that's registered, so using it on a run would be beyond stupid. He doesn't even make the call to the bolthole's telcom from home. He changes into a simple pair of jeans, a plain t-shirt, work boots, holstered Colt, and his leather jacket - the Fire Captain's jacket, nametag removed.

After checking to make sure the trid is set to record the night's Screamers match, he departs, locking up behind himself. He heads down to the bus stop, hopping on the first one that comes along, and riding for ten minutes before spotting a suitable Stuffer Shack. He gets off at the next stop, and heads into the convinience grocery, making for the public telcom, where he proceeds to check his messages.

--I know work’s been dry lately, so I’ve brought you some good news. There’s a potential job waiting for you at the Eye of the Needle restaurant at 3:00. The Johnson’ll be in room 24. I don’t think I need to tell you to dress well. This guy is legit, and is willing to shell out some serious cash for good talent, so don’t fuck this up.--

Warden looks down over what he's wearing and figures it'll have to do. There's no practicality in suits, so he doesn't own any. Hell, his clothes are clean enough, and if this guy's looking to hire, he won't want people blowing smoke up his ass pretending they are what they're not. The Manhunter might not be the best of things to bring to such a posh restaurant, but he'd turn it over if asked. That's why he's got a permit after all, so that he can carry it.

Eyeing his watch, Warden decides he's got enough time to catch a quick lunch, and maybe a pint, before heading to the meet, so he pulls up a bus schedule to get an idea of where he is.

A good burger, a pint and a cab ride later, and he crosses the reception hall of the Needle, and steps into an elevator. The lack of a check for weapons is suprising, but not unwelcome. He'll just have to remember if he's packing, chances are there are others who will be too. Stepping off of the elevator, he blinds out his surroundings, going tunnel vision with his sights set on the maitre'd. Inquiring as to a reservation in room 24, he finds himself led to the room where the others are waiting. Traffic's a bitch sometimes, but at least he's not late.

Moments after the four of you have gotten settled in, the door slides open with a *ding!* and a man whom you assume to be your employer walks in. He's a fairly plain looking human man in his early forties whose snappy attire and confident posture just reek of the corporate stench. You know the type...the ones that come out of their mother's womb dressed in a business suit and will probably go to meet their Maker in one as well. Following closely behind him is a slender elf dressed in a light brown longcoat. Caitlin immediately identifies this latter addition as the same elf that she had seen earlier scouting out the room, but his face displays no sign of recognition as he passes his eyes over each of you.

The Johnson takes a seat at the far end of the table, with his bodyguard remaining standing beside him. As soon as the door closes, his features begin to morph. A few seconds later, the chair in which the human man was sitting in becomes occupied by a rather handsome ork of around the same age. He gives you all a friendly smile, but you sense that there's a struggling tension lurking beneath his calm exterior.

"Welcome," he says. "I hope that this place has been hospitable to you. My name is Arkady Killinger."

Winchy looks up at his eventual employer with confidence - yet no arrogance -, but he does not talk to him. He's happy with his nice black suit; even though it's not that great, he's still proud of wearing it in such a luxurious place as this. However, he wants to avoid talking to people who are this serious as he knows that he usually sounds unprofessional.

Seeing that Slacker probably doesn't want to talk any more than he does, he turns to Warden and Caitlin, hoping that they could talk on behalf of the group.

Caitlin returns the warm smile, and shakes the ork's hand if it is offered. "Yes, the service has been wonderful here. I'm Ice Queen. It's a pleasure to meet you. And these are my associates - Warden, Slacker, and Winchy (she points out each of her fellow runners in turn). "

She prepares for a bit of small talk, expecting that the Johnson won't get to business until after everyone has eaten. Good. That will give her more time to analyze him a bit - although she won't try astrally scanning him with the elven mage present. She's actually a bit relieved that he was the person she spotted earlier - if a third party was spying on the meet, she would be far more worried. Therefore, she follows the elf's cue and gives no outward indication that she has seen him before.

The Johnson is a surprise, more warm and personable than she expected - although he does have Korbin's endorsement, which is actually worth a lot to her. There is some kind of tension under the surface, though - she'll have to see if the cause surfaces when they get to the details about the job. The mask spell was no big surprise to her, of course, given her own magical background, although she is pleased that the other runners, even if they were shocked, are keeping up their poker faces.

