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mattness pl
Your Runner's hideout:
- how it looks like?
- what things runner(s) keep inside?
- Do they live together? Or each one has it's own place?
- How many hideouts? Where (poor district? Hole in the woods?)?
1) Upscale apartment in nice but not too heavily policed part of town.

2) Highly illegal drones, weapons, and vehicles.

3) Absolutely not. We're fairly friendly, but our places of residence are secret.

4) Got a hideout somewhere in the Noose (barrens-alike).

Usually have a mid-range apartment for day to day with two or three "lockers" (ala the Jackal) consisting of long term rental on certified cred coffim hotel rooms with fake ID, clean phone, clean pistol w/tack and silencer, 2 magazines of ammo, a first aid kit, a change of clothes and a cert credstick with around 5k on it.
1 - an old warehouse in a quiet industrial area. Reworked to contain an apartment and a garage.

2 - weapons, vehicles (2), food, armor, etc.

3 - each one has it's own place. Some are known, others are not - depending on the character and their relationship.

4- hideouts in barren-like districts, i guess three at the moment.
Live out of a dufflebag. The future is portable, after all.
Like in Heat?
If I play SR long enough (without my character getting killed, I mean), I hope to have a series of safehouses throughout the Seattle area--something like my character's namesake in the comics, who had at least one hideout in New York City, and probably others throughout the U.S.A. and around the world.

I'm not sure I want to take the plunge and do a "Batman", though--with the stately mansion that has a hidden underground fortress beneath it.

EDIT: I forgot to mention--at present, he's living a "Low" lifestyle, but dossing down in a squatter-type apartment in the Redmond Barrens.

(I think. nyahnyah.gif The campaign is set in Seattle, on the fringes of the Redmond Barrens. Sahandrian wasn't clear regarding where PCs are supposed to live, so I presume it's up to me.)

My characters have always maintained their own "public" doss, and kept a couple secret bolt holes around the town. Usually in areas that you would not expect to find them.
You can always go the "old hangar on the back of the airfield" road.

Beneath a Chinese laundry also works if the Personal in the Laundry is part of the Organisation.

And finaly, the cellar of a "black" barbershop.


But to be realistic, some problems:

+ (Coffin) hotels have to deal with long-fingered employees as well as nosey persons if unused for too long

+ Abandoned structures attrackt gangs and winos

+ Abandoned underground structures attrackt critters

This basically leaves

1) The "duffel bag and cheap 1-room appartment" or the "in your car" types of hideout for the urban runner without gang connections

2) The "Gangland" hideout for the former ganger turned runner, exchanging money/firepower/juice for extra protection and eyes

3) The "rundown brownhouse" hideout on the "South side of Chicago" for the runner with some money.


You touched the 'Fro, now you've got to go (Undercover Brother)
QUOTE (Birdy)
+ (Coffin) hotels have to deal with long-fingered employees as well as nosey persons if unused for too long

I suppose this could be the case for some (coffin) hotels, but seriously if you pay out a little extra to the maid service and the owner to keep their traps shut, things should go your way. Just factor it into your monthly lifestyle costs and you're all good. Or, Negotiations (Bribe) is always a different option.
Coffin hotels+nosy persons isn't a problem. If they're dedicated enough to notice that cell 36-72B hasn't had anyone going in and out of it for a while, you've got other problems.

Aren't coffin hotels pretty much automated? I mean, the interiors get hosed down by internal water jets, your key to access them is your credstick... there's probably only a couple of night watchmen, if that.
Generally speaking coffin hotels should be very anonymous. Just mind you that coffin hotels are usually found in well-trafficked areas with lots of business people in them: this means downtown areas near travel hubs. It might be hard to get that Ares Alpha into the unit. Once it's in, though, it should be fairly safe.
With my tougher more street level charachters I tended to go the 'ill just find someplace to squat' route which basically just requires a good knowledge skill of some barrens type area, some survival skill, optimally camping equipment, and being really scary. In a pinch they might just take someone hostage and use thier place for a while. Basically these charachters revert to thier former lives as street level criminals but with way better skills and so on. Best thing about this plan is that even if left naked in the middle of the street these charachters are usually fearsome enough compared with regular people to make it work after a minor crime spree.

