[rednblack]

After the good luck with the clients file, Spitfire hits a big block of nothing.  <<--Honeypots>>, <<--CRISPR>>, <<--Zenith>> he checks them and discards them in turn.  Nothing to see here, folks.  He makes his way through the entirety of the Special Projects folder to find them all too corrupted to lift any useful data from.  Achak is particularly let down on his novacoke high that <<--d. Mount Jewett, PA, UCAS>> is unusable.

"Hey, Pennsylvania?  That's where Chechik and Spurrs won an estate right before founding Sunrise," he says, and even Spitfire has to give him an impressed look.  Chummer's been doing his homework.

Mercer opens the Corporate Sponsorship File with a sigh, but finds the first file on Joint Projects to be partially readable.  He opens it, and there's a bright flash, and the data blinks for a moment.  A databomb? he wonders.  If so, its code must've been corrupted as well, effectively disarming it for him.  Still, he'll need to be more careful in the future.  Spitfire clears away most of the detritus, and sends it over to the rest of the team for examination.

<<Input: Open File: Corporate Partnership:// Joint Projects>>
<<Access Granted>>
<<. . .>>
<<. . .>>
<<Ar3$>>

. . . project lead . . . ware clinic . . . unusually high background count . . . contact . . . sethridge@Rejoov.ares

. . . life expectancy diminished . . . Project Zenith . . . advanced brolium cocktail  . . .

<<4zt3*nl01ogy>>

CRISPR: . . . agreed to host project after . . . Na Nog.  Jacob Kreutz will maintain his position as acting supervisor.  . . . Samples . . . rerouted . . . Tacoma facility.  Laura Pachis will be interim . . . Kreutz's arrival . . . care and feeding of samples.

. . . sample's combat effectiveness has not been tested, though preliminary war games promise . . . and great tactical insight.  Physical resiliency estimated at . . .% higher than control sample. . . sapiens robustus . . . Given the nature of Seattle's population density and the relative size of its Z zone districts, and while taking into account the limits of our facilities, it may be possible to commence field-testing.

<<Note: Mr. Kreutz would like to see the samples moved to a secure Aztechnology facility . . . Seattle or eventually Denver.  Seniority goes to Ms. Pachis and Mr. Kada, of course, though . . . instead.>>

<<Addendum: 2 samples have died in transport.  Testing shows no instability in the existing samples, though blood tests are being administered daily and monitored for changes.  Results are being uploaded to the CRISPR master file as they become available.
<<--Laura Pachis
<<2 DEC 2074

--Would you like to view the CRISPR master file?  __Y __N
<<Input Command: Yes>>
<<Error: the file you are looking for no longer exists>>

[Tecumseh]

Achak, fueled by novacoke, thinks aloud with few filters for his monologue.

"So we have four 'preferred' clients and four, now three, 'gold' clients, then another six 'silver' clients. So we have a baker's dozen of clients but a local branch of only twelve employees. Mercer, you're law enforcement: does that scan? The company was originally founded on the premise of 'round-the-clock protection of a limited number of corporate and private clients', but maybe they don't do that anymore. Are they just on call? What kind of response times could they possibly offer in a 'plex the size of Seattle? Doc Wagon has a ten minute guarantee but that's with Ospreys and Citymasters and the whole nine meters.

"We have some nice addresses here. Queen Anne, double-A, that's right next to Duncan's place. Maybe tip Duncan off that some of his neighbors are on special diets. This one is Beaux Arts, that's triple-A. This one is... Somerset? Newcastle? Wizzer views at the top of the hill. See the lake and Council Island and the cityline and the Olympics in the distance, all with one sweep. So we have clients living in high-security neighborhoods who are layering additional security on top."

Achak stops and reflects on this on the potential complications for hunters. Guess you wait for them to leave the house, he thinks.

"Preferred 'clients' - I use that term loosely, back in a second - with memberships going back almost forty years. Forty years a vampire. That's a big horde, but also a lot of time to initiate. Looks like Ms. Pachis here chose to go the bloody route. There's still a standing bounty on live blood magicians, isn't there? A million nuyen from the Draco Foundation? I wonder what a vampire blood magician is worth. I don't want to think what it would take to bring a vampire in alive though. Whatever. Pachis' magical persuasions fit with this being an joint project with Aztechnology, as the Joint Projects file suggests.

