It's been month since the nightmare aboard the freighter. Seattle-- for all its tenacity-- has seen better days. A mysterious pandemic has gripped the city. High end clinics are stuffed to the brim, street docs have lines wrapping blocks, and dead transients lying in the street are a common sight.
Not even the Matrix seems to have a grasp on what is transpiring, with the bulk of related content being arguments on message boards. The news cycle consists of so-called experts scratching their heads and cautioning people to stay indoors. The local economy has born the brunt of this disaster and some smaller shops have simply boarded up.
Preacher's last communique to the team was equal parts thankful and apologetic. He vowed to get to the bottom of the myriad questions raised by the team's voyage but has, as of yet, been silent.
Outside of Axel's garage a greasy rain slops over the skyline. Great gouts of steam rise from vents, making The Barrens look like a giant swamp. An occasional passing motorcycle penetrates the drum of droplets. The soundtrack here is a far cry from the urban orchestra of downtown, truly.
The last few days have particularly aggravating. In order to avoid infection or interactions with Lone Star (who seem to be locked in an endless patrol) the team has opted to hunker down with the team's rigger. Cabin fever is an understatement.
A gloomy melody drifts from an antique jukebox in one corner, accompanied by a pounding bassline and wailing vocals-- Johnny Nuclear's Be My Predator. An oldie, but a goodie.
Just as the afternoon is settling into evening, a message hits the teams' respective comms. It's Preacher, with a single text message:
May have found some answers. Come at once.
Run #4 - Eat, Pray, Die
Re: Run #4 - Eat, Pray, Die
It was nice while it lasted.
Not the everyone dying part- that obviously sucked. But for a time, Mouse was well positioned to do what Mouse did best: hole up in her little decker-den without ever venturing outside or seeing anyone. With a ready stash of instant ramen and facemasks, and the entire matrix at fingertips, this was one crisis the little netnerd was practically built to weather.
All things considered, Mouse might not have noticed the pandemic at all… until her deliveries stopped coming in.
That had been the impetus for her relocating from her glorified storage room apartment, and turning up in another, more literal storage room, which just so happened to be in Axel’s firehouse. Despite any misgivings the rigger may have had about the uninvited Mouse in his house, or the fact that she just let herself in without warning or explanation, it was only a matter of time before the remainder of the team converged on the firehouse as a base of operations. (Presumably, at least some of the others had been considerate enough to ask Axel first.)
Perhaps this is why, by the time the Vantichrist pulls into the glow of The Immortal Son, the little appears to have been barely affected by the sojourn. The rear door swings open with a metallic rattle, and the bundle of decker is the first to emerge, hopping down into a nearby puddle with a splash. Looking quite bundled up between the layers of hoodie and her own mask, she shoves her hands into her sweatshirt’s front pocket." SO, WHO’S READY FOR OUR NEXT BIG ADVENTURE?" She taps each foot against the pavement, shaking off beads of murky liquid clinging to her boots. "AND BY THAT, I MEAN 'WHO'S READY TO GET STUCK SOMEWHERE WITH NO ELECTRICITY AND AN ABUNDANCE OF WAR CRIMES?'"
Not the everyone dying part- that obviously sucked. But for a time, Mouse was well positioned to do what Mouse did best: hole up in her little decker-den without ever venturing outside or seeing anyone. With a ready stash of instant ramen and facemasks, and the entire matrix at fingertips, this was one crisis the little netnerd was practically built to weather.
All things considered, Mouse might not have noticed the pandemic at all… until her deliveries stopped coming in.
That had been the impetus for her relocating from her glorified storage room apartment, and turning up in another, more literal storage room, which just so happened to be in Axel’s firehouse. Despite any misgivings the rigger may have had about the uninvited Mouse in his house, or the fact that she just let herself in without warning or explanation, it was only a matter of time before the remainder of the team converged on the firehouse as a base of operations. (Presumably, at least some of the others had been considerate enough to ask Axel first.)
Perhaps this is why, by the time the Vantichrist pulls into the glow of The Immortal Son, the little appears to have been barely affected by the sojourn. The rear door swings open with a metallic rattle, and the bundle of decker is the first to emerge, hopping down into a nearby puddle with a splash. Looking quite bundled up between the layers of hoodie and her own mask, she shoves her hands into her sweatshirt’s front pocket." SO, WHO’S READY FOR OUR NEXT BIG ADVENTURE?" She taps each foot against the pavement, shaking off beads of murky liquid clinging to her boots. "AND BY THAT, I MEAN 'WHO'S READY TO GET STUCK SOMEWHERE WITH NO ELECTRICITY AND AN ABUNDANCE OF WAR CRIMES?'"
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Drew Buddy
- Posts: 1488
- Joined: Sun Oct 30, 2011 7:06 pm
Re: Run #4 - Eat, Pray, Die
The Best of Queen cuts out as Axel turns off the ignition with misgiving. Given that the now functional Doom Wagon has better environmental seals, he would have felt much better traversing even the sparsely populated Barrens in his shiny new toy.
But Doug is a jealous lover, and Axel was never very good a breakups. "Keep an eye on things for me," he says to the Vantichrist as he opens the door. The rain sheets down on Axel as he turns to retrieve his Console from the foot well below the front seat, and shoulders the strap.
"So what's next?" he asks anyone who's listening. "I've got 10¥ on a haunted, radioactive abattoir with no exits or 'net access that slowly fills with blood." He starts walking up the stairs to the church. "Or maybe Preacher is finally sending us on that vacation he definitely owes us?" He says almost too hopefully. "Somewhere with little umbrellas in the drinks."
But Doug is a jealous lover, and Axel was never very good a breakups. "Keep an eye on things for me," he says to the Vantichrist as he opens the door. The rain sheets down on Axel as he turns to retrieve his Console from the foot well below the front seat, and shoulders the strap.
"So what's next?" he asks anyone who's listening. "I've got 10¥ on a haunted, radioactive abattoir with no exits or 'net access that slowly fills with blood." He starts walking up the stairs to the church. "Or maybe Preacher is finally sending us on that vacation he definitely owes us?" He says almost too hopefully. "Somewhere with little umbrellas in the drinks."
Re: Run #4 - Eat, Pray, Die
Mick draws on their cigarette, laid back on a slab of concrete and lost in thought as the bay rollup door grinds open like the sound of shitty gears. They'd seen enough sickness living on the streets to know normal-sickness and plague-sickness, and this drek going around was primed to be the kind of plague that might one day be the subject of a track or two in Johnny Nuclear's catalog. This was all supposed to be gearing the adept toward getting the frag out of Seattle, but somehow that always seemed further and further away. Trapped in FreeCal. Trapped on a haunted ship. Quarantined in Seattle with a mystery illness ravaging everything in sight.
The ork's ears perk up at the conversation between Mouse and Axel.
"There's always umbrellas in drinks wherever you go, omae. Might be the only charming thing about any of us." They smirk. "As for Preacher, my vote's space. Fourth ones where you go to space." The commentary does nothing to disguise Mick's annoyance with everything they've been through at the behest of their Johnson.
