[biotech66]

Your commlink buzzes right in the middle of your lunch, you see “Incoming Message: Sid Gambetti – I hear you need a job to keep the cash flowing. Well buddy, I got something on the books today that needs a steady hand and closed mouth, and I thought I could help you out with this sweet run. If you’re interested, I’ll be at the Flapjack Palace at 4pm.” The message ends with the address of a waffle house, looks like you have a few hours to get to Fullerton

Who's heading to Fullerton and how do you get there?

[Raiderjoseph]

Vexboy stares blankly at his metalink for a few minutes trying to process it. "A message. From a Johnson... I got a message... from a Johnson." Vexboy almost burst at the seams with joy and would have jumped for it.... if his living quarters weren't a sleep tank. This sobered him. It wasn't so bad... it was... roomy. Drafty but roomy. He kept all his possesions in a sleep tank that was password sealed but God help him if someone figured out the password... but he had bigger things to worry about then a potential break in and that was saying something indeed. He shuffled around and got his nice clothes. He got out and waited for his turn in the extremely cold shower... that only lasted 60 seconds. But it was the best he could do. He got changed and drew his backpack and put his switchblade in his pocket. He took his credstick and put it in his other pocket and took out his helmet. He was in the mirror of the restroom. "Ok Vincent... Vexboy. You can do this... your folks did this, you can do this. Just breath in and out. You survived public school. Whats shadowrunning got on that?" He got on his Dodge Scoot and wanted to get there early. Around 3:30 pm.

[Bewilderbeast]

When the message arrived on his flip-phone style Sony Emperor, Pepperface read the screen for a moment with his obvious green cybereyes before instead forwarding it to the Hermes Chariot humming away in his right biceps, throwing it up on an ARO. It joined a sea of shimmering brothers and sister there, in the still air of Pepperface's study. AR windows crowded him at all sides. Here, several windows of code and palettes of textures for a new skin for his Matrix persona. There, a visual cacophony of some weird Japanese Zen dream of a cartoon. Others held Internet forums, 24-hour Horizon-approved news channels, fragments of data bomb and physical bomb designs. Pepperface enjoyed the visual noise while he worked, the swarm of AROs around him as he let the currents of his bioware-enhanced genius flow where it may.

He took the time, however, to close a few nearby windows and enlarge Sid Gambetti's message. He didn't know a "Sid Gambetti," but if he could contact this commlink then that meant Mr. Twist had vetted him. And besides, a job was a job. Pepperface finished up his work for an hour or so, then gathered his things to leave. He briefly considered whether or not the "steady hand" in Mr. Gambetti's message was a reference to his demolitions expertise... but not wanting to drive around with live explosives if he didn't have to, he decided to leave his few remaining ready-mades behind.

Stepping outside of the modest but comfortable home Mr. Twist had arranged for him during his stay in Chicago, Pepperface made his way to his car. It was a light orange Chrysler-Nissan Jackrabbit ripoff, a Xiao-Saturn Commuter Plus. The three-wheeled vehicle was little better than a golf cart, but it allowed Peter Giroux, prodigal son of Horizon, to better blend in as a faceless wageslave in another city. Once he'd wedged himself into the cramped driver's seat, he brought up an AR with directions to the Flapjack Palace. With traffic, it looked like he'd get there just a bit before 4 PM.

[Herr Brackhaus]

Marcus kept chewing as he read Sid's message on the physical screen of his burner link, the bland taste and texture of the ration bar leaving much to be desired.

"At least it doesn't taste like soy," he thought to himself as he stood up, crumpled the empty wrapper into his hands, and then deposited the only remains of his lunch into his pocket for safekeeping. There was nothing of note in the apartment located just south of 290 on the border of the CZ to the east and Westside, well, to the west, but it didn't hurt to be careful.

>>Sid Gambetti.<<

The message to his only real contact in Chicago was short and to the point, with no effort wasted on pleasantries. Dr. Tate had given him his life back, and they had developed a sort of repertoire over the past several months. But the whole thing was mostly a business arrangement; the good doctor fed him what information he had access to, and Marcus did the jobs that were sent his way with no questions asked.

As he waited for the reply, Marcus slipped on his overcoat and gloves and performed a final check of the spartan room to ensure he hadn't missed anything. The machine pistol was well hidden in its holster under his left arm, three spare magazines under his right; all fully lisenced.

