[Aria]

[Saturday July 4th, 2076; Citadel Game Host, Seattle]

Aria stalked though her domain like a caged wildcat, her impossibly long hair lashing tail like, the matrix sculpting twisting away from her diminutive form as if shrinking from her childlike wrath.   The improbable garden scattered glowing seeds in her path in an apparent attempt to distract her but she swept them aside and returned to the central glade that was the hub of her realm.

Summer was sprawled by the Resonance pool, her mind momentarily overwhelmed by trying to follow the twisting threads of fate that writhed in her grasp like cornered devil rats.  Aria gently touched her brow, raising her to wakefulness

“Well?”

“The loci are changing events in London again, there are two of them which is magnifying the effect”

“Guthrie and this Isaint?”

“I think so, it’s always difficult to tell but they seem to be at the heart of the disturbance.  When he was here could you feel it…?”

“That’s your purview child, the Resonance doesn’t speak to me in the same way…We will ask the Old One to watch them, they are on his turf now, he can take the headache of steering them back to the course…”

“And Silk will drag Guthrie off on her task soon won’t she?”

“Silk is afraid to step onto the final leg of her quest, it has been the focus for her life for the last five years and I think part of her is reluctant to see it end, but you are right, she won’t put it off much longer…”


[Saturday July 4th, 2076; The Shard, London]

Torrent stared out of the rain smeared glass at the shattered ruins of the bio dome towers that arched over central London.  There were newer, more prestigious buildings in the Smoke, but he liked the old school styling of this place.  Turning back to the matter in hand he activated his ‘link and placed the call…

“Monarch?  Yes, everything is in place.  They owe me one after the debacle of the last run, not that they will see it that way of course.  I know they disrupted the plan by selling the package to an outside buyer but events panned out more or less the way we wanted anyway.  I will round out the team’s missing members with a couple of others I have on my books.  I should be able to let you know their answer tomorrow…”


[Saturday July 4th, 2076; Elsewhere, London]

@Al, Isaint and Jackhammer

A simultaneous text flashes across your ‘links.  The text is jocular but there is an undertone that can’t be ignored

<<@Team [Torrent]: My sources tell me you three frag ups are still in London.  I’ve got a new business opportunity that you might be interested in.  I’m putting out some feelers to round out the team…seven of you should do it, seven’s lucky!  I’ve got you a drone rigger goes by Halfpint, good force multiplier, a Chaos mage by the name of Deckard, a decker, Robyn (Al knows her apparently) and as you go through them like a dose of salts, another mage, Iris. Confirm your interest and I’ll send you the meet details>>

@Robyn, Halfpint, Iris, Deckard

The ‘call to arms’ comes in from Torrent at a similar time, a meet in the Westend if you are interested, a professional group is being brought together for a moderately time sensitive engagement…with a gentle warning that it might involve stepping into London Below, but that shouldn’t be an issue for hardened runners like yourselves, right?!?

***
_#01

[BrickyardBabe]

Iris blinked, surprised at the sender attached to the message notification on her display. She was sitting in Juliet house, reading a leatherbound novel that predated the Awakening. She closed it, the black leather with its silver unicorn, tarot card, and rose-embossed cover glinting in the dim light. Setting the slender volume aside, she opens the message from Torrent, the first she'd gotten from him in the ten months since Robyn had introduced them to one another during those first days looking for Calista. She scans it quickly, raising an eyebrow. A professional team, hmm? And with a trip into Below at that! [i]The money had better be really staggeringly good[/i] Iris thought. Still, what's the harm in making preparations and hearing the man out? Robyn vouched for him and his reputation was solid in the Shadow community. That bought him time to make his pitch.

