Hazard.
The word is illuminated by crimson neon. It’s a piercing omen that somehow manages to penetrate the persistent haze of pollution and corruption that permeates downtown Seattle like an insidious fog. Jammed in between a holographic billboard advertising some new Fuchi tech and an obsidian-monolith highrise, the image is only emblazoned by the juxtaposition.
Reflections of Hazard’s sign materialize in every reflective surface in sight, even the oily puddles that collect on the roadway. It’s a prism, concentrating the word and projecting it deep into your brain where it burns like a branding iron. It’s a beacon of moral turpitude. It calls to you.
The inside of the nightclub is all haze; primal, driving bass that vibrates your brain-stem, and an acrid perfume composed of alcohol, sweat, and ozone. Silhouettes grind against one another in a strobe of colors, too steeped in contrast to be made discernible and all seeming to merge in a writhing mass of meta-humanity. The intensity of the music vibrates the linoleum dance floor and undulates through the gyrating crowd. Faces appear in the chaos, briefly illuminated in the dazzling lights--theatrically painted geisha, tribal stripes, thick kohl eyeshadow, eyes full of lust, loathing, or a mixture of both.
The back of the nightclub is a large, circular stage shrouded in stained burgundy drapes. The haze dissipates and the cacophony of thrash-techno fades to an acceptable level. Three figures lurk in a corner of the otherwise deserted room.
Immediately outside the dark confines of a booth, a woman is leaning with arms crossed over her chest. Her hair is close-cropped in a military style, except for a single long braid that falls in front of her left ear. Vicious scars criss-cross over her face, running from each temple to opposite sides on her chin. Her shoulder and arm muscles are clearly defined, and thick, ropey veins bulge out of powerful forearms. An Enfield shotgun rests on the small of her back, obviously put on subtle display to intimidate.
Seated on the far end of the booth is a slender Japanese man of indeterminate age. His facial features are elegant and angular, although his eyes are hidden underneath a set of mirror-shades. A mop of jet black hair is tucked neatly into a ponytail. His frame is swathed in an expensive gray suit. His posture is relaxed; arms spread across the top of the booth in both directions, one leg draped over his knee.
At the rear of the booth, nearly hidden in the darkness, a sickly looking man in his early twenties huddles over an ashtray. He’s clad in a motorcycle jacket with a hood, the top of which conceals most of his head, except for a few strands of a dyed-red mohawk. His features (at least those that are visible) are gaunt. The embers of his cigarette flare as he takes a drag, casting an orange hue against a sunken, stubble-ridden cheek. He exhales and crushes the rest of the cigarette amongst a dozen or so in the glass ashtray. At a wave of his obviously cybernetic hand, the woman standing guard un-tethers her weapon from its sling and lays it on the table before taking a seat in the booth on his immediate left.
The hooded man leans forward into the pale yellow light. A cutting-edge data-jack gleams behind his right temple, brazenly absent of a flesh-colored plug. His lips are drawn into a flat, emotionless machination of formality. Micro-apertures within his irises rotate as his cyber-eyes take in the assembled group before him. Servos whir quietly in his hand as he scratches idly at his unshaven chin. A sidelong glance at the Japanese man results in the slightest of nods.
“Well,” says the hooded man with a surprisingly firm voice. “Now that you’re all here, we can begin.”
Run #1: Trial by Fire
Re: Run #1: The Flash and The Furious
Bradbury does his best to conceal his unease. The ork files into the room with the assembled team of rogues and toughs—none of whom look like anybody he'd choose to associate with in calmer waters. His hands jammed in his pockets, the ork's lowlight eyes scan the room, clearly making out what there is to see in the back room of this gaudy club. His longshoreman's beanie is pulled down taught over his head, the collar of his peacoat is popped up around his neck, and the explosion of his beard billows off his cheeks. All told, very little of Bradbury's face is visible. It's just as well—at about this moment, the ork is wondering just what the frag he's doing here, and how best to get out while he still can.
A week prior Bradbury had been desperate. After getting laid off his work on the docks, he'd taken it on the arches and peddled his services all over town—or tried to, anyway. Thing is, nobody wants to hire you when you don't have any identification, and nobody can give you any identification when you've got no way to prove that you are who you say you are. But who is Bradbury, really? All he knows about himself is his name, and the name doesn't feel quite right, somehow. The job search had been telling, though. Since waking up at that bus stop, Bradbury's life had followed a very simple, mundane track. Going to and from his work at the docks had been boring, but simple. He had just gotten the job the day before he'd awoken—a blind hire through a consulting agency. Bradbury had tried to track down the agency, but no such firm existed, and the contact number they'd given was a dead end. Busted luck down every alleyway. Eventually Bradbury had asked Jax-- the fellow ork who tended bar where he'd gone to drink after work. Turns out Jax knew a guy who knew a guy who knew a guy. So the job and everything about the life into which he'd awoken had been arranged. The ork stifles a sardonic chuckle and wonders if his benefactors had had this in mind.
What worries him is thinking that maybe they had.
The scene is like something Bradbury might only have imagined before. You see these types of characters running around the city—but usually only out of the corner of your eye. The shabby staging area feels entirely too deliberate to the ork, and the sloppily stained drapery portends of haste and bloodshed—two things he is quite certain everybody in the room had seen plenty of in their time—everybody except him. Except apparently not. His mind flashes again, as it often does, back to the blinding speed with which he'd delivered the blow that ended the dwarf street doc's life all those weeks ago. That hideous crunch of bone and cartilage beneath his hand as he delivered the deathblow running on muscle memory. The slump of the wretch's neck as he went limp. The grime on the floor.
His hands still in his pockets, Bradbury steps forward but remains just out of the light cast around the booth at the back of the room. A neutral expression on his face, the ork nods at the hooded man in plaintive expectation of what might come next. Whatever it may be, Bradbury is more afraid of it feeling right than crazy.
A week prior Bradbury had been desperate. After getting laid off his work on the docks, he'd taken it on the arches and peddled his services all over town—or tried to, anyway. Thing is, nobody wants to hire you when you don't have any identification, and nobody can give you any identification when you've got no way to prove that you are who you say you are. But who is Bradbury, really? All he knows about himself is his name, and the name doesn't feel quite right, somehow. The job search had been telling, though. Since waking up at that bus stop, Bradbury's life had followed a very simple, mundane track. Going to and from his work at the docks had been boring, but simple. He had just gotten the job the day before he'd awoken—a blind hire through a consulting agency. Bradbury had tried to track down the agency, but no such firm existed, and the contact number they'd given was a dead end. Busted luck down every alleyway. Eventually Bradbury had asked Jax-- the fellow ork who tended bar where he'd gone to drink after work. Turns out Jax knew a guy who knew a guy who knew a guy. So the job and everything about the life into which he'd awoken had been arranged. The ork stifles a sardonic chuckle and wonders if his benefactors had had this in mind.