The ork's ears perk up at the conversation between Mouse and Axel.
"There's always umbrellas in drinks wherever you go, omae. Might be the only charming thing about any of us." They smirk. "As for Preacher, my vote's space. Fourth ones where you go to space." The commentary does nothing to disguise Mick's annoyance with everything they've been through at the behest of their Johnson.
Re: Run #4 - Eat, Pray, Die
"Christ," bemoans the VantiChrist. The fact that the construct's voice sounds like a man trapped in a phonebooth does little to dampen the startling effect of the frequent outbursts. "Wherever you end up, please stay there."
Taipan and Thoryne's absence had been felt, but the smarmy, self-aware vehicle? Not so much.
Taipan and Thoryne's absence had been felt, but the smarmy, self-aware vehicle? Not so much.
Re: Run #4 - Eat, Pray, Die
Mick takes a harsh drag off their cigarette, seats it squeezed between the pad of their thumb and the nail on their index finger, and gives it an aggressive flick into the side of the VantiChrist, where it explodes in a shower of sparks with a soft but assertive thoomp! "Don't worry about that, drekbucket. I'mma tell my omae if we ain't back in a few days to come salvage you for scrap."
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Drew Buddy
- Posts: 1488
- Joined: Sun Oct 30, 2011 7:06 pm
Re: Run #4 - Eat, Pray, Die
Axel shrugs.
"Not sure T-Bone has anything to salvage. Never been able to run any services on him, he won't even let me open the hood. Tried a cutting torch once..." He trails off. "But we don't talk about that anymore," he finishes.
"Not sure T-Bone has anything to salvage. Never been able to run any services on him, he won't even let me open the hood. Tried a cutting torch once..." He trails off. "But we don't talk about that anymore," he finishes.
Re: Run #4 - Eat, Pray, Die
A rusted out pickup barrels through the thick curtain of mist, with the force of a soft drink mascot crashing drywall. The battered Gopher catches air as it launches down the exit ramp, jolting its occupants into the roof with each bounce. The driver, a young ork with wide-set eyes and a wider, tusky grin, seems to take a particular pleasure in the way each sharp turn kicks up a miniature tsunami in its wake, coating the Eaves with a cascade of thickened mud and filth.
At first, the truck careens at full speed past The Immortal Son, before sliding to a hard stop more than a full block down. There's a pause, and a rhythmic beep as the truck kicks into reverse, past several row houses, before parking decisively in front of the church.
"Dis da place?" The driver jabs a meaty thumb toward the window as he swivels toward his passenger, now illuminated in an unearthly hue from the chapel's neon glow.
Sam, the passenger, is in many ways unremarkable: a trait that's often served him well in his life as a Barrens rat. As a human, with shaggy brown hair and the beginning hints of stubble on his otherwise youthful face, he lacks the physical scars from a life of hardship, or tattoos to link him to a found tribe, instead having cultivated his ability to slip into a crowd unnoticed. Thrift store clothing practically hangs from his slim frame in a style that could pass for 'grunge', as opposed to mere reflections of poverty. However, were one to squint hard enough at the young man, it would be easy enough to imagine him cleaned up, blending in with a swath of uptown salarymen.
He takes a moment to peer through the window, squinting toward the 'artistically' designed candy van pulled up to the curb behind, as well as the silhouetted figures piling out. He shoots his driver a puzzled look. "Uhhh, I think it is. I’m not sure what I expected when Harry said this Preacher guy worked out of an actual church though." As gets out of the truck, he leans back in before closing the door, "Just in case this guy’s a creep, could you hang here for a few?"
The ork chuckles, "I know da drill, if I dun get da message in 5, I come and pull you out, just like dat one meet with da chubby dwarf."
As Sam closes the door and starts to make his way up to the church, the ork rolls down his window and shouts "You wants your Señor Changs?" shaking a grease soaked bag out the window, "uderwise dis gonna be my lunch."
At first, the truck careens at full speed past The Immortal Son, before sliding to a hard stop more than a full block down. There's a pause, and a rhythmic beep as the truck kicks into reverse, past several row houses, before parking decisively in front of the church.
"Dis da place?" The driver jabs a meaty thumb toward the window as he swivels toward his passenger, now illuminated in an unearthly hue from the chapel's neon glow.
Sam, the passenger, is in many ways unremarkable: a trait that's often served him well in his life as a Barrens rat. As a human, with shaggy brown hair and the beginning hints of stubble on his otherwise youthful face, he lacks the physical scars from a life of hardship, or tattoos to link him to a found tribe, instead having cultivated his ability to slip into a crowd unnoticed. Thrift store clothing practically hangs from his slim frame in a style that could pass for 'grunge', as opposed to mere reflections of poverty. However, were one to squint hard enough at the young man, it would be easy enough to imagine him cleaned up, blending in with a swath of uptown salarymen.
He takes a moment to peer through the window, squinting toward the 'artistically' designed candy van pulled up to the curb behind, as well as the silhouetted figures piling out. He shoots his driver a puzzled look. "Uhhh, I think it is. I’m not sure what I expected when Harry said this Preacher guy worked out of an actual church though." As gets out of the truck, he leans back in before closing the door, "Just in case this guy’s a creep, could you hang here for a few?"
The ork chuckles, "I know da drill, if I dun get da message in 5, I come and pull you out, just like dat one meet with da chubby dwarf."
As Sam closes the door and starts to make his way up to the church, the ork rolls down his window and shouts "You wants your Señor Changs?" shaking a grease soaked bag out the window, "uderwise dis gonna be my lunch."
Re: Run #4 - Eat, Pray, Die
"IF YOU DON’T WANT HIM, I’D BE HAPPY TO TAKE HIM. "The decker’s eyes twist into wicked little crescents, undoubtedly a byproduct of some horrible little grin behind her mask. She punctuates this thought by giving one of the van’s taillights a cheeky slap as she makes her way toward the church. "C’MON. LET’S GO HEAR ABOUT THIS GREAT NEW JOB WE’LL BE DOING FOR WEYLAND-YUTANI."
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Drew Buddy
- Posts: 1488
- Joined: Sun Oct 30, 2011 7:06 pm
Re: Run #4 - Eat, Pray, Die
"Weyland-Yutani? Haven't heard of them. I thought this was for Omni Consumer Products?" Axel says absent-mindedly as he summits the steps and approaches the wooden door of the church.
A shitbox pickup rattles by the church's gate, and comes to a stop just down the road. The hairs on the back of Axel's neck stand up, and not just because of the steel-on-steel squealing of brakes that long ago lost their padding. Uneasy, he turns back to the door.
"Let's get inside, and see what the padre has for us."
A shitbox pickup rattles by the church's gate, and comes to a stop just down the road. The hairs on the back of Axel's neck stand up, and not just because of the steel-on-steel squealing of brakes that long ago lost their padding. Uneasy, he turns back to the door.