Standing, Iris looked out the large bay window of Juliet house onto the rainy streets of East London. It would be good to do an independent job again. Since Calista, she'd done syndicate work for the most part, with a syndicate's backing, expense account, and micromanaging. Yes, an independent job would be fine, just fine. Turning away from the rain-spattered armorglass, Iris accessed her 'link to summon her maid. It would not do to arrive looking like a drowned rat. As she waited, Iris began compiling a list of what she would need, what she had at her West End doss, and what she would need to take with her.

There was so very much to prepare...

[Jack_Spade]

Isaint had been awoken from the trance he had painstakingly maintained for the last 12 hours. His legs and thighs hurt from the strain of maintaining the Lotus position. His body wasn't made for that kind of twisting - which was precisely why he had tried anyway. Who knew when he would need to learn to fold up in a hurry.
Normally he would have ignored the link, but this was his work line and even more important it was Torrent's ringtone.
The message flashed into his mind as he adjusted the trodes.
He sighed. Mainly because the text made him acutely aware how little he had accomplished over the last month. Neither had he found the missing members of their last run nor had he ventured into Below to challenge the drug heads that called themselves a house.
 
But he had worked on his body and mind. Other philosophies would have called it enlightenment, but St. George had made it clear to him that it was just light. And fire. Fire that removed impurities and tempered his soul. Which for some reason required him to fold himself up like a hippie...
Yeah, he would have to make sure not to let Al know about his exercises. That thought actually brought a smile to his face. He hadn't seen the small man since Oxford and despite or even because of the guy's habits, he really looked forward to meet him again.

He entered a reply:
<<Greetings Torrent, I'm still working on that other thing, but not making much headway. So yes, I am interested.
And by the way: That Deckard mage wouldn't happen to be called Rick, too? That would be very fortunate indeed.>>

He rose and put his pants on. Next came his latest acquisition: A small, brilliantly blue feather encased in a clear substance that he knew to be the resin of a rare tree somewhere from the Indian subcontinent. It was securely fastened to a thin but durable drilled metal cable that was formed into a perfect loop. The necklace went over his head and the pendant came to rest slightly to the right of his heart. He still needed to learn to control it - a feat Deckard might be able to help him with.

He left the meditation chamber - which was a better name than "former broom cupboard" - and began to assemble his gear from various hiding places.
"Arthur wake up and get the car."
 
#233

[adamu]

Al was sitting on the wet ground chained to the rusty steel tubing that formed the legs of a public park picnic table when the commcall came in. He'd stolen the table from an open space in the center of Walton-on-Thames a week ago, since the weather was getting better and he thought he'd like to eat outside once in a while. He'd had to unbolt it from the cement it sat on, and here it just sat loose on the rocky ground of the clearing he'd conned a family of Travelers off of a month earlier. But it might as well have been bolted down, because he wasn't strong enough to move the heavy thing on his own.

The Thames rolled lazily by on one side of the clearing, his view obstructed only by the big dilapidated boathouse he'd found here. On the other three sides were weeds twice as tall as he was, with a dirt road leading out of them down to A3050. His view of the weeds was obstructed only by the decrepit Caravaner he lived in now, all glorious in chipped paint and peeling laminate. But he didn't care about either of those views. The only beautiful thing in his line of sight was the pack of cigarettes he'd left on a big stone twenty feet away.

Magic was a harsh mistress, and if this was the price he had to pay to add Master Illusionist and Escape Artist Extraordinaire to his long list of life accomplishments, then so be it. He'd figured the cigarettes would make a nice incentive to extricate himself from the current puzzle. After four long hours in the sun, though, water was almost - almost - pushing smokes off his Top Ten List of Ingredients for Eternal Happiness. The neck was the problem. Hands and feet had gotten much too easy, so in addition to the containment manacles on his wrists (put on last, of course) and the flex cuffs on his ankles, he'd gone ahead and put Spike's collar around his neck and chained that to the table. Of course he'd done so with no clear plan for how to escape. If he had a plan, then it wouldn't be magic. Of course.

