The man's eyebrows perk up.
>>"Who I'm working for? I'd have thought that should be obvious. The Sisters. As for what they pay me, it isn't as cut and dry as that. There is a nominal amount of nuyen, of course, "services rendered" and all that cover jazz, but holding a group like that in even a minor debt is a good position to be in. I deal in contacts and information. For someone like me, an influential religious group owing you a favor can be a very significant payout, provided one is patient.
Those of you pulling up to the customs office in disguise are greeted by a disinterested and distracted security guard. He robotically asks you what your business is and for your papers. He glances briefly at the papers, then at you, and without a word, retracts the road spikes and lowers the waist high steel bars blocking your access.
He speaks, yet his eyes never leave the trid.
"
Please pull around to the delivery entrance. Someone will be there with you shortly to process and check out your package. Please have your papers and payment ready when they arrive. Please move on through."
You pass on through to the back of the facility, guided by an AR display in the windshield. You sit about 10 minutes before a steel door squeals on its hinges and you are confronted by a small fat human man wearing a pair of oversized goggles and a gray jumpsuit. He sports a porcelain datajack on his right temple along with a blatantly cybered left arm. To his left stands a tall, heavily muscled human man in a black, ill-fitting suit and to his right is an oversized troll wearing a battered suit of body armor. Both are packing Ares brand pistols at their waists.
The man requests your papers and briefly scans them. He waits a little under a minute before finally speaking.
"OK, looks like you're finally all paid up. Thank God, this thing has been giving me the creeps since it got here. I'll have the delivery drones load it up for you; I just need to scan your SINs."
