Clusterfrag

This is an out of character fourm for discussing anything related to the corporation, whether it be purchases, employees, contracts, or the direction of the corporation.

(( Frag this being an out of character forum. MAX IS SHOWING UP FOR A DRINK. ))

It's been a couple of weeks since the team disembarked from the plane that carried them to safety, and Lo's suggestion has been knocking about Max's mind in the few moments for which he's been conscious. What little time he hasn't spent sleeping has been spent simply sitting around. Getting clear of the whole Deus mess was a major relief for the elf, but it also left a bit of a void. How does one go from stomping through realms both terrestrial and celestial to daytime TV and microwaved ramen? It's funny-- for how much money the elf is sitting on, his life looks little different than it did before he got tangled up with the Triads. Of course, his family is still dead.

Sure, Max has slipped into the bliss. He hasn't gone on a bender, but why hold back? He's earned it. He's got it under control.

But still his mind wanders. He doesn't need the nuyen. Living like this, even if he lived to be eighty years old he could more than likely never really work again. You don't need much when you're living in squalor. But the boredom is what's getting to him. The pills rattling around in his pockets are thus far his only distraction, and that he has no others make it an increasingly attractive and frequent decision.

Maybe it was out of boredom or maybe it was out of fear that Max would start hitting the bliss too hard and wind up permanently glitched, but eventually he opened his comm channel. First on the list was Doc. Max had felt a special kinship with Doc of all the team members, for is was he with whom Max had gone through the deepest of the drek. Max had posed the question, "Senor Chang's on Tuesday?" The response was affirmative.

Next on the list Max reached out to Rawhide, but the comm channel had been disconnected or temporarily blocked. Either Rawhide was on vacation, hadn't paid his bill, or worse. Max hoped for the first option.

Milly's response had been evasive.

And there Max sat-- in his drekhole apartment-- styrofoam cartons of microwavable ramen strewn about him among the pizza boxes and beer bottles, flipping over the troll's comm frequency. Max had gotten a new commlink just after returning to the world, and it was with some hesitation that he'd programmed Tryos's frequency into the device. Max's feelings on Tyros were... complicated. Their relationship had been adversarial at times, but they had always come together when it was needed most. Max had eaten more than his fair share of lead in outerspace only to awaken moments later with his flesh aflame-- opening his eyes to the sight of the massive troll standing over him, casting his magic which so eluded the elf's understanding. Trolls. It had been trolls who had taken everything from Max, and in that moment it was a troll who had given back to him the sum total of everything that might yet be. Tyros would be there.

So Max sat at the bar inside Senor Chang's. He was on his third Singha when he saw his two familiar comrades come through the door. Doc was wearing street clothes, but Tyros was dressed much the same as he'd always been. He had to duck substantially to get through the door. As the two approach the table, Max knocks back the last third of his beer and slides a small sheet of paper to his left, anticipating where the two will come to rest.

"My fixer gave me a bead on this place when I got back to the city. Told me it was empty if I needed to lay low for a while..."



Doc and Tyros look at the sheet of paper as Max finishes his thought,

"It's an old UCAS armory. It's near to the water but doesn't have access from it. Could be a good place for us to go into business..."

Doc nods his head absentmindedly, as he chews on his stir-fried tacos.

"You been thinking about what Lo said too, eh?" He asks with a wry grin.

"It could be a good location... Drek, I've been going stir crazy these last few weeks. I still have that chit that Lo gave us."

His eyes light up as he suddenly remembers something.

"Hey, before I forget, I've been thinking a lot about the last few jobs. Mostly, you know, where we got tripped up. First of all, we're like a herd of cattle wherever we go. Have we managed to get in ANYWHERE unnoticed? Secondly, we're up drek creek without Milly. How many times did we go crying to her for help? How many times did she pull our sorry asses out of the fire?

Where I'm going with this, is that I did some, ah, less than legal 'ware implants on a patient a couple years ago. The kind of fellow who doesn't want to have his SIN pop up at a regular Autodoc. Did it cheap too.
Anyway, I figured I'd settle up his debt for some information, and asked him to find some people who could fit the bill. He gave me a couple of contact numbers; said they might just be what we're looking for."