To Caitlin's surprise, the Johnson gets down to business immediately, wasting no time on pleasantries. The elf opens up a leather briefcase and pulls out a stack of manila folders. He starts setting one down before each of you as Killinger begins to talk.

"As you may or may not know, I'm the current president of the Ork Integration Alliance. The OIA is a group devoted to metahuman rights in general, but primarily those of orks and trolls. I won't waste your time by making you suffer through the archetypical politician's spiel. We're somewhat of a radical organization, and one of our main objectives is to eliminate the conditions that make the Ork Underground a dangerous place for people of other races to live in."

He coughs and takes a sip from his water glass. "The purpose of such a move is to merge the Underground community with the rest of Seattle and dispense with the isolation that has accomplished nothing more than further demonize us in the eyes of the populace. I understand how difficult such a change is for most of my brothers and sisters - I myself had lived in the Underground for most of my life before moving to the surface world. But there is no other choice. Naturally, my position on this issue has made me many enemies."

He gestures towards the folders lying on the table in front of you. Opening it up, the first thing you find is a 8"x12" photograph of a young male ork who looks to be about 15 or 16 years old. He's sitting in a wooden chair on some sort of stage with a guitar on his lap, favoring the camera with a mischievous devil-may-care grin. In addition to the photo, included in the folder is what appears to be a dossier on the adolescent. A cursory glance at the document reveals the boy's name to be Nicholai Killinger.

"Unfortunately, one of these enemies is my own son."

Killinger sighs wearily.

"My son hated it when my family moved out of the Underground. Our relationship was strained to begin with, and it rapidly deteriorated from there. I could never hold a conversation with him without getting into a fight after we relocated into our new home in the surface world. I knew that the move had hurt him, but I didn't know how much because I was too preoccupied with my work. I was a fool. I now realize the damage that my negligence has done, but it's too late. Two days ago, my son ran away from home, leaving nothing but a note telling me that he has gone back to the Underground, and to not to try to find him.

'You're all here today because I need you to track him down and bring him home. I will pay your team 200 thousand nuyen for your services, 50 thousand each, half up front and half upon completion of the job."

The lines in your employer's worried face seem to have deepened tenfold, and his eyes reveal the anxiety plaguing his thoughts.

"My family had lived in one of the wealthy, upper class neighborhoods in the Underground, and so had been shielded from most of the criminal elements of the city. My son has no idea how dangerous it is for him to be down there alone. Lonestar has no jurisdiction in the Underground, and the local police force refuses to help me. You're my only chance. Please help me get him back."

Winchy listens carefully to Arkady Killinger and he is deeply touched by what he hears.

Groups like this one, he's seen and participated in many of them before, but rarely has he seen someone this smart and serious in charge. This ork is part of an organization he has always truely respected: the Underground is a mystery to Winchy and he sees it as an obstacle to metahuman integration into society.

The fact that this man asks for his help for such a noble cause makes him wish there was no money involved.

Winchy truely feels for this ork who shares his hopes about society, and who has suffered because of what he believes in. Still, he won't say a word and he keeps it to a business level for now. Yet, the dark eyes of the troll show some emotion.

There is sympathy in Caitlin's eyes as well, but she steeples her hands under her chin and addresses Killinger in her cool, soft soprano voice.

"The job and the compensation are both acceptable to us. However... we will need to move through the Ork Underground, an area that we have nothing but the most cursory familiarity with. We will be wandering well off the tourist paths, into places where humans such as myself, Warden, and Slacker will, to say the least, stand out from the crowd.

You say that you lived in the Ork Underground for most of your life; right now, we need some of that knowledge. Maps and routes, especially of less-traveled areas, passwords, that sort of thing. And if you haven't burned all of your bridges there, then any people you know whom we could meet would be even more helpful."

Her voice softens a bit. "I can't promise it will all work out in the end. But if he's still down there, we'll find him, and give the two of you another chance to straighten things out."

Warden does well in hiding his reaction at the change in their employer before their eyes. A spell of some kind, which, given the speach that follows, is reasonable enough. A guy like Arkady has got to have plenty of enemies, after all.