"Let's get inside, and see what the padre has for us."
Re: Run #4 - Eat, Pray, Die
The Immortal Son seems darker than usual. The silhouettes of pews are barely visible, rising like islets from a sea of shadow. Beyond the Nave, the subtle glow of candlelight submits to the oppressive gloom. The dim confines are made all the more unnerving by the Anglican austerity. And the Yokai are there, of course-- sensed, rather than seen.
The footfalls of the runners echo brashly along the Narthex, the slapping sounds conjure images of flagellation. As if each step is an act of contrition that feeds the church and, by extension: the dark.
An abrupt silence befalls the space as the team reaches the faded carpet. The congregation moves towards the Apse, locomoting in a sort of determined yet wary amble. A Kitsune mask flashes briefly, illuminated by candle as its owner closes the door behind them. The house of God is closed for business.
After navigating between the pews, the runners reach the Crossing and stop before the altar. LED's glitter from somewhere in the ambulatory and the low hum of equipment reverberates throughout the church's grand acoustics. While no pipe organ, the sound does serve to craft the illusion that the building is alive. Mouse feels a shiver trill her spine, but isn't sure why.
Ancient, partially rotted wooden beams creak as a figure plumbs the darkness. Above, the son of God looks down from his cross upon the team with genuine disinterest. Somewhere outside a car alarm bleats, but the sound is impossibly far away.
Preacher appears from behind the altar. His grim, gaunt features are arranged in a new pattern. It takes the runners a moment to realize that it's an expression of enthusiastic curiosity. It looks wholly unnatural on the stern man's countenance.
A glint of steel. A canister? Preacher is cradling something in his hands and it's not baby Jesus. He lifts it-- almost reverently-- towards what faint illumination escapes the louring shadows. It's the organic sample from the doomed freighter, housed within a cylinder. The fixer tests its weight, turns it to and fro.
"Fascinating," Preacher says. His commanding voice seems to penetrate the veil of shadow. Do the candles burn brighter? For just a moment? "Fascinating," he repeats, "And terrible."
The footfalls of the runners echo brashly along the Narthex, the slapping sounds conjure images of flagellation. As if each step is an act of contrition that feeds the church and, by extension: the dark.
An abrupt silence befalls the space as the team reaches the faded carpet. The congregation moves towards the Apse, locomoting in a sort of determined yet wary amble. A Kitsune mask flashes briefly, illuminated by candle as its owner closes the door behind them. The house of God is closed for business.
After navigating between the pews, the runners reach the Crossing and stop before the altar. LED's glitter from somewhere in the ambulatory and the low hum of equipment reverberates throughout the church's grand acoustics. While no pipe organ, the sound does serve to craft the illusion that the building is alive. Mouse feels a shiver trill her spine, but isn't sure why.
Ancient, partially rotted wooden beams creak as a figure plumbs the darkness. Above, the son of God looks down from his cross upon the team with genuine disinterest. Somewhere outside a car alarm bleats, but the sound is impossibly far away.
Preacher appears from behind the altar. His grim, gaunt features are arranged in a new pattern. It takes the runners a moment to realize that it's an expression of enthusiastic curiosity. It looks wholly unnatural on the stern man's countenance.
A glint of steel. A canister? Preacher is cradling something in his hands and it's not baby Jesus. He lifts it-- almost reverently-- towards what faint illumination escapes the louring shadows. It's the organic sample from the doomed freighter, housed within a cylinder. The fixer tests its weight, turns it to and fro.
"Fascinating," Preacher says. His commanding voice seems to penetrate the veil of shadow. Do the candles burn brighter? For just a moment? "Fascinating," he repeats, "And terrible."
Re: Run #4 - Eat, Pray, Die
Even in the increasingly familiar trappings of the Immortal Son, Mouse catches herself glancing about her surroundings, less out of caution than expectation. After all, this is about the time that the silence would normally be broken by a wild guitar riff, as Yung, riding a skateboard, would come crashing through the stained glass. He'd land with a double backflip, flash the good preacher a pair of fingerguns, and doff his sunglasses, just long enough to sweet talk him out of obscene amounts of money. Work accomplished, he'd remind his team to 'say no to drugs,' and disappear in a smokebomb, leaving the rest of them to work out the grisly details of the horrorshow they'd just signed up for.
With each shuffled step, it becomes increasingly clear that nobody's coming to save her. (Not unless the pale shadow tailing the party were to remove his mask and reveal Yung beneath- though that would be too understated of an entrance for the team's former face.) Someone needs to break the ice.
She clasps her hands behind her back in a pseudo-professional gesture and nods in greeting. "...WE AREN'T INTERRUPTING, ARE WE?"
With each shuffled step, it becomes increasingly clear that nobody's coming to save her. (Not unless the pale shadow tailing the party were to remove his mask and reveal Yung beneath- though that would be too understated of an entrance for the team's former face.) Someone needs to break the ice.
She clasps her hands behind her back in a pseudo-professional gesture and nods in greeting. "...WE AREN'T INTERRUPTING, ARE WE?"
Re: Run #4 - Eat, Pray, Die
Reiya is an absolute mess. Aside from the drain on her body and mental acuity from the layered debacles of the freighter, their proximity to another pandemic reawakens the memories of her tribe's decimation. Busy running with the crew, even in the midst of their insane escapades, Reiya felt she was finally at the stage of laying those nightmares to rest, but no more. The shaman's spent most of the last few weeks curled up in the corner of a few different rooms; most recently, Axel's garage. It's by no means the worst place she's sheltered and hidden.
The team was fine with her brief departure, fine with her return—once they established she wasn't sick—and has been fine with her barricading herself off. She's grateful that in this nest of misfits, everyone understands the need to wall oneself off occasionally. Except her faithful crow Mach, who prods her occasionally to make sure she's not dead, and more often for food and attention.
The thoughts keep circling in her head, like a storytelling of ravens in some forsaken field that appears in her dreams from time to time. Is this pandemic caused by another new strain of VITAS? Is it the same as the one that was circulating among Saitō's crew? If it does affect anyone she knows—including the members of this motley band of stir-crazy runners—will she be able to heal anyone at all?
The message from Preacher would be a god-send if Reiya had any faith in his God, or belief that her own spirits could fix all things. But it's time to start moving again, for the answers to her burning questions are certainly not within.
As usual, Reiya has every intention of hanging back during the initial presentation and negotiations, maintaining her expression of professional detachment laced with faint boredom. But the mask wavers when Preacher says the words "fascinating" and "terrible" in quick succession. She stares at Preacher, smiles briefly at Mouse's opening remarks, and waits to hear more.
The team was fine with her brief departure, fine with her return—once they established she wasn't sick—and has been fine with her barricading herself off. She's grateful that in this nest of misfits, everyone understands the need to wall oneself off occasionally. Except her faithful crow Mach, who prods her occasionally to make sure she's not dead, and more often for food and attention.
