Aaron had the night off as Madezyne
(mad*design) was staying in her hotel to work on a new breakfast skirt, whatever that was. In days past he'd have been the one stationed in the room next to hers, but lately she'd been favoring tall elf men with guns over orkish brutes like himself. She kept him on staff for shows and appearances, but it wasn't paying enough to keep the moneymen at bay. This Torrent fellow had promised him a solid credstick for the right kind of work, but from the comm silence he guessed that mister Torrent had 'lost' his matrix alias. Aaron considered staying in the lobby and trying to meet women at the bar, but that had never gone well for him in the past, usually ending up as an excuse to drink the night away. But there are worse excuses to drink, right?
He found an old passenger car at the
rails near the river. He used debris as targets, imagining the heads of debt collectors lined up to call in what he supposedly owed. The shots were quick and accurate, but the setup was a bit annoying. Walking to the back of the car, propping up the targets again, collecting the same five arrows over and over. Still, he was getting into his zone when suddenly his image link splashed a comm message in his field of vision. He'd forgotten he even
had an image link on his hardware as he'd bought the goggles for the zoom.
<< Active team might need some cover. Opposing team on-site. Bring bow. [Torrent] >>It seemed a bit brief and impersonal, leaving Aaron to wonder if Torrent even sent his own messages. He collected his arrows and slung his bow, preparing to sneak back into the urban jungle full of lights and pricks, when he suddenly realized the location was omitted. So was the nature of the job, or the contacts, or anything useful really. He had his bow at least. And of course his revolver. Was there anything else to carry really? His body armor was back at the hotel, so he hoped this wouldn't be a dangerous job. Then he realized that was probably an unrealistic thought. So he simply sat in the passenger car, rotting fabric barely present over the metal seat frame.
*I hope he gave them my handle...* he idly mused.
"Jackhammer". He liked the sound of the name, imagining the awe of onlookers as he demonstrated his upgraded bioware.