"Could take 290 east, go through the zone if the patrols are light, shoot north on 90 or 41." He considered his options as he got to the three seater off-road vehicle he'd been given. The thing had no electronics at all, a good foot and a half of suspension travel, sturdy wheels, and was built to take a licking and keep on ticking. It reminded him of the old Desert Patrol Vehicles the old US of A had supposedly used, though this particular model was a Thundercloud Morgan.

For a moment he forgot all about the job prospects and imagined what it'd be like to drive through the deserts of Africa, jumping the dunes and stopping to see the wildlife. He remembered the flat vids they'd shown him during his time in the lab; stuff from the 20th century, from before the Awakening even. It had been some documentary or another, and the soldiers in it had been driving buggies much like his own. "Minus the heavy machine gun and rocket launchers, of course."

The low growl of something in the shadows nearby brought the young man back to reality, and once he'd verified the sound was not an actual threat he finished stowing his gear. The chameleon suit and assault rifle both went into the smuggling compartment after everything else; he'd quickly learned that a vehicle with no windows was seen as an invitation to help themselves by the dregs of this city, and he'd had to teach more than a few of them a lesson. Some of them would never steal anything again, he'd seen to that personally.

"Might as well just cut north as the crow flies" he decided as he climbed in. The engine roared to life, and with full spin on all four wheels he pulled out onto what was left of the inner city streets, heading for Flapjack Palace to perform pre-meet reconnaissance well in advance of the scheduled meeting time.

[Irn0rchid]

Alerted to the message on one of her Metalinks, Skate is immediately confused as to who would have gotten the number. "Sid Gambetti...? I don't know a Sid... He must have gotten the number from someone I've worked with before." Finishing her lunch, she looks around at the run down kitchen she's eating in, in the run down house she's living in, and concludes that keeping the cash flowing is indeed something she'd interested in. "4pm is obnoxious though, why couldn't we have met over dinner?" she complains to herself. It's not something she hasn't had to deal with before, but it complicates things.

Taking some time to make sure her weapons are in good condition, she looks over the assortment and decides to leave the rifle at home today, "It's just a meet with the Johnson, shouldn't need anything long range." After dressing in her armored jacket, she puts in her contacts and earbuds and prepares to head out. Running through her weapons, she confirms the collapsible hatchet is concealed in her jacket pocket and the holdout is secure on her ankle. The pistol at the small of her back always comforts her, but she doesn't really feel prepared till she picks up the Enfield and wraps it up in some canvas. "Can never be too prepared, 'just a meet with the Johnson' or no."

Finally ready, she puts on her cloak and heads outside. She stops for a second to admire her Nodachi sitting by the curb, "At least noone's tried to steal it in awhile..." before grimacing in distaste and raising the hood of her cloak. "I don't know why I keep forgetting, it's only been two years since that botched orthoskin upgrade left me with this drekking sun allergy." Stowing her wrapped shotgun in the secret compartment on her bike, she swings her leg over the seat and settles in. Pulling away from the house, she keeps one eye on her surroundings while checking the map for the best way to get to the meet. Finally opting for the 14, she guns the engine and takes 14 down to Fullerton, arriving a couple minutes before 4.

[CraterShip]

Kereina was working under the auto-lift in her shop when the vibration of her commlink in her pocket alerted her to an incoming message. The C-Pop music blasting around the shop would have drowned out any kind of audible alert, but she liked to work that way, the upbeat tunes always seemed to keep her moving. She slides out on the castor wheels of the under-car creeper, grabs a rag to wipe her hands on, and pulls out her comm.

'Hmm, work opportunity huh,' she muses to herself as she takes a bite of the already half-eaten synthbread and krill sandwich, already covered in dirty fingerprints. She could use the extra cash, this junker in her shop is the first job she's gotten repairing anything in a week and half. She decides it would be best to see what the Johnson has to offer. Kereina takes a few minutes to finalize what she was working on, with the car, and then changes into her usual gear. No need to go high class with her dress and Mortimer coat, it was a waffle house after all, and that would make her stand out more than help her in this situation. She opts for the Urban Explorer Jumpsuit, and quickly stows her Remington Suppressor and extra clip under the seat of the Stepvan.