The thoughts keep circling in her head, like a storytelling of ravens in some forsaken field that appears in her dreams from time to time. Is this pandemic caused by another new strain of VITAS? Is it the same as the one that was circulating among Saitō's crew? If it does affect anyone she knows—including the members of this motley band of stir-crazy runners—will she be able to heal anyone at all?
The message from Preacher would be a god-send if Reiya had any faith in his God, or belief that her own spirits could fix all things. But it's time to start moving again, for the answers to her burning questions are certainly not within.
As usual, Reiya has every intention of hanging back during the initial presentation and negotiations, maintaining her expression of professional detachment laced with faint boredom. But the mask wavers when Preacher says the words "fascinating" and "terrible" in quick succession. She stares at Preacher, smiles briefly at Mouse's opening remarks, and waits to hear more.
Re: Run #4 - Eat, Pray, Die
Dice
After a brief silence, Preacher glances up at Mouse. The decker catches something: a tightening of the Masseter and the briefest flare of a nostril. There's an impression-- however brief-- that the fixer is hiding an immense amount of pain. But this moment of vulnerability vanishes, replaced with a stalwart expression and Mouse is left wondering if she imagined it. Preacher's composure returns, now faced with an audience.
"It's man-made," Preacher says, tapping the cylinder with an index finger. "A plague of biblical proportions, but created at the hand of man." This time, even Preacher cannot conceal the horror that tinges his voice. "I've learned much but still know very little. It looks very likely that whomever manufactured it used the Lassa virus as a base. It has been heavily mutated since then. For simplicity sake, I'll refer to it by it's RNA identifiers in short-hand: GON2."
Preacher gingerly sets the sample down and folds his hands.
"GON2 is far more than a normal viral strain. It contains a compound that none of my equipment can identify. Furthermore-- or perhaps, more troubling-- is the fact that it seems to resist being observed. After inspecting it, I'm left with more questions than answers. The foremost of which is--"
His eyes sweep over the team. "How it is you're all still alive. Speaking frankly, you should be dead. Yet, I see no visible symptoms." He glances off to the ambulatory.
A Tengu mask appears, appearing to levitate in the candle light. The Yokai shakes his head toward the preacher.
"I took the liberty of scanning your biometrics as you entered. Impossibly, none of you have been infected. Despite there being no vaccine for Lassa fever." His eyes narrow almost imperceptibly. "Have you noticed anything strange?"
Re: Run #4 - Eat, Pray, Die
Mick takes an unconscious step away from the canister at the reveal of the contagion inside, gnashing their teeth and thinking for just about millionth fraggin' time what a mistake it was to get involved with this drekbag. Everything inside the ork calls out to just bail– to take the money they'd made so far, arrange for transport across the border, and disappear into the woods. Let this world eat itself alive if it wanted to. Mick didn't care much for it, anyhow.
Metaphorically inching toward the door in their mind, the adept pipes up, "Just about all the strange drek I ever see these days I see because you pressed my face into it calling it opportunity, holy man." Contempt spills in cloying blobs around the words "holy man," Mick's eyes slit, predatory and seething.
Metaphorically inching toward the door in their mind, the adept pipes up, "Just about all the strange drek I ever see these days I see because you pressed my face into it calling it opportunity, holy man." Contempt spills in cloying blobs around the words "holy man," Mick's eyes slit, predatory and seething.
Re: Run #4 - Eat, Pray, Die
Preacher doesn't react to the accusatory tone. Although, the fixer does slide the canister towards the back of the altar, away from the team. "But when the Helper comes, whom I will send to you from the Father, the Spirit of truth, who proceeds from the Father, he will bear witness about me."
He clears his throat, before continuing: "Have you heard of the Dawn of the Zodiac?"
Mouse's head turns involuntarily. The decker is unable to hide her surprise. She recognizes the label from her misadventures in some of the more colorful pockets of the Matrix. To hear their solemn fixer casually reference one of the more unhinged conspiracy theories is quite at odds with her perception of him. Yet there's no trace of facetiousness in the man's voice-- as if there could be. What Mouse recalls are omens of robed powerbrokers trading in the occult and weaving Satanic designs from behind the scenes.
He clears his throat, before continuing: "Have you heard of the Dawn of the Zodiac?"
Mouse's head turns involuntarily. The decker is unable to hide her surprise. She recognizes the label from her misadventures in some of the more colorful pockets of the Matrix. To hear their solemn fixer casually reference one of the more unhinged conspiracy theories is quite at odds with her perception of him. Yet there's no trace of facetiousness in the man's voice-- as if there could be. What Mouse recalls are omens of robed powerbrokers trading in the occult and weaving Satanic designs from behind the scenes.
Re: Run #4 - Eat, Pray, Die
Mick extracts an Alpaca from a cartoonishly mangled pack and lights it, shaking their head. "Look, I know you enjoy your dramatic stingers, but how about we skip the rhetorical questions and get right to the part where you inevitably tell us no more than half of what we need to know?"
Re: Run #4 - Eat, Pray, Die
The decker's been quiet, admittedly falling back on old, comfortable habits, from the days she could rely on others to do the speaking for her. Even if it's Mick this time, she finds herself biting back a grin at their clean dissection of Preacher's usual bulldrek.
Meanwhile, her attention flits between the meatspace reality before her and the augmented one circling her vision. There's the familiar constellation of devices in the team's network, as well as the usual suspects within the church... plus one that doesn't belong. Without twisting around to ID the owner, she can still spot the intruding Metalink, perhaps a burner comm, pinging too close to the team for comfort. She silently tags this in an ARO on her team's feed: [Stranger danger.]
Then there's the blink-and-you'll-miss-it flinch, a glimpse of a microexpression that's practically alien on the otherwise stoic Johnson. Again, she appends the visual space, this time with a message: << ...am I crazy, or is he hurt? >> She swallows and casts Reiya a furtive glance, as though trying to will a confirmation or reaction that she's unlikely to get, given the Amerind's general distaste for technology encroaching on her consciousness.
Of course, she can only maintain these silent comms for so long, particularly when Preacher issues a surprisingly direct inquiry. Immediately, her vision floods with stills from a network of loosely related cultural 'zodiac' phenomena: ancient tools for making prophecies and hokey relationship advice, 5th world memes about a doughy faced man who eats kids, and thumbnails for videos of basement dwellers further gone than even herself mid-rant about this flavor of illuminati.
Struggling to choose her words carefully lest she alienate the man holding her paycheck, she finally answers. "I'VE HEARD THE NAME ASSOCIATED WITH AN ALLEGED CABAL OF FACELESS POWERBROKERS... NOTHING I HAVE RELIABLE SOURCES ON, UNFORTUNATELY." Translation: It's nothing that any sane person would ever report on.
Meanwhile, her attention flits between the meatspace reality before her and the augmented one circling her vision. There's the familiar constellation of devices in the team's network, as well as the usual suspects within the church... plus one that doesn't belong. Without twisting around to ID the owner, she can still spot the intruding Metalink, perhaps a burner comm, pinging too close to the team for comfort. She silently tags this in an ARO on her team's feed: [Stranger danger.]
