[OOC: Buying a hit with B.B.'s driving dicepool (Command), he should have no problem peeling out of there. Woofer actually seems to mostly use autopilot with gridguide to drive his car cuz I don't see a skill for it. I'll assume you guys place the Crusher's weapons at a distance and just leave them there since you guys seem not to want to piss off Sheldon.]As soon as Mercedes climbs on her bike the rest of you pile into the car, Woofer in the drivers seat, Cynthia riding shotgun and B.B. operating the vehicle from the backseat. Talking to Sheldon and simultaneously punching commands into hovering AR screens, B.B. Y-turns the Mercury and the two vehicles peel out into the night.
@B.B.:
[OOC: I want to see how the plan you guys have is gonna play out so i'm gonna leave some of it up to dice. Sheldon's judge intentions roll: Int 5 + Cha 6=11 (we'll say 3 to believe that you mean no harm.) 11d6.hits(5)=6. He's listening.]You hear silence on the other end of the line for a long moment.....Then you hear Sheldon's voice, surprisingly calm and controlled, but rather smooth and legato for an ork.
"Show me some trid feed of what happened and then I'll figure out what we're gonna do about this."@Woofer:
You see that the bullets went right through the open zipper of your armored jacket and it was the form fitting half suit of carbine polymer that stopped them. No wonder it knocked the wind out of you so hard. Next time you need to remember to zip up! Besides, it's already getting pretty cold outside. As you got shot, the Evo Smart
© carbine fibers tensed up and froze upon impact, but they now relax as soon as you pull off three little hunks of lead which look like little shiny pancakes stuck to your chest. Jiggling them around in your hand, you grow lost in thought as you look out the tinted window out into the patchwork of jerry rigged street lighting. If it wasn't for the gear on your back or the top notch runners at your side you wouldn't be breathing right now. But you knew it was more than that.
Everyone who finds their way into the Shadows, no matter what they say, has a choice. Every last runner out there at any moment could cash in, get a fixer to slap them with an air-tight fake SIN and go work for a AAA popping out quarterly reports or even dodging lead and mana leading a corp. sec. team. Anyone who has really been out there laying on the cold hard pavement knows the real reason a runner stays in the biz is because he knows that the daylight is the darkest place of all.
In these times, the only place where the little flame of the metahuman soul can even be seen burning it's way down the wick is in the darkness of the shadows. Something as simple as friendship can only be seen these days in places and moments like the one you just survived. The trid or the sims love to talk about how the Shadows will eat you up whole and you gotta be handy with the steel if you know what I mean. Shadowrunners are boiled down to mere adrenalin junkies, thrill seekers or just plain crazy suicidal maniacs. Shadowrunners are the ones who don't value life. Sure, there are a those who fit that bill pretty much spot on....but they never last.....they never live to figure out what it's all about.
You've been runnin' long enough to have learned that real Shadowrunners actually value life more than anything else. They value life so much that they would die for it. They know that for the time being they're just going to have to accept that most of the world is under the clutches of corporate rule, who's profit-driven dogma sterilizes the very meta-human soul and has no place for the authentic or the price-less. Until the day this world-order changes, those that truly value their humanity, their soul, their quirks, their desires and passions only have one choice.....drop-out, live SIN-less and try to make a living sticking it to those that would try to control us, trap us, package us and find some way to fit us in as a cog into their money making machine.
You look into the rear-view mirror and see Mercedes atop her motorcycle, the wind whipping through her hair.
"That's my guardian angel right there," you mutter inaudibly to yourself. Cynthia disengages her ruthenium polymer and pulls open her mask. She looks at you and then smiles as B.B. reaches from the back seat and pats you on the shoulder:
"Nice car Woof, you gotta let me take it for a spin more often."