Warden listens silently through the explination of what their hire is for, and he frowns ever so slightly. This one's not going to be easy, and if things get down to it, it won't be pretty either. He's delt with the Underground before in very limited capacity. From what he knows and has seen, it's not the kind of place you want to be caught unwelcome. Even as a firefighter, attempting to save lives, he was all but thrown out. He doesn't weigh in, however, bowing to Caitlin with negotiations. His is a tactical mind, not a business oriented one.

Killinger looks at Caitlin with gratitude. "I understand your concerns. I can procure for you a set of access passes that will allow you to venture freely in the Underground without being hassled by most of the residents.

'I'm afraid that producing viable maps on such short notice is beyond my capacity, but I have an acquaintence who has been roaming the uncharted parts of the Underground ever since he learned how to walk, and knows it five times better than the back of his hand. I'll arrange for him to meet with you once you get down there.

'Lastly, there are many people in the OIA who still live in the Underground, and they may be able to lend you a hand if you run into any problems. I'll..."

"If I may, sir," the elf interrupts. "It's not a good idea to let your colleagues know that your son..."

"I don't care," Killinger says softly.

The elf falls silent, and your Johnson continues, "As I was saying, I'll notify them of your arrival in advance and let you know how to contact them. I should also be able to get you a place to stay with a friend of mine."

Killinger looks at each of you with a grave expression on his face. "I'll arrange for everything to get to you through your fixer, but I will not deceive you. Even with my help, your safety is not guaranteed. Many of the inhabitants in the city below don't play by the rules - the only universal badge of acceptance in the Ork Underground is strength. I know you have it, you know you have it, but they don't, and you'll no doubt be tested for it while you're down there."

Caitlin listens to Killinger attentively - it looks like all of her logistical concerns have been addressed, so the rest of the meet will simply be getting all of the details ironed out. At his last note of warning, she allows herself a thin smile.

"Don't worry. None of us showed up here expecting an easy job. All of us are specialists who are used to operating in gruelling and dangerous conditions. And while we may prefer a deft and subtle touch, we can come down like a hammer when we have to."

Warden has to smile at Caitlin's assesment of their methodology. His own is far from subtle, even it is suprisingly non-lethal. Not many people can boast just the right level of control with a fire to let people escape in time but feel like they almost didn't make it, after all.

Killinger nods. "You have my trust. Is there anything else you need from me before we part ways?"

As usual, Slacker is impressed with Caitlin's skills. He certainly couldn't have done as well at it.
Even if he thinks she might have gotten a bit more money out of him, Slacker believes she made the right choice in trying to get more intel.
'I sure hope she isn't falling for the orks compasionate crap. Can't lose sight of the fact that he is the Johnson and we are the disposable assets,' he thinks to himself.
'Hey...wait a second...this sounds like an old fashioned dungeon crawl! Maybe, all my experience with online games will finally be of some help. Woot.' A smile comes over him as he thinks this.
He doesn't pay much attention after that, though he does make sure he at least outwardly looks like he is. Instead he is thinking of all the times he has killed the gameworld versions of orcs, trolls, goblins, ogres, and other monsters.
Not to say that he thinks of orcs and trolls as monsters in the real world, but they were portrayed as such in the games he likes.

Winchy is happy with the way Caitlin handles the meet, as usual. He can't help but to think about wether or not they are going to get a free meal on the Johnson's expense or not; but then forgets about it again. His suit is starting to itch and he hopes they'll get out of this place soon; this is not a kind of place that Winchy will ever be confortable in.

He wants us to go to the Underground but first he brings us to the most elevated, rich, and high-class spot in town... What's that all about? he thinks as he can't completely concentrate on the details that they're discussing. The poor ork has lost his son, but the best idea he comes up with is what? To ask shadowrunners to do the job for him? How can he trust us so much? If I had lost my son I'd do it myself. And if I was that rich and smart, then I still wouldn't hire just one team but many more. I wonder where the others are?

Warden:

You notice the elf silently glancing back and forth between Slacker and Winchy with a faint hint of amusement on his face. His eyes meet yours as soon as he catches you watching him, and he gives you an imperceptible wink before averting his gaze.

Caitlin shakes her head, no. "I think we've covered everything. All that's left is the details - getting the information on our contacts down there, the passes, and our advance, most of which you have probably already taken care of with Korbin. We will probably pick up a few things suitable for trekking underground, but we should be able to start soon... the trail is already two days old, so the sooner we get going, the better."