More dainty ones would sometimes keep a low lifestyle or spare vehicle and a few dropped vanishing kits (new clothes, fresh id, money, phones) that would then be used to rent a place to stay as needed, again using a high area knowledge skill to know where to go. They are spending more money, and generally are probably a lot easier to find than the other type, but their hiding spots are going to be more comfortable and easier to operate out of.
By hideout do you mean their home or someting else?
Fygg Nuuton
"to the ork mobile!"

"you mean your '57 americar?"

"dammit steve your ruining it!"
1. A nice but cluttered appartment with high quality amenities in an industrial building renovated into housing.

2. A large amount of weaponry (from light pistols to ATGMs) an electronics work bench, weightlifting equipment, a nice AV setup, and a canister of nerve gas cabable of taking out two or three city blocks stored in its own space with several small (inactive) radio detonated explosive devices.

3. No one lives at my character's primary place but him, but he's letting another party member squat at one the other places he rents, along with a semi-dependent my character's acquired.

4. Started the game with 5 - my primary residence, 2 lower lifestyle place for backup, and a couple of squats set up as emergency hideouts.
I don't have a character at the moment but they usually follow this pattern.

The hideout that other players usually see is a small converted warehouse in Tuchumchech or other industrial area with a small bedroom suite and kitchenette (high lifestyle). The front half is a garage and vehicle workshop while the back is separated by a low wall and contains a conference table for planning along with storage lockers and a reasonably well-stocked first aid station. The living section has a few spare bedrooms in it allowing crashers to spend a couple of nights. This is where my character lives when he is actually on the job.

My character's actual lifestyle is a higher end apartment (high lifestyle) in a AA section of town. The other players don't know about it and it's tied to a completely clean SIN. There is nothing illegal whatsoever in the apartment and it is decorated in a sparse minimalist style.

My backup lifestyle (low lifestyle) is near touristville in Redmond. Some backup equipment is kept there but other than that it isn't detailed much. Bunk beds allow extra people to sleep there if necessary.

I also have an emergency numbered drop box kept Swiss bank style somewhere in the city within a couple blocks of my primary lifestyle if possible. It'll contain a registered pistol plus a couple clips, a grand or so in cash, a half dozen certified cred sticks of varying values, keys and papers to a stock Americar kept in storage nearby, a fake but very well made SIN tied to a middle lifestyle identifying me as a citizen of a European country on friendly terms with the UCAS with a permanent Visa for the UCAS, an ambassadors lounge membership with a major airline, planned flight routes to countries lacking extradition treaties with the UCAS which are updated monthly, a disposable cell phone, a pocket secretary, suit pants, a dress shirt and a hip flask filled with something strong since if shit ever hits the fan bad enough that I need to go for that box then my character is gonna need a drink.
Once my runner gets quite a bit richer, I'm going to do this:

A treehouse in a wooded park in a fairly nice part of seattle. The planks all had their outside coated in ruethium, and the whole place was wired security-rigger style, with cameras and motion sensors, and pop-up turrets in underground bunkers. The whole park can become a deathtrap to anyone not me in under 15 seconds with the proper matrix commands, or if I'm in the treehouse, a pushbutton. As far as any mundanes are concerned, there's nothing even remotely suspicious about the park. My friends know that we could hold off lonestar for as long as it takes them to get clearence to use mortars.
POV story by Connor, a street sam (cut and pasted to here from SL):

Jesus, but I hate alarm clocks. I always have. It's the principle of it, more than any innate laziness. It's not that I love sleeping, it's that I hate being told what to do. Ask Kolman, or Demonseed, or Ronin, or St Croix. I'll get up when I want to get up, you infernal clock, and not a moment before.

Hatred aside, I kowtow to this one's will. The fact that I push it's buttons -- much like Kolman, or DE, or Ronin, or St Croix -- convinces me that I'm ultimately the master in the relationship, and that I'm not really doing what it says. I set the time on it, right? Right. I'm in charge, right? Right. I've got it set for a reason, after all. It gets me up and awake enough to make sure Loriel's off to school on time. It's her that's got the set schedule, not me (and sure not Erika). I've got to make sure she gets up, gets dressed, gets fed, and then I've gotta drive her to school. The alarm clock makes sure that happens. So I roll over, hit the button, and convince myself I've won the clash of wills.

