Clusterfrag

"Ladies and Gentlemen!"

Johnny Denim holds up his arms and the crowd goes nuts. A dozen tri-d cameras, looking like the probosces of giant mosquitoes, are all aimed in his direction. Behind that, row after row of stadium seating--packed.

"It's the show where big, strong dudes.."

Johnny flexes dramatically, pantomiming a body builder. The crowd loves this.

"...together with really, really smart dudes..."

He strokes his chin and adopts an air of mock sophistication. Laughter fills the air.

"...compete in a dangerous arena for..."

He extends the mic and closes his eyes. The answer from the studio audience is simultaneous and instantaneous.

"CASH! CASH! CASH!"

Johnny Denim grins, the corners of his surgically altered mouth curling like a Cheshire. He turns, the coat tails of his tuxedo whirling dramatically.

"That's right, loyal viewers. The show where brains and brawn (and a little luck) are rewarded with cold, hard nuyen. You're tuned into..."

With a sudden burst of theatrical flair, Johnny spins and thrusts his arms forward, releasing a shower of multi-colored sparks.

"BLANK BUCKS!"

The audience raises their frenzied cheer to a deafening roar. 50,000 years of primal blood-lust and adrenaline are manifest in their strained shouting and hooting.

The host grins and gestures to a platform at the bottom of the stage.

"Now the moment you've all been waiting for. Our contenders for tonight hail from the Seattle area--"

A chorus of loyal cheering erupts.

"They're a politically correct bunch: a dwarf, an elf, a troll and one of our own! Please, make yourselves heard and give it up for... team SUNSHINE!"

The four temporary walls fall away from the platform and reveal Tyros, Doc, Max and Rawhide. What on earth have you gotten yourselves into?

[ 24 hours earlier... ]

Mr. Lo looks up from the ornate, lacquer table and rises. The Johnson stubs out a cigarette and nods colloquially at the team.

"Gentlemen... I have excellent news. We've located the source of the fifth and final canister."

Max, who has just lit his own cigarette and is nursing his customary soreness from his last encounter with the sharks, strolls up to Mr. Lo extending his cordial greetings,

"It's a pleasure to see you again, Mr. Lo. So, if we're after the fifth canister here, does that mean our business together is soon to draw to a close?"

Max takes a long drag on his cigarette, relishing both the smoke as it enters his lungs and the soreness of his ribs as they expand with the breath. Max is feeling good.

Doc strolls in, feeling a bit haggard from the last couple of weeks. Despite the week off, he hasn't managed to find much time to sleep.

"Hi, Mr. Lo. So where's the location? Antarctica? The Tir/California not-so-DMZ?"

He immediately regrets letting himself snap like that, and pinches the bridge of his nose between his fingers.

"Sorry, sorry. Where are we looking for this one?"

Mr. Lo paces to the front of the room. The normally emotionally-detached Lo is wearing a rather bemused expression. He gives a little shrug and rubs his temples.

"It seems The Order had resources more vast than we could have imagined. In an attempt to keep the canisters hidden and safe, they went to great lengths--as we have witnessed. It is fitting, perhaps, that our final objective be so far removed from our grasp.

6 years ago, a man named Hideo Kaneshiro was entrusted with the fifth canister. It just so happened that Mr. Kaneshiro was an engineer at Yamatetsu's aeronautic labs. At the time, he was project lead on a high-orbit habitat called BX91. It was a research station intended to test the effects of space on cyberware. The project was scrapped, but only after the materials were delivered to Renraku's fledgling space station--one that was later bought out when Mitsuhama took over the bulk of Renraku's space program.

The tracking coordinates we received from the fourth canister are constantly changing. It's because of this fact--coupled with what we know about the canister's history--that leads us to believe that the final canister is on Mitsuhama's space station."

Doc stares straight at Lo, and blinks a few times. Then blinks again.

"I... Really?" He finally asks, looking deflated.

He closes his eyes, and pinches the bridge of his nose.

"Okay, okay. So either we need a way to bring the canister down here," He points at the ground. "Or we need a way to get up there. I assume that you and your superiors have already put some thought into this?"

Doc's day is off to a surreal start.

Max is befuddled, but he can't help his amusement with the situation. Elbowing Doc in the ribs, he asks,

"Hey, didn't you say you wanted to be an astronaut when you were a kid?"

Mr. Lo folds his arms behind his back and rocks on his heels.