Killinger stands up. "Very well then. I have left my personal contact information with your fixer, so if you need anything at all, you can get to me through him."

Before your eyes, his visage blurs and shimmers. A couple of seconds later, your Johnson is once again assuming the guise of an ordinary human man. He walks to the door, thumbs the keypad, and turns around to face you one last time as it slides open.

"I wish you luck, my friends."

With that, he steps out, with his bodyguard following dutifully behind him.

Moments later, a waiter brings you your orders on a cart. He places each of your dishes in front of you with rapid efficiency, performs a polite bow when he's done, and exits the room, moving on to serve other customers.

`For an activist who calls for integration of his people into society, he seems quick to pretend he isn't one of them...`

Warden only makes the comment after the server is gone, and a thick, rare steak is sitting in front of him. No soy, he never much cared for soy, no in a place like this it was straight from the cow.

"Da's true, Warden. I also dun' undastand why ask us to find his son. If I wodda lose my son, I'd go find 'im myself. Wod ask no stranger ta do it fo' me. He a healthy ork, he even smart, why ask someone else? He even got a mojo man."

Winchy looks at his plate with disappointment and takes a large bite into one of the small rolls accompanying what seems to be 'confis de canard' - a rather strange choice from your old friend.

"But I don't mind dat. He pays well so no questions asked."

Slacker chimes in saying, "Yeah, I think the pay is good enough that we don't need to ask too many questions."

"Off hand, I would saying he probably went outside his organization to make sure his enemies/rivals don't use this as an opportunity to attack his power. The elf's reaction to him mentioning getting aid from some OIA members seemed to emply something along those lines."

Thinking back on other runs he has been on, Slacker adds, "Though it could all be a planned ruse. It wouldn't be the first time a Johnson tried to screw me over with a little well planned acting."

"Oh well...So how do we want to handle this? I can tell you righy now that I doubt my contacts will be of much use to us. They don't typically deal with the Orc Underground."

Caitlin looks up from the mandarin chicken spinach salad that she has been daintily eating.

"Slacker's right. This guy is turning to us because his son's actions put him in a vulnerable position. I don't think he's stringing us along, although he may be expending other means to find his son, and not telling us about them. But I think he's been relatively forthright with us."

She glances around at the others. "Now, I think it's almost a given that we are all going to be fish out of water, as far as contacts, and as far as knowing the environment that we're entering. We will have a guide, and will be just a bit more dependent on him than I would really like, but that's how it goes sometimes. For this kind of money, it's not going to be an easy job. I think we can pull it off, though, using our toughness and our cunning to deal with the dangerous situations we're sure to encounter."

She frowns thoughtfully. "I'll be able to present more detailed tactics to the group once I get my bearings. For now, we need to strike a balance between mobility and having the gear that we might need. We may need to move out of the residential areas on our trek. I suggest survival kits and one or two respirators. Chemsuits I'm iffy on - we can probably go around any really bad areas, and full chemsuits might be a bit much to lug around with us. I'll also be carrying some medical gear. Does anyone else have any suggestions, gear-wise or tactics-wise?"

"I mite noe someone who can help", Winchy says. "E's an ork fixer in Seattle, but I'm pretty sure e's been doin' buzniss wit the boys down dere before. It's wort askin'."

"Aboat gear, I'll bring my 'uge ax from dey old days in street gangs. No one will annoy us too much if I carry it around, dun' you tink?"

You know well how lethal Winchy can be with his bare fists; you've seen him a couple of times with improvized clubs and staffs, but you can easily believe that to see him with a battle ax - or a huge one ? - must be a scary sight.

"Dun' forget dat I will fit in the crowd down dere, too."

Slacker says, "I'll bring a few gas and smoke grenades in case we need to escape a large group. I guess I'll leave the regular grenades at home. In a confined space like the Underground, it would just be too easy for us to be caught in the blast."

After a little thought he adds, "Probably don't need my demolitions equipment either."

A little bit uncertain of himself, he says"I'll have to go shopping for respirators and a survival kit tomorrow. Not being the outdoorsy type that just isn't something I keep. Any other gear of that sort you think I should pick up? Or any of you want me to pick up the same for you?"