She also grabs a few extras, her assault rifle and chameleon suit go into the smuggling compartment. She also snags her fly-spies, setting one in the back of the van, and stowing the other into the smuggling compartment in her right thigh. Satisfied that she has enough, she takes one more look around the shop, decides to grab one of her Roto-Drones to store it in the back as well, before locking up and heading to the meet.

The van is painfully slow to her, but she knows it will be less conspicuous than flying through the streets in her Shin-Hyung, and she can carry more this way. She arrives about a half hour early and pops the back door of the van, letting one of her fly-spies flap up and out to scan the area around the waffle house from a better vantage point.

[Beta]

Another call for a job already?  Alf is still getting over what he saw astrally down in the sewers, it was ... no, best not to dwell on it.  Maybe someone from that last job passed along his contact info to this new, Sid Gambetti, fellow?  A good recomendation, that was a much better thing to think about!

He checked the time, and Grid Guides estimate of the time to get to his destination.  Good, he had a bit of time before he had to leave, he could wait for his laundry to finish drying before he headed out.  And since he had a bit of time, he should make preparations. 

With a familiar effort of will he aligned his aura with the local mana fields and coalesced an increase intuition spell on himself.  The spirits were in a good mood today, apparently, and the spell came in strong and without tiring himself out.  Hoping his good fortune continued, he reached out to ask a plant spirit to lend him his aid ... he mentally stumbled as he sent out his request, and he felt his heart sink at the imminent failure, but to his surprise the ragweed spirit responded anyway, and the process was smooth and not tiring.  He let the spirit wait deep in the astral until he might need it, and let his thoughts return to the mundane plane.

Well, that was a good start to things -- he wondered what all was going to go wrong to balance things out?

He finished his noodles, got his dry clothes from the laundromat, loaded his good first aid kit and toolbox into The Drekmobile, then let GridGuide get him to his destination.  Some Jap-pop on The Drekmobile's tinny stereo, some sun pushing through the haze, and a chance to look at the architecture of the Chicago sprawl -- life maybe wasn't perfect, but it was pretty good.

"I wonder what the odds are that I drive through a background count that kills my spell?  Something has to spoil this, my luck never stays this good for long!"


Cast Increase Intuition Force 5:
- 11d6 = 5 hits  Increase Intuition: 11d6t5 5
   - drain is F-3=2, roll 10 dice get 2 hits vs drain 2 (spell): 10d6t5 2
   
Summon force 5 plant spirit with noxious breath optional power:
- 10d6 = 1 hit summon F5 plant spirit: 10d6t5 1
   - spirit's resistance 5 dice = 0 hits spirit resists: 5d6t5 0
   - drain of 2, 15 dice = 4 hits drain resist (summoning, 2): 15d6t5 4 
   

Despite the trip being slower than Grid Guide had promised, he still approaches the restaurant with enough time to do a quick astral scan for anything out of the ordinary, then wander in a few minutes early.  Waiting for someone to come seat him -- as usual they are slow to notice him -- he scans the place.

Gear load-out is as listed on Alf's character sheet.  Most notably he is wearing armor and has a couple of shuriken in a case in a pocket, but no fire-arms.

[biotech66]

At various times, you all make your way to the Flapjack Palace in the middle of nowhere.  You enter and the waitresses welcome you with Welcome to Flapjack Palace, home of the Six Pound Flapjack, may I take your order?, then you see Sid waving you to come to the back for a little privacy. The waitresses give you a dark look as you head to the back and you feel like you need a bath. When you get to the table, Sid waves you to a chair and pushes a stack of pancakes towards you. He is watching a boxing match on a large trid unit, whenever someone on the screen hits the deck, his forced, gutteral laughter sends bits of pancake and beer across the table
As soon as the last chair is filled Sid turns the trid off and turns to you all, and in the most New York accent you've ever heard says Thank you for coming.  As I mentioned in the message, I’ve got a real nice job lined up for people with your skills he makes eye contact with each of the runners as he explains Are you up for some property damage? I got a client who wants some stuff destroyed in a special way, and they will pay for it in cold hard credsticks. It ain't wetwork, but the customer doesn't care if people die or get hurt, it's just not what they are slapping the money on the bar for. You guys interested? Have you guys even met before? Hey, I gotta take a leak, why don't you talk it over, I'll be back in a mo    As soon as he steps away from the table his professional attitude slips away as he swaggers through the restaurant, staring at the cleavage of the serving girls on the way past.

