What Happens In Seattle...
Fort Lewis. Suburbia. For many, this would be the high life, beyond that which they could even begin to hope for. Running water. Constant power. Matrix access all the time. Real food, even, on the occasion of a particularly fortiuous event. Maybe the last place one would look for shadowrunners, nestled in amoung the families above that of the wage slave class. For those who have been all the way down at the bottom rung, those who live in Fort Lewis have it made. Nevermind that there is so much, much more above them that would be achievable, having the basics that everyone had at the turn of the 21st century, the effort that goes into obtaining them is nearly unthinkable.
The hour is late, at least as far as the clocks say. For those who found their lives in the shadows, it was just the beginning of another day at the office. It really was a thrill, survival concerns aside. Freedom of control of everything, everyone around you. The corps might run the world, but the corps *needed* the shadows. They *needed* you. It was one way of looking at it, if it helped you sleep at night. Or the day. You were not entirely convinced that the home base's Central Home Network wasn't possesed by a sentient malovence that fell afoul of any and all who thought to use it for anything it was designed to do.
Linked through commlinks, they begin to buzz and howl with an alarming intensity. It's not for a moment that you realise the tone. With a team this synced, everyone knew everyone. When the CHN couldn't get an answer through one, it rang another. And then another. Until every electronic device in the house was trying to wake its owner. The affectionately named "Rapid Response" Tone, or otherwise known as "I need you RIGHT THE DREK NOW." from the fixer known as Armstrong, Slobbertooth's main man. A provider or warmth, happiness and, of course, sweet, sweet moolah. But, by the time of the clocks, somewhere between Balls'thirty and too early to give a damn, and well after the standard timeframe for a job drop, he was in a huge hurry.
It didn't matter who slapped the big green button first. The message came through the same. A shadowteam you'd worked with before, many a month ago, on the big Azzie heist. The payday which secured this little piece of realestate and the hateful, spiteful computer system that ran it. They were in big trouble, pinned down at a train yard less than ten minutes from home and they were calling for help with all the firepower one team could bring.
Wasteland ran the crew, some big 'ol trolls with light machine guns for sidearms, making a name for themselves in the smash and grab collumn of the 'work wanted' section, with an emphasis on smash. Despite how it orignally all sounded when you first met them, they were entirely professional, who's love for wanton destruction had taken on an artform to distract and confuse the fuzz, who envariably saw the damage and went to go crack some gang skulls for the quick case closure.
The police scanner was eerily silent.
