[Csjarrat]

___zwei___
Satisfied at the job down well, you kick back in the park and try to put your banging headache out of your thoughts.
The convoy screemed back the other way after an hour or two, headed by the outriders. A wave of pressure runs through the nearby processing nodes as they groan and flex under the added security protocols imposed by GOD and the met's overwatch team, sending shivers through your spine as it passes.
Now more than ever you feel your connection to the matrix, battered by it, bruised a little, but allied to its denizens and breathing it's matter as if it were your own.
The cold never quite shifts as the weak January sunshine fails to burn through the smog and cloud, drizzle returning in waves to dampen your afternoon. Late afternoon came and a scrum of journalists descended on the park, doing set pieces to their drone-cams so the Palace of Westminster fell into the backdrop. Their security teams clear you and the other civvies and tourists out of the park and you find yourself at a bit of a loose end and with a rumbling stomach

__lumen___
Good lad. Keep an eye on it for an hour and check in with Johnny if there's no bother. I'll get a van load of lads over if them cunts come back mob handed.
The third looter scarpered and disappeared into the crowd, leaving his twitching and coughing partners stranded.
The protest march carried on, chants about equal pay, safer conditions and slum housing blaring over megaphones mixing with the background noise of sirens and breaking glass. You'd seen similar protests before but something said this was different, an atmosphere of hostility brewed.

[Lumen]

"You got it boss.  Consider it done. "  Knives slinks quietly into the shadows of the pub and pulls a spare clip from his jacket pocket.  As he changes clips he gives the closest or a good look over. *I doubt he's gonna be out a whole hour.  Gotta figure something out. *  He searches around the tossed pub for anything suitable to tie this bloke up with.

[Csjarrat]

Knocking loudly on the half-barricaded door, the landlord and his staff poked their head through the broken windows and smiled with relief as you said you were there on behalf of the Clerkenwells.
Facking glad te see ye mate. Thought them wankers was gonna ruin our facking brewery. Couple o' grands worth a' whiskey down there. Ere, give ya boss a bottle as thanks. and er.. one fer yerself mate.
He dissapears down stairs and reappears with two bottles of dark brown liquid, each in an unlabelled bottle, one larger than the other.
His staff, a young looking mix of student-age lads and lasses fetch you some zipties and a stretch of old rope from the stockhouse downstairs and give you a hand dragging the prone body of the gobby twat indoors.
Where'dya want him guv? panted the eldest of the staff members, still no older than 18 or so.

[Lumen]

"Let's stash em in the broom closet for now lad.  My mates will be round in a bit to pick em up."

When the owner returns with the bottles Knives thanks him and tucks the bottles away.  He keeps guard until the lads arrive then hitches a ride back to his flat.  He sends Tim a raincheck on the pint and turns in early for his busy day of infiltrating high society.

[Zweiblumen]

Rousing from his half slumber as the newsies security crew clears out the riffraff, when did that become me?, Taylor heads for the street with a clearer head.  He quickly finds someplace to sate his growling stomach as he realizes it's close to days-end and he's not eaten since before lunch.  He finds a cafe that's serving the -tween crowd late lunches/early dinners and tucks in there for a bite and some more water.  Also, taking advantage of the plumbing facilities, this time for real rather than a place to hide.

While he's eating he checks the newsfeeds and a couple of the MeFeed personalities he's fond of for the latest in what's going on in the world.  More of the same, the corps purporting to be doing things for the good of everyone while actualy shafting the whole bloody population.  Personalities railing against their corporate overlords, while actually just proping up more of the same.  Taylor shakes his head at the uselessness of all of them, while keeping an eye on both the clock and the feed from Lord Langdale.  Since he's got some time, he sends the Courier Sprite off to find as much information on the bloke as possible.  Damn, those lagers ruined me last night, I swear I'm never drinking again.  Should have done that first thing last night or at least this morning.

He continues to pass the time waiting for the 7pm call.

[Csjarrat]

___Lumen___
It takes a fucking age before the lads get there, you assume because the protest probably ended up closing most of the roads nearby.
They're a bunch of the lower ranks, enforcers and street thugs that you recognised but couldn't really put a name to most of them. They gave you a respectful tip of the hat as they entered, grabbing the ziptied rabble rouser and leaving the sack over his head that you'd thought would be a good touch.
He was soon disappeared into the back of the van and the rest of the lads pitched in with patching up the smashed windows and chucking on extra security for the brewery. Sensing your need to be there diminish, you finish your beer and head out into the cold.
Tim fires back a disappointed sounding reply as you head down the steps of the underground and into its usually stale atmosphere, a permanent subterranean warmth emanating from below the city keeping it warm enough for the hobos to huddle the platforms after dark. today was different though, a sort of casualty receiving station had been setup for the protesters; march organisers and first aiders pouring gallons of eye wash into the puffy red eyes of blood stained protesters as they coughed retched against the lingering effects of the tear gas.
you pushed your way through the crowds, admiring the bleeding head wounds, black eyes and other artefacts of police brutality before the crowd thinned out near the elevators.
The platform was just as full, groups of orks huddled around talking about the next phase and escalation.
You were glad to be high-tailing it back home. Your head was banging and you were ready for a quiet night in.
Slamming the door shut behind you was a dream. You kicked off your shoes, hung up your coat and put the kettle on, relaxing back into your chair as you rolled a ciggy.