"The nature of the 'preferred' and 'gold' clients appears to be different. The preferred 'clients' look more like employees. Pachis was onsite at the office, and according to the Joint Projects profile this Mr. Kreutz is 'acting supervisor' of something, probably being a drekhead. Mr. Kada is mentioned in the Joint Projects file as having 'seniority' along with Ms. Pachis, so which is I guess what happens when you've been a mosquito since the 2030s.

"The 'gold' clients seem to have reciprocal relationships, and are under threat. Talk about the carrot and the stick. Although in this case it's the fangs or the credstick."

That gets Achak thinking. He stands and paces in his suit with its suspicious stains. Some are from Shur's milchig mitts, no doubt, but others might be self-inflicted.

"On the topic of gold clients, let's walk through this yak angle.

"Eito Yukimura was the so-honbucho of the Kanaga-gumi, according to Nori.

"That club we hit was a Kanaga-gumi holding. At first I thought that the Kenran-kai were making a play for it, and that still might be true, but what if there's more to it? The Joint Projects files mention field testing in the Barrens. Scan that date on the message from Pachis. December 2nd, same day Stake got the tip about Century's Peak. We hit it that night.

"What if Sunrise had had set up shop at Century's Peak by leaning on Yukimura to provide a facility and have his people look they other way? The guards there certainly didn't seem to know what was going on upstairs, and stood down when confronted with the truth.

"Sunrise, playing both sides, slips some intel to Nozaki - says right there, 'Mr. Nozaki has smartly chosen to put our intel to work for our mutual benefit' - who then passes it along to us with the hopes that we can embarrass his rival. From Sunrise's perspective, it's win-win. Either they get some free field testing at the expense of some hunters or, if the hunters seize the day, then they've slipped some dye into the stream. They can: A) find out who claims the bounties via Sandra Brellin, B) see where the prizes end up via their tracker tags, and C) look good to Mr. Nozaki and the Kenran-kai, building the relationship.

"Yukimura commits seppuku, Mr. Nozaki is ascendant, and Sunrise, well, rises along with him.

"On that note, what if 'Sunrise' refers to the Imperial Japanese flag? That would explain their involvement in Yakuza affairs. We already know that they're in bed with Steinem and Tsukino, the law firm headquarted in Japan. Tsukino, what's that even mean?" Achak takes a short break to conduct a fast Matrix search. "Means 'of the moon'. Great, so we have 'Sunrise' and a law office whose name means 'of the moon'. That sounds like yin-yang symmetry that would appeal to the Nipponese.

"Mr. Kada might be the senior official. He's listed second on the preferred clients list but that's alphabetical. If these zekes that I geeked last Sunday really are the subjects being field-tested - and they matched the description, believe you me - then maybe that would explain why the Hungarian oaf just about took my slotting head off with the edge of his hand. Now I ain't no martial artist, but the trid-watcher in me would call that a karate chop. Now where did a fat Hungarian newborn learn karate? Maybe in a Tacoma facility that rolls up to Mr. Kada."

Rampant speculation complete, Achak realizes that he's been talking non-stop for several minutes. He falls silent and lets his brain catch up to stream-of-consciousness rambling. His speech sounded truthy, at least to him, and in his nice suit he feels like a million-nuyen corper wrapping up a killer presentation about the most recent quarterly results that exceeded expectations, but that might just be the novacoke talking.

[Malevolence]

Mercer was about to share some of his thoughts with the crew when Achak rapid fired his, seemingly as they occured to him. Maybe it was the Novacoke, but the presentation was compelling, and much of what he said rang true.


"I'm guessing that Sunrise does a lot of outsourcing. We've seen that with the runners. But more than that, I strongly suspect that, since their clients are well to do and live in highly secure neighborhoods, their 'protection' tends more towards the preventative. Intel gathering, a la Sandra; long term planning - new IDs every few years to hide the fact you don't age, keeping your finances private, that sort of thing; and special projects. Long term planning type stuff. Taking over the world, blood supply, super soldiers. Basically your average megacorp type stuff, plus human trafficking for the exotic diets.