Besides, if I let it blare for too long, Erika'll get mad. That's no good, for anyone. Our insurance is high enough as it is.

So, I'm up. Up and showering. Up, showering, and wrestling my way into jeans and a t-shirt. I flip my headware through a few popular channels, picking up the local weather -- cool enough I'd better make sure Loriel's got a coat, and I'll grab my own, to make sure she doesn't think I'm worrying too much. If she sees daddy bundled up, she knows it's important she does, too. If I trust in the extra body heat a few of my implants produce, she wants to stroll around in the cold in shorts and a Ninja Kitties tee. So I'll suck it up, and make sure I've got my jacket on before we start driving. I sneak Erika a kiss on the cheek as I tip-toe out the room; she's out cold, and probably will be 'till mid morning. I heard her muttering to herself while she studied, up until just a few hours ago. I'm glad I'm not a mage. Too much homework.

Breakfast goes quick. She eats a bowl of some horribly overpriced sugar bombs and watches Space Hawks And The World Warriors on the table's built-in tridscreen, while I down two bowls of granola with berries mixed in, some toast with all-natural preserves that cost about twenty noo a jar, and a liter of water. I wiggle my fingers like I'm gonna tickle her, and that gets her, squealing and racing, out to the garage. I leave the dishes for the drones -- it's what we power them for.

Loriel's smile dazzles me, flare dampening cyberoptics and all, as I trigger the remote-unlock on the Westwind. She loves "the pretty car," and is thrilled every time we ride in it somewhere. She doesn't know why I change back and forth from it to the Avalanche every so often, but Erika understands. I have to take different routes, to pick her up and drop her off. It was one of the first things drilled into our heads, during the basic fieldcraft crash course I got; don't have a routine. If you have to have a routine, don't get there the same way. Sometimes, one of the routes is easier in a fast car, sometimes an SUV will stand out in certain traffic, sometimes I've got a bad feeling or just recently pulled off a big 'run, and I feel safer with my baby girl wrapped in the bulletproof glass and armored panels of the Avalanche. It's been a few weeks, though, and we're running a few minutes late -- so it's the Westwind, to make sure she doesn't get a tardy slip from Mrs. Zingowski.

The drive is unremarkable. That's how I like them, when Loriel's in the car with me. I let the autonav do most of the work, and concentrate, personally, on the view -- no one unusual in the mirrors, no one shading us, no conspicuously generic sedans or SUV's pulling up alongside us, no cars marked with obvious gang marks, no screaming bikers howling up alongside us. A dad's got to be careful. A dad in my line of work, ten times as much.

She squeals gleefully again when I let her pick the radio station, but before long it's been muted as I pop quiz her on her spelling words for the test coming up on Friday. She's still having trouble with unicorn -- it's difficult to believe considering the number of plush and robotic ones she's got in her room -- and wants to slip a K in there. She gets nine out of ten words right, though, and I make sure she's smiling and proud of herself as he hops out of the car with her clariplast bookbag on her back, datachips and pen-pad jostling around inside, and darts into the building with her friends.

Now my morning can begin. I've only got one errand to run, but it'll take some time, and it's important.

I double the tint on the windows a second after waving to Judd, the black ork in charge of security at Dr. A.D Johnson's Elementary. Judd and I had talked, a few times. I'd had chosen Loriel's school by the security and location as much as anything else, and Judd -- more specifically, I'd just asked for the security director -- had been just the second person I'd talked to. Headmistress, then Judd, then I'd signed her up.

By the time the ork returns the wave, the windows might as well be made of chrome. No one's seeing inside, and I relax for a second and let the autonav pull me off the school grounds and into traffic as I plug myself into the Westwind's sweet, sweet, controls. A half block later, I'm clear of the school zone, the autonav is switched off, and I let myself go.

Even dads need to have fun.

It only takes me six minutes to reach the heart of Downtown, and my radar detector keeps the Star from hassling me. I've sped up and slowed down more times than Ares' space project, of course, but I've managed to keep my speeds reasonable as I neared cops, every time, while still enjoying myself whenever possible. I love my Westwind.