What worries him is thinking that maybe they had.
The scene is like something Bradbury might only have imagined before. You see these types of characters running around the city—but usually only out of the corner of your eye. The shabby staging area feels entirely too deliberate to the ork, and the sloppily stained drapery portends of haste and bloodshed—two things he is quite certain everybody in the room had seen plenty of in their time—everybody except him. Except apparently not. His mind flashes again, as it often does, back to the blinding speed with which he'd delivered the blow that ended the dwarf street doc's life all those weeks ago. That hideous crunch of bone and cartilage beneath his hand as he delivered the deathblow running on muscle memory. The slump of the wretch's neck as he went limp. The grime on the floor.
His hands still in his pockets, Bradbury steps forward but remains just out of the light cast around the booth at the back of the room. A neutral expression on his face, the ork nods at the hooded man in plaintive expectation of what might come next. Whatever it may be, Bradbury is more afraid of it feeling right than crazy.
Re: Run #1: The Flash and The Furious
Tianwe Little-Hawk approaches the table warily, as befits the unease of walking into such an unfamiliar situation, one made only stranger by the nameless apparitions arrayed around the darkened table. Of course, he's done this sort of thing many times, but never with those he doesn't know, doesn't trust. His wariness is a practical thing. To trust the unknown is death, or worse. A lesson many learn the hard way, and Tian will not be one of them. Not today.
Of its own accord, Tian's hand drifts to the solid black patch on the arm of his trench coat as he silently regards the group with hooded eyes. His fingers trace the raven and coyote beneath, the sigil of the First Nation gang: the closest thing to family he's ever had. It's been a scant five months since he accepted his penance of banishment, but it feels like an eternity. Acceptance is his only shield against his shame. Against his failure. He knows that one day he will be welcome again. One day he will return. But today is not that day, and nor will tomorrow be.
His hand runs over a deep, blue-green strip of hair nestled between two Salish tribal tattoos on either side of his scalp. The hawk feathers tied firmly into his mohawk form a crest which barely stirs as he takes his final steps to the table. Clutching his coat closed so as not to expose the deck hidden beneath it, Tian sits with something nearly approaching grace, his eyes never lowering for a second. The familiar bulk of a heavy pistol digging into his side offers a dull, aching comfort in such a vulnerable situation. Given the choice he wouldn't be here, but choice is not an available luxury. Not today.
Tian places his hands on the table, as he knows is appropriate at such a gathering. They do not shake, despite his unease. He watches a helix of smoke rise from the ashtray as the hooded man withdraws his cybernetic hand from the mass grave of cigarette butts. Tian's eyebrow twitches with a flicker of surprise at the gaunt man's voice. Yes, to begin. Good things often come of new beginnings... But not today. Of that, Tianwe Little-Hawk is certain.
Of its own accord, Tian's hand drifts to the solid black patch on the arm of his trench coat as he silently regards the group with hooded eyes. His fingers trace the raven and coyote beneath, the sigil of the First Nation gang: the closest thing to family he's ever had. It's been a scant five months since he accepted his penance of banishment, but it feels like an eternity. Acceptance is his only shield against his shame. Against his failure. He knows that one day he will be welcome again. One day he will return. But today is not that day, and nor will tomorrow be.
His hand runs over a deep, blue-green strip of hair nestled between two Salish tribal tattoos on either side of his scalp. The hawk feathers tied firmly into his mohawk form a crest which barely stirs as he takes his final steps to the table. Clutching his coat closed so as not to expose the deck hidden beneath it, Tian sits with something nearly approaching grace, his eyes never lowering for a second. The familiar bulk of a heavy pistol digging into his side offers a dull, aching comfort in such a vulnerable situation. Given the choice he wouldn't be here, but choice is not an available luxury. Not today.
Tian places his hands on the table, as he knows is appropriate at such a gathering. They do not shake, despite his unease. He watches a helix of smoke rise from the ashtray as the hooded man withdraws his cybernetic hand from the mass grave of cigarette butts. Tian's eyebrow twitches with a flicker of surprise at the gaunt man's voice. Yes, to begin. Good things often come of new beginnings... But not today. Of that, Tianwe Little-Hawk is certain.
Re: Run #1: The Flash and The Furious
"This bits for you, Grimey." Loki says, extending a pinched bit of crust between thumb and forefinger. Shambling cautiously forward to inspect it, a dingy black ferret sniffs the proffered leftover timorously before snatching it away in a nimble, nearly human gesture of lustful anticipation. The varmint retreats a few quick paces before stopping to gnaw vigorously at the stale treat. Whip thin, the slippery looking scavenger eyes Loki suspiciously, though not without gratitude.
The interaction is nothing new to Loki, nor could this leisurely, intimate moment in a drek filled, neglected alleyway decorated with ancient spray paint, moldering refuse and overfilled dumpsters be called a new experience for him. Being on the streets means you've probably seen a lot of things. Been a lot of places. It means you've probably done some things, too. Things you probably can't just talk about with anyone. Nowadays, Loki doesn't get a lot of chances to talk with people. That's where Grimey comes in.
The ferrets name? Just a temporary honorific, shared ubiquitously by the various rodents, cats, weasels, and what other lonely and forsaken vermin Loki's come across while scavenging Seattle's sprawl since...weeks ago? Months?. Well anyways, ever since...that night. He'd learned to pay attention to them, as they often knew the best way round and about the abandoned and less populated alleys of the broken city. The roads less traveled and all that. He'd learned a good deal from them, following them to the driest, warmest holes to tuck up in for spell before moving on. And occasionally, they led him to things like this. A half eaten and abandoned pizza, still in a box, the days-old remainders of which he had just made disappear. But this Grimey, well they'd been wasting time together for awhile now.
Wiping his hands with lackluster results on a pair of patched and dirty jeans, Loki settles back in relaxed contentment, reaching idly for a hand rolled cigarette stashed behind an generously protruding ear. A miasma of black and gold colored hair adorns his crown, with a dark and spiky ridge running along the center of his scalp, tipped with orange. A single white spot resides behind his left ear like a punctuation mark. He thinks it's pretty punk rock. Grimey doesn't seem to care.
From a heavily worn black, chrome-zippered leather jacket he pulls a metal encased, antique style wick and fuel lighter. Thumb to wheel, he's about to spark a light when he see's it again. Not like last time, like out of the corner of his eye or something. No, this is real. This time he's looking right at it. Perched serenely atop a long-dimmed streetlamp, a jet black raven stands watching him. Peering at him like some judgmental god. No, not judgmental....expectant. A faint sheen of...moonlight perhaps...seems to set the bird aglow, making its image appear larger than life. Real, yet...not real at the same time. A single white feather disrupts the striking blackness of the bird, just behind its left eye. Abruptly, without warning, the bird takes flight, wings carrying it a ways down the street to land gracefully atop a faded concrete road block, the acid rain-bleached yellow on black hashing appearing grey in the lamplight.