Then there's the blink-and-you'll-miss-it flinch, a glimpse of a microexpression that's practically alien on the otherwise stoic Johnson. Again, she appends the visual space, this time with a message: << ...am I crazy, or is he hurt? >> She swallows and casts Reiya a furtive glance, as though trying to will a confirmation or reaction that she's unlikely to get, given the Amerind's general distaste for technology encroaching on her consciousness.
Of course, she can only maintain these silent comms for so long, particularly when Preacher issues a surprisingly direct inquiry. Immediately, her vision floods with stills from a network of loosely related cultural 'zodiac' phenomena: ancient tools for making prophecies and hokey relationship advice, 5th world memes about a doughy faced man who eats kids, and thumbnails for videos of basement dwellers further gone than even herself mid-rant about this flavor of illuminati.
Struggling to choose her words carefully lest she alienate the man holding her paycheck, she finally answers. "I'VE HEARD THE NAME ASSOCIATED WITH AN ALLEGED CABAL OF FACELESS POWERBROKERS... NOTHING I HAVE RELIABLE SOURCES ON, UNFORTUNATELY." Translation: It's nothing that any sane person would ever report on.
Re: Run #4 - Eat, Pray, Die
Bodies stir in the darkness-- a knee-jerk Yokai immune response to the disrespect cast toward their leader. At a nearly imperceptible tilt of Preacher's head, the shadows become still.
Preacher drums his fingers on the top of the canister and his eyes slide off the team, venturing into a point beyond the church. If the team didn't know better, they'd swear he was embarrassed. "Very well. I've tossed you to the wolves on more than one occasion, so I so will speak plainly."
"Conspiracy theories aren't always the megalomaniacal ramblings of the mentally ill. Sometimes-- Often, they are a prophecy. Fear begets power. That power accumulates in the shadows cast by suspicion, nurtured by whispers and nursed by mankind's desire to be controlled." Preacher frowns at the expressions generated by his assertion. "Not total control, of course." He raises a hand and gestures toward the crucifex. "Spiritual control. The proverbial man at the wheel."
"If I were to tell you that a handful of wealthy and powerful individuals control our society, I doubt you'd disagree. Politicians. CEO's. Yes, they can influence the tide upon which civilization bobs, but competing interests act as a counterbalance to their sway; a sort of selfish mutually assured destruction. When a man whispers of puppeteers, he whispers of an organized effort. Illuminati."
Preacher's fingers cease their drumming. "It's nonsense, of course. But amid those whispers exists a threat. Titrate those whispers-- wring out the shadows and you have the Dawn of the Zodiac. Twelve individuals, drawn together by a common goal. Giants in their respective disciplines, every one. They have neither the desire nor the means to rule our world, instead, they wish to alter it. Though, I cannot guess to what end."
"Volkov is one of them. Of this, I'm certain." He grips the canister. "They created this. Of that I am also certain."
Preacher drums his fingers on the top of the canister and his eyes slide off the team, venturing into a point beyond the church. If the team didn't know better, they'd swear he was embarrassed. "Very well. I've tossed you to the wolves on more than one occasion, so I so will speak plainly."
"Conspiracy theories aren't always the megalomaniacal ramblings of the mentally ill. Sometimes-- Often, they are a prophecy. Fear begets power. That power accumulates in the shadows cast by suspicion, nurtured by whispers and nursed by mankind's desire to be controlled." Preacher frowns at the expressions generated by his assertion. "Not total control, of course." He raises a hand and gestures toward the crucifex. "Spiritual control. The proverbial man at the wheel."
"If I were to tell you that a handful of wealthy and powerful individuals control our society, I doubt you'd disagree. Politicians. CEO's. Yes, they can influence the tide upon which civilization bobs, but competing interests act as a counterbalance to their sway; a sort of selfish mutually assured destruction. When a man whispers of puppeteers, he whispers of an organized effort. Illuminati."
Preacher's fingers cease their drumming. "It's nonsense, of course. But amid those whispers exists a threat. Titrate those whispers-- wring out the shadows and you have the Dawn of the Zodiac. Twelve individuals, drawn together by a common goal. Giants in their respective disciplines, every one. They have neither the desire nor the means to rule our world, instead, they wish to alter it. Though, I cannot guess to what end."
"Volkov is one of them. Of this, I'm certain." He grips the canister. "They created this. Of that I am also certain."
Re: Run #4 - Eat, Pray, Die
Mick grins wide, the cigarette pinched in their lips and drawing up and bobbing gaily as the corners of the ork's mouth race toward their ears. "Non-rhetorical question, holy man: What made you hire a handful of lowlifes off the streets for this drek? We're a long way from a smash and grab or simple paydata score." The adept looks around the party, all of them bottomlessly out of their depth at challenging the most enshrouded and shadowy power brokers on the entire planet.
Their gaze traces down to their own hands, a curl of smoke stinging the ork's eyes. Every jagged knuckle is swollen and gnarled with scars, the bones beneath the nightmare of mangled flesh having been broken and re-fused, broken and re-fused in a kind of Sisyphean-Groundhog-Day of violence. "Don't get me wrong– I ain't met anybody yet I couldn't geek if I needed to, otherwise I wouldn't be here–" Mick returns their focus to Preacher, much of the ork's enmity falling away, replaced by a mixture of incredulity and self-doubt. "but I have a hard fraggin' time tracking how any of us should be the ones going at this. This drek sounds like we're about one step from hijacking Zurich Orbital and taking it for a joyride."
Their gaze traces down to their own hands, a curl of smoke stinging the ork's eyes. Every jagged knuckle is swollen and gnarled with scars, the bones beneath the nightmare of mangled flesh having been broken and re-fused, broken and re-fused in a kind of Sisyphean-Groundhog-Day of violence. "Don't get me wrong– I ain't met anybody yet I couldn't geek if I needed to, otherwise I wouldn't be here–" Mick returns their focus to Preacher, much of the ork's enmity falling away, replaced by a mixture of incredulity and self-doubt. "but I have a hard fraggin' time tracking how any of us should be the ones going at this. This drek sounds like we're about one step from hijacking Zurich Orbital and taking it for a joyride."
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Drew Buddy
- Posts: 1488
- Joined: Sun Oct 30, 2011 7:06 pm
Re: Run #4 - Eat, Pray, Die
...noticed anything strange?
Axel reflexively reaches his hand to the base of his skull, finger tracing the jack at its base. A simple metal orifice though which he prefers to experience the world. The med-pod's report filters back through his mind.
...cross-contamination of Alpha-synuclein protein chain by connective tissue housing patient's cybernetic augmentation...
He frowns. No, that was before the freighter. Unless...? The underground laboratory/menagerie of horror at Alcatraz flashes into his mind. A message flickers into view with a corresponding unidentified ARO, breaking his chain of thought. He flicks a message back.