I park it smoothly outside the central bus station and watch the meter glow green as it identifies my GridGuide, and starts to bill me on it's own. I could slot a stick, prepay for a set amount of time, and override it... but I'm not sure how long I'll be. I don't go into the bus station itself, of course -- this parking lot just has better security than the one down the street -- but jog across the crosswalk and head a few storefronts away, ducking into Half-Rate Charlie's, a transit hotel that caters to the sort of people poor enough to need to ride a bus here in the first place.

I nod to the chiphead working the counter, and walk on back. The chiphead's new, someone else was here when I dropped by a few weeks ago. Truth be told, they don't do much. They don't try to stop people from entering, they don't hand out keys, they don't answer the phone, and they don't try to stop people from leaving. I'm not sure why they pay someone to stand at the counter -- it's in the nature of the coffin cubicle itself to make their job obsolete. It ain't like you can get room service. The coffin charges a credstick to let you in, charges a credstick for the trid to come on, and stops charging a credstick when you leave. Why they've got a waste of oxygen sucking up the nuyen to stand at the door and ignore customers is beyond me. Their main function, as far as I can determine, is to slap the PANICBUTTON whenever anything spooks them or any of the customers, or they smell smoke, or, hell, whatever. I guess it's cheaper than installing a button in every coffin.

I take the steps to coffin 321, and ignore the red "no vacancy" sign. It thinks it's not vacant because it's been prepaid, it thinks someone's sleeping in there right now, and the maglock won't respond to anything but the credstick that reserved it in the first place.

Good thing that was me, two weeks ago.

My 'stick gets slotted again, the door opens, and I crawl inside. It's roomy, for a coffin -- because I'm not a troll. Half Rate Charlie's is advertised in the Seattle Metroplex's Hostel and Hotel guide as meta-friendly, and this is why -- the top row of their coffins are troll sized, the bottom row, dwarf. I've got an extra large one -- which leaves my pretty elven ass plenty of room, and the synthleather duffel bag I've got down at the head of the sleeping area doesn't take up any more space than a few pillows would in a normal coffin hotel.

I activate the trid, sit up -- there's just enough room, if I slouch a bit -- cross-legged, and haul the duffel over. Ta-da. I can watch the replay of last night's Screamers game while I clean my guns. That's what's in the bag, see. Guns. An Ares Crusader and an HK 227, to be precise. And and urban camo outfit. A few changes of regular clothes. A medkit. A week's worth -- for me, that's a lot -- of rations. Bottled water. Two boxes of 9mm EX rounds. A few spare SINs. A cash-anytime bus ticket to Portland. Empty clips. A pocket secretary. Mapchips. Linguasofts. Stimpatches. A half dozen grenades. It's an emergency kit, and everything I've been able to think of that I'd need in a hurry, if I was for some reason unable or unwilling to go to the house.

I put my hands on autopilot as I watch the game. The Crusader and HK are cleaned, oiled, and reassembled fairly quickly. They're good guns, and ones that I practice with, and as such care for, with quite a bit of regularity. I lounge in the coffin for a few more minutes, going through my duffel to make sure it's all there, none of the perishables are past the expiration date, and generally that my little hidey-hole remains an asset.

Last week, I checked the one just like it I've got in Puyallup.

That one's got a Puzzler and a SuperMach in it, a different set of mapchips, a bus ticket for a different company. It's quite a bit dirtier, of course, the Princes of the Blood standing guard are ten times as nasty as the fucker out front in this joint, and the maglock shows scars from failed entry attempts. Other than that, they're identical.

They're handy, these little safehouses. Someplace for me, and just me, to crash, to hole up, to climb in and lay low. Erika has her own, I'm sure, that I don't know about -- just like she doesn't know about mine. My big one is a full-on crash pad of an apartment I've got over in Auburn, just a few buildings up from Community General. The ambulances screaming by day and night keep the rent nice and cheap and most of the building empty, and the streams of Puyallup ER cases -- gunshots and other traumas, of course -- that pour into the place keep them skilled in the only sort of emergency medical care I'm likely to ever need. If the shit hits the fan, I can duck into one of these two coffin hotels. If the shit hits the fan and I'm bleeding profusely, I head to Auburn. It's got a few more guns in it, some real elbow room, and I can think of three different exits I could use, or make, if I had to. In principle, though, it serves the same purpose as these two.