Max is intrigued,

"Go on..."

Tyros nods his head in agreement, "I like it. Nothing like an old fortress to make a troll feel safe. We trick it out a little and it could become a palace. I crashed a few business classes at Seattle City College during the last couple weeks so I think we're in good shape to start a real business. How much start up capital do we have?"

(( Haha! Nothing like a couple of community college business classes to prepare you for launching a corp! ))

Max leans in closer to the two so as not to speak loudly enough for others to overhear,

"Saving some of my creds for some new 'ware I'm planning on getting, I've got roughly 400,000 nuyen."

Doc tallies up the numbers in his head.

"I should have a cool 250k when all is said and done. So this place is up for sale?"

Max nods slowly,

"250,000 gets us in. Reinforced walls. We should be able to withstand all but a nuclear blast in there. Tell me about these guys you've got in mind."

Doc calls up some notes on his commlink.

"We've got one guy, goes by 'Sinjin', who's a regular ninja. Has a bit of a rap sheet, but given his MO, I have to wonder what sort of things he hasn't been caught doing. I figured we could use at least one person who doesn't set off alarms by breathing."

"Next on the list is 'StaticShade', but you know, spelled with numbers." Doc twists the commlink's display so that Max can see.

"He knows his way around matrix security systems, and isn't afraid to get his virtual hands dirty."

"If we're all in agreement, I can make a few calls..."

Max scoffs,

"What is it with that numbers-in-place-of-letters drek? Anyway, before we should call them, we should get an idea of what we might be able to offer them in abstract form. Let's say we get a contract for 100,000 nuyen once we get going. Maybe cut the contract four ways, let them split a quarter of it? Less? What are we prepared to offer?"

Doc raises an eyebrow,

"Really, Max. Would you have taken that deal if it were offered to you?"

Max looks Doc dead in the eyes,

"I would have if I didn't know any better. If we're gonna be their employers, we're making more than them. We're the ones who are going to be supplying gear and negotiating contracts."

Doc taps a finger on the table, thinking. Finally, he says,

"We're going about this all wrong. If we're going to get a company together, then we too will effectively be employees of the company. Instead of keeping more to ourselves, and then trusting each of us to chip in toward the cost of the company out of our own pockets afterward, we need to have the company itself take a percentage of each job, and then distribute the remainder to each person who took part."

Max shrugs,

"Fine. Think of it that way. So we divide the pot eight ways, each man gets one eighth and the company gets the rest? The company gets a flat half, everyone divvies up the rest? I don't know about you, but most of my personal money will also go back into the company. These figures are all hypothetical. We won't really know what we're working with until we get a contract."

Doc nods. The gravity of what is being discussed among the now familiar runners fills him with a sense of excitement. He hadn't really known what to expect when he arrived at Señor Chang's, so the subject of discussion had surprised him. But now, he is mostly surprised at how much he likes the idea being discussed. How right it sounds.

"Trust me, it'll be better in the long run if we think of the company as a separate entity that employs us, even if we control it. Let's have, say, the company take 40%, and divvy up the rest. I'm also willing to plough my first job's commission back into the company to get things going sooner. If we agree on compensation, I'll go make a couple of calls."

He gives Max and Tyros a querying look.

Max nods,

"You're right. The company is its own entity. Forty percent works for me, but half sounds better. Nonetheless, I also intend to push my earnings back in to keep the wheels on the cart. So long as you guys don't mind me crashing on the floor while we get on our feet."

Tyros grins.

"The text book I flipped through said the company should take half the profits, so I'm for 50% going to the corp and the rest divided as profit among the partners. I've got $250k I'll put in to start, and can put in more later as necessary. Let's call the real estate agent and buy the armory. If we each put in $250k, tht leaves us 500 for refurbishment. Let's make a list of what we want..."

Tyros grabs a bar napkin and pen and gets ready to write.