[Csjarrat]

___Zwei___
Your head began to clear as the evening approached and you felt pretty much human, well the effects of the alcohol had worn off anyway. The fading induced headache was another matter.
A tourist-ville chippy was the nearest place to hand and though it charged a small fortune thanks to the column of yank and jap tourists wanting "authentic British fish and chips" to complement their holiday experience, it served actual cod on actual chips with proper mushy peas.
It was a rare treat and it hit the spot; just the right level of salt, vinegar and batter to sate your delayed beer-munchies.
The news was a depressing shower of shit as per usual, the LPO massively mishandling yet another protest wave about the slum conditions of the old east end, responding in force with arrests, alleged beatings and police brutality and all the usual hallmarks of a caring benevolent elected government.
It wasn't long before the courier sprite pinged back some results, Langdale was a prominent member of the London City Council and was a descendent of a long line of old-money politicians.
Expensively educated at Eton, he'd seemed to hit somewhat of a glass ceiling compared to his classmates and his family, who'd mainly all headed up into parliament or the upper echelons of various NGOs, corporations and international charitable organisations.
He'd acquired some fame within high society as a pro-fencer, competing at the national level in the epee and foil classes and at a regional level for the sabre class.
A couple of junk-articles pointed to an address near downing street and a quick glance on the street-view showed it as a beautiful old Georgian fronted building with a high perimeter wall indicative of his family's accrued wealth.
Your AR infused view of the world is occasionally interrupted with the ping of his incoming messages, mainly procedural stuff, plans for developments, sign offs required on departmental spends and such. More interestingly, a slew of messages came in from constituents and brewery firms about the upcoming review.
It appeared that trading licenses were up for review and extension in many areas of the city and last minute lobbying was being done by those on all sides of the debate; everyone from concerned citizens groups, industry lobbying groups and some mysterious benefactors via solicitors letters all weighing in.
This info could be worth a read for the right kind of client...

[Zweiblumen]

Taylor thinks back to his time in the academy and is particularly glad that he is no longer in that line of work today.

Pouring over the report from the sprite on their young lord he's particularly impressed on the multi-discipline accomplishments in fencing.  Most competitors concentrate on a single form, mastering two and being accomplished in the third is truely a mark of expertise.

Noticing the flurry of activity over the licenses, he makes a second copy of all of that data and sends a quick message to 'Fingers' Malloy.
<<@Fingers [Mams] Hoi, came across a bit of data that you or someone you might know could be interested in.  Looks like folks are lobbying for and against trading licenses in various parts of the city.  Lemme know if you or anyone you know would like more details.>>

[Csjarrat]

The reply comes through rapidly;
//Alright Mams, cheers for that pal. Send me a sample and I'll get you a quote. Sound good?//

Eventually suspicious eyes fall on you as you outstay your welcome at the chippy-cum-restaurant and you make a tactical withdrawal to a coffee house a couple of blocks up.
It was a chain store, soulless and fake but that was great. The queue for a soycaf is long and the staff look bored as shit.
BBC news 24 scrolls idly in the background off a holoprojector, its quiet audio output drowned by the steam jets, clinking crockery and general hubbub of conversation of the patrons.
Plonking down with something warm and stimulating, you prepare for the call.
It comes through a few minutes after 7, a withheld commcode dialling in.
{caller}-Evening Councillor. How are we doing on this shitty afternoon?
{Langdale}-Er, Fine thanks Mr Maxwell. What can I do for you?
{caller}-You know damn well what you can do for me you snivelling prick. Get that bitch of a woman onside for this meeting or make sure she doesn't attend.
You know who her ties are, and you know she cannot be allowed to represent them. You fail me and those snaps go public at 09:00 the morning after. YOU HEAR ME??
{Langdale}-Yes, yes I hear you. It er.. It won't come to that. I'm sure something can be er.. "arranged".
{caller}- Good. You've got the list, make sure their licenses are revoked. Any you can't get revoked, increase the price. Fucking screw them into the ground. If I here they got off lightly, you'll be fucking exposed as the dirty rotten bastard you are and all them poor young smack addicts you love to stick your dick in will suddenly find themselves getting interviews with the evening post.
{call ends}

The caller had a deep, gravelly voice. It sounded like the typical Cockney-done-good accent, the old wide-boy banter replaced with proper pronunciation that slipped when his anger rose.
Langdale sounded seriously nervous, out of his depth, the transcript of the call recorded, you had no doubt that this politico was in the pocket of someone much larger and meaner than he could ever hope to be.