Slacker isn't kidding when he says he's not the outdoorsman type. He can't remember the last time he went anywhere that was without the niceties of civilization. He thinks about it really hard while the others continue the conversation. The best he can come up with is a vague recollection of camping with his folks nearly twenty years ago.

"At least we don't have to be subtle about weaponry and armor down there, right?"

In answer to Slacker's offer, Winchy says "I don' have any o' dat stuff either. Do we need rations too, just in case?"

Caitlin nods. "Might be a good idea. I mean, we should be able to find food and lodging most of the time, but we may not always be able to count on it. Overall, we should stick with the kind of things that you can stick in a duffel bag, and not be too encumbered. We need to be mobile. And while Winchy should be okay with his axe, the rest of us might want to not be too obvious with our weapons. We want to look tough, but not to the point that we make people panic."

With a feigned look of disbelief, Slacker says "You mean I shouldn't be bringing my Panther Assualt Cannon or my Great Dragon ATGM!?! What's the fun in that?"

After a moment of trying to keep a straight face and failing miserably, he chuckles and says "Like I would even have anything like that. You know the heaviest thing I carry is my 227."

"As far as food goes, I could pick up some MRE's or just ration bars when I am getting the other survival gear. They're easily portable and I can them at a army surplus store, like the survival gear."

Caitlin shrugs apolgetically. "I didn't mean to sound like a 'Shadowrun 101' vid, but even in the Ork Underground, there will still probably be areas where we will need to keep things concealable. Oh, and I wouldn't recommend MRE's. A few soldiers that I've talked to call them 'Meals Rejected by Everybody'... among other things, but that's the only acronym that I can repeat in polite company."

Winchy teases his friend with a deep laugh, "Hahaha.... when did we become 'polite company' to you?"

"MRE's aren't too bad, if you know how to prepare them. In my youth, I ate them all the time. Not for any particular reason, just for fun...Now that I think on it, that really doesn't make a whole lot of sense does it?" says Slacker.

After a moment of reminiscence, he shakes his head and continues, "Anyways, they're easily portable and have nutritional value you. Since you said we would probably want to be carrying light, they would work alot better than carrying around a pantry of food."

With a smirk on his face, he adds "I may just get some anyways to remind me of when I was a kid."

Warden is mighty quiet during their planning. Being that he's a shining posterchild for Humanis, at least in his appearance, he's none too happy about having to go into the Underground. Hell, they can't exactly be too friendly towards firefighters either, given they still hold the Night of Rage so deep in their angry hearts.

`I'm going for bear done there... ain't much use in me trying to walk softly. But don't worry, I won't be burning anything down so soon.`

Going for bear for him meant he'd be bringing his shotgun and MP5, he usually only chose what was appropriate, but in this case either might be.

`I've got survival gear already, rations I'll stock up on. MRE's aren't so bad, but I'm going to see if I can't get my hands on some old Canadian stock. Those things'll last to the end of the earth, and you've never lived until you've had the smoked salmon.`

Oddly, he speaks from the realm of experience.

`And I think I might just be able to get some plans for us... 'least official ones from a while back that might give us a decent idea of what to look out for.`

It won't be much, but it'll help.

After you finish your planning session, the waitor comes to take away the dishes and you all part ways, each with your own responsibilities to tackle in the hours that follow.

16:33:05, December 5th 2062

Caitlin:

You notice an immediate difference in the atmosphere as you emerge from the Space Needle. Returning to the smoggy streets of Seattle, you note with mild amusement that the air inside the building is actually fresher than the air outside. However, there’s no time to dwell upon the ironies of life, because there’s much that you have to do to prepare your team for their venture into the capillaries of the Ork Underground. You manage to come out on top in the ferocious battle between the pedestrians on the curb to see who can snag the first cab, and are on your way home five minutes later.

You barely have time to settle into the cheap synthetic leather seats of the taxi before your cell phone begins to buzz like an irritated wasp. Flipping it open, you find a text message waiting for you from your fixer:

>>Hey Cait, ya gotta tell me how that meet went down. I’m glad that the big time finally found you, as it should have a long time ago, but guys as high up as this Johnson usually don’t meet with the people they hire in person, and rightly so. He didn’t even make any attempt to conceal his identity when I backtracked him. I don’t think I need to tell you that this job has piqued my curiosity, and I ain’t letting you off the hook until you give me the details.<<

16:31:05, December 5th 2062

Winchy:

Shortly after you step out of the Space Needle, you come across a small group of razorheads congregating on the street in front of you. They see you coming, and shoot you a barrage of toothy grins. Wanting no trouble, you check the road for incoming vehicles, and cross to the other side of the street when you spot none.