What do you want to do before he gets back, and what do you want to say to him when he gets back?

[Raiderjoseph]

Vexboy looks around at the people around him and felt small. He was easily the youngest... "Hello." He said trying to see what would happen... he also realized he was dressed like some... preppy kid. "I am a gunslinger adept."

[Bewilderbeast]

Pepperface walks into the Flapjack Palace looking a bit overdressed in his navy blue Actioneer's suit. Hopefully any figure he was a sarariman just getting off work. The stiffness of his right arm, where he could feel his hidden gun secured in its slide, was a tactile reminder that he was not.

He sat down with Sid and listened to his proposal once the others runners joined. He frowned thoughtfully as SId lumbered away to give them time to talk. "For those of you who don't know me, the kids call me Pepperface. Don't ask why," he muttered, a little testily on that last bit. "I'm a demolitions expert, so I think I understand why I'm sitting at this table. Of course, this mention of stuff getting destroyed in a 'special way' makes me a bit nervous. I want to hear more about that before I agree to the job. In addition to supplying and setting up explosives for a job like this, I can also be our Matrix support. What about you all? What are you doing here?"

He listens to the other runners he's not familiar with describe their abilities, keeping his expression pretty neutral and unimpressed throughout. When Sid returns he asks him, "You mentioned your client wants this property damage in a 'special way.' Care to elaborate?"

[Herr Brackhaus]

Arriving a good hour before the meet, Marcus had plenty of time to case the joint. It was, sadly, just a pancake house, and after a short while spent watching people going in and out from a nice shady spot across the road his mind started wandering and he checked his commlink for a response from Doc.

"Huh, nothing. He's usually Johnny-on-the-spot when it comes to these things." With a few taps on the screen of his commlink, he began a search for the name Sid Gambetti but somehow ended up on a site about cage fighting. He never could seem to find anything on the Matrix unless it was the ad for whatever latest gizmo Renraku had created, or some new disgusting foodstuff made by Aztechnology. Sighing to himself he wasted a few minutes playing Miracle Shooter before realizing he should be watching the restaurant, not goofing off playing games.

The next half hour went by relatively quickly, and he spotted a few individuals who might be packing heat but nothing out of the ordinary. Probably just wageslaves wanting some "protection". "Hah," he thought to himself with a sneer as he began walking towards the restaurant. "As if a holdout would do anything to deter someone like me". There had been a time when firearms had frightened him, but that time had come and gone; these days, he'd stare down the barrel of a Ruger Thunderbolt with relative confidence he could take out the triggerman before his opponent had time to even react. As he walked in the doors his eyes scanned the interior quickly, and he gave the waitress a cold glare as he walked past her to where some guy is waiving at him.

"Are you Mr. Gambetti?" he says as he reaches the table, and as the man nods he takes a seat and waits for the speech. When the pancakes and beer laced spittle starts raining across the table with the mans laugh, however, Marcus calmly considers strangling the guy with his own tie. "A Johnson is a Johnson", he reminds himself while still musing over the many options for ending the annoying mans life.

More people file in and sit down at the table, and Marcus fixes them all with a stare in turn. Sid turns off the trid and asks "Are you up for some property damage?", and Marcus smiles as Sid continues laying out the details of the job. When he excuses himself for a moment Marcus stands up and looks around, checking his surroundings for signs of an ambush. Satisfied that Mr. Gambetti isn't actively trying to screw him over at the first meet, he nevertheless remains standing as a kid just introduces himself as a gunslinger adept with no name. He chuckles as a second person calls himself "Pepperface" and precludes further questions with a simple "Don't ask." "Gotta be a story there..."

"Marcus. Close protection specialist" he says quietly before continuing. "I'd like to know who the target is and to what extent we need to destroy whatever it is we're going after. Mr. Gambetti mentioned the client doesn't care if lives are lost, but I'd still like to know if there might be an incentive for taking out certain people." He waits for the rest of the table to make their introductions, and for Sid to get back.