[Csjarrat]

___Lumen___
Morning breaks and you're rudely awakened by the dustman, its noisy mechanism reverberating off the flat brick walls of the street below coupled with the rattling of glass bottles and god knows what else as it emptied the bins noisily into its gargantuan crushing compartment.
06.32 said the AR clock on your bedside table, plenty of time to grab a fag, a brew and get ready for the day ahead.
Feel free to IC your kit loadout and anything you want to do prior to heading out. The barbers goes well, no issues. Etiquette roll needed for the tailor's salon though.

[Zweiblumen]

Taylor takes 5 random conversations, anonymizes them and sends them to 'Fingers' letting him know he's got the names to fill in and more where that came from.

After moving to the coffee house, he sips his soycaf and sends Ralphy a message.  <<@Ralphy [Taylor] You never said when you needed that old kit fixed.  And is it at your flat or should I pick it up from somewhere else?  Get me the details and we'll get you sorted.>>

As the call comes in, Taylor sits up in his chair and starts paying more attention.

Cursing under his breath he trys to trace that other number before the call is finished, knowing he doesn't have much of a chance.
Matrix Perception on maxwell (Int 5 + Comp 6 + MP spec 2 + techno 2 = 15): 15d6t5 8 (limit 6)

He removes that conversation from the list of calls for 'Fingers' and copies that data one data chip and encrypts it.
Encrypt Files (Log 6 + Computer 6 = 12): 12d6t5 4 (limit 6)

And then he moves the Maxwell conversation to another data chip and encrypts that as well.
Encrypt Files (Log 6 + Computer 6 = 12): 12d6t5 4 (limit 6)
Finally he erases all of the information from his 'link and lets the courier sprite return to the resonance.

With his work done he leaves a matrix deaddrop for Bex to let her know he's ready to meet, finishes his soycafe and gets up from the table.  A big stretch and a yawn, he pats Winston and Victoria on their heads.  Good work you two.  Couldn't have done it without you.  Lets go home and see about our payday.  And then heads to the Tube to get home.

[Lumen]

Knives sits bolt upright in bed "Bloody hell!  Fuckin rubbish!"  After a quick shower and a strong cuppa breakfast tea complete with morning smoke Knives packs his kit.  Most things going in their rightful places, the small bits of odd machinery he wrapped up in an old shirt and stuffed in a duffle.  *Alright mate, gotta keep it light. Just the taser and a set of throwing knives, surely a place like this will appreciate the practice.  Sorry boys.*  He pulls out his two weapon foci in their sheathes, deactivates them, and stuffs them up under the mattress.  *Gotta leave you fellas behind this go round.  I know you'll be alright, I'll be back by high tea if everythin' runs smooth.* 

He hops on the tube and heads too the heart of proper London.   Knives entertains himself with checking the latest footy feeds and scores from last night.  Undoubtedly there were a few harassing messages from the boys because once again Knives was stuck with a job again.  *You'll be made 'e says, easiest money ever 'e says.  Beats the shite outta watchin a fish warehouse but these early mornins are killin my cred.*   Arriving at the Kensington station he pops out on to the street  He makes a quick stop in at a barbershop for a shave and haircut before heading to the tailor.

[Csjarrat]

___Lumen___
The audio feed in the barbers shop quietly hums background music out between banal chatter about the recent unrest as you sit with a cup of tea and wait for your slot.
14 police officers were apparently hurt by stones, petrol bombs and vicious attacks by the protesters and 150+ arrests were made.
Prosecutions were due in a mass-sentencing hearing at the Old Bailey tomorrow at 9am and various callers rang into the show to put their widely ranging views across on the matter. A police spokesperson came on and was appealing for restraint and calm amongst the ork community as you were called forward to the chair by an expensively manicured gentlemen barber.
He expertly wrapped a towel around you and set about your shave and trim with the minimum of fuss and small talk.
It set you back a few quid, but there was nothing quite like a proper hot-shave to set you up for the day.
Hitting the streets, the wind felt cool against your newly exposed skin and getting a couple of early nights had really helped shake off the last vestiges of your hangover from France, the arm feeling much better and freer now it had had time to heal.
The tailor's shop was a different matter though; the shop front looked properly old-school, so far beyond actively trying to look old school, it could actually be legit.
An old metal bell clanged as the door opened into it, announcing your presence in the shop. It stank of material, fust and something unfamiliar that you just couldn't place.
A door opened at the back of the shop and an incredibly skinny, haggard looking man appeared. His gait was lanky and bordering on weird, his beady eyes almost looking through you as he sensed that your "smart suit" was only really considered "smart" in the wrong end of town.
Yes? he said, almost an accusation rather than an opening to a conversation.
Minding your P's and Q's helped to soften his edge as you stated your name and appointment time but his manner heavily suggested you were below him and his status, though he happily took your money after some awkward inner leg measurements.
It took about forty minutes of waiting in the stuffy, old smelling shop with its quaint bell and real paper catalogues, but eventually he came back out with your suit, cut in and made to fit perfectly.