You haven’t walked a hundred feet before the gang catches up to you. They spread out in a circle around you with smirks on their faces. You count them. Five. One of them steps forward and stares up at you with cool blue eyes. He’s a human male in his early twenties; his head is shaved bald, and tattoos seem to be inscribed on every square inch of his body. A single spike piercing is nailed dead center into his forehead. He pats you amiably on the shoulder with his left hand while flicking out the blade of his folding knife with his right.

“What’s up, big man?” he asks, grinning.

You say nothing, and his smirk widens.

“My dear old ma always tole me that I got no brains, but I likes to think otherwise,” he says. “I sees a tub o’ lard in an Armanny walkin’ outta a fancy pansy dive like da Space Needle, and I says to myself, that old boy looks like he be packin’ green on him.”

He shakes his head. “Yous must not know that it be dangerous for a rich kid like you to walk around Seattle wit so much money stuffed down his boxers and no protection. So tell ya what. I’ll be generous and help relieve ya of some o’ that cash so that ya won’t run into any…trouble…on yer way home. Whaddaya say, omae? Good deal, no?”

17:31:05, December 5th 2062

Slacker:

When you return to your apartment in Renton, you find a large crowd gathered outside the hallway above. They’re speaking to each other excitedly, though you couldn’t pick up what they’re saying. You quickly run up the stairs and tap the nearest person on the shoulder. A fat man with a poorly shaved goatee turns around and gives you the fish eye.

“Hey man, what happened here?” you ask him.

He shrugs. “Apparently one of the apartments just burned down. Heard it was 502.”

Holy shit, 502 is your apartment number! You quickly run down the hallway, pushing and shoving your way through the extremely viscous medium of human bodies. When you reach your apartment, you find the doors opened. Stealing a glance inside confirms that your dive has been completely totaled. The walls are charred black with soot, and what little remains of your furniture are still steaming with heat. The faintly burnt smell of things left in the fire for too long emanates conspicuously from the insides of the room.

You spot a large black "P" enclosed inside a circle spray painted on the wall next to your apartment. Before you can gather your thoughts, you see a lanky human man in a Lone Star uniform step out of the room and approach you. His eyes are wary as he comes up to you.

“Sir, are you the owner of this apartment?”

22:31:05, December 5th 2062

Warden:

Living alone sucks, but you've gotten used to the lonely quietness of utter solitude. Understandably, you're having second thoughts about the job, but it's too late to turn back now. You've always been good at making the best of things, and there's nothing like a good round of Urban Brawl to take your mind off the many sources of stress in your life.

Later at night, you turn on your trid to find that the Screamers have won yet another match, pegging an amazing 10-0 victory against the Cincinnati Lasers. This complete wipeout was probably due to the fact that the Lasers lost their best player to a kill penalty ten minutes into the first quarter, after he accidentally blew the Screamers’ medico into a thousand bite-size pieces with a grenade launcher.

After the match, a brief interview with one of the ISSV representatives reveal a bit of interesting news. Apparently, they have recently been invited by leaders of the Ork Underground to host an Urban Brawl competition down there. They’re currently scouting the place out for suitable brawl zones; the match is scheduled to be held sometime in the next few days.

Interesting info...will this have any impact on your job down in the Underground? Only time will tell.

"Huh..What's that you say?" Slacker is obviously a little distracted to see his apartment burned down. He tries to think of any gang in the area that might use the letter 'P' as a calling card.

Then he realizes it's the Star asking him questions. He quickly tries to focus on what's going on around him, especially the Lone Star officer. "Uh...yeah. At least, it used to be."

"What the hell happened? I went out for a date and when I come back I find this. Who could have done this? Dammit, I even had the place paid up for the next six months. Now where am I going to stay?"

Caitlin smiles at the text message, then frowns. How odd... the details were supposed to be worked out through Korbin. So why would he need details from her? Unless he just means he wants to know how the meet went. She's probably paranoid about nothing, but she still makes a point of calling one of the secure numbers that Korbin gave her, from a public telecom, to set up a quick meet with him - just in case the text message wasn't from Korbin.