"As far as these new guys go, I agree they compliment our skills nicely. I say way simply pay them each a 10% share of our first contract. Same as us. If we like them and they prove themselves, we can offer them a partnership. They would continue to get 10%, but would be required to put $250k into the company, either out of those earning or from whatever other money they can come by. Once they pay in the $250k, they can start keeping their profits and have full voting rights."

Suddenly Tyros looks around as if noticing something for the first time, "Also, where is the dwarf?"

Max responds,

"I couldn't raise Rawhide. We'll bring him aboard when we can. I've already talked to the guy who owns the slip on the building-- he'd intended to convert it to a storage facility, but all of his employees were afraid of the neighborhood, and then his business folded. I can transfer the creds to him and it'll be ours by the end of the day."

Ordering another beer, Max continues,

"The first thing we're going to want is to drop our out-of-pocket cost and gear. My fixer gave me the heads-up that on what will help us in that regard, since it's his business after all. We need to install an armory upgrade and a dead-drop right off the bat (( Armory, Dead Drop )), as well as a loading dock (( Loading Dock )). Out of pocket on that is 160,000, but it's gonna save us well over 160,000 in the long-run. Should pay for themselves almost immediately for me and Doc, which will allow us to dump more nuyen into the corp. There are several other amenities that will be handy, but those are going to save us money on our immediate cost of investment."

Doc nods.

"Is the facility multi-level? We might need a cargo elevator (( Cargo Elevator )), unless you want to spend time hauling all the gear up stairs. And how's the barracks? Unless you want to commute every day, we'll need a place to crash (( Dormitory: Middle )). And beyond that, we'll need other things, like a vehicle. I could give some suggestions for that."

"Finally, Tyros, I know your head is all full of fancy new business-y learning, but I doubt you want to do our taxes. We should hire a bookkeeper (( Accountant )), someone who can find personell for us (( Company Recruiter )), and maybe have someone handle the logistics of getting gear (( Black Market Agent )) ."

Max agrees somewhat impatiently,

"All sounds good. I'll transfer the creds for the armory. I'll work on getting in touch with somebody who can get us the modifications we're looking for. The shipping list isn't finalized, of course."

The elf takes a hefty slug of Chinese beer a chokes out,

"The sooner the better."

Wiping his mouth, Max begins fiddling with his commlink.

Doc Adams steps away from the table, and finds a quiet corner of the dining establishment. A jumble of numbers runs through his head as he makes the first call.

Max transfers off the nuyen for the acquisition of the UCAS armory. As Doc comes back to the bar, Max looks up from his commlink after several moments and says,

"As far as upgrades we make to the structure, I suggest we simply pool our money, come to a majority agreement, and act. Obviously, Tyros-- most of the modifications that me and Doc can think of might not do you a whole lot of direct good. Anything you'd like to put on the table for consideration?"

Taking another sip from his beer, Max chuckles and looks at his two compatriots with amused incredulity,

"I've gotta say, it's pretty funny how prepared we all were to be having this conversation. I guess I'm not the only that Lo's words really stuck with, eh?"

Max receives an incoming signal on his comm and looks down at the small display. Smiling, he turns his attention back to Doc and Tyros and says,

"Congratulations, boys. You're now partial owners of a building the city would condemn if the inspectors were brave enough to come give it a look. Doc, you wanna comm those guys of yours back and tell them to meet us there instead?"

(( BTW, Elliott. I don't think it's reasonable to make Sinjin and Stat1C5hade pay 250K into the company. That's like 5 runs worth of cash, and would really suck. I say we skip over any sort of "pay in" and just take it as given. ))

Doc grins,

"It's my childhood dream come true! No, really, this is like having a big fort. With real guns."

"Anyway, I'll make the call, tell them the location." Doc looks at the map, and repeats the address to himself a couple of times, before nodding his head. He walks back to the corner, and gets back on the commlink.

Val glances up from the staring contest with his bourbon, which emerges the victor yet again, at the lithe figure sliding slowly down the pole in front of him. She must have been dancing for a while, to make her way down to where Val sat at the end of the stage, but he hadn't looked up in some time. He'd been thinking.