Turning back to look in Loki's direction, the raven calls shrilly into the night, piercing the silent peace of this out of the way corner of civilization. Loki stares back, feeling that this bird is looking directly inside him...seeing through him. Frag this is crazy! Does it... know? What I can do? Or... Again, the raven takes flight and moves ahead, further out of sight. Astonished, Loki turns open jawed to look at the ferret. Grimey looks back at him, expectantly.
On an impulse, he scoops up the inky ferret and takes off after the raven.
Hazard.
Yah, no kidding. Loki looks from the glowing sign back to the ominous silhouette atop it. A coal black raven pecks the metal frame insistently, stopping between bouts to eye him intently. A tough looking troll in a trench coat steps from the shadow of the doorway.
"You coming inside, chum? They're expecting you.."
"Uh, Yah....better show me in."
With a quick nod of assent, Loki steps onto the curbing and follows the bouncer through the doorway. He is led to the back, and ushered toward a small room presumably used for discreet meetings, though he has no idea who may be on the other side of the curtains. Stepping into the dim space, he perceives several shadowy figures around a table in the darkness. Standing in the center of the room, he clearly makes out a tall, bearded ork. Lamplight on the table casts pale illumination on a Native American man and a skinny, hooded punker with a drawn up hood.
The interaction is nothing new to Loki, nor could this leisurely, intimate moment in a drek filled, neglected alleyway decorated with ancient spray paint, moldering refuse and overfilled dumpsters be called a new experience for him. Being on the streets means you've probably seen a lot of things. Been a lot of places. It means you've probably done some things, too. Things you probably can't just talk about with anyone. Nowadays, Loki doesn't get a lot of chances to talk with people. That's where Grimey comes in.
The ferrets name? Just a temporary honorific, shared ubiquitously by the various rodents, cats, weasels, and what other lonely and forsaken vermin Loki's come across while scavenging Seattle's sprawl since...weeks ago? Months?. Well anyways, ever since...that night. He'd learned to pay attention to them, as they often knew the best way round and about the abandoned and less populated alleys of the broken city. The roads less traveled and all that. He'd learned a good deal from them, following them to the driest, warmest holes to tuck up in for spell before moving on. And occasionally, they led him to things like this. A half eaten and abandoned pizza, still in a box, the days-old remainders of which he had just made disappear. But this Grimey, well they'd been wasting time together for awhile now.
Wiping his hands with lackluster results on a pair of patched and dirty jeans, Loki settles back in relaxed contentment, reaching idly for a hand rolled cigarette stashed behind an generously protruding ear. A miasma of black and gold colored hair adorns his crown, with a dark and spiky ridge running along the center of his scalp, tipped with orange. A single white spot resides behind his left ear like a punctuation mark. He thinks it's pretty punk rock. Grimey doesn't seem to care.
From a heavily worn black, chrome-zippered leather jacket he pulls a metal encased, antique style wick and fuel lighter. Thumb to wheel, he's about to spark a light when he see's it again. Not like last time, like out of the corner of his eye or something. No, this is real. This time he's looking right at it. Perched serenely atop a long-dimmed streetlamp, a jet black raven stands watching him. Peering at him like some judgmental god. No, not judgmental....expectant. A faint sheen of...moonlight perhaps...seems to set the bird aglow, making its image appear larger than life. Real, yet...not real at the same time. A single white feather disrupts the striking blackness of the bird, just behind its left eye. Abruptly, without warning, the bird takes flight, wings carrying it a ways down the street to land gracefully atop a faded concrete road block, the acid rain-bleached yellow on black hashing appearing grey in the lamplight.
Turning back to look in Loki's direction, the raven calls shrilly into the night, piercing the silent peace of this out of the way corner of civilization. Loki stares back, feeling that this bird is looking directly inside him...seeing through him. Frag this is crazy! Does it... know? What I can do? Or... Again, the raven takes flight and moves ahead, further out of sight. Astonished, Loki turns open jawed to look at the ferret. Grimey looks back at him, expectantly.
On an impulse, he scoops up the inky ferret and takes off after the raven.
Hazard.
Yah, no kidding. Loki looks from the glowing sign back to the ominous silhouette atop it. A coal black raven pecks the metal frame insistently, stopping between bouts to eye him intently. A tough looking troll in a trench coat steps from the shadow of the doorway.
"You coming inside, chum? They're expecting you.."
"Uh, Yah....better show me in."
With a quick nod of assent, Loki steps onto the curbing and follows the bouncer through the doorway. He is led to the back, and ushered toward a small room presumably used for discreet meetings, though he has no idea who may be on the other side of the curtains. Stepping into the dim space, he perceives several shadowy figures around a table in the darkness. Standing in the center of the room, he clearly makes out a tall, bearded ork. Lamplight on the table casts pale illumination on a Native American man and a skinny, hooded punker with a drawn up hood.
-
Drew Buddy
- Posts: 1488
- Joined: Sun Oct 30, 2011 7:06 pm
Re: Run #1: The Flash and The Furious
Anon Stray crosses the threshold of the bar, drowning the noisy disorder of Seattle's acid-rain slicked streets with the writhing chaos inside. Well dressed businessmen press against scantily clad wageslaves and leather clad streetpunks. He's been here for three weeks, but the social turbulence still gives him pause; Members of different castes would not mingle this way back home.
No, not home. That can never be home again.
But the chaos also reassures him, and he pulls it around himself like a blanket. Here he can dart from group to group, harder to spot and harder to track. The chaos will buy him time, time he'll need here only so far from his motherland's borders. He harbors no illusions that it will do more than that, although a glimmer of hope teases him occasionally from the furthest unguarded recesses of his mind. It will take time for the Count to beg and gain an audience from the princes, if they'd hear him at all. And in the meantime, the Count will only have limited resources and an even more limited reach with which to track Anon. The time bought here Anon plans to use leave a crisscrossing and fading trail as he blends into the shadows.
Used to a life of moderate comfort and strict social hierarchy, it had proven difficult at first for him to establish himself in the crumbling apartment building that now served as home. The first unofficial leader of the squatter tenement had taken a dislike to the soaked - and strangely dressed - elf before Anon could work his charm on him. The dislike came in the form of startlingly abrupt violence, and ended with a single word uttered by Anon as the man grabbed his knife from him. The small rune scratched in the hilt fulfilled its role flawlessly, and Anon later resolved to reapply it regularly to the weapon as he pried it from the squatter's charred hands. Tyler, the man who had stepped up to fill the deceased squatter's shoes had taken a much better liking to Anon immediately. In this way, he found his first haven in this strange frontier town.
With a change of clothes and a more cautious approach to encounters in this city, he had managed to secure a few friends and acquaintances. Acquaintances who had led him here tonight to this bar.