"Korbin? It's Caitlin. The meeting went well, although we're going to have to hit the ground running on this one. Why don't I swing by, and give you the details? Our employer should have left some things with you, so I'll pick them up as well."

The only other stop that she needs to make is at an REI outlet, to pick up some ration packs (she breaks down and also gets a pack of moist wipes - who knows what the sanitation will be like down there). She already has the other gear that she thinks she'll need.

5 against 1. The odds were pretty damn bad for the gangers, he thought. He's already sad that a fight might be unavoidable, it wouldn't even be a challenge after all.

Winchy did not want to have anything to do with those idiots, but he is corenered and his options are limited. Of course when he was crossing the street he thought immidiately of turning on his reflex trigger - just in case. Unfortunately, he also knows few ways to get out of it easily. These arrogant goofs should know better than to try to impress Winchy. At least dey're kind o' polite..., he thought amusingly.

The troll keeps his distance from the main guy while talking to him.

"Oh I see what you mean, chummer. But I'm no sure it's dat great of a deal. The only green I been packin' today are my lefty here and my goodol' righty."

Saying that, he shows his green fists to the punks and then hit his metallic skull with his forearm in order to produce that echo he's always enjoyed since his bones were replaced with titanium.

"If I were you, I'd go frag with an easier pray. It should be clear dat the first to fight me is gonna get 'is neck broken. Now wo's it gonna be?"

Winchy has all of his senses ready. Alert, he will face any threat coming his way with a swift blow, making use of his better reach to keep them at a fair distance.

Slacker:

The cop gives you a hard look, and says, "As you can see, your apartment has been the victim of a fire. An induced fire. One of your neighbors reported it about fifteen minutes ago. Apparently someone outside shattered the window with a rock and tossed a Molotov cocktail through it. We're lucky that the flames were contained before they can spread to the rest of the building."

A bald, wiry man with a beard comes out into the corridor and whispers something into the officer's ear. He nods, and turns back to you. "Looks like I'll have to take you back to the station for questioning. This way please."

He walks past you and starts heading down the stairs.

Caitlin:

Five minutes later, you receive a message back from Korbin.

>>Sounds good. Meet me at the Hellfire at 8 o'clock. I should have your things ready by then.<<

Winchy:

The smile from the ganger's face slowly fades as he realizes that you're not going to cooperate, and his expression turns nasty.

"That wasn't too smart, big guy," he says. "There be five o' us an' only one o' yous. Woulda been much easier to just han' over your wallet. Lookit like we's gotta teach ya a lesson 'bout how dese streets work. Get 'im!"

His comrades exchange uneasy looks as they remain stationary. One of them swallows, and speaks up, "Trev, didja hear that sound when he hit his head? I dun think he's a bitniz man."

"Shut yo' hole," the leader snaps. "I don't care what he is, we is five and he is one. Now kick his ugly fat ass!"

Weapons appear out of clothes, and they leap.

The first reaction Warden has upon seeing the news, despite the victory of the Screamers, is to mutter a few choice curses to no one but himself. He'd had Tennison on his fantasy team, and now he's scragged. Hopefully that'll buy him the chance to get a better medico in, Tennison's been slipping this season anyway.

The interview at the end of the piece causes him to forget he'd actually taped that match, and a few others. So, the ISSV is scouting the Underground. A smile crosses his features. He gets up off the sofa, and heads out of his apartment and down to the nearest Stuffer Shack. For a call like this, he's not overly concerned. Hell, being as how he's calling Caitlin he's usually use his own telecom, but this is a business call. After making sure no one's snooping in on his call, he slips into the booth, and dials Caitlin's cell.

Caitlin is heading out of REI with her purchases when her cellphone emits another rasping buzz. "I really have to program in a more aesthetic ring one of these days," she thinks. "Hello?"

She listens to Warden with intense concentration, immediately seeing the same possibilities. "Yes. It could complicate things, but we could really use it, as a distraction, or even as a potential cover story for our own presense. Very interesting."

A little unsure of himself, Slacker says "Yeah, sure thing." He follows the officer out.

On the ride to the station he asks, "Hey, how long do you think this is going to take? I'd like to try calling some of my friends before it gets too late to see if I can find a place to stay the night."