"Indeed. Mitsuhama runs a shuttle once every 3 months out of Seattle for wealthy socialites who want an exotic vacation. Unfortunately, circumstances are such that getting access to a ticket is nearly impossible. They typically run around ¥1,000,000 and are sold out through the next year and a half."

He gives the runners a dead-pan look.

"My superiors have suggested a... creative solution."

Max continues to enjoy the drek out of his cigarette. There's something about the combination of the smoke filling the depths of his lungs as he takes his fathomless and the mild pain that he's in that just feels like a job well done. He's earned this smoke. And this pain.

"Go on..." Max prompts Mr. Lo.

"There's a tri-d game show called Blank Bucks. You've probably heard of it. It's often streamed on holo-boards all over the city. Contestants on the show typically compete for nuyen; but since the show is entering its 5th anniversary, they are upping the ante--so to speak. Grand prize is four round-trip tickets on any Mitsuhama orbital craft, including their shuttle."

Mr. Lo sits on the edge of the table.

"I pulled every string and called in every favor available to me and got your team a spot as the backup contenders for tomorrow night's show. It just so happens that the primary contenders are all unavailable due to food poisoning. Fortunately for us, they frequent Triad restaurants. If all goes well, you'll be called in to take their place."

Max is struck dumb by this. Slowly, he responds,

"You want us to go on a... game show?? Isn't that pretty high profile for an operation that ultimately results in us stealing a fragment of an artificial intelligence demigod whom everybody in the underworld seems to want a piece of?"

Max thinks on the matter and isn't too happy about performing for the entire world, but frankly doesn't really know much about the show.

"So, let's just assume that Tyros has been living under a rock taking a long nap for the last ten years or so... what exactly does being on this show entail?"

Rawhide leans back in the lacquer dining chair, steadying himself with his combat boots on top of the ornate dining table.

"Ya got four contenders, right? They split into two teams--brains and brawn. Brains gets asked all sorts of trivia questions an' if they answer wrong, they get 50,000 volts. Brawn has to do an obstacle course, with all kinds of nasty drek. That's round one. In round two, the entire team competes against a group of four gladiators, hand-to-hand combat style. Round three--if anyone is still conscious--is always different. It's usually a combination of brain and brawn, though. Great show. You can almost smell the blood."

Max slams his eyes shut and rubs his temples,

"Well that sounds like a ball. It doesn't sound like we'll have much possibility of preparing for this, does it? And we probably won't be bringing our weapons along, will we? I can tell you right now that I'll be smuggling a pistol in inside my skin pocket."

Doc pinches himself, and seems disappointed with the results.

"So we're going to compete on a bloodsport trideo for tickets to go to space? ... Oh, good."

Becoming serious again, he says,

"Okay, so it's a game show, and they have a set of trials and quizzes set up for us. Any possibility of gaining access to the test list beforehand?"

Rawhide shakes his head.

"Blank Bucks is notorious for their secrecy. I heard that all the challenges are created in the hour before the show broadcasts. A mate of mine used to build sets for them. He had to sign a 300 page NDA and get a piece of spyware stuck inside his noggin. It's a multi-million nuyen business."

Doc rubs his chin worriedly.

"Okay, so no cheating. At least not up front. Anything we should prepare for over the next day? I'm afraid I'm out of the loop on the latest entertainment."

Rawhide shrugs.

"You get to pick the topic of question before you're asked it. They're pretty varied. They got science stuff like Chemistry and Geology and then questions about Corporations, history, matrix games, yadda yadda."

Tyros yawns. Having spent the last week splitting his time between sleeping, studying his latest incantations and partying ("celebrating life"), the prospect of going back to work seems a little tiring. Yet the excitement of anticipation is there, so at least he knows he is in the right life of business.

"Wow, a gameshow and outer space. This just keeps getting better."

Looking at Max pointedly, "Max, I think now is the time for you to discuss with Mr. Lo our end of job bonus. Oh and didn't suggest getting half up front too?"

Max, annoyed with Tyros constantly prompting him when the right conversational moment to talk about money comes, snaps back,

"I think the bigger priority right now is to learn as much about the job as possible. We'll talk about money when we talk about money."

Turning back to Rawhide, Max queries,

"Any idea what security on this thing is like? What kind of background screening/patdown we might go through?"

"Perhaps I can be of assistance," says Mr. Lo.