"At that rate, yeah, such a low employee count isn't too suspicious." He pondered the rest of what Achak had said. "The Yakuza angle makes a fair amount of sense in that context. Sunrise gets muscle, which helps keep payroll down, as well as access to smuggling routes, human trafficking expertise, and a pretty solid intelligence network. Add in the deep moles in law enforcement, and they have both ends covered. If you look at it from a threat perspective, Hunters are probably more of an irritant. But enough of one to deal with, and turning the bounty program against us is an inspired play. But the bigger threats come from the governments and research arms of megacorps. These folks have resources and either want to wipe the Infected out to protect their citizens, or study them to make a buck. To deal with those threats requires well placed connections - plants in law enforcement and even government. I don't doubt that they have those, as well as significant weight inside many of the megas. This is the nightmare scenario. Hunters, we always assumed we were hunting lone predators, like giant cats. But come to find out, they are organized. Embedded. They may very well control the game.


"Pachis and Kada, fourty plus year old vampires, and that is just from the Seattle branch. If this holds, there could be dozens of them world wide, in and out of Sunrise, working together. Taking down one would be dangerous enough. This may well be beyond the capabilities of the humble Hunter community." He thinks for a moment. "But the Infected have another enemy, even more ancient and organized. Religion. The church would be their biggest threat. And if what Sister Rebecca said is true, that the church wants to get into the Hunting game in a big way, that might be good news. Assuming that they haven't already been infiltrated and are guided by the very threat they seek to destroy." He watches Achak to see his reaction. "And if they haven't, if they have managed to repel the almost certain attempts by Sunrise or other similar organizations to corrupt them from within, then the battle to come will likely spill over into the light of day. With blood mages and likely worse, taking them down could threaten entire cities if they're properly entrenched and have an army of thralls. I wouldn't completely rule out a Thor shot or two." And they could just as easily be aimed at the Vatican as by it.


Mercer was keenly aware that he was painting a rather dismal picture. And there wasn't much of a profit angle in it if they couldn't safely turn in bounties. Though the art assets and cushion change from a AAA vampire den could keep them in meals well enough. If they survived. They could turn neighborhood security on the vampires, though he had to imagine that Sunrise had already thought of that and probably had plants, or leverage, over key people there. Which likely meant that they'd get no support from the local security, and might even have to fight them too. So they'd have to wait for the targets to leave their neighborhoods, like Achak said. Which meant not looting their lair. Which severely cut into any possible payday.


Mercer kept silent on Achak's musings on the hidden meanings behind the names of things. It was probably largely correct, but it wasn't useful information as far as Mercer could see. Interesting in an abstract sense, but not a concrete lead to help them end the threat that Sunrise posed.


Moving on, he ponders new data as it comes in. The information from the Joint projects file is scattered and only paints a vague picture that is, unfortunately, easy to read nearly anything into. An email address to follow up on - sethridge@Rejoov.ares. Rejoov - rejuvenation? So they may be providing younger vamps to Ares for research into longevity. Though the mention of a ware clinic might indicate an attempt to get cyber- and bio-ware to survive implantation into an Infected with regeneration. Or maybe it was both. The file was pretty broken up.


Aztechnology seemed to be the ones responsible for the super-soldier project. Super vampires? Mercer was certain it was bad either way. If the vampires at Century's Peak were amped up, then the fact that Stake and his team had walked away meant that they weren't 40 year old vampire bad just yet. That alone put the Tacoma facility high on Mercer's list of targets. It seemed manageable and likely to put a crimp in Sunrise's plans.


But he just couldn't shake the feeling that he was thinking like a hammer when a pen was what was needed.

[Tecumseh]

Achak is a bit alarmed that Mercer is so openly pessimistic, especially in front of SpitFire. Flickr is a true believer and will electrocute vampires until his dying breath, but SpitFire was still a gun-for-hire, one that could walk the instant that he felt the heat was too high. Mercer certainly wasn't doing anything to turn down the burners with his talk of "controlling the game".

"Thor shots are offline," Achak says somewhat distractedly, partially to redirect the conversation. "Ever since some runners pinched Aztechnology’s satellite weapons platform and turned it against the Azzies, the Corporate Court has shut down all satellite weapons systems, including Thor Shots, until they're positive that the new security measures are watertight."

He wondered why Mercer hadn't heard that, then remembered that Mercer had been buried under a heap of rubble and had be living underground until just recently.

"The Joint Projects file mentions Ares and Aztechnology. That means Sunrise has corporate connections, although one might wonder if those projects have HQ approval or are simply local initiatives by ambitious middle managers. My best guess is that Ares was experimenting with implanting 'ware into vampires, perhaps leveraging the 'unusually high background count' to keep their regeneration in check so that it wouldn't immediately reject the implants. Sounds like it didn't work.