The girl was actually quite good. Her movements seem to defy the laws of gravity, which they can and often do, here at the Ion Dreamz matrix club. Val nods to her icon politely, mentally wiring her a few nuyen, and returns to his staring contest. The VR club wasn't his usual haunt, but he was looking for something, well... new. You know you aren't gonna find it here, 'mano. he thinks to himself. Just finish this drink and be off. You got some serious work to do tomorrow. Val chuckles in spite of himself. Finding said work is the damn problem in the first place.

Maybe he shouldn't have come back to to Seattle. He'd lived a livable life, if sometimes barely that, in Caracas for the last 12 years or so, making ends meet by providing freelance security, matrix and otherwise, to small... businesses (though for some the title could only loosely apply). Perhaps he should-- No, he thinks to himself. Enough of the weekend warrior drek. He just had to keep networking; carefully of course. He'd put out some feelers, but for the most part he wasn't feeling too confident that any of them would come through with anything even remotely worth biting at.

Val sighs and knocks back the last of his bourbon as he stands, eyeing the dancer making her rounds a final time, and pays his tab with naught more than a thought. He logs off the node and switches to AR, the few widgets he has running adding some meager light and color to the dingy interior of his newly-acquired--and decidedly barren--apartment. After a few moments lost in thought, and nearly asleep, a commlink call signal appears in the periphery of his cybernetic vision. Val's pulse quickens slightly as he realizes he doesn't know the caller. Did one of those fraggin' morons leak my commcode?, thinks Val. I was very damn specific about about comm protocols. Val is about to let the call go, but... it could be a job, and there isn't much else he needs worse than that. He quickly loads his Track, Analyze, Browse, Encrypt and Decrypt programs (leaving some headroom to load another program or two in a pinch), draws in a breath, and picks up the call.

"Can I help you? Who is this? Answer the second question first, if you don't mind, and save me the minor inconvenience of having to find out for myself."

Doc Adams cocks an eyebrow at the challenge -- and implied threat -- before answering. He puts on his best game face, which honestly isn't much to look at. Luckily for him, the link is audio only.

"Fair enough. If you couldn't track me down, then you wouldn't be worth contacting. Most people just call me Doc, which is as far as I'll go for now. As to the first question, yes you can, and I think I can also help you. Simply put, my colleagues and I are starting a little business venture, and we need a decker. I'm forwarding our credentials now."

Grinning again, Doc first forwards a trid of the Shiawase wreckage, then one of a burning and broken Renraku superfreighter, and finally a news report of the Alaska nuclear explosion.
He pauses for what he hopes is dramatic effect,

"Payment on completion of the job, with further employment guaranteed if you don't frag up. I won't lie, our jobs are usually messy and violent. You interested?"

Val takes a moment to view the trid footage sent to him by Doc, and barely suppresses the urge to whistle appreciatively before he remembers to maintain audio discipline. He plays the segments again on fast forward, hardly able to believe that this "Doc" is implying that three the events are connected, let alone that he and whoever his chums are had a hand in them all. Eye on the ball, 'mano, he tells himself as he runs his Encrypt program on his link with Doc.

"Well, Doc, you've got my attention. Name's Val, but I'm guessing you already knew that. As it happens I'm pretty wide open. As for messy and violent, I've got a handful of jobs under my belt that qualify. I'm interested, but I'm sure it would be best if we discussed the details in person. You got a secure location? Just gimme a time and a place."

Adams resists the urge to sigh with relief.

"Nice to meet you, Val. We're heading over to our new facility tonight."

He gives the decker the address that had been scribbled down on Max's note paper.

"Near the water, it's an old UCAS armory. Can you make it in, say, three hours? We're working on some leads, and would like to get a better idea of what you're capable of."