<< One of preacher's men? >>
Axel reflexively reaches his hand to the base of his skull, finger tracing the jack at its base. A simple metal orifice though which he prefers to experience the world. The med-pod's report filters back through his mind.
...cross-contamination of Alpha-synuclein protein chain by connective tissue housing patient's cybernetic augmentation...
He frowns. No, that was before the freighter. Unless...? The underground laboratory/menagerie of horror at Alcatraz flashes into his mind. A message flickers into view with a corresponding unidentified ARO, breaking his chain of thought. He flicks a message back.
<< One of preacher's men? >>
Re: Run #4 - Eat, Pray, Die
<< Uncharacteristically sloppy, if so. >> The response is quick, delivered with little more than a faint, pensive furrow in the decker's brow betraying her uncertainty.
Rather than succumb to the temptations of an unsecured comm, she forces her attention on Preacher's words, and the (unsubstantiated) claims he's now making against the Neo-Soviet Infobroker. "I SUPPOSE THAT WOULD ALSO BEG THE QUESTION- HAVING REACHED THESE CONCLUSIONS, WHAT NEXT STEPS ARE YOU PROPOSING?" She tilts her head ever so slightly in her prompt. "AFTER ALL, I CAN'T IMAGINE YOU SUMMONING US TO SHARE WORLD-SHATTERING REVELATIONS SOLELY IN THE SPIRIT OF JOLLY COOPERATION."
Rather than succumb to the temptations of an unsecured comm, she forces her attention on Preacher's words, and the (unsubstantiated) claims he's now making against the Neo-Soviet Infobroker. "I SUPPOSE THAT WOULD ALSO BEG THE QUESTION- HAVING REACHED THESE CONCLUSIONS, WHAT NEXT STEPS ARE YOU PROPOSING?" She tilts her head ever so slightly in her prompt. "AFTER ALL, I CAN'T IMAGINE YOU SUMMONING US TO SHARE WORLD-SHATTERING REVELATIONS SOLELY IN THE SPIRIT OF JOLLY COOPERATION."
Re: Run #4 - Eat, Pray, Die
Preacher folds his fingers together. "Contractors or not, you're involved and have a right to know. The stakes are much higher now. We have an opportunity to possibly curb this pandemic, if not at least remove the targets that we have accumulated on our backs."
"I've begun investigating those with close ties to Volkov, in the hopes of uncovering more members of the Zodiac. If we can learn their identities, track their movements, then we might have a good opportunity to cripple their organization. Regrettably, I cannot leave this church for now, nor would I be much use even if I could. I would like to hire you, again."
"There's a night-club Downtown, an establishment called Le Désespéré. I have it on good authority that Volkov's son, Ilya Rabonovich Volkov, is essentially living there. Gain entrance. Restrain him and abscond with him and return him to the Eaves. That's the job."
"I've begun investigating those with close ties to Volkov, in the hopes of uncovering more members of the Zodiac. If we can learn their identities, track their movements, then we might have a good opportunity to cripple their organization. Regrettably, I cannot leave this church for now, nor would I be much use even if I could. I would like to hire you, again."
"There's a night-club Downtown, an establishment called Le Désespéré. I have it on good authority that Volkov's son, Ilya Rabonovich Volkov, is essentially living there. Gain entrance. Restrain him and abscond with him and return him to the Eaves. That's the job."
Re: Run #4 - Eat, Pray, Die
Mick snickers. "Well I'm convinced that it's gonna be that simple. We ready, gang?"
Re: Run #4 - Eat, Pray, Die
Filthy street water soaks through the cheap canvas of Sam's shoes as he makes his way into the church, causing each step to squelch against the tile of the old church. Wide eyed, he takes in his surroundings- the aged pews and fading murals striking a stark contrast against the sharp lines of the Yokai masked guards and their anachronistic heavy weaponry.
Front and center is what must surely be the "Preacher" mentioned by his fixer: that or a stone-chiseled bastard lovechild of Jesse Custer and Frollo. His voice seems to ricochet off the hard angles of the old church, interspersed by the occasional interjection, at times acerbic, others unsettlingly mechanical. Even though he's turned up fashionably late, each step brings clarity to the task at hand, which if he didn't know better, would sound a lot like a kidnapping.
Reflections off the plexi windows wash the 'parishioners' before him in muted hues- their facial features indistinguishable from this angle: a scrawny ork stained in red, the short, hooded figure cast in blues, and two other humans- one in coveralls, one in far more 'earthy' attire, washed in yellow and greens. Admittedly, he can't help but feel some relief when he realizes that of them are wearing suits.
He sidles up behind the two overt humans, all too willing to fall quietly into place, as is his talent, as he struggles to piece together context from their exchange. Finally, he quietly raises his hand with a question, "Excuse me, is this the come to Jesus meeting? I’m supposed to talk with a Mr. Preacher about a job", entirely unsure of what his fixer gotten him into.
Front and center is what must surely be the "Preacher" mentioned by his fixer: that or a stone-chiseled bastard lovechild of Jesse Custer and Frollo. His voice seems to ricochet off the hard angles of the old church, interspersed by the occasional interjection, at times acerbic, others unsettlingly mechanical. Even though he's turned up fashionably late, each step brings clarity to the task at hand, which if he didn't know better, would sound a lot like a kidnapping.
Reflections off the plexi windows wash the 'parishioners' before him in muted hues- their facial features indistinguishable from this angle: a scrawny ork stained in red, the short, hooded figure cast in blues, and two other humans- one in coveralls, one in far more 'earthy' attire, washed in yellow and greens. Admittedly, he can't help but feel some relief when he realizes that of them are wearing suits.
He sidles up behind the two overt humans, all too willing to fall quietly into place, as is his talent, as he struggles to piece together context from their exchange. Finally, he quietly raises his hand with a question, "Excuse me, is this the come to Jesus meeting? I’m supposed to talk with a Mr. Preacher about a job", entirely unsure of what his fixer gotten him into.
Re: Run #4 - Eat, Pray, Die
Preacher arches a brow at Mick. It's obvious that he realizes the implication is earned, but just maybe the ork's swagger instills a note of confidence. That or the fact that the runners somehow keep coming back alive.
"Ilya is what you might call a Trustfund child. Spoiled, arrogant, but extremely wealthy. I suspect he's not so full of himself as to travel without bodyguards, but I can't say for sure. At the very least, expect a throng of desperate leeches." There's revulsion in Preacher's tone that he doesn't bother to hide. Whether he extends culpability to Ilya, hates the rich, or even Russians, it's impossible to say. "One of my men is a regular. If you need any information on the establishment, please contact him. I'll transfer his comm frequency now."
"Ilya is what you might call a Trustfund child. Spoiled, arrogant, but extremely wealthy. I suspect he's not so full of himself as to travel without bodyguards, but I can't say for sure. At the very least, expect a throng of desperate leeches." There's revulsion in Preacher's tone that he doesn't bother to hide. Whether he extends culpability to Ilya, hates the rich, or even Russians, it's impossible to say. "One of my men is a regular. If you need any information on the establishment, please contact him. I'll transfer his comm frequency now."