A glance at the tridscreen shows the current time as just nudging at 10 am. Erika would be waking up soon.

I zip the duffel closed, and clamber -- even I'm graceless, getting out of a coffin cube -- out of the cubicle. I relock it, prepay for another two weeks, and head back outside.

Time to go home. My back up is stocked and secure, my little girl's safe at school, and my girlfriend sleeps naked. If I hurry, I can get home before her alarm clock goes off.

At this point, I'll just fast forward a bit. Suffice it to say a few hours have passed. No one needs the details.

Erika and I grab some lunch, and chat over sandwiches and grape juice. I eat two to her one, of course, but I'm a growing boy, and my suprathyroid growls at me if I ignore it. It turns out she and her initiatory group -- some mage stuff, is all I know -- have to meet again this afternoon, and she won't be able to pick Loriel up from school. It's no problem, though, 'cause I should be done with my other couple of errands by then. By the time I've overseen the autodrones cleaning and polished off a third sandwich, she's back at her turtle, watching the data flow by on-screen and mumbling to herself. I work out for an hour, out in the garage, then climb into the Americar.

One of my cars, I drive because it's fast, fun, and worth every penny I paid for it. One, I drive for the armor, the space, and the safety features. The bike, I got as almost an impulse buy, riding high on the wave of a good payment, and offered a good deal to snatch it up alongside the one I bought for Erika. This one, though, the Americar? I drive because it's invisible.

I'm going to the Barrens. A Westwind Turbo wouldn't last a minute, a Saeder-Chevy Avalance would be stripped inside five, and the Blitzen would be gone almost faster then I could climb off it. Time was, an Americar just this shade of grey signified association with the local mob. More recently, people in the neighborhood I'm heading to associate it with me. Either way, it wasn't worth fucking with the driver's reputation just to score a Genericar.

I bank on it, and ponder the state of the world when a vehicle's relative worthlessness is all that determines it's safety, as I start to dodge potholes. I swing by Leg's for a few boxes of ammo, bullshit with him for a while, chat about some guns and some politics, but don't rent a lane. I'm back in my car a minute later, and give a little honk to The Hollow Point as I drive past -- no one's there, the middle of the afternoon is like the middle of the night to Dwight and the boys, but it's a force of habit.

About a mile and a half past the Crime Mall, I back the car up onto the sidewalk and past it, heading ass-first onto an abandoned lot that would be weed-ridden, if it weren't for the old layers of ash that drowns it. No one's bothered to clean it up, no one's bothered to sweep it away, no one cares about the stains any more.It's why I'm wearing my cheap shoes.

A few squatters scatter and curse at the unexpected traffic -- when you've got nowhere to sleep but an empty lot, you don't expect many cars to come by -- but I ignore them as I pop the trunk. I pull out two cases, both of them are twenty-four packs, and start walking away from the car. A few bloodshot eyes stay on me, some tongues flash out over chapped lips, a few wary hands inch towards makeshift knives and clubs, suspecting a trap.

One case is chocolate flavored protein shakes -- I take one for myself, it sounds good -- and the other is full of red-label SoyBuds. They cause a miniature explosion in the black ash as I set them down, little puffs of it drifting in the air as I move away from them and back towards my car.

"The only rule is, you leave your cans and bottles when you're done."

Then I climb back in, lock the doors, tint the windows, and give it five minutes while I flip through the radio stations and fill a few clips with the 9mm rounds I'd bought at Leg's.

Some of them didn't leave their cans, of course. Some of them never do. At least no one fought over them this time. I'd kept an eye out and didn't catch any more but the most reflexive and half-hearted shoving as the makeshift line formed, the standard cursing and jostling for position as everyone snatched up one of each -- or, all too often, ignored the shakes for the beer. As always, a few had just grabbed the swag and run. This close to Tarislar, I can't say I blame them.

Everyone's gone by the time I head over and see what's left, of course. That's allright. That's how I wanted it. The fact I've got a Supermach slung over my back doesn't help keep them around, I'm sure, but the odds are good they'd have scattered before I got out of the car, any way.

