Clusterfrag

Mtisuhama's airfield looks like it was designed by MC Escher on deepweed. The compound is a sprawling headache of ferro-crete and ballistic glass. Braided nano-wire support hang dubious sculptures throughout the terminal at regular intervals. The creme de la creme of corporate bigwigs use this terminal. Men and women of all meta-types power-walk to their destinations, dressed to the nines in the latest designer suits.

The dumpy, battle-worn group of shadowrunners sticks out like a cybernetic thumb as they file up to check-in. Yet, no suspicious glances are sent their way, because if they're inside the compound they have a reason to be there--right?

An elf in form-fitting body armor barely concealed by a suit blazer nods his head towards their luggage.

"All weapons need to be checked with luggage. You may wear your armor on the shuttle, as long as it doesn't interfere with the fitment of an emergency environment suit."

Max nods at the fellow elf,

"Of course. How long is the flight to the station?"

Doc stuffs his rifle and SMG into his pack, and pats his pockets to make sure that the Fly-Spy and Dragonfly are still on him. It doesn't hurt to have a backup plan.
He's tired, he's only just healed from his wounds, but he's still upbeat.

Space! Fraggin' space!

If only the thirteen year old version of himself could see him now.

"Good to go," he says, with a bit of excitement.

Tyros grins down at the elf gate attendant, bring out his six and a half foot claymore from under his coat. Patting it's worn scabbard fondly, "I think this is going to need an oversized luggage container...I don't suppose you have a large ski bag handy?"

Looking around the gate area, Tyros attempts to spot other likely passengers of the flight.

A dapper young man in a black Italian suit waltzes up alongside the team. His face is perfectly symmetrical, radiating charisma and yet totally un-augmented. A coif of jet black hair has been meticulously slicked back. He watches the team stowing their plethora of deadly weapons and lets out a shrill whistle.

"First time on the shuttle, gents?"

His ethnicity is difficult to place, but his speech carries an unmistakable undercurrent of British English.

"Yeah," Doc replies, sizing the man up.

"And you are..?"

He extends a hand.

"Daniel Whitelock. I'm an entrepreneur... a bit of cyberware, but nanomachines mostly. I suppose I don't have to ask what you and your friends do... Anyway, I thought I would introduce myself. Most times the other passengers are such a bore. I spotted you lot and figured I'd introduce myself."

Max takes the man's hand to cement himself as group ambassador. With his full social grace in effect, he says,

"Max Overstreet," and then, motioning to the team, "Dr. Adams, the behemoth here is Tyros, and this is Rawhide, who is only small in stature. We are the winners of last week's Blank Bucks, and are quite excited to see the shuttle!"

Max flashes a business-like smile, but his mind turns to the knife and several hits of bliss that he's carrying in his skin pocket.

Introductions made, Doc shakes the man's hand.

"Nanomachines, huh? I've taken quite an interest in the subject. Very cutting edge stuff! The man who figures out how to create a self-sustaining colony independent of a nanohive will make a mint. I look forward to benefiting from your research."

Tyros looks at Whitelock's extended hand and spits on the terminal floor. "So are you just here to boast about your experience in space and success as a corporate hack? Does it make you feel good to trample all over folks, oppress then, keep them from their rightful place as individual equals? Care to try that out on me you bastard? I think we have enough time to step outside and see who really is superior! I've a mind to wash that smug, self satisfied look off your face by using your hair mop this floor. Walk away you arrogant pig fucker, before I teach you some manners!"

Tyros is visibly worked up after his tirade and everything in his body language says he is about to lay the Brit out.

Daniel shoots an awkward glance at Max before turning.

"I'll see you on the shuttle, I'm sure. Try and sit in the back, if possible."

Max lets the man walk away before turning to Tyros,

"What in the blazing frag was that??? You have not fraggin' clue who that guy was or what he might have been able to do for us!"

A voice rings over the terminal's PA,

"All passengers on flight MT1, the Mitsuhama orbital transfer, please report to the primary gate."

"Shut the hell up, Max. It's guys like that that have oppressed my people for the last thousand years. He's lucky I didn't take control of his mind and make him do terrible things to himself, just like his ancestors have done to mine! I'll be fragged before I consort with the likes of him. Nothing he can offer us is worth having him within spitting distance."

Tyros growls as he turns away, eyes scanning the crowd to see if the Englishman is anywhere nearby.

Max gnashes his teeth,

"Well next time I talk to that guy, stay the frag out of it."

Max proceeds to the terminal, his annoyance radiating off him with every step.

Doc squints at Tyros with a mix of concern and disgust.

"Leave your baggage at the door, chummer. We're going to be in confined spaces up there, doing things that we shouldn't be doing. I'd prefer to have as few enemies as possible while we're there."

Doc continues on to the terminal.

The shuttle itself becomes visible as the team enters the loading umbilical. It's an enormous wedge, seamless and glistening. The hull curls to a pair of wingtips which fall gracefully back towards the bus-sized thrusters. A pair of aero-glass bubbles dot the front, like insectoid eyes. You can almost imagine the pilots, cocooned in their gravity mesh and wired to all manner of rigging controls.