Spike had watched patiently as he'd tried all manner of contortion before conceding that no matter how hard he tried, his head was not going to get any smaller. Hands and feet soon free, he had then he'd proceeded to crawl in and out amongst the curved legs of the table, over and under the attached benches, working the chain along the steel piping like some oversized child's toy - the ones with the colorful wires and wooden beads found in doctors' waiting rooms and preschools. Then the dog proved utterly worthless at fetching the key Al had tossed onto a patch of wet ground closer to the water - it was just a tiny thing, too small for the animal to see, and had no scent to speak of, especially now mostly submerged in mud.

Almost starting to worry, he was just about to start sawing at the thick leather strap with a jagged rock he'd found - an inelegant solution at best - when the commlink chirped. He barked at the dog, and Spike dutifully went into the Caravaner, retrieved the device - much easier to find, the commlink you watch anime on with your master - from the sticky, beer can-strewn floor, and brought it to Al. And before the dog had returned Al was already congratulating himself on his impending escape from accidental suicide by starvation and exposure.

Calling your BMW 400GT out of the boathouse, dragging the tow ropes out of the trunk, and then using the car to drag a stolen picnic table across a clearing to extricate a tossed key from the mud was probably not how Harry Houdini would have done it. A commlink was not really designed for fine control of an autopilot, and the damned process had nearly broken Al's neck whenever it wasn't trying to choke him to death. No, Al thought, sitting on the metal steps of the Caravaner, massaging his throat with one hand and holding a well-deserved Lucky Strike in the other, that probably wasn't how Harry would have done it. But then Harry hadn't had Al's skills. So you could hardly hold it against the guy.

Al was so busy celebrating that he almost forgot about the ping on his 'link that had inspired his salvation. He read the message from Torrent, decided he wasn't interested, noticed that Isaint and Jackhammer were on the job, and hit the "confirm interest" key. He almost added "Who the hell is this Robyn, and is she hot?" but decided it'd be more fun to wait until the face-to-face. Got up and started throwing things in the trunk of the car.

[obidancer]

Rick Deckard stood in front of a simple grave in the Kemnal Park Cemetery & Memorial Gardens. That's where his wife was buried. The name on the stone wasn't hers, but the one of her latest fake ID she has had. Only the small quote at the bottom was hers, and signed by her street name, Cora. Such was life in the shadow, recognized only by your closest peers. Deckard had been spending a lot of time here since she passed away two months ago, just talking to her about his day, knowing one way or another she could hear him.

His face was a bit deformed. His slightly swollen left cheekbone had a deep cut covered by a small bandaid, while some bruising could still be seen under his eye. His right cheek was temporary deformed by a thick lump created by the apple tasting lollipop he was keeping in his mouth, a white small stick protruding from the corner of his lips. 

Don't worry honey, he was telling the grave, the Russians decided to rough me up a bit, you know, remind me how it is important for them that everyone pay on time. I still have a couple week to get them the money... I'll find it, no worries. Plus I feel they're still a bit afraid to punch a mage too hard. You know, we are a bunch of insane beings anyway, right? He smiled, mostly from his right side. Mad people. For me, madly in love with you.

His commlink notified him of a message. Torrent, the fixer.

See, it's all falling into place! got a potential run from the fixer I was put in touch with by this faceless ork bounty hunter. Remember?... nevermind. I got to run, I'll back soon. I miss you so much.

Deckard purposefully omitted to mentioned what the message said. His wife had run the Shadows of London much longer than he had, and she had repeatedly reminded him to refuse any job that would send him to the Below.  London was crazy place, but anything above still kept a degree of normalcy. Below, only bad things could happen.
 