Anon presses forward through the crowd, beginning to understand the order lying beneath the chaos as he weaves through the bodies. This is the first step to a new life, and hopefully the burial of his old one. He summons his strength to keep his appearance and voice under tight control, masking his fear.
"Much apologies for being late," he says, laying his native accent on more thickly than is natural. His grin is relaxed and a touch innocent. He nods respectfully to colorful group gathered around the table as he sits down. His eyes scan for the focus of the group's attention, and he finally settles his gaze on the young man sitting behind a veil of smoke on the other side of the table.
No, not home. That can never be home again.
But the chaos also reassures him, and he pulls it around himself like a blanket. Here he can dart from group to group, harder to spot and harder to track. The chaos will buy him time, time he'll need here only so far from his motherland's borders. He harbors no illusions that it will do more than that, although a glimmer of hope teases him occasionally from the furthest unguarded recesses of his mind. It will take time for the Count to beg and gain an audience from the princes, if they'd hear him at all. And in the meantime, the Count will only have limited resources and an even more limited reach with which to track Anon. The time bought here Anon plans to use leave a crisscrossing and fading trail as he blends into the shadows.
Used to a life of moderate comfort and strict social hierarchy, it had proven difficult at first for him to establish himself in the crumbling apartment building that now served as home. The first unofficial leader of the squatter tenement had taken a dislike to the soaked - and strangely dressed - elf before Anon could work his charm on him. The dislike came in the form of startlingly abrupt violence, and ended with a single word uttered by Anon as the man grabbed his knife from him. The small rune scratched in the hilt fulfilled its role flawlessly, and Anon later resolved to reapply it regularly to the weapon as he pried it from the squatter's charred hands. Tyler, the man who had stepped up to fill the deceased squatter's shoes had taken a much better liking to Anon immediately. In this way, he found his first haven in this strange frontier town.
With a change of clothes and a more cautious approach to encounters in this city, he had managed to secure a few friends and acquaintances. Acquaintances who had led him here tonight to this bar.
Anon presses forward through the crowd, beginning to understand the order lying beneath the chaos as he weaves through the bodies. This is the first step to a new life, and hopefully the burial of his old one. He summons his strength to keep his appearance and voice under tight control, masking his fear.
"Much apologies for being late," he says, laying his native accent on more thickly than is natural. His grin is relaxed and a touch innocent. He nods respectfully to colorful group gathered around the table as he sits down. His eyes scan for the focus of the group's attention, and he finally settles his gaze on the young man sitting behind a veil of smoke on the other side of the table.
Re: Run #1: The Flash and The Furious
Aremys Farrow is gripped by the hollow need growing in his stomach. Terror and desire mix together like the churning juices of his sorry excuse for breakfast working their way through his bowels. His gait is awkward as he shuffles through the club's dance floor; something in his movements suggests every step is painful. The movements are determined though, and the crowd slowly makes way for him as he progresses towards the club's rear.
Watching the perfect, hard bodies of the revelers makes Aremys sick. His own flesh is twisted and near useless. Hard perhaps, he is a tough ork to break, but far from the once magnificent specimen he had been in his old life. Radiation exposure is a bitch and how easily the flesh's weaknesses are exposed in the spotlight of the machine. His old masters had trained him well to destroy and preserve life and machine alike, but in the end, the machine proved stronger. It’s a lesson that Aremys will not forget – cannot forget. These fools worshiping each other’s bodies as if they were the gods themselves knew nothing, and yet here they were, stronger and more graceful than Aremys could hope to achieve. At least so long as he remained caged in this sorry excuse for a ruined vessel. The body is weak, but the soul is willing, and it will carry him through. Desire and terror in equal proportion.
At least it has carried him to this insane gamble. Scratching out an existence as a back alley street doc is hard enough without even the most desperate client second guessing your ability once they glimpse the emaciated hand wielding the scalpel. Meals were hard to earn let alone accumulate the wealth to meld man and machine. Organlegging and black market, second-hand cyberware prove a little more lucrative, but those opportunities are few and far between. They had yielded him his eyes, however, and those metallic orbs spun and whirled taking in the figures huddled in the back room as he approached. If he could not find the profit necessary in this venture, than at least he would die trying.
Damn those bastards for kicking me to the street. I could still have been useful! I could have been their best! They could have fixed me, perfected me! After all my sacrifice, they left me with nothing.
Life being what it is, one dreams of revenge.
Aremys’ too precise eyes lock on the hooded man’s own, flickering for an instant down to the cybernetic hand. Aremys’ own gloved, twisted, fingers twitch slightly as if wanting to reach out for it of their own accord. Five minutes in my shop, my friend, and I would be that much closer!
Glancing around at the assembled group of misfits, Aremys’ raises one hairless eyebrow. So it begins!
Watching the perfect, hard bodies of the revelers makes Aremys sick. His own flesh is twisted and near useless. Hard perhaps, he is a tough ork to break, but far from the once magnificent specimen he had been in his old life. Radiation exposure is a bitch and how easily the flesh's weaknesses are exposed in the spotlight of the machine. His old masters had trained him well to destroy and preserve life and machine alike, but in the end, the machine proved stronger. It’s a lesson that Aremys will not forget – cannot forget. These fools worshiping each other’s bodies as if they were the gods themselves knew nothing, and yet here they were, stronger and more graceful than Aremys could hope to achieve. At least so long as he remained caged in this sorry excuse for a ruined vessel. The body is weak, but the soul is willing, and it will carry him through. Desire and terror in equal proportion.
At least it has carried him to this insane gamble. Scratching out an existence as a back alley street doc is hard enough without even the most desperate client second guessing your ability once they glimpse the emaciated hand wielding the scalpel. Meals were hard to earn let alone accumulate the wealth to meld man and machine. Organlegging and black market, second-hand cyberware prove a little more lucrative, but those opportunities are few and far between. They had yielded him his eyes, however, and those metallic orbs spun and whirled taking in the figures huddled in the back room as he approached. If he could not find the profit necessary in this venture, than at least he would die trying.
Damn those bastards for kicking me to the street. I could still have been useful! I could have been their best! They could have fixed me, perfected me! After all my sacrifice, they left me with nothing.
Life being what it is, one dreams of revenge.
Aremys’ too precise eyes lock on the hooded man’s own, flickering for an instant down to the cybernetic hand. Aremys’ own gloved, twisted, fingers twitch slightly as if wanting to reach out for it of their own accord. Five minutes in my shop, my friend, and I would be that much closer!
Glancing around at the assembled group of misfits, Aremys’ raises one hairless eyebrow. So it begins!
Re: Run #1: The Flash and The Furious
The hooded man flicks a piece of ash off of his sleeve disdainfully and raises his eyes again. The kaleidoscope of nearly imperceptible filters and shutters slide over one another as they project a dispassionate gaze.