I grab bottles and cans and toss a few out, underhand, scattering them around the lot. The rest, I toss, loose, back into the case and head over to the battered brick wall that lines the far side of the lot. In a few moments, I've got them lined up along the top of the wall, some cans and bottles wedged into the spots where bricks are missing, some atop the lower parts of wall where nearly half of it's been torn down.

I listen very carefully once the last bottle is in place, straining my cyberaudio package for footsteps, whispers, even breathing, anywhere nearby.

I'm alone.

I stay in a casual position, Ingram slung and safetied, sixty round clip loose in my left hand, several more pocketed all over me. I hold the pose, strain for a last few heartbeats for signs of anyone too close for comfort, and then cue myself to begin.

The weapon's up, the clip's loaded, the safety's off, the targeting pip lines up with the empty cardboard in the middle of the lot.

The noise starts.

All told, I'm not at it very long. Marcus isn't here, we don't have proper targets, and I'm too busy worrying about Loriel's spelling test on Friday to have much fun or stay properly focused. I empty the four clips inside a minute and force myself to go slowly, single shot with the fifth, and there's not much of anything left whole in the lot by the time I'm done. The cardboard is shredded, every bottle took two rounds -- the second aimed just a hair lower than the first, for what it's worth -- and the torn remnants of neo-aluminum cans are definately not worth attempting to recycle, by this point. Most of them had had enough mass left over after a burst to be worth shooting at again.

It's Puyallup. The noise of a submachinegun firing won't cause a tenth of the storytelling as some crazy rich elf giving away food and booze for free. There's not a snowball's chance in hell anyone will be startled, or frightened, or hit a PANICBUTTON over it.

I spend a few moments picking up my discarded clips, scattered as they are around the lot as I'd darted from spot to spot, firing on the move, imagining new targets. The ash will take some cleaning before I'll want to do anything like load them again, of course, but I'm used to it.

I check the time on the virtual dash in my Americar as I pull back out onto the street. I've got just enough time to go home, wash my hands and clean my gun, then swap out cars and go get Loriel from school.

I grin, as I think about how she'll beam to her friends when "the pretty car" comes by to pick her up.

It's not a bad life. Between jobs.
That's a pretty cool short story not to mention a cool character. smokin.gif Most shadowrunners lean towards the "loan wolf" mentality out of habbit it's interesting to see one that tries to ballance a family life with life as a freelance "consultant". Couple questions though.

How much does Loriel know about daddy's work? She seems quite young 6 or 7 years old at the most but she will probably figure somthing out when she's older. Do you plan on telling her?

Since Erika sounds like a member of the team who takes care of Loriel when you are working especially since some runs can make it difficult or unsafe to go home for days or weeks at a time?

and finally how do you keep from getting traced back to your home and someone taking it out on your daughter? GM's are nasty creatures and coming home one day only to find out your daughter has been kidnapped isn't too big a streatch of the imigination. What contingancy plans do you have for this?
Eddie Furious
Dang, Critias.... Impressive!

That has a very high degree of versimiltude to how it would be done, I'll wager. I'm sending my players to check this post out.
That's a pretty cool short story not to mention a cool character.   smokin.gif  Most shadowrunners lean towards the "loan wolf" mentality out of habbit it's interesting to see one that tries to ballance a family life with life as a freelance "consultant".  Couple questions though.

Thanks. It's far from the only piece of fiction I've got for Connor -- he's a very long-standing character, inching towards 250 karma. I've had plenty of time (and plenty of jobs) for him to rack up multiple safehouses, a pretty complicated backstory, etc, etc. Loriel herself is actually Pistons' fault. I'd originally taken Amnesia (to make sure life stayed interesting), and posted an open invitation to anyone and everyone anywhere on Shadowland to screw with me, by way of explaining a backstory. Turned out Connor was a former Tir Ghost who had a kid back home that needed to be taken care of -- so he started juggling personal/professional like you wouldn't believe. wink.gif

How much does Loriel know about daddy's work?  She seems quite young 6 or 7 years old at the most but she will probably figure somthing out when she's older.  Do you plan on telling her?