___Zwei___
<<Reply::Fingers>>//These look good mate. Call it 50 a pop yeah and double that for anything particularly juicy?//
<<Reply::Ralph>>//Ah sorry mate, got distracted by beer and kicking your arse at pool. Yeah, its at the flat. If you wouldn't mind picking it up it'll save me getting a courier to pick it up mate, no worries if not though, Let me know when you'll be in and I’ll have it sent over//
As you gaze at the icon, it becomes apparent it was a burner, the commcode starting with +3901 was a dead giveaway. Its response to a general ping confirmed the rest, slow response and crappy security protocols on outward facing ports.
The data was being routed through the East London Long-Range antennae but the call dropped before a more accurate trace could be established. Knowing what usually happened to cheap links after dodgy phone calls like that, it'd be in the sewers or a rubbish bin by now with the commcard smashed in.
Leaving the coffee house, you headed back out into the cold of the night, an acidic tang in the air irritated the back of your throat as the smog hang low under the drizzly cloud cover.
Your breath hung in stiff clouds in front of your face, collecting and diffusing into the exhaust fumes of the stationary traffic beside you.
It wasn't weird for this time of night, or this part of the city but when you saw the drone responders shoot overhead followed by a column of police outriders you knew something was up.
A huge ARO flashed over Westminster tube station entrance, warning of severe disruptions on the circle line and the trid-verts plastered on the side of the hotel by westminster bridge switched over to the stern face of the BBC news anchor Roger Stephenson.
<<ARO audio feed>>Police advise of civil unrest and skirmishes with protesters currently marching into the west of the city. Thousands of protestors are thought to be en-route to the Mayor's residence to hand over a petition and there are unconfirmed reports of looting and damage to property along the route. Police are advising of snap-road and tube closures and diversions and are advising the populace to remain calm and stay indoors.
Panic sets in a bit, knowing that there was a good possibility that the protest was heading to the Mayors house, a mere ten minute walk up into Kensington from your house. Your Mum was due her meds and would be panicking like mad having seen the news.

[Lumen]

Knives suits up and tips his hat to the stuffy old tailor. *A proper jackass but he makes a fine suit.  Damn I make this look good.*   With a fresh shave, trim, and suit Knives bops on down the street.   The fine fitting suit made him walk a little smoother, his back a little straighter.  He lights up a cig and walks on over to the sporting shop Johnny had pointed out for him.  He makes it a quick stop, grabbing the suit and sword needed to complete his ensemble.

Then it's on to the club.  He takes a deep breath before approaching the door.  *Come on luck don't fail me now.*  Pulling his doctored swipe card from his breast pocket Knives swipes the card and steps forward hoping and expecting it to work.

[Csjarrat]

The sports shop was practically alien in comparison to the stuffy tailors.
A shiny looking salesman greeted you at the door, slick and polished ARO's guided you around the store and helped you pick up a decent set of fencing gear.
It wasn't cheap, but you figured it'd be necessary and you could always shift it second-hand on the London-Board 'Trix site afterwards.
There were three choices of fighting blade, sabre, epee and foil and the annoyingly pristine salesperson pressed you for your choice as you tried on the sensor laden chestplate and face guard for size.
Having made your choice, you head out into the morning air again, pushing through the crowds outside the tube station as you double back on yourself to head into the fencing club.
Your shoes clack noisily on the damp marble steps up to the entrance, nervously palming and flicking the card around your fingers as you approached the scanner. Swiping the card over the panel, you're received with the satisfying clunk of a disengaging maglock and the heavy-set door swung open under power assistance as you pull it towards you.
The marble continued across the expensively attired lobby area, scented diffusers sat on top of an unmanned reception desk. A slick ARO noted that the receptionist would return shortly.
A flight of stairs to your right were marked as the path to the main recreation hall whilst the corridor ahead was marked for the squash courts, gym and sauna. A doorway was set behind the reception desk marked with "staff only". Foosteps echo down the stairs on the noisy marble and were accompanied by what sounded like a casual conversation between friends.