"First thing's first, I guess introductions are in order. The scary-looking razor-girl sitting next to me is Magdalena. She handles the things that my conscience won't allow me to do. If a contractor decides to inform, or say--defect to a competitor--it's her garrote they find wrapped around their neck while in the middle of their morning cup of soykaf."
The woman flashes an expression that's mostly sneer with just a hint of grin.
"The quiet Nipponese fellow is Shimizu-san. He's here to make sure that the bigwigs paying the bills are getting their money's worth. His sitting in this room with us should give you a sense of confidence, but remind you of your accountability. His superiors don't believe in second chances, extenuating circumstances, or excuses. That being said, they've got lots and lots of nuyen."
Shimizu simply adjusts his mirror-shades, his distinctly Japanese features registering no hint of emotion.
"As for me: well, you can refer to me as Mr. Scratch. I handle all the logistics of the operation. I'm your microphone to god. Shimizu-san's people trust me to put together operations and that's what I do. The reason you're here..."
Scratch points emphatically at the team with an unlit Alpaca 100.
"...is because of certain things you've done or certain people you know." Scratch taps the side of his head. "I've got a mind for this kind of thing; what some people call synergy. Your individual skills are fairly unimpressive, but I think there is a potential for some decent teamwork to emerge."
The cigarette dances in his hand as he toys with it. Scratch looks as if he's about to speak again but Shimizu leans in and murmurs something in his ear. Scratch nods somewhat irritably and turns to the team.
"Ah, yes. As your skills are unproven and your ability to perform as a team is untested, my employer insists on a trial run."
"First thing's first, I guess introductions are in order. The scary-looking razor-girl sitting next to me is Magdalena. She handles the things that my conscience won't allow me to do. If a contractor decides to inform, or say--defect to a competitor--it's her garrote they find wrapped around their neck while in the middle of their morning cup of soykaf."
The woman flashes an expression that's mostly sneer with just a hint of grin.
"The quiet Nipponese fellow is Shimizu-san. He's here to make sure that the bigwigs paying the bills are getting their money's worth. His sitting in this room with us should give you a sense of confidence, but remind you of your accountability. His superiors don't believe in second chances, extenuating circumstances, or excuses. That being said, they've got lots and lots of nuyen."
Shimizu simply adjusts his mirror-shades, his distinctly Japanese features registering no hint of emotion.
"As for me: well, you can refer to me as Mr. Scratch. I handle all the logistics of the operation. I'm your microphone to god. Shimizu-san's people trust me to put together operations and that's what I do. The reason you're here..."
Scratch points emphatically at the team with an unlit Alpaca 100.
"...is because of certain things you've done or certain people you know." Scratch taps the side of his head. "I've got a mind for this kind of thing; what some people call synergy. Your individual skills are fairly unimpressive, but I think there is a potential for some decent teamwork to emerge."
The cigarette dances in his hand as he toys with it. Scratch looks as if he's about to speak again but Shimizu leans in and murmurs something in his ear. Scratch nods somewhat irritably and turns to the team.
"Ah, yes. As your skills are unproven and your ability to perform as a team is untested, my employer insists on a trial run."
Re: Run #1: The Flash and The Furious
"What I've done or who I know?"
Bradbury is speaking before he even realizes that his mouth is moving. Knowing nothing about his own life, the ork doesn't know what to make of any of it. Do these men know something about what has brought him to where he currently stands? After his words escape him, he feels almost like clamping his hands over his face. The sense that he has spoken out of turn hangs pregnantly in the room, faint swirls in the smoky haze dancingly imperceptibly as the air is moved by the club's over-burdened air conditioning system. The cheerless murk of the room is heavy and cloying-- palpable.
Bradbury is speaking before he even realizes that his mouth is moving. Knowing nothing about his own life, the ork doesn't know what to make of any of it. Do these men know something about what has brought him to where he currently stands? After his words escape him, he feels almost like clamping his hands over his face. The sense that he has spoken out of turn hangs pregnantly in the room, faint swirls in the smoky haze dancingly imperceptibly as the air is moved by the club's over-burdened air conditioning system. The cheerless murk of the room is heavy and cloying-- palpable.
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Drew Buddy
- Posts: 1488
- Joined: Sun Oct 30, 2011 7:06 pm
Re: Run #1: The Flash and The Furious
Anon narrows his eyes slightly. The phrase struck a chord with him as well. Good job disappearing into the shadows. What do they know, and who told them?
He needs to be smarter than this. He needs the job, but hearing that he had been pre-selected in a manner that was outside his control sets his stomach turning. He relaxes his eyes as he regains control over his expression. Loose ends can be tied up later, he thinks with some fatigue.
He waves a hand in a dismissive gesture. "This is fine. But I do not take unpaid work if that is what is suggesting. What can you tell about this employer?" He asks, clipping his speech carefully.
He needs to be smarter than this. He needs the job, but hearing that he had been pre-selected in a manner that was outside his control sets his stomach turning. He relaxes his eyes as he regains control over his expression. Loose ends can be tied up later, he thinks with some fatigue.
He waves a hand in a dismissive gesture. "This is fine. But I do not take unpaid work if that is what is suggesting. What can you tell about this employer?" He asks, clipping his speech carefully.
Re: Run #1: The Flash and The Furious
Aremys nods curtly at his fellow ork without taking his eyes off of Scratch. "No nuyen, no service. Either we agree to this now or I'm out of here." There is some relief in having another of his kind in the room - orks and trolls tend to ridicule his deformities less than the other, prettier races.
Good good, if they have put us together as a team, then perhaps they think we have a chance of success. A chance is all I need.
Good good, if they have put us together as a team, then perhaps they think we have a chance of success. A chance is all I need.
Re: Run #1: The Flash and The Furious
Scratch fixes an impassive stare on Bradbury, holding it in the silence that follows. After what seems like an eternity, he waggles his fingers in a gesture towards Magdalena. Not a second passes before the razor-girl springs across the table with superhuman speed, launching a devastating right hook aimed squarely at Bradbury's face.
Re: Run #1: The Flash and The Furious
The ork moves unconsciously as the girl with scars barrels toward him. He is an uncontrolling passenger-- a spectator inside his own body. He flexes at his core, swaying back with his hips and twisting to his right, positioning to grab the girl's punch with his left hand. His right hand is already rearing back in a claw-like, trembling mass of explosive energy, and watching the scene unfold from moments behind his body's intuitive reactions, Bradbury is terrified as to how it's all going to play out.
Re: Run #1: The Flash and The Furious
Magdalena halts mid-movement, like a tri-d on freeze frame. The pair appear statuesque, locked in a bizarre interlude of violence. The surprise on Magdalena's face is unmistakable, but it melts away as quickly as it appears. She calmly withdraws her fist from Bradbury's clawed hand and eases back to perch--catlike--on the table.
"That," replies Scratch, not bothering to cast a glance in his direction, "Is precisely the reason you are here."