[Mercy Merchant]

Robyn idly reads the text from Torrent.  Her relationship with him goes back a ways; not close but not strangers.  The fixer has a good rep in the shadows, but had not come any closer to finding Calista than she herself had been.  Her last job had been an expedition for EVO on Borneo, but that had been concluded almost a month ago and she needed something new to keep her from sinking back into despair over the still-missing Calista.  She walks to a bureau in her bedroom and opens the top drawer, reaching for the only items there.  The first is the 'link with the comm code that Calista would have known and will one day call her on and she runs her hands across the device to make sure it is still on and functioning properly.  The second item is an old beater 'link with another comm code set on it; waiting for another call that never came; this one from eight years earlier.  Tears well up in her dead eyes as she considers the effect of just turning off the 'links, but knows that she never will do that, for it would be an admittance that the people on the other end of those 'links really were dead and she cannot allow herself to believe that of either person.  Wiping the tears from her cheeks, she softly closes the drawer.

Robyn carefully considers the implications of the message from Torrent.  It would be nice working with professionals and a short gig fits her schedule right now, and going Below was certainly a plus.  She mentally taps out an affirmative response and asks for an address and a time for the meeting, receiving the requested information almost immediately.  She sends a note to the concierge to cancel her dinner table at the restaurant and descends from her suite to the book shop below to let her assistant, Sarah, know that she was going out and would not return before it was time to lock up and asking her to call a cab.  She walks to the overlarge pillow that sits next to the heat register near the special reading room and senses when the large hound laying on the pillow silently stands.  Robyn kneels next to the beast and ruffles its ears and chin before saying, "Let's go, Al.  Got a meeting to go to."

Robyn fastens a lead to the hound and stands.  She and the dog both know that the lead is unnecessary, but it makes other people feel safer in her presence.  Robyn reaches into one of the many pockets in her latest steampunk frocks and pulls out the little card and attached chain that indicates the hound is a licensed service animal.  Putting the chain around her neck, she makes a soft clicking noise and the hound heels and walks with her to the front of the store, where Sarah holds the door open and says, "Ta Ta, Al.  You keep her bloody safe out there or don't bother coming home."

The cab pulls up at about that time and a door pops open as the driver steps out to help her in.  He stops as the hound sniffs at him then allows him to continue.  Once both woman and guardian are in the cab, the driver returns to his seat and asks for the address.  "Where to, Miss Lysander.  By the way, I saw you last week at the symphony.  You have a right nice touch on that cello.  The missus and I thank you."

"Thank you, Carl.  So nice of you to say that.  And you tell Ginny to let me know if she wants to go again."

The cab pulls away from the Regency Arms, heading to the destination Robyn provides as the driver and his passenger talk about the symphony.

[adamu]

Speeding down the highway toward The Smoke, Al ran Torrent's message over in his mind.

First, it was from Torrent. Strike one.
Second, there was no mention of what sort of job it was. Strike two.
Third, there were four, count 'em, four FNGs in the mix. Big fat strike three, especially after the last person the ork fixer had set them up with.

Three strikes and you're out.

Unless Isaint and Jackhammer were, indeed, on board. He'd work with them any job anywhere.

It was just too bad they couldn't pick their own teammates.

Supposedly, he already knew the decker. Robyn. The Y indicated a female, though there was no telling with Brit names. He was racking his brain, but couldn't come up with anything. Hell, he didn't know any deckers in London at all.

Well, except for the one. Maybe. He fingered the tattered piece of paper in his pocket. It had almost disintegrated by now, but it was still there. Before the ink had smeared to illegibility, there had been a short message, and a commcode. Neither ever forgotten. Nor used.

Nothing for it. He still remembered Honesty's reaction. He'd told her. Been almost eager to, in hindsight. He thought she'd get it. She hadn't. Her boss had, but that bitch didn't really count. Hell, most days Al himself didn't get it.

It was a black mark he was pretty sure he could never erase. And he could never dial the commcode on that slip of paper until he did.

[Mercy Merchant]

The cab pulls up to its destination a block or so shy of the meeting place and the driver looks over his shoulder as he pops the doors open.  "Here you go, Miss Lysander.  Let me help you out."  Carl steps from the drivers seat to offer a hand to his passenger, who gracefully accepts it and steps out, followed by the large black hound.  Carl shudders a bit at the sight of the dog's red eyes even though it has been in his cab many times.  "Do you want me to wait here, Miss Lysander?"