"Then there's the Aztechnology facility in Tacoma. It sounds like Kreutz was lobbying for a more secure location so it's possible that they've closed up shop already. They were exiting the Auburn office and, with the attack there, they are likely going into lockdown. I bet if we can locate the Tacoma facility we'll find that i'ts been cleared out."

He stops and reflects for seconds. "Pachis was on the comm when I was in the office. Was tearing some guy a new hoophole, complaining about the samples we offed at Century's Peak. Good nuyen on that being Kreutz. She threatened to lash him to an olive tree at sunrise, so odds are he's Infected, which makes sense if he's a Preferred Client. With quickened spells too. She threatened to have those popped."

He looks to Flickr. The task of tackling Kreutz would likely fall to him. "What do we know about Kreutz?" he asks the elf, hoping for some additional intel that will supplement what they know.

"Let's be realistic about what we can accomplish. Sunrise has multiple offices, deep connections to international law firms, and joint projects with triple-A megacorps. We might be able to uproot the Seattle branch but let's not pretend like it would be more than an inconvenience. We're chopping off a finger, not a hand or an arm.

"What did Ares when they found out about the Universal Brotherhood? They teamed up with the FBI and tried to root out all the chapter houses at the same time. We have to do the same, except this time we can't go to Ares because it sounds like someone at Ares has decided that the ticks are a manageable resource.

"There's Grotto1. The hunters there will help but the community has been compromised. The chatter at Sunrise HQ made it sound like 'Gavin' lost his credentials but let's not pretend that he won't get them back in time. So Grotto1 is out for now.

"What we need to do is to build a case. A watertight case that we can take to the powers that be to convince them of the threat and persuade them to act. To Mercer's point it can be the Church or the Corporate Court for all I care, but we need names, locations, and details to share, and to get those we have to keep climbing the ladder.

"I say let's go to Tacoma, if we can find it." He looks to SpitFire, knowing that the task of digging up the facility will likely require the ork. "If not, we'll take our chances with Kreutz at his home. He's the junior client and lives in the least-secure neighborhood.

"In the meantime, let's figure out our contingency plan. Mercer, can you manage Nori? If you think she can sit on a story waiting for a bigger story, let's loop her in on what we downloaded from Sunrise. If the temptation is too great, or if we want to keep her above the fray until the critical moment, let's compile everything we know and build a Dead Man's Switch that will dump to Nori or Raven if we're compromised. They can pick up the fight from there."

He lingers over the last thought. He knows what 'compromised' means and so does everyone else in the room, but he used the euphemism anyway. He wasn't afraid of death anymore, not since he found religion, but that didn't mean he would race toward it blindly. God's will be done and all that, but if that was God's Plan, then Achak's Plan was to dust as many of the zekes as he could before going loudly into that good night.

[Malevolence]

"Thor shots are offline"


"Until they're not," Mercer interjects. "I trust the Megacorps about as far as I can throw 'em, and since I can't uproot an arcology, that's none. Maybe they are telling the truth and they are offline, but even so, that's only the case until they decide they need them. But it ain't no matter, I was being a might melodramatic to illustrate the point - this could be a world changing conflict." Mercer clammed up to let the man continue.


Mercer largely agreed with what was said - Grotto1 was out, Ares was not likely to make a great ally, though he did interject that there were nine other megas that might be an option, though working with them was not so preferable as using an information "leak" to manipulate them into action while the team stayed firmly out of the line of fire. Which was right along the lines with Achak's thinking.


"Ain't no-one can 'manage' Nori, but I think I can appeal to her sense of self-preservation. She'll sit on a story if it makes sense to do so. She'll message me until I pull my hair out asking for the go ahead, but if I make it clear that publishing would put our larger work at risk, she'll stay in check. But the dead man's switch may still be the better option, just in case she's got eyes on her. I'm torn, because she could probably turn a little information into a lot if we share."


Achak also had another good idea. "I agree that Tacoma is a good first option, followed by Kreutz. We can probably squeeze in some preliminary surveillance on Tacoma tonight - now - just to check Achak's suspicions."