Without offering an explanation or further words on the subject, he fixes his cybernetic gaze on Anon. "I'd be happy to reveal the details to you. However at this point, the powers that be demand a demonstration of your viability. No point in betting on a horse until you know he's in the race."
"You will be compensated for this... interview," says Scratch, looking at both Anon and Aremys.
"That," replies Scratch, not bothering to cast a glance in his direction, "Is precisely the reason you are here."
Without offering an explanation or further words on the subject, he fixes his cybernetic gaze on Anon. "I'd be happy to reveal the details to you. However at this point, the powers that be demand a demonstration of your viability. No point in betting on a horse until you know he's in the race."
"You will be compensated for this... interview," says Scratch, looking at both Anon and Aremys.
Re: Run #1: The Flash and The Furious
Bradbury's heart is beating like a machine gun as the reality of the situation catches up with his body. Power courses through his hands, and he can still feel the phantom of Magdalena's wrist in his left palm. His limbs tremble, aching to be fed in violence and bloodshed-- action and reaction. 'My god. What the hell am I...' the ork thinks as his eyes dart about the room, sizing up both the tabled orchestrators of the scene and the other comers on his side of the madness.
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Drew Buddy
- Posts: 1488
- Joined: Sun Oct 30, 2011 7:06 pm
Re: Run #1: The Flash and The Furious
Anon retains a rigidly impassive exterior covering up the surge of emotions within. The sudden violence drives home how vulnerable he is here, surrounded by strangers, two of which are ready to attack merely to prove a point. Téch.
"You have funny idea of interview, friend," he says, finally. He can feel his mentor close, as if looking over his shoulder in casual interest.
"You have funny idea of interview, friend," he says, finally. He can feel his mentor close, as if looking over his shoulder in casual interest.
Re: Run #1: The Flash and The Furious
Loki's wide eyes linger on the muscled ork a second before fixing themselves on the heavily accented elf as he finishes speaking. You can say that again. Interview? What kind of heavy drek had he stumbled in to? Whatever this fraggin' job is I don't fraggin' want any part of it. This fraggin' psycho slitch just went for this guy like she was gonna geek him, like just for standing there! Cuz this other fraggin' guy snaps his glitched out fingers like he wants a fraggin' light? Frag! I'm such an idiot. Bjorn very carefully draws a deep breath through his nose, trying to control his racing heart and suppress the twitchy nerves that are beginning to frag with his composure. Something tells him that keeping his cool is the only way to get through this "interview". Looking around the room, he's beginning to think he's not the only one wondering if he'd just stepped in drek. "Here 'cuz of what we can do?" Frag man, what do they know? And who're these other fraggin' punks...what'd THEY do?
A tiny prod inside his jacket startles the drek out of him. Fraggin' Grimey, jeezus pal. He reaches slowly into his jeans, pulling out a tiny foil wrapped bit of heat softened chocolate, dropping it into the over-sized pistol pocket of his vintage biker's jacket. The very existence of the feature was what prompted him to buy it in the first place. Pretty punk rock. Sorry bout the foil, pal. Work it out.. Feeling strangely calmed, his attention returns to the shadowy collection of presumably hardened criminals eyeing each other about the room. His cheek pulls in the smallest of grins as he the reality of his settings sink in. Drek Sammie, this is the real fraggin' deal. If you could see me now!
A tiny prod inside his jacket startles the drek out of him. Fraggin' Grimey, jeezus pal. He reaches slowly into his jeans, pulling out a tiny foil wrapped bit of heat softened chocolate, dropping it into the over-sized pistol pocket of his vintage biker's jacket. The very existence of the feature was what prompted him to buy it in the first place. Pretty punk rock. Sorry bout the foil, pal. Work it out.. Feeling strangely calmed, his attention returns to the shadowy collection of presumably hardened criminals eyeing each other about the room. His cheek pulls in the smallest of grins as he the reality of his settings sink in. Drek Sammie, this is the real fraggin' deal. If you could see me now!
Re: Run #1: The Flash and The Furious
Trying to calm his heightened pulse after the sudden burst of violence, Tianwe resists the urge to wipe his sweating palms on his knees, keeping them planted firmly on the table. The wish to be somewhere -- anywhere -- else lingers, even stronger than before. The drek-eating orcish thug that had "convinced" him to come to this meeting had been rather unyielding, however, when Tianwe politely told him to go frag his own mother. One of his hands finally does leave the table in an attempt to rub away the aching reminder on his jaw. Must have been the language barrier, he muses wryly.
What have I done, and who have I known to get me in this room with these people? Tian's been estranged from nearly everyone he's ever known, and nearly everything he's ever done has been for them in one way or another. None of it makes sense, but if there were ever a stronger catalyst to metahuman curiosity, Tianwe couldn't name it. Counter to his desire to remain relatively unnoticed at the table, he leans forward slightly.
"What is this... interview? What you want from us?"
What have I done, and who have I known to get me in this room with these people? Tian's been estranged from nearly everyone he's ever known, and nearly everything he's ever done has been for them in one way or another. None of it makes sense, but if there were ever a stronger catalyst to metahuman curiosity, Tianwe couldn't name it. Counter to his desire to remain relatively unnoticed at the table, he leans forward slightly.
"What is this... interview? What you want from us?"
Re: Run #1: The Flash and The Furious
Scratch inspects the cigarette.
"There's an abandoned warehouse about two blocks down the street. It's been involved in a zoning dispute for years so nobody wants to take responsibility for it. My associates and I found some good uses for the warehouse. Recently, though, the local chapter of the halloweeners gang decided to make it their new hangout. They're not exactly the sharing type. It's been a couple of weeks and they've gotten far too comfortable. We haven't had the manpower to deal with the problem. Until now."
The emaciated Johnson tips his fingers together.
"Get rid of the gangers. I don't really care how you do it. Lone Star's cancelled the contract because of the zoning dispute, so you won't need to worry about any heat. The quieter you can pull off your objective, the better; the warehouse is useful to our purposes and we don't want to draw unnecessary attention to it. Halloweener reprisal would be inconvenient, to boot. These drekheads are thugs, pure and simple. If I'm right about you, it shouldn't prove overly difficult. Maggie?"
Magdalena settles back into the booth, placing her combat boots on the table. She purses her lips.
"They come and go, but there are usually less than a dozen gangers in the building. Typical halloweener trash: leathers, maybe some second-hand armor vests, chains, baseball bats, and I've seen a couple with hip holsters. They don't ever seem to sleep--probably constantly hopped up on jazz or novacoke. Must have changed the mag-locks, too, since my card doesn't work anymore. How a bunch of fragbrains managed that slots me."
"There's an abandoned warehouse about two blocks down the street. It's been involved in a zoning dispute for years so nobody wants to take responsibility for it. My associates and I found some good uses for the warehouse. Recently, though, the local chapter of the halloweeners gang decided to make it their new hangout. They're not exactly the sharing type. It's been a couple of weeks and they've gotten far too comfortable. We haven't had the manpower to deal with the problem. Until now."