"The security screening is quite thorough and includes both an X-ray and astral scan. You won't be able to bring any weapons and any chemical reservoirs must be drained."

Rawhide scowls. "It hurts like a slitch when they do that."

Lo offers an apologetic shrug. "The good news is that any opposition you face will be subjected to the same rigorous measures."

Max is disappointed to hear about the x-ray scan.

"Do they generally feature challenges that make use of firearms, or not?"

Rawhide scratches his head. "Sometimes, yeah. Ya never know what round three is gonna be until it starts, though."

Mr. Lo stands.

"You've performed admirably this far."

He shoots a look at Tyros.

"I understand that you're concerned with compensation. Let's get that discussion out of the way..."

Max nods,

"Very well, then, and thank you for the compliment. You said last time that you'd speak with your superiors on the matter of our pay rate. With this assignment, particularly with it being a nationally televised spectacle that results in us being blasted into space, I think 80,000 nuyen is a reasonable price per man."

[ Max, Bargaining + CHA + 1 (Pheromones) = 6 ]
[ Mr. Lo, Negotiation + CHA + 2 (Harmful) = 5 ]

Mr. Lo stares at Max through the mirror shades, his expression impossible to decipher.

"It proved quite expensive to get you the tickets to appear on Blank Bucks. I can manage ¥60,000 per team member, at the most."

(( You can proceed with negotiations to drive the price up, but if you fail at any point the conversation is over. ))

Max frowns,

"Mr. Lo, surely you must realize that each of these assignments has been geometrically more dangerous than the last, whereas each time we've been paid a small pittance more than the last. 80,000 is incredible reasonable for what's going to be involved, but I would do it for as low as 73,000. You don't have much choice here-- you don't have enough time to get anybody else."

[ Max, Bargaining + CHA + 1 (Pheromones) = 3 ]
[ Mr. Lo, Negotiation + CHA + 3 (Harmful) = 7 ]

"60,000 is absolutely the most I can manage. I am sure my superiors will be prepared to release a bonus upon successful retrieval of the final canister."

Mr. Lo picks up his jacket. "Anything else, gentlemen?"

Rawhide slaps Max on the back. "Worth a try, eh? At least we have the chance to win some cash on the show."

Doc is still reasonably pleased with the results. And now that the negotiations are over, he steps back in,

"One last thing. Do we have any information on the people we'll be up against?"

Max concedes,

"So it is, then, Mr. Lo. Is there anything else we should know?"

Doc stands up and stretches his back.

"I still don't like it. We've made quite a few enemies, and any one of them could be watching. This is going to be very public."

He shakes his head,

"Well, let's get this over with."

[ Back to the present... ]

The roar of the crowd is deafening. The team is standing on a small podium, covered in the blinding ellipses of studio lighting. Your weapons are locked away somewhere safe in the studio's offices. They let you keep your armor--one of many favors that Mr. Lo called in.

A tri-d camera mounted between two rotors dive-bombs Max and hovers next to his head, filming the elf in full detail. He scowls at his reflection in the camera's lens.

Johnny Denim is suddenly next to the podium.

"The time has come for our fearless fighters to divide themselves into two teams!"

A holographic scoreboard, easily the size of a bus, appears in the air above the platform. On one side, an animated brain hops around, leaking fluid. On the other, a rippling bicep contracts itself over and over.

Rawhide raises his hand. "Brawn!"

Johnny Denim grabs the dwarf's shoulder and points to the scoreboard. "Brawn it is, little fella!"

A pixelated rendition of Rawhide's face appears on the scoreboard, underneath the bicep. It's easy to tell that several of his facial features have been embellished. It seems Lo came through, after all.

The host turns to the other three runners. "And as for you...?"

Max is overwhelmed by the lights and the crowd, and is not as enthusiastic as Rawhide, who seems very much like he's just been called down by the cryogenically preserved and medically revived head of Bob Barker on The Price Is Right: Name Your Nuyen. Casting a doubtful look at Tyros, Max lifelessly declares,

"Brains..."

Suddenly Max is strangely hungry.

"The elf picks brains! Big surprise!"

Max's slightly altered visage appears in digital technicolor under the animated brain.

Johnny Denim gives Tyros a playful punch in the arm. "What about you, big guy? I bet I can guess which team you'll choose!"

Max stares at Johnny Denim, unamused. Even through the pixelated effect added to his visage, the audience can see the word spelled out across his face: UNIMPRESSED.