Re: Run #4 - Eat, Pray, Die
Mouse can feel herself bristle involuntarily as Preacher initially utters the phrase "Nightclub"- at least until cool reason washes over her and prevents the immediate adrenaline rush of social panic. Surely it's been repurposed into some kind of makeshift safehouse by now, its conversion into nepo-baby housing giving the building some utility beyond giant-money-sink until the plague runs its course.
Any relief is short lived. There's a new set of footsteps behind them, and it's not nearly a dramatic enough entrance to be Yung arriving fashionably late. Her entire body tenses at the sound of the new voice, arms locked against her side, eyes fixed on the Preacher, as if waiting for an answer that she's not about to receive... apropos for a church.
When the old man does speak again, absolutely nothing that he has to say is anything she is hoping to hear. She clenches her jaw, forcing herself to pull this thread. "IF NOTHING ELSE, YOUR CONTACT CAN PROBABLY SPEAK TO THE ESTABLISHMENT'S LAYOUT AND CLIENTELE. THAT SAID, I DOUBT A NIGHTCLUB COULD MAINTAIN THE SAME OPERATIONS IN THE MIDST OF..." Her voice trails off, even her synths betraying her. She swallows hard, before twisting her body halfway around, gesturing at the stranger with an outburst almost worthy of Mick themself: "...I'M SORRY, BUT ARE WE JUST GOING TO IGNORE THIS? IS THAT WHAT'S HAPPENING HERE?"
Any relief is short lived. There's a new set of footsteps behind them, and it's not nearly a dramatic enough entrance to be Yung arriving fashionably late. Her entire body tenses at the sound of the new voice, arms locked against her side, eyes fixed on the Preacher, as if waiting for an answer that she's not about to receive... apropos for a church.
When the old man does speak again, absolutely nothing that he has to say is anything she is hoping to hear. She clenches her jaw, forcing herself to pull this thread. "IF NOTHING ELSE, YOUR CONTACT CAN PROBABLY SPEAK TO THE ESTABLISHMENT'S LAYOUT AND CLIENTELE. THAT SAID, I DOUBT A NIGHTCLUB COULD MAINTAIN THE SAME OPERATIONS IN THE MIDST OF..." Her voice trails off, even her synths betraying her. She swallows hard, before twisting her body halfway around, gesturing at the stranger with an outburst almost worthy of Mick themself: "...I'M SORRY, BUT ARE WE JUST GOING TO IGNORE THIS? IS THAT WHAT'S HAPPENING HERE?"
Re: Run #4 - Eat, Pray, Die
Mick half-smirks and shrugs. "I was thinking maybe, yeah? That's how I deal with most of my problems, anyway."
Re: Run #4 - Eat, Pray, Die
Preacher wipes a bit of dust from the altar.
"Your ranks were looking a bit depleted. I had Conrad send someone that you can trust. Now that we are picking a fight with the Zodiac, it's imperative to have as many hands on deck as possible. Time is of the essence, as well. I'll pay you two hundred thousand nuyen to bring Ilya here alive and an additional two hundred and fifty thousand if we can coax a lead out of him."
"Your ranks were looking a bit depleted. I had Conrad send someone that you can trust. Now that we are picking a fight with the Zodiac, it's imperative to have as many hands on deck as possible. Time is of the essence, as well. I'll pay you two hundred thousand nuyen to bring Ilya here alive and an additional two hundred and fifty thousand if we can coax a lead out of him."
Re: Run #4 - Eat, Pray, Die
Reiya has been listening intently, fighting the flashbacks kindled by the bare description of the new virus. The shaman's intrusive memories are finally halted by the mention of Lassa virus, and she mind turns incisive, considering whether her tribe and family could have been infected with something akin to Lassa rather than VITAS. She doesn't think so, but if someone is fragging around with viruses—even to the point of making them unobservable—than that someone could have started small. Say, with a small, relatively isolated group of Blackfeet. It's certainly not the first time Amerindians have been test subjects, and it would make sense. Let's not jump to conclusions, she reminds herself. But surely it's a lead worth following, and this is likely the best chance they'll get.
The entrance of another bedraggled human into their midst penetrates her musings, and while keeping her stance and outward expression, her hand immediately goes to her sapphire knife. When the man speaks up, Reiya turns to assess him. He looks like a nerdy kid who has spent little time in the sunlight, but he's probably about her own age. The shaman doubts he's as harmless as he looks; he wouldn't be here if he was. But her intuition is that he's trustworthy enough for their purposes.
Still, might as well get some information. Reiya may have no confidence in her ability to contribute to the negotiations, but she's reasonably sure she can help figure out if this addition to their crew would be welcome, and useful. "Are you someone we can trust? What skills do you bring to our group?" she asks, using her calm, inquiring healer's tone.
The entrance of another bedraggled human into their midst penetrates her musings, and while keeping her stance and outward expression, her hand immediately goes to her sapphire knife. When the man speaks up, Reiya turns to assess him. He looks like a nerdy kid who has spent little time in the sunlight, but he's probably about her own age. The shaman doubts he's as harmless as he looks; he wouldn't be here if he was. But her intuition is that he's trustworthy enough for their purposes.
Still, might as well get some information. Reiya may have no confidence in her ability to contribute to the negotiations, but she's reasonably sure she can help figure out if this addition to their crew would be welcome, and useful. "Are you someone we can trust? What skills do you bring to our group?" she asks, using her calm, inquiring healer's tone.
Re: Run #4 - Eat, Pray, Die
As Sam hears the pricetag, he takes a deep breath to hide his surprise. Two hundred thousand!? When did I get moved up from the minor leagues? After taking a moment to regain his composure, he turns to the woman asking the questions and offers an uneasy wave, unsure of where to start. "I’m Sam. I can think of a lot of reasons why you should trust me, but I’m betting I’m going to have to earn your trust the hard way." More like two hundred thousand reasons why she can trust me.
"As for what I bring to the group…"Pausing for dramatic effect, he reaches into one of his pockets as if going to make a big reveal before having a brief panic. A moment passes as he frantically checks the rest of his pockets before finally pulling out a handful of trading cards. "I’m an enchanter, among other things."
"As for what I bring to the group…"Pausing for dramatic effect, he reaches into one of his pockets as if going to make a big reveal before having a brief panic. A moment passes as he frantically checks the rest of his pockets before finally pulling out a handful of trading cards. "I’m an enchanter, among other things."
Re: Run #4 - Eat, Pray, Die
Thank frag for Reiya and her supernatural ability to bridge the gap between this new teammate and the horrible little basement dweller that had been practically hissing about his proximity. When he splays a handful of the cards before them, Mouse can feel herself relax somewhat, shoulders drawing down intuitively. It’s not as though she’s had some great revelation, like a newfound awareness that the stranger in a group of established friends must surely be feeling awkward, or anything else that would require some degree of empathy. It’s the familiar brown logo on the card backs.