He could see the concern growing in Spitfire's face as Mercer outlined the apocalyptic scenario ahead of them, and then powered into planning the evening's activities like it was an ice cream social. "I know this seems insurmountable, but I'm laying out the truth. If I sugar coat things, I'd be leading you into danger you weren't prepared for. So I won't. The situation's bad, but I ain't some crusading zealot. If I honestly think the heat is too much, I'll find us something else to do. Suicide is not on my agenda. I hate the zekes, and I sure do wanna stick it to them, but there are a lot of ways to scratch that itch without getting us all killed." They were on Sunrise's radar now, so simply closing up shop was probably off the table. If they chose not to continue the fight, at the least they'd probably have to go underground anyway. He left that bit out, but then thought better of it. "We already bloodied them, so it's a bit late to just walk away. Sunrise will want its pound of flesh, meaning we are committed to dealing with them in one way or another, even if it is just curling up in some hole to hide."

[Tecumseh]

Achak is still feeling swell in his suit and his novacoke. He jumps up and paces around Stake's small workbench as if it were a boardroom table.

"Let's feed Nori information on a drip line. Give her a little taste to let her know that it will be worth her time waiting for the full story. Maybe a teaser about Ares and Aztechnology having joint projects with Sunrise, but no details. Tell her we're following up on leads and promise her the full scoop but need her to keep a lid on things in the meantime so that the leeches don't go to ground.

"SpitFire, can you set up the Dead Man's Switch while Mercer talks to Nori? If we don't check in every 24 hours, dump everything we've accumulated to Nori, plus Raven at Grotto1. Mercer can give you the proper credentials to use for Grotto1. Passphrase is 'Luke, Chapter 1, Verses 78 and 79'."

He checks the time on his commlink. "Midnight. The witching hour. We're in Puyallup; Dash Point is only 20-30 minutes out. Let's go now. I'm guessing they're closing up shop to transfer to a more secure location, but maybe we'll get lucky and catch them with their pants down. If they're actively in transit, they'll be as vulnerable as we can ever find them."

It's clear Achak is full of recreational stimulants and whatever testosterone Lola released into his system.

"SpitFire, you drive. I'll wear my suit. If we get any friction from Knight-Errant, you all are my security retinue. It's more likely that any abrasion will come from the yaks. They've had their hand up the skirt of Tacoma ever since the Night of Rage back in 2039. I think it's the Shotozumi-gumi, which is interesting because if it's true then it means that Sunrise has their hand down the pants of all the Seattle gumis."

Presumably it's the drugs behind all the overly sexual metaphors involving hands and pants and skirts.

"We'll do recon with drones and astral. If it looks clear, we'll do a sneak-and-peek."

Achak tugs his lapels authoritatively then leads the charge across the garage to SpitFire's Roadmaster. Whatever loss of confidence he usually feels over the loss of his previous teammates seems to have been swept away for the moment in a flood of dopamine. Whether this confidence is the recipe for success - "be bold, be bold" - or the misplaced overconfidence of a junkie remains to be seen.

Achak throws his bag of gear into the back of the Roadmaster, although there's a twinkle in his eye that suggests he is amused by the prospect of a little breaking-and-entering while wearing a Synergist Business Line suit.

SpitFire pulls out into the rain. The Ancients and their motorcycles are largely absent from the cold December weather. Achak slips on his earbuds, contacts, and glasses as he stares out the window at the water droplets reflecting neon lights in every direction.

Dash Point has changed a lot in the last forty years. The riots on the Night of Rage created a vast swath of destruction in Tacoma and property values plummeted. The Yakuza, lead by future oyabun Waino Aho, swept in and purchased large tracts of land. They redeveloped and industrialized the Dash Point waterfront, among other places in the district, ensuring their supremacy in Tacoma for several decades.

Achak checks the map, then his commlink, then his hair in the mirror, then his teeth, then the map again. "We're a few blocks out. Is this close enough for the drones, given the weather? If so, let's hit it."

[Zweiblumen]

Spitfire listens to the two hunters talk back and forth for what seems both an eternity and a blink as they shift back and forth from the calm Southern Gentleman to the hopped-up ex-ganger-turned-socialite.  The talk of infected rattles him a bit.  He's used to sneaking through borders and hiding from patrols.  Flipping the tables and going aggressive is an entirely different take for him.  That said, the pay-off will take care of him for long time and there's the odd feeling of "doing going" that he's not overly familiar with that seems kinda pleasant.  He makes a note in his AR view to chat with Patsy about that later.  She might have done some research on this thing in her spare cycles.