Row after row of stern faced security personnel line the umbilical. Each cradles a highly modified assault rifle. The branded and expertly polished plates on their form-fitting body armor serve as a testament to Mitsuhama's constant pursuit of perfectionism.

One of these enforcers stops Doc (whom is first in line) with a palm to the chest.

"Excuse me, sir. Your party has been picked for random security assessment. I'd like to ask your permission for an astral scan."

Max steps up to the security guard un-aggressively and asks,

"What is the purpose of this? We've already been through security and are eager to take our seats."

The security enforcer smiles artificially.

"It's routine sir--simply a precaution to insure the safety of our passengers."

Max feigns outrage,

"I know what this is! You see a human, an elf, a troll and a dwarf approaching you and you single them out for a security check. That's discrimination and profiling, sir!I warn you, we've some powerful colleagues who can call down a public relations drekstorm on you over this, and I'll be willing to bet that your employer offers up a sacrificial lamb to ensure that it blows over."

A woman in civilian clothes with a close-cropped haircut and blazing eyes pushes her way past the security guards and stares at the motley bunch.
She jabs a finger at Max. "That one has a knife in a hidden cavity."

At Doc, "He's loaded to the gills with illegal cyberware."

To Tyros. "Very talented magic user."

And, Rawhide. "This dwarf is mostly machine."

She turns to the security guard. "I'm taking my break. I'll see you in fifteen."

Rawhide elbows Tyros in the ribs (more like the hip) and murmurs conspiratorially,

"She didn't say which part was machine though, eh? Huhhuh."

Several of the wage-slave passengers stare at the runners with alarm or trepidation.

Max makes no sudden movements, and reaching into his skin pocket says,

"Huh. I was looking for this thing just the other day. Always in the last place you look, right?"

Max hands the knife, the blade facing himself, to the security officer with a shrug.

The enforcer steps back and waves them through.

As the team files into the science fiction-esque interior of the shuttle, Max notices Daniel waving from the rear of the craft.

"Saved you some seats, mate."

Doc hides his surprise as the enforcers let them on board.

He gives a wave to Daniel, and starts walking down the aisle to the rear of the craft.

"Bit of a delay, there. Apparently we're a collection of unsavory characters," Doc sticks his nose in the air in mock offense.

Max sits beside Daniel, and says,

"Much obliged. I must apologize for Tyros. He explained to me that his family was displaced by British Transition of 2061, and his baby sister died of starvation in one of the refugee camps. Just awful. Nonetheless, I've asked him to behave professionally. Perhaps it's best that you just steer clear of him. So, what brings you aboard the shuttle to the space station?"

After a lengthy demonstration on the importance of safety equipment in zero-gravity and how to properly utilize the exit row, the umbilical retracts and the thrusters begin to hum.

Daniel smiles at Max.

"I'm courting Mitsuhama's space program. My company is working on designing nanomachines that prevent muscle atrophy in astronauts on long-term shifts."

Max leans into Daniel and whispers,

"Make no sudden movements. You've got three seconds to tell me what that was that you just poured on the floor..."

Max let's the whisper hang in the air, the threat palpable.

Daniel leans towards Max, casually remarking,

"You seem like a nice bloke, Max. We're hijacking this shuttle. If you want to help me, I can promise you safe delivery wherever you want to go. If you try to stop me... well, don't try to stop me."

He pats Max's shoulder and turns to a flight attendant.

"Miss, I understand we're about to take off. I just have to use the loo. I'll be very fast."

Rawhide, who has looked uncomfortable ever since setting foot aboard the shuttle, jerks in his seat.

"Max, what the hell was that about?"

Doc looks at Daniel's retreating form, brow furrowed.

"I'm wondering the same thing. Anything we should be concerned about?" He asks, palming the fly-spy drone, and setting it on the ground beneath his seat.

Max's face is grave,

"Dude is trying to hijack the shuttle. He says if we don't stop him, he'll delivery us safely. The threatened us not to try to stop him. I don't know about you, but I don't want to be stuck on the space station if he decides to just drop us off."

Doc lets out a breath.

"It's never simple. Why can it never be simple?

"Okay, I agree that letting him take the shuttle will put us in a bind. So how do we stop him? I'm guessing he has something up his sleeve, unless he's planning on taking the ship with his fists."

Doc looks toward the lavatories.

"We should nip this in the bud, before he gets a chance to take the upper hand."

Max thinks,

"My concern is that he's got security personnel in his pocket. It's the only thing that makes sense to me. Tyros, feel like taking control of somebody's mind? How about you take control of his mind and put him in a position where security (if they're not on his side) will grease him for us?"

Tyros' expression is almost gleeful as the Brit's villainy becomes obvious to his partners. Switching to astral perception, Tyros takes a full assessment of all the passengers (assessing) to look for magic users.

"Oh, I'll handle the bastard..." Tyros stands and begins to follow Whitelock.