"RIGHT… WE’LL HAVE TO MAKE OUR FULL INTRODUCTIONS ONCE WE HAVE A MOMENT TO OURSELVES," she notes in a begrudging acceptance of the FNG, stealthily opening a side window to check if the Powderkeg was still functioning in this dire situation.
She swings her attention back to Preacher, the task at hand, and the obscene amount of money being dangled in front of their noses. Beyond the concerning number of unknowns lingering about this job, this is normally when they’d be relying on Yung’s winning smile and tight hoop to talk them into a nice bonus for their efforts. Without him to do it…
She furrows her brow, and starts by addressing the former. "DO YOU HAVE A SPECIFIC TIME FRAME IN MIND?" She stretches out her fingers before her, taking notes only visible to her. "IT GOES WITHOUT SAYING THAT WE'LL WORK AS QUICKLY AS POSSIBLE, BUT GIVEN THE DELICACY OF THE JOB, WE MAY NEED TO SOURCE SOME SPECIALIZED EQUIPMENT FIRST, TO ENSURE WE CAN RETRIEVE HIM RELATIVELY UNHARMED."
She seems almost preoccupied with her mental calculations now, as though she's crunching a hundred different variables. "ON THAT SUBJECT, WE WILL LIKELY NEED THIS DISAPPEARANCE TO LOOK AS 'NATURAL' AS POSSIBLE, NE?" She quirks an eyebrow, as though seeking agreement. "WITH SUCH A POWERFUL ENEMY, WE CAN'T RISK ANYONE FOLLOWING A HOT TRAIL BACK HERE- AND THAT’S BEFORE CONSIDERING ANY OTHER GROUPS THAT MAY BE INTERESTED IN THIS BRAT."
"THE SITUATION IS URGENT, AND WE CANNOT AFFORD TO FAIL. IN ANY CASE, WE WILL DO OUR BEST TO ACT AS YOUR PROXIES. THAT SAID…" It’s only now that her attention flits back from her calculations to the Johnson, clear where she’s going. "WE WOULD HAVE A GREATER CHANCE OF SUCCESS WITH A STIPEND TO COVER ANY UNFORESEEN EXPENSES- ‘PETTY CASH’, IF YOU WILL." She pauses, as if to run some quick mental math. "AN ADDITIONAL FOURTY-THOUSAND UP FRONT SHOULD COVER ANY OPERATIONAL COSTS WE MAY INCUR. CONSIDER IT IN AN INVESTMENT IN OUR CONTINUED SUCCESS."
(( Oh god why is Mouse doing negotiation? Throw in an edge to reroll failures because hoo boy she's gonna need it.
Edited just to unfuck the tags. ))
"RIGHT… WE’LL HAVE TO MAKE OUR FULL INTRODUCTIONS ONCE WE HAVE A MOMENT TO OURSELVES," she notes in a begrudging acceptance of the FNG, stealthily opening a side window to check if the Powderkeg was still functioning in this dire situation.
She swings her attention back to Preacher, the task at hand, and the obscene amount of money being dangled in front of their noses. Beyond the concerning number of unknowns lingering about this job, this is normally when they’d be relying on Yung’s winning smile and tight hoop to talk them into a nice bonus for their efforts. Without him to do it…
She furrows her brow, and starts by addressing the former. "DO YOU HAVE A SPECIFIC TIME FRAME IN MIND?" She stretches out her fingers before her, taking notes only visible to her. "IT GOES WITHOUT SAYING THAT WE'LL WORK AS QUICKLY AS POSSIBLE, BUT GIVEN THE DELICACY OF THE JOB, WE MAY NEED TO SOURCE SOME SPECIALIZED EQUIPMENT FIRST, TO ENSURE WE CAN RETRIEVE HIM RELATIVELY UNHARMED."
She seems almost preoccupied with her mental calculations now, as though she's crunching a hundred different variables. "ON THAT SUBJECT, WE WILL LIKELY NEED THIS DISAPPEARANCE TO LOOK AS 'NATURAL' AS POSSIBLE, NE?" She quirks an eyebrow, as though seeking agreement. "WITH SUCH A POWERFUL ENEMY, WE CAN'T RISK ANYONE FOLLOWING A HOT TRAIL BACK HERE- AND THAT’S BEFORE CONSIDERING ANY OTHER GROUPS THAT MAY BE INTERESTED IN THIS BRAT."
"THE SITUATION IS URGENT, AND WE CANNOT AFFORD TO FAIL. IN ANY CASE, WE WILL DO OUR BEST TO ACT AS YOUR PROXIES. THAT SAID…" It’s only now that her attention flits back from her calculations to the Johnson, clear where she’s going. "WE WOULD HAVE A GREATER CHANCE OF SUCCESS WITH A STIPEND TO COVER ANY UNFORESEEN EXPENSES- ‘PETTY CASH’, IF YOU WILL." She pauses, as if to run some quick mental math. "AN ADDITIONAL FOURTY-THOUSAND UP FRONT SHOULD COVER ANY OPERATIONAL COSTS WE MAY INCUR. CONSIDER IT IN AN INVESTMENT IN OUR CONTINUED SUCCESS."
(( Oh god why is Mouse doing negotiation? Throw in an edge to reroll failures because hoo boy she's gonna need it.
Edited just to unfuck the tags. ))
Last edited by Molly on Mon Sep 25, 2023 11:13 am, edited 1 time in total.
Re: Run #4 - Eat, Pray, Die
An enchanter? Interesting, Reiya thinks, pleased to have another magic user around, especially one that does very different work from her own. The shaman stares at Sam a bit longer with her enigmatic shaman expression for good measure, hiding her interest, and then swivels back to the exchange between Preacher and Mouse.
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Drew Buddy
- Posts: 1488
- Joined: Sun Oct 30, 2011 7:06 pm
Re: Run #4 - Eat, Pray, Die
Axel's heart races and his boot squeaks on the floor as he pivots to turn at the sudden appearance of the disheveled man suddenly in their midst. << T-Bone, I thought we agreed you'd keep watch at these meetings, >> he messages to the van sitting outside.
Frag off, comes the reply, I was gonna tell you about it. Eventually. 'Sides, I like seeing your vitals spike.
"Hey," Axel opens his hand at his hip, palm out, in a poor facsimile of a wave.
Frag off, comes the reply, I was gonna tell you about it. Eventually. 'Sides, I like seeing your vitals spike.
"Hey," Axel opens his hand at his hip, palm out, in a poor facsimile of a wave.
Re: Run #4 - Eat, Pray, Die
Dice
"Some elements of this operation are out of our control. That said, I have it on good authority that Ilya virtually lives at the club. It shouldn't be difficult to find an opportunity."
The enigmatic fixer glances at the doorway to the Immortal Son, as if Mouse's hypothetical were some kind of portent. It's not as though he's rattled, but the runners don't recall his caution being so... palpable.