Robyn turns her sightless eyes to look at the cab driver, shaking her head as she slots a stick in the door slot of the cab, making sure to apply a nice tip.  "No thank you, Carl.  I may be some time.  I will call if I need a ride home."

Carl nods and climbs back into his cab, accelerating to get to his next fare.  Robyn stands on the sidewalk, opening her umbrella as a few drops of rain presage an even greater downpour.  She sends out her senses, probing ahead and around her.  The casual passerby would see a pretty Elven woman with dark chestnut hair that falls in a ponytail to below her waist.  She is wearing the latest steampunk dress, exposing a good bit of  very nice leg, but quite demur at the chest.  She is wearing large dark glasses and carrying a silver and ivory inlaid walking stick that has a seven-headed silver serpent at the top.  Several people gulp at the sight of the hound and either cross the street or walk as close to the building as possible as they pass.  For his part, the hound watches everyone as everyone is a potential threat to his mistress.  It has taken several years of training to forge the relationship the pair has.  Finally satisfied, Robyn clicks her tongue and walks off, a walking stick in her hand and the hound at her side.  Her sonar gives her a near-perfect "view" of the street and area around her, but she plays the blind girl well after many years of practice.

Robyn stops under the entryway to the building and takes the umbrella down and puts the crook over an arm and waits a few moments. 

[Jack_Spade]

Isaint was on his bike driving at the sedate speed grid guide stipulated. In unwavering distance behind him an off-road vehicle, type Morgan Thundercloud followed him. It bore the emblem of a private ambulance business but missed any signs of a weapon mount. The windows were mirrored and didn't provide any hint as to who was inside.

Entering London was - as usually - an exercise in patience and self control. But at least it gave Isaint time to think:
Torrent seemed to have called what was left of the last run's team - again for a high profile task. That meant tangling again with AAA's and governments. His only worry was that he'd need to relocate again after this gig. The B&B he had stayed at before had proven to be to inconvenient for his studies and investigations. Not to mention that there had been a very suspicious pizza van parking a full 24 hours in front of it. So he had gotten the hell away and used one of his other aliases to rent a little cottage far outside the city. Providing adequate security had proven to be expensive, but so far nothing had disturbed his meditations.

With a mental command he send a message: <<Arthur: City protocol one>> , <<Susi, Agent cluster: Overwatch protocol, full alert>>

#234

[Aria]

[Saturday July 4th, 2076; Somewhere Above, London]

@Isaint:

<<Greetings Torrent, I'm still working on that other thing, but not making much headway. So yes, I am interested.
And by the way: That Deckard mage wouldn't happen to be called Rick, too? That would be very fortunate indeed.>>

<<Then you'll be delighted to hear that this one is likely to take you back down there!  I've had to do some politicking after your efforts last month but I think I've managed to wipe away the black mark on you...that said those freaks work to their own set of incomprehensible rules so it is also possible that the favours I called in have been for nothing!  I've got two team members with experience Below so they should be able to guide you through the arcane customs down there.  I suggest you listen to them!  And Deckard, yes, his name's Rick, I trust that won't be a problem?>>

[Saturday July 4th, 2076; Old West End, London]
 
You’ve seen the urban hell hole that is the Redmond Barrens.  It’s bad, very bad; but it’s outside the city proper, and it’s sort of quaint in its own way. Nature is retaking some of the outer districts, there’s the odd tree growing in the middle of the street.
 
In contrast, the West End Overground is what happens when a Barrens pops up right in the heart of a city and goes vertical. It’s all the grime, the muck, the joy girls and boys, the chip heads, and the nonchalant violence of the Barrens all stacked into a postage stamp of a district, populated by buildings that look to be well on their way to yielding to the inevitability of gravity.
 