The emaciated Johnson tips his fingers together.
"Get rid of the gangers. I don't really care how you do it. Lone Star's cancelled the contract because of the zoning dispute, so you won't need to worry about any heat. The quieter you can pull off your objective, the better; the warehouse is useful to our purposes and we don't want to draw unnecessary attention to it. Halloweener reprisal would be inconvenient, to boot. These drekheads are thugs, pure and simple. If I'm right about you, it shouldn't prove overly difficult. Maggie?"
Magdalena settles back into the booth, placing her combat boots on the table. She purses her lips.
"They come and go, but there are usually less than a dozen gangers in the building. Typical halloweener trash: leathers, maybe some second-hand armor vests, chains, baseball bats, and I've seen a couple with hip holsters. They don't ever seem to sleep--probably constantly hopped up on jazz or novacoke. Must have changed the mag-locks, too, since my card doesn't work anymore. How a bunch of fragbrains managed that slots me."
Re: Run #1: The Flash and The Furious
Bradbury eyes Magdalena suspiciously, his blood still up from the cathartic release his body had almost experienced just moments before. The surge of energy-- so electric in his muscles-- lingers like an echo in an empty chamber, cycling down and bigger than life. He raises his hand to his face and rubs his thick fingers through the beard billowing off his cheeks, which makes a faint rustling sound. There are too many questions, and so far there are next to no answers.
"What are we even interviewing for?"
"What are we even interviewing for?"
Re: Run #1: The Flash and The Furious
"The chance at a real corporate contract."
Scratch leans forward conspiratorially.
"You chummers are greener than the stuff that runs through Senor Chang's septic system, so I'll shoot straight. Most mercs go their whole lives without a chance like this. This is your call to the big leagues. Opportunity is fragging knocking and you'd be glitched if you didn't answer the door in lingerie. You'll be compensated for the little clean-up detail, rest assured. Now I need to know if you are my guys."
Scratch leans forward conspiratorially.
"You chummers are greener than the stuff that runs through Senor Chang's septic system, so I'll shoot straight. Most mercs go their whole lives without a chance like this. This is your call to the big leagues. Opportunity is fragging knocking and you'd be glitched if you didn't answer the door in lingerie. You'll be compensated for the little clean-up detail, rest assured. Now I need to know if you are my guys."
Re: Run #1: The Flash and The Furious
Scratch's words fade to a buzz as Loki's memory takes him back to a night beneath an overpass in Seattle's canal district. The grinding din of a punk rock concert, a background of tattooed and leather clad bodies, dancing, fighting, spun up on any combination of hard drugs, alcohol, and adrenaline. Then a pretty face, pulled from the firelight. Figures in the shadows. A broken lip, torn shirt. Then violence. And Halloweeners.
The grainy pattern of the hardwood floor comes into focus. His head lifts, and Loki's eyes widen, fixating on the ashtray that sits unremarkably emitting a slow curl of cigarrete smoke into the lamplight. After a few seconds, he blinks, and regains his composure.
Somewhere in the recess of his mind, Loki is surprised by the steel in his voice.
"Im in."
The grainy pattern of the hardwood floor comes into focus. His head lifts, and Loki's eyes widen, fixating on the ashtray that sits unremarkably emitting a slow curl of cigarrete smoke into the lamplight. After a few seconds, he blinks, and regains his composure.
Somewhere in the recess of his mind, Loki is surprised by the steel in his voice.
"Im in."
Last edited by Conway on Tue Jun 03, 2014 10:21 am, edited 4 times in total.
Re: Run #1: The Flash and The Furious
Aremys looks slowly from one to another of the "team". "Five against twelve. With surprise on our side, it should be doable. Provided you can all move like our friend here", he nods towards the bearded ork.
Looking back towards Scratch, "Would you do us the favor of setting the compensation for this little trial run now? Just so we know what to expect you see - a little motivation can go a long way."
Damn this is crazy. Twelve Haloweeners against us? That ork can move and might be effective up close, but Haloweeners have a fondness for automatic weapons and I'd hate to bring a knife to a gun fight. None of these chummers look particularly heavily armed...ah frag it, I don't have any choice and I doubt they would be here if they did either.
Looking back towards Scratch, "Would you do us the favor of setting the compensation for this little trial run now? Just so we know what to expect you see - a little motivation can go a long way."
Damn this is crazy. Twelve Haloweeners against us? That ork can move and might be effective up close, but Haloweeners have a fondness for automatic weapons and I'd hate to bring a knife to a gun fight. None of these chummers look particularly heavily armed...ah frag it, I don't have any choice and I doubt they would be here if they did either.
Re: Run #1: The Flash and The Furious
Tian raises a considering eyebrow. Halloweeners, eh? He looks at the motley crew around the table, trying to judge the reactions of those who are about to become his team. A pang of excitement bubbles up inside him. He's missed the petty conflict of gang life over the last few months, and now being set loose on the most hated gang in Seattle doesn't sound so bad. And I get paid for it? He almost forgets for a moment that he didn't come seeking this gig out on his own.
"I will do this."
"I will do this."
Re: Run #1: The Flash and The Furious
"You'll receive ¥5,000 each if you can solve our little problem without inciting Halloweener reprisal and avoid any significant damage to the warehouse. The compensation drops to ¥3,000 if word gets to the other chapters or if we have to get contractors involved to start patching holes in walls, and the like. Either way, the end-goal is the same: run those fraggers out of my warehouse.
More importantly, if you're successful, you'll have proven to Shimizu-san that you're a viable investment for his employers. They're anxious to get their hands on some real talent."
More importantly, if you're successful, you'll have proven to Shimizu-san that you're a viable investment for his employers. They're anxious to get their hands on some real talent."
Re: Run #1: The Flash and The Furious
Bradbury's reticence roils within him like a thick, muddy soup. He didn't come here to set up a kissing booth, but isn't exactly eager to become a hired gun. What did he expect, though? Meeting with shady figures in the back room of a joint like this can only mean one thing.
The ork half-turns his head and catches the club beyond the room out of the corner of his eye. The wageslaves ebb and flow in a pulsing mass of amphetamines, hormones, vinyl, and multi-colored hair. This is their only release from their lives of servitude, suckling at the megacorp teat like the ravening whores of Babylon. A girl passes the doorway speedily, her short red vinyl skirt exposing fishnet stockings and a tapestry of tattoos. She's carrying a tray, and likely sells more than only what gets served atop its surface.
Bradbury turns back to the table. Scratch and his cohorts are looking on, waiting for the full group's individual responses.
He doesn't want to do it. He doesn't want to take lives for the purpose of more fully understanding his own. But he needs the money. He needs to find somebody who can help him understand why he has no memory, and somebody who can remove the device grafted to his spinal column. He needs his own release, too, and the phantom trembles in his muscles call out what kind of release he's most apt to need.