The overall scenario seems interesting, and he was able to pull a little useful data outta that case.  He continues to followup on the data as Mercer and Achak give him hints and directions to follow.  Wheelie is his proxy in the room.  The display on its back doing a 2D pseudo-rendering of what Spitfire is seeing in the Matrix while relaying the audio and some visual back to Spitfire so he can occasionally participate in the conversation.  While this is totally comfortable for the crusty ork it seems that Mercer and Achak are a little off-put at first, though as the conversation continues they get used to hearing Spitfire's voice coming from different parts of the room not where his body is.

As they make the decision to head to Tacoma Spitfire sends Patsy on ahead to begin the recon and get a lay of the land while the four of them pile into Home.  Rousing from VR long enough to move from the make-shift office to the van and clearing off some seats for the additional passengers, the ork settles into his cocoon.  When he opens the hatch to get in the smell that wafts out is... unpleasant to the rest and they are all very glad when he seals himself in, the environmental systems in the van kick into overdrive to eliminate the possibly toxic result quickly.  While they are loading their gear the van's exterior morphs and takes on the pageantry of a local small-time security firm that would be apropos for the identity that Achak is representing himself as.  The license plate shifts to a corporate ID and AR id merges to match.

All set, they head off into the light drizzle of the night and head south.

[rednblack]

Once the van is out of the neighborhood the smell inside gets much better.  Or the hunters begin to get used to it.  Achak has taken to quick whiffs of his lapel, which still carry Miss Lovelytush's scent, and finds it much more appealing. 

"Isn't that right, Mercer,"  Achak says.  "Mercer!" he says again more forcefully after a few seconds of silence and the road slipping past as they make their way to Tacoma.

"Hmm?" Mercer says, distractedly.

"What the hell are you doing?"

"He's checking AR feeds," Flickr says, his head tilted up in an effort to clog up a nasty nosebleed he's been fighting.  The elf doesn't look to be in great shape.

"Ok," Mercer says, ignoring Achak's question.  "So Pachis fled Sunrise going north into the Berrydale area of Auburn before doubling back and heading to northern Puyallup.  The Nightsky spent thirty-eight minutes parked in an alley behind some bar called Mama J's Fat Black Pussy Cat, and then went north again as far as Bellevue, crossed into Seattle proper on the 520, and I lost her signal for an hour-and-a-half in Greenwood.  I think she was in a parking garage, or something that killed my connection because after that the Nightsky picked up again and went straight to her home address in Bellevue, which it hit at about 03:40.

"She was there, or at least the car was, until 10:23 when she went on the move again, and again I lost her signal in the parking garage of the Bellevue Hilton."

"Probably meeting with Kreutz," Flickr breaks in.

"Well, hold on a tick," Mercer says, his drawl setting in thick in the late hour.  "because the Nightsky went into motion again at 18:40, and went straight to Sea-Tac.  It's been there ever since.  Now, why isn't she moving?" Mercer asks aloud, fairly sure of what the possibilities are, if not their likelihood.

"You think she ghosted on us?" Flickr asks.

"Maybe," Achak says, "but it's just as likely that she finally found the tracker.  Anyway, there isn't much we can do about that right now."

"Agreed," Mercer says. "Let's get back to seeing what we can find about this Dr. Ethridge."

As the van crosses over in Tacoma, Spitfire examines the feed coming in from Patsy to best plan his approach.  A few semis, and quite a few more trailers litter the parking lot outside of Westfield Logistics.  He also notes a Bulldog and a Shin-Hyung parked near the front door, but everything looks quiet and lonely on the outside.

Settling on an approach from the east, Spitfire rolls up through Tacoma and into Dash Point while the rest of the crew is largely silent, digging up info on the trix or nursing headaches.  Spitfire's chosen approach keeps Westfield out of sight from the meat eyes for longer, but it's also a much more natural heading for a security vehicle, he reasons.  After the earlier night's craziness, it feels good to have the road beneath him again, and if anything was kept up in this area of Tacoma it's the roads.  The plascrete is smooth but solid, and now that the rain has quit he has to fight the urge to really start pushing the GMC Universe.  We could be there in five, he reasons, but it wouldn't be quiet.

Ten minutes later, Spitfire pulls into the front lot of Pacific Paper, and cuts the engine.

<< 7 Dec 2074, 00:23 // Westfield Logistics>>

"Ladies and gentlemen," Spitfire's voice floods in from the van's speakers, "If you look out the cabin to your left, you'll see beautiful Westfield Logistics in the witching hour."

A little humor makes him feel better about the whole ordeal.  A little. 