And this is where Mr. Johnson wants to meet. Shadowrunning, it’s hard not to love all the nice places this profession takes you.

Angel's might well have been a pleasant place, at least two decades ago, but this is the place stipulated and sure enough the ramshackle eatery has an armed sec goon stationed near the door keeping an eye on the intrepid entrepreneurs that have ventured out of their holes.  A second stands in the shadows towards the back, and sitting in a booth, apparently completely at ease, is the person who can only be Mr J.  He has the bearing of a fit man, but his physique is beginning to sag around the edges.  He certainly doesn't look the type to brook any nonsense...
 
***
_#02

[Csjarrat]

The blaring music reverberated around the bare brick walls of his garage and Halfpint downed tools and warmed up his hands around his cuppa, taking a swig of the lukewarm tea that had sat there for a while as he'd battled with the engine management system.
The grey sky seemed set for the day and a fine drizzle lapped at the overhang of the swinging garage door and rattled out of time with the driving 4/4 rock beat on the audiocast.
It did nothing to cheer him up, but the vibration of his expensive link in his overall pocket certainly got his attention. It was his "working" link.
He smeared an oily hand onto his overalls and flicked the screen live and replied to the message with a dictation so as not to mucky the screen further.
//Meet sounds good to me. What time and where? Any ideas on duration or pay so far?//

[Jack_Spade]

Isaint replied: <<Thanks for the effort, that might be helpful. Or not. Who knows what those drug freaks do or don't do.
No, that won't be a problem. On the contrary. Worked with Rick before. Stand-up guy and family man.>>

Entering the West-End was nothing Isaint did lightly. Finding a legal parking space was nearly impossible - luckily the city didn't as a habit send parking enforcing officers here.
Isaint locked his bike  and parked directly next to the off-road ambulance <<Arthur, Guardian Protocol, Threat Level Two.>>
From inside the car the faint sound of a magazine change could be heard, followed by a very loud click.

Isaint took of the helmet and the mask. He had taken the time to sculpt his face into a resemblance of a certain pro wrestler with a very prominent chin. As a personal touch he had added a thick mustache and bushy eyebrows. His coat had chanced color into charcoal black. Most of his weaponry was still stashed within the smuggling compartment of the car. Only the tasers and handguns were on his person.

Confidently he walked into the restaurant but with the strong inclination not to order anything besides a bottle of water - if that.

In this guise he looked around. As was to be expected, the West-End brimmed with strange looking and in most cases obviously criminal looking people. Isaint didn't exactly avoid eye contact, but he did his best not to provoke anyone by staring. Torrent had given them the booth number and after only a moment search he found his destination.
Wordlessly he sat down.

[obidancer]

Shady places for shady business... at least no authority would come bother in this corner of town. The West-End reminded Deckard of Home... well, his home city more precisely, Seattle. He had spend his share of time in the Redmond Barrens. And something very familiar here kept bringing him memories. It was like a condensed version of the Barrens, spreading up instead of out, but a perfect example of humanity's dystopian decadence.

He had parked his bike alongside a group of other bikes of all makes and shapes. He removed his goggles and passed his fingers through his hair to reshape it and remove the drizzle he received. This morning had been so beautiful, now the sky had turned gray and random drizzles were just a warning of a more imminent shower. Such was summer in England!  He stuffed the goggles inside the small duffel bag hanging across his chest and on his side, adjust the collar of his argentum coat, and made his way to the meet.

Arriving at Angel's, Deckard made eye contact with the security goon, nodded at him, and walked inside with a confident stride and demeanor, after politely trying to avoid the seemingly blind elf girl and her dog. Inside, the strong smell of frying oil was the first thing that caught his senses, followed by the presence of who should be the Johnson, the man who was about to make his life certainly miserable for a few days, but with hopefully a credstick that will make it worth it. He had no intention of playing hide and seek games with the Russians. He needed the money, pronto.