: PACKING HOUSE BASEMENT- SOMEWHERE IN SEATTLE:

A thin line of perspiration trickles lazily down his forehead, stinging slightly as it mingles with the blood welling in the channel of the newly opened cut above his eye. Chancing a quick look toward the iron barred window in the corner of the room, he spies the cleft lipped hobgoblin working in the small safe room behind it. Accepting a cred stick and passing a small yellow ticket through the bars, the ugly little bookie turns his attention to the line of players waiting behind the coarse rope strung loosely through thick wooden pedestals. A deformed and impish smile splits his face as he motions the next gambler forward. Good, the bets are still coming in- and the purse is getting fatter.

The probing jab of a linen wrapped fist discharging its momentum against his cheekbone snaps the fighters’ attention back to the rectangular confines of the boxing ring. Leering derisively, the massive troll pounds a meaty fist against his chest and drops his guard, daring the bloodied ork to make an attack.

God damn, but trolls hit hard. Just a couple more now, you bastard, Sinjin Stroud thinks to himself as he continues to circle his opponent amid the wild jeering and drunken excitement of the crowd. Stepping forward obediently he performs a convincing series of ducks and punches, an almost imperceptible lean moving him into another massive blow from his opponent. Blood drips freely onto the mat, the hand wraps of the fierce troll dark and stained with it.

Reeling now, the orc wanders groggily about the ring, his eyes seemingly vacant and his legs more than a little unsteady.
Cries of “Lokar! Lokar! Lokar!,” escalate beyond the background din of the cramped, foul smelling basement. The fighter called Lokar stomps forward aggressively, his eyes shining with passion and the knowing confidence of a job easily finished. Two steps away, one step…

Quick as a flash Sinjin strikes out, the bare knuckles of his hand gliding swiftly across the sweat slicked skin of his opponent. Reaching behind the trolls head to find his other free hand, he pulls down hard and locks the troll’s neck between his forearms. Jaw clenched in concentrated effort, Sinjin’s clinch bends his opponents larger body forward and down. A loud and primal cry escapes Sinjin’s throat as he drives his knee upward, the practice hardened bone of his femur driving forcefully into Lokar’s face. Repeatedly striking with his knees, each blow exacts a terrible punishment on the panicking troll.

Nearly unconscious, Lokar drops to his knees and reaches blindly for a rope to support him. Gobs of blood, mucus and broken teeth cover his ruined chin and drip down his chest. Stepping quickly behind Lokar before he can recover his composure, Sinjin reaches out and in a single, smoothly executed motion, twists his head around savagely. The snap of bone and ligament is unheard amid the cacophony of sound rising from the pits. His neck broken, Lokar falls to the mat, dead eyes looking up from a head that rests in an unnatural angle.

The roar of the crowd is deafening.

-----------
In a dusty back alley littered with empty crates and boxes, Sinjin sits atop a stack of pallets with a cold press held to the swelling in his face. A pock marked elf in a track suit and latex gloves pulls a needle and thread through the last open track of the puffed up cut above his eye. A few moments later, a door opens and through it saunters the crooked bookie, a cocky sneer of displeasure on his face.

“You were supposed to wait until the final two minutes. We could’ve sucked another few grand outta those worms.” The goblin complains with a slur.

Sinjin eyes the greedy little man scornfully, “Yeah? Well, next time I’ll count and you take the punches, eh?”

“Whatever funny man. Don’t think you can break our little agreements and not pay the price. Im holding back 20% for your little display, chum. Besides..” the goblin’s reprimand is interrupted as the door opens again, two tough looking orks carrying out a bulky form wrapped in sheet plastic. “…this aint exactly legal, remember?” The bookie was right of course, what could Sinjin do about it? Complain to the authorities that he was cheated of prize money in a bare knuckle death-match?

After handing over a small envelope presumably containing the nights bounty, the bookie makes a gesture to the elf and the pair of lowlifes head back into the fight club. A quick look inside the envelope reveals a money clip and enough bills to keep his landlord off his ass for another few weeks. Not that his apartment is much cleaner or warmer than the alleyway he sits in at the moment anyways.

Who the drek is carrying cash these days? Head against the wall, Sinjin takes a drag from a half smoked cigarette and lets it out with a sigh. I gotta figure somethin’ else out. This gig just aint cutting it. Ten years as a ‘breaker now here I am bustin’ heads in a shithole….thought this might be a great way to market my skillset. Might be time to call it quits.