She knows daddy is "still a very special soldier" for Tir Tairngire (which is actually mostly true -- I've got a fairly long list of Edges/Flaws, several of which pertain to Connor's status as a milessaratish to a Prince Dar Varien). She knows that Erika (Connor's long standing girlfriend, and a multi-initiated Hermetic combat mage in her own right) sometimes helps him do soldier stuff. She doesn't know he's a professinal criminal in between tasks and reports for Varien, though. And she's much too busy with spelling tests to be bothered with such grown-up stuff.

Since Erika sounds like a member of the team who takes care of Loriel when you are working especially since some runs can make it difficult or unsafe to go home for days or weeks at a time?

We go on a lot of "vacations," writing off big fat chunks of pay at a time, and just staying out of town for a while.

Every now and then it's a trip to the Tir (which Loriel, who lived in Portland 'till about two years ago, loves, and Erika, an oft-grouchy human, hates), for the extra security that comes from being an operating member of the Tir military/intelligence community.

After Connor's last big job, a series of wetworks, for instance, I'd arranged for a quick drive (no record of us leaving Seattle) in personal vehicles down into Portland, then a Tir-owned/operated (read: paranoid matrix security, for extra privacy) airline trip to Europe. Someone would have to hack a half dozen different country's immigration/tourism records to track us, and they'd have to start with Tir Tairngire (and remember, all Tir businesses are at least partially owned by the government, which would mean additional security and paranoia running rampant to protect that sort of record from going public), and with the highlight of the vacation being Erika's trip to a super-fancy cultured bioware clinic (yet more private, rather than public, records) to get a few goodies installed in the middle of a ski trip.

Inside about nine hours of the last shots being fired at the end of the job, he was somewhere in Paris, letting Erika buy some nice wine and trying to get Loriel to race him up the steps to the top of the Eiffel (which is, I imagine, dauntingly tall especially for a six year old girl).

It's a fun, if not always game-efficient, way to blow through the hard-earned nuyen that comes from both adults in a relationship being fairly high-karma (and as such, high pay) Shadowrunners. wink.gif

and finally how do you keep from getting traced back to your home and someone taking it out on your daughter?  GM's are nasty creatures and coming home one day only to find out your daughter has been kidnapped isn't too big a streatch of the imigination.  What contingancy plans do you have for this?

General spy tricks (picked up via training at Corvis with the Information Secretariat) represented by appropriate knowledge skills, and partially displayed in the above short fiction. Route changes to keep routines from forming too much, bug scanners, very very expensive senseware for good old fashioned looking around, all that sort of thing. It's far from impossible to track him to his house, but it's not exactly easy, either -- and when someone does find it, they've got at least Connor and Erika to go through in order to get ahold of her (they're only very rarely both on jobs at the same time lately, and when they are they've got Uncle Italy babysitting, as often as not).

It hasn't come up yet, and Shadowland is chock full of sadistic jerks who like to pull just that sort of thing. Trust me. wink.gif
very neat. Like Eddie said, I think that'll be homewrok for my players. If I could give you karma.....
I, uhh, just realized how very very much I derailed this thread, by posting a piece of short fiction instead of just a list of hideouts/lifestyles/whatever. Sorry.
Yeah, ok. You are forgiven. Now do it again.
My old group I was in had a warehouse we took from an gang the players had been having difficulties with off and on (The Wyld Cards), and set up an arrangement for another gang for security (the Halloweeners, who my GM essentially turned from the lunatics of Sprawl Sites, into essentially a highly trained paramilitary milita.)
How many Hideouts?
2 (Snohomish, Redmond Barrens)

Do they live together?
Hell no. (My chars answer, some chars indeed do). Fellow runners do know that the base of operations is Redmond and that a second, distant flat exists. Not more.

Whats inside / How does it look?
Snohomish functions as safe haven and is the registered place of living of the legal SIN.
It has my electronics shop and my cyberdeck concealed amongst that. Area Code C, large Flat in your average appartment building, Privacy Screen 2, High lifestyle overall.

Redmond is my personal Runner-Base, registered place of living of a rating 6 SIN. Contains a weapons shop, most of my rifles and pistols (all except one pistol and one hunting rifle), and all illegal goodies except my deck.

I recently aquired another SIN that will cover another lifestyle, most likely replacing the old Redmond flat as base of operations. I also plan on emulating Critias-style fallback caches of equipment.
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