He looked around to see if he was the first. He was slightly early but so were most Runners in this kind of meetings. Feeling the place and all. He approached the booth, grabbed a chair so to be seated on the outside and still leave room for more to come. London is so charming in the summer, don't you think? he awkwardly asked to make conversation.

[Mercy Merchant]

Robyn stands out down here like the proverbial sore thumb.  Her outer garb is a dark brown tail coat, with more straps and buckles than are necessary and seem to have no purpose other than to be decorative.  The skirt is dark green and cut open to show her very nice legs to good advantage.  Two layers of frilly petticoats peek from beneath the skirt, barely concealing the joining of her legs, which are covered in thin silk stockings of a nude hue that makes them seem uncovered.  Her waist and stomach are cinched in tightly with a corset of the same color as the tail coat and similarly decorated with an abundance of straps and buckles.  The bodice conceals what it is supposed to while emphasizing her plentiful curves in an eye-catching and pleasing manner.  She is wearing oddly shaped sunglasses consisting of several sets of lenses and a number of cogs and gears,  A small, frilly hat sits at an angle on top of the luxurious locks of chestnut hair that fall in a ponytail to well below her waist.  Fingerless gloves of dark green lace cover her hands and extend up her arms past the elbow.  A large watch-faced amulet on a silver chain and a placard on a smaller chain seem to be her only jewelry.  The entire right side of her face is tattooed in the shape of a seven-headed serpent and those familiar with London Below would recognize it as the symbol of the Earl's House. 

Currently she has a folded umbrella tucked under her left arm and an engraved walking stick in her right hand.  The stick is a dark wood with silver and ivory decorations.  The knob is also in silver and ivory and depicts a seven-headed serpent.  The shadow at her feet does not get much attention at first, but certainly does if anyone approaches the girl too closely, as in too closely in the Hell Hound's thinking.  The beast is large, standing at just a meter tall at the shoulders and weighing in at just a bit over 23 stone, or 325 pounds.  The combination of coal black fur and red-rimmed eyes is usually enough to keep unwanted company away.  The wisps of smoke coming from the nostrils just add to the effect.

Robyn is standing near the entrance to the Angel, stretching out her senses and getting a feel of the location.  Her radar has already peeked through the relatively flimsy wall of the diner and established where the Johnson is likely to be.  Johnsons are Johnsons and most tend to not be overly original and this one seems to be no different.  She switches off the radar and access her ultrasound sensor, which is fairly useless for seeing through the wall, but will be of use once inside.  Her other senses are already working in overdrive, sifting through the noise and smells coming from inside the building.  She slips a micro drone from one of the many pockets of the dress and commands it to park above the entrance and keep an eye on the area near the door, especially noting arrivals and departures.

Two men approach and pass into the building, one even bothering to take a look at her.  They walk with the confidence of people that know what they are about, a type she is intimately familiar with after years running with just such a type.  She smiles to herself and whispers, "Show time."  She makes a strange, low clicking noise and the form of the Hell Hound rises almost silently and takes up a position at her left side and she turns to enter the diner.  The security bouncer at the door looks like he is going to raise an issue about the dog, but Robyn shows the placard that indicates the dog is a licensed service animal, which gives the bouncer an excuse to just step aside and let her and the animal in.  She walks more carefully than she really needs to, using the walking stick to help support her as she moves to the booth she had earlier identified as belonging to the Johnson.  As suspected, the two men she had identified as potential members of the team were already sitting at the booth, one on a chair at the end of the table.  Robyn walks to the table and says, "My name is Robyn Lysander and I believe that I am invited to this meeting.  Would anyone mind if I sit at the edge of the booth?  I am afraid that Al here does not like it when I am not near.  I know that I am speaking to professionals here, so no one will misunderstand fact from simple exaggeration when I ask that you please do not try to pet Al."  The woman gives another soft click of her tongue and the Hell Hound obediently lies down next to the booth, its head swiveling to observe the room.  Robyn looks around at the others, "I do not believe that I have met anyone here.  And are we expecting more than the three of us?"