"Yeah. Count me in, too," the ork says in a throaty, hoarse mumble. He takes a second to look at his new teammates and wonders what he's just become a part of, and where it will lead him.
The ork half-turns his head and catches the club beyond the room out of the corner of his eye. The wageslaves ebb and flow in a pulsing mass of amphetamines, hormones, vinyl, and multi-colored hair. This is their only release from their lives of servitude, suckling at the megacorp teat like the ravening whores of Babylon. A girl passes the doorway speedily, her short red vinyl skirt exposing fishnet stockings and a tapestry of tattoos. She's carrying a tray, and likely sells more than only what gets served atop its surface.
Bradbury turns back to the table. Scratch and his cohorts are looking on, waiting for the full group's individual responses.
He doesn't want to do it. He doesn't want to take lives for the purpose of more fully understanding his own. But he needs the money. He needs to find somebody who can help him understand why he has no memory, and somebody who can remove the device grafted to his spinal column. He needs his own release, too, and the phantom trembles in his muscles call out what kind of release he's most apt to need.
"Yeah. Count me in, too," the ork says in a throaty, hoarse mumble. He takes a second to look at his new teammates and wonders what he's just become a part of, and where it will lead him.
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Drew Buddy
- Posts: 1488
- Joined: Sun Oct 30, 2011 7:06 pm
Re: Run #1: The Flash and The Furious
Halloweeners; even Anon has become familiar with these sociopaths in his short time here. The pit in his stomach feels like it's dragging the rest of him slowly but surely into a haggard, dirty singularity. Wetwork. Well maybe. He holds onto a glimmer of home that violence can be avoided in this task. Yeah, and maybe I'll just find a credstick on the ground that will make all my problems go away.
"Making fight with that many Halloweeners is, how do you say, tall order. And I have bills to pay and debts to settle to unpleasant men. A fair payment, 6,500¥ would make sure of complete dedication, and make us not tangled with problems of past, and so better ready for future business with you."
Makkanagee! What are you doing? Anon thinks as he remembers the last time someone at the table spoke up. Ah, sersakhan, but would they take us seriously otherwise? Either way, they know more about me than I'm comfortable with. I'd rather keep them close.
"Making fight with that many Halloweeners is, how do you say, tall order. And I have bills to pay and debts to settle to unpleasant men. A fair payment, 6,500¥ would make sure of complete dedication, and make us not tangled with problems of past, and so better ready for future business with you."
Makkanagee! What are you doing? Anon thinks as he remembers the last time someone at the table spoke up. Ah, sersakhan, but would they take us seriously otherwise? Either way, they know more about me than I'm comfortable with. I'd rather keep them close.
Re: Run #1: The Flash and The Furious
Bradbury cocks a sidelong glance and an elevated eyebrow at the elf beside him. The wild hair and heavy accent would seem to belie something like cunning, bravery, or downright stupidity. The ork wonders which it is while dreading an outburst of further violence.
Re: Run #1: The Flash and The Furious
(( Anon's Negotiation skill test = Success. ))
Scratch taps the table top with his index finger. He looks at Anon for a moment before speaking.
"I'll bump up the price to ¥5,500 each. This is more than I'd usually pay, but I'm holding out hope we can develop a working relationship."
Scratch taps the table top with his index finger. He looks at Anon for a moment before speaking.
"I'll bump up the price to ¥5,500 each. This is more than I'd usually pay, but I'm holding out hope we can develop a working relationship."
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Drew Buddy
- Posts: 1488
- Joined: Sun Oct 30, 2011 7:06 pm
Re: Run #1: The Flash and The Furious
Anon can see the finality in Scratch's eyes. Quite frankly, he's relieved that he achieved any success at all and avoided any more "demonstrations."
He nods, "Very well. What can you tell about surrounding area? The neighborhood, other gangs?"
He nods, "Very well. What can you tell about surrounding area? The neighborhood, other gangs?"
Re: Run #1: The Flash and The Furious
The tension drains from Bradbury, and he turns back to Scratch. "Blueprints, too." The ork's suggestion is brash but unaggressive.
Re: Run #1: The Flash and The Furious
Magdalena pipes up, "This quad is mostly commercial. You're not going to bump into any rival gangs. Squatting this far downtown is unusual, even for a bunch of blanks like the halloweeners. Like the boss said--Lone Star avoids the property. The building itself is at the end of a lot, not close enough to any buildings for--say, a zipline."
The razor-girl rests her chin in her hands, staring off into space as the tactical part of her brain engages. "No roof access. No subterranean access; the building is too new for that. I can rez up some blueprints. Anything else you need to know?"
The razor-girl rests her chin in her hands, staring off into space as the tactical part of her brain engages. "No roof access. No subterranean access; the building is too new for that. I can rez up some blueprints. Anything else you need to know?"
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Drew Buddy
- Posts: 1488
- Joined: Sun Oct 30, 2011 7:06 pm
Re: Run #1: The Flash and The Furious
Anon takes all this in with a slight frown. So through the front door, eh?
"Tell me more about their leader. Anything you may be having on lieutenants is good thing, too. Knowing enemy will be difference between success and," he searches for a word, "fragup."
"Tell me more about their leader. Anything you may be having on lieutenants is good thing, too. Knowing enemy will be difference between success and," he searches for a word, "fragup."
Re: Run #1: The Flash and The Furious
Arenys nods, "Very well, I'm in. Is there anything this warehouse is storing we should bear in mind? Or is it largely empty except for the gangers?"
Re: Run #1: The Flash and The Furious
Magdalena smirks.
"It's my business to know the neighborhood. Yeah, sure, I know the chapter lieutenant. Big, frag-ugly trog by the name of Bonebreaker. Huge son-of-a-slitch, got to be at least eight foot tall. Likes to fix the femurs of his enemies to his chopper. Word on the street is that there's tension between this chapter and the other downtown groups. Something about counterfeit BTL's, but that's all I know.
We leave the warehouse empty when we're not using it. If there's anything besides drug-riddled meatheads in there, it's whatever the gangers brought in."
"It's my business to know the neighborhood. Yeah, sure, I know the chapter lieutenant. Big, frag-ugly trog by the name of Bonebreaker. Huge son-of-a-slitch, got to be at least eight foot tall. Likes to fix the femurs of his enemies to his chopper. Word on the street is that there's tension between this chapter and the other downtown groups. Something about counterfeit BTL's, but that's all I know.
We leave the warehouse empty when we're not using it. If there's anything besides drug-riddled meatheads in there, it's whatever the gangers brought in."
Re: Run #1: The Flash and The Furious
Bradbury's mind churns it all over. BTLs. Rival gangs. Disembodied femurs. Again he finds himself speaking without really understanding his question. "Who pushes the bulk of the BTLs downtown?"