Suddenly, a buzzing from his pocket grabs his attention. Probably just another bookie trying to make ‘isself rich off of MY blood and sweat. Well, maybe this time I won’t have to kill a guy….

Pulling his comlink from a pocket, Sinjin places it in his ear and keys open the comm channel.
“Sinjin.”

(( We can either assume that Doc's conversation with Val has concluded or run them in parallel ))

"Sinjin, you don't know me, but I got your number from a reputable source. We're putting a team together, and need someone who can handle himself in a fight, and more importantly, get into and out of places where he isn't supposed to be. I trust I've called the right number?"

Doc glances around the room to make sure that no one is paying him undue attention.

(( Gonna jump forward a bit here-- I don't think anything vital is really going to be exchanged over comm channels. ))

[ Abandoned UCAS Armory, Seattle Outskirts ]

Max, Doc, and Tyros all stand outside the facility in the diffused glow of the moonlight through the cloud cover. The elf stands smoking a cigarette and eying the building critically, assessing what he imagines to be its greatest weaknesses. Taking a deep drag, he thinks aloud,

"We made a lot of enemies together-- us three. Renraku isn't likely to forget what we did to them, Shiawase certainly wouldn't mind flatlining us, and let's not forget the illustrious Col. Bell..."

Dropping the cigarette to the ground, Max grinds it out with his foot against the rough, rocky asphalt. There are weeds sprouting up through the innumerable cracks in the groundwork.

"If we're gonna do this, we're gonna have to poke our heads above water, and that means our enemies are gonna find us. It's not a matter of if-- it's a matter of when. Not to mention the number of new enemies we're gonna make once we get going. We need to reinforce this place and do it in a hurry. There's no telling what kind of drekstorm is going to batter against us once we start putting our feelers out; word has a way of traveling to your enemies first, it seems."

Turning back to the facility, which stands faintly silhouetted by the glow of an all-hours industrial installation in the fair distance,

"We're gonna need to reinforce the walls (( Hardened Surfaces 30,000 )), install a security system (( Security System (Medium) 80,000 )), and network whatever other defenses we can think of (( Tac-net System, 50,000 )). Man, this ain't gonna be cheap..."

The elf is disturbed mid-rumination as his ears pick up what sounds like footsteps behind them. Turning without much alarm, Max peers into the darkness and far up the road and sees a man walking their way. He walks cautiously-- mindful of his surroundings. What Max doesn't hear is the ork now crouched fifteen meters to his left behind a disabused shipping crate with UCA stamped on and trailing off the side.

Val glances over his shoulder as he walks slowly down the dimly lit street toward the armory. That the initial rush of a much needed employment lead had faded somewhat allowed him to think more clearly about his situation. Idiot, he thinks. He's beginning to realize just what a drekstorm he could find himself in, having agreed to a face-to-face with some guys who've not only left a trail of wreckage behind them longer than the Great Wall of China, but who consider an abandoned UCAS armory to be a reasonable residence. Either these guys are extremely paranoid... or they've made some serious enemies, and lots of them. Val recalls the trid footage, and decides to put his money on the latter.

Val pauses briefly as he spies three figures, one of them obviously a massive troll, standing in the dim light, conversing. He takes a moment to gather himself and continues forward, approaching the group warily. He eyes each in turn, hesitates, then holds out his hand.

"Val Merrin. So which one of you's Doc? I'm guessing it's not you, 'mano," Val says, nodding to Tyros with a slight grin on his otherwise impassive face.

Max motions to Doc with his head and says,

"That's Doc. The big one is Tyros. I'm Max."

The elf pauses for a moment and gives the human before him a not-even-faintly-subtle once over, and continues,

"Doc filled me in-- I take it you're Val Merrin. You're a decker."

Doc extends a hand to Val,

"I'm Doc Adams. Thanks for making it on such short notice, Val."

He sneaks a slightly dubious look at the crumbling abandoned armory.

"Welcome to our evil lair," he says with a grin.