[BrickyardBabe]

Pressed and dressed and ensconced in the front seat of her green-trimmed black Hyundai Equus, Iris looked across the street at Angel's and suppressed a shudder. What in the fragging Gods of the Rime did they serve here, anyway? And how did it stay open? Angel's was a pit and no mistake, and this assessment came from a woman who knew every dive bar between Shadowtown and Shoreditch. Iris shook her head. Meetings were important, and the venue was just as significant as the time, date, method of contact, number of people, and a host of other things. Meeting at a place like Angel's suggested either a fixer down on his luck or putting together a job that couldn't be talked about in more congenial surroundings.

Of course, the initial communication had mentioned Below, so "congenial" was probably out of the cards from word "go."

Iris sighed and stepped out of the car. Quickly, she checked herself over, first with her hands and then in the driver's window reflection. Her small purse was beneath her cloak, containing her ID, a credstick, a Hermes Ikon, and a few other necessities for the haute couture runner, like lipstick, a makeup compact, trauma patches and a slap doses of pharmaceutical grade kamikaze.Her long knife, a modest weapon focus and her only close in combat tool was tucked away inside the outside edge of her left boot, the biofiber pocket hiding the magical weapon, and her wand was opposite it in the other boot, secure in its own pocket of magic-concealing material. The boots themselves were expensive black suede Ami Feathers with turned-down tops, ten-centimeter heels, and silver buckles, and the rest of her outfit continued the trend, a short-skirted, high-necked navy blue Armanté dress beneath a Jean-Paul cloak that currently looked like crushed black velvet. It wasn't, of course- the water from the ever-present London drizzle rolled off it as though it were coated in teflon- but it looked and felt luxurious and expensive rather than functional. It had a wide, deep hood that Iris drew up, covering most of the flowing golden wave of her hair.

Beneath the black cloak, her ivory skin and luminous eyes stood out more, their opalescent quality alarmingly obvious, their color changing with every blink or look. Her carmine lips pursed for a moment as she considered how to enter. The cloak and hood was a touch dramatic, but they were coming back into fashion just now and the weather offered a handy excuse for the garment and all the tricks it afforded her. Besides, if anyone recognized her, the 'provocative Grim Reaper' look would only reinforce the reputation she had won working for the syndicates. Manicured fingers adjusted the cloak clasp just above her generous chest and Iris nodded at the curvy, slightly mysterious reflection in the window, then stepped across the street, the soles of her boots splashing in the rain- and soot-clouded puddles on the pitted old street.

Entering Angel's, Iris caught the tale end of a statement from a voice she knew well. "...expecting more than the three of us?" The words brought a smile to Iris' face. Not only did she know now which table the 'runners had taken for themselves, but she had al teast one person she knew and trusted to at least check the offer over with her. She glanced at the other two, seeing a large-ish, rough looking fellow and a smaller, slicker-looking companion along with the familiar form of Robyn. Her perception slid over into the astral and she did a double-take at what she saw. Both magically active, and prodigious talents as that. She nodded to them- the bow of her head to the other mage a fraction of a centimeter deeper than the one to the larger man- knowing that as soon as they took notice of her, she would be subject to the same scrutiny. The half-dozen spells hung about her and her not-inconsiderable talent would be plain to see, and their reactions were bound to be informative. Even giving nothing away told her something, and at the very least it would establish her bona fides.

Coming up behind Robyn, Iris reached out one small hand to lightly touch the blind decker's shoulder. "Hello, Lady Lysander, gentlemen." Iris said in her rich, glamour-infused voice. She lowered her hood to reveal her dryad's ears and elfin features. "I trust you are also here about a job application?"

CHA 12, Glamours, and head to toe designerwear. I don't know if she's going to get a good reaction or a bad one, but she tends to get a reaction, certainly.