When the Johnson walks back and gets seated, Marcus waits for Pepperface to make his question, then follows up with his own. "Who owns this piece of property?"

After Sid replies, he asks his followup and then remains silent. "You mentioned that the client doesn't care about civilian casualties; are there any incentives for taking out key individuals?"

[Beta]

It takes a bit, but Alf finally figures out who their Johnson reminds him of -- Mark Elver, a field paramedic he'd worked with back in the Sioux military.  The orc had seemed pretty disgusting at a personal level, but Alf had seen put his life on the line getting people out of bad situations, and he'd kept people alive who shouldn't have made it.  He reminds himself "In other words, just because I don't like him doesn't mean he isn't good at his job."

As introductions start happening he grimaces.  He hates this sort of stuff.  He has been practicing over the last couple of weeks, so he sits up as tall as 5'6 can and does manage to provide "You can call me Alf, or Alpha if you really want to suck up to me.  I'm a mage healer, I guess you could say.  I did time in the military, so I at least know safe handling protocols for explosives -- Mr. Pepperface,  if you ever need anyone to help hold things while you set up the bangers, let me know."

After a moment he adds "There are a lot of gangs in Chicago that would destroy property for a lot less than he'll need to pay us.  I'd like to know what the catch is.  But I'm terrible at negotiating type things, if I start pushing we'll probably get paid less not more, so I hope someone else is better at that talking stuff.  And speaking of things I'm no good at, any of you any good at figuring out things like whether he bugged the table to listen in on us?"

[Irn0rchid]

Stepping into the pancake house Skate pauses inside the doorway to push her hood back and scan around the room, aware that shes receiving some stares from the other patrons, but not caring. Seeing a man in the back frantically waving at her she assume that this must be Sid. Noting that there were already some others seated at the table she figures this isn't going to be a solo job. Striding to the back she flicks her cloak back and sits quietly on one of the available chairs. Once the man starts talking he confirms that this is the Johnson and it is indeed a group job. "Property damage without wetwork? Seems too easy... but as long as it pays, easy is fine. 'Special way' sounds ominous though..."

As the others introduce themselves, Skate mentally tracks the roles, "Guns, explosives, combat, medic, seems fairly standard, if overkill for what he described..." Seeing it's apparently her turn she says, "I'm Skate. I usually end up shooting things. The farther away, the better. From what you've all said, this seems like way more muscle than is needed for what amounts to vandalism... There's got to be something else going on." "If it's really what he says, I would much rather just do this on my own... and collected all the money!"

Once the questions from the other runners at the table have been addressed, Skate waits for a lull and chimes in, "So what's the real deal? Why didn't you just hire me? One person can do a lot of property damage with propelled explosives..."

[CraterShip]

Finding the man inside the restaurant was the easy part, large man, waving like an idiot, made her wonder what kind of cover they should be worried about. Kereina mentally pulls up a window on her imagelink to show what the airborne fly-spy is seeing outside. Satisfied that nothing is of immediate danger she sits at the table and listens to the Johnson's spiel.

Seems like an easy enough job, but I'm a little concerned about what his "special methods" are. Is there something we aren't being told here? she asks the table in general when Mr. Gambetti / Johnson gets up from the table. Her voice is heavily accented both by her Japanese accent and her tusks protruding slightly over her upper lip from her lower jaw. As for who I am, my name is Kereina, I guess you could say I specialize in remote reconnaissance and fire support. I have done security work before, but nothing so far as your military training, Alf.

The others all seem competent, maybe even over-qualified for the job. Having no real background in negotiating terms, she settles back to see what answers come from the several questioned asked of Mr. Gambetti.

[Beta]

Seems like an easy enough job, but I'm a little concerned about what his "special methods" are. Is there something we aren't being told here? she asks the table in general when Mr. Gambetti / Johnson gets up from the table. Her voice is heavily accented both by her Japanese accent and her tusks protruding slightly over her upper lip from her lower jaw. As for who I am, my name is Kereina, I guess you could say I specialize in remote reconnaissance and fire support. I have done security work before, but nothing so far as your military training, Alf.

Alf blushes, and admits: "I was strictly in the medical corps -- guns and I never got along too well -- so I know a bit about tactics and how to be safe around things that go boom,  but generally I went places after things blew up, not before."