Mercer, compiling the information that Achak provided on Dr. Ethridge, and adding his own, sends a copy to the team before closing his AR window to focus on the more immediate surroundings.

<<@Team [Mercer] Attachment: Datapack>>

It's fairly thin, but the pair has been able to find a copy of her college transcript -- she graduated from Texas A&M in 2064 -- and links to papers that she's written on long-term stasis and effective preventative treatments of cyber psychosis.  They also find that she is listed as an Ares employee, not an employee of Rejoov, and they are unable to find either a work or home address.

Technically, Spitfire has parked only across the street from Westfield, but it's a good spot for a security vehicle, making its presence known to passer byes that someone is on the job, but it's still a little over 300 meters from the front door of the warehouse.  What's surprising is that while Patsy gave the impression that the outside was completely dead, Spitfire's swarm, and Achak's keen eye pick out a pair of figures, human and dwarf, male and female respectively, making irregular patrols.  Spitfire checks again with Patsy, and there the pair is, clear as day.

"I'm going to see what's up in the astral," Flickr says before nodding off in the seat next to Achak.  While he's gone, Achak surveys the scene with his meat eyes, while Spitfire puts his drones to work, and Mercer tries the counter-intelligence angle.  It's desolate out here.  Sure, there's the occasional sedan going by on Alexander Ave, but they look like middle management trying to catch up before the end of the year.  All the warehouses are closed, the boats safely docked.  In the distance Achak can hear a train, though he'd guess it's heading somewhere a dock or two over, somewhere busier than this little stretch of small fry warehouses. 

Mercer expertly identifies all the good angles for keeping an eye on the place, and discards one after the next as being currently unused.  It seems they're all alone out here.  Just the team, the guards, and whatever monstrosity those CRISP "samples" are inside.  Unless they've already moved.

When he returns Flickr says, "They've got a Spirit of Air posted up on top of the warehouse.  Doubtless, it's using concealment on the chummers outside."

"There's a hoop in the Bulldog too," Achak adds.  "A big one, probably a troll.  I saw the shocks give a little heave a few minutes ago, so he must've been moving around."

That's three outside, four if you count the spirit.

"So, I can try popping my head in," Flickr says, "but that spirit will probably take note,"

The team disregards that notion out of hand, but Spitfire, examining his feeds from above is fairly confident he can get a drone in, if they want to get the lay of the land inside.  As the human and dwarf meet at the north side of the warehouse, Spitfire dips one of his drones in a little closer, and sure enough they start speaking, but it's in Spanish.  Achak does his best to translate.

[Zweiblumen]

"Ladies and gentlemen," Spitfire's voice floods in from the van's speakers, "If you look out the cabin to your left, you'll see beautiful Westfield Logistics in the witching hour."

While Flickr checks out the Astral Spitfire opines "Looks like you folks spotted a few things I didn't.  Maybe I need to upgrade the eyes on these things."  It's still a little disconcerting to hear the ork's voice being omnidirectional inside of the vehicle.  The inside of which is luxuriously appointed.  You can tell he doesn't spend much time outside of his cocoon because of how clean it is.  All of the seats are fine leather (you're pretty sure it's real) and the entertainment options are beyond wiz.  There's real food and rare alcohols available, but all of that looks completely untouched.  The dichotomy of Spitfire's preferred state and the condition of the interior of the van are somewhat conspicuous.

Technically, Spitfire has parked only across the street from Westfield, but it's a good spot for a security vehicle, making its presence known to passer byes that someone is on the job, but it's still a little over 300 meters from the front door of the warehouse.  What's surprising is that while Patsy gave the impression that the outside was completely dead, Spitfire's swarm, and Achak's keen eye pick out a pair of figures, human and dwarf, male and female respectively, making irregular patrols.  Spitfire checks again with Patsy, and there the pair is, clear as day.

The van speakers kick off again, "Damn, I really need to spice up the eyes on these guys.  Patsy usually doesn't miss much."

<<<@Patsy [Jason] Lets get another sweep of the area, clock the meta's on patrol and keep an ARO for us on them.  Thermal and Ultrasonic por favor.  Stay high and outside, there's a spirit lurking around that could cause trouble.>>>

<<<@Jason [Patsy] Five by five.>>>

Once more, the speakers inside resonate with the ork's voice, "So, what's the play?  I can send a spy inside and get a looksee.  Think that might be a better idea than charging the doors blind.  I've got Patsy watching the meta's making the rounds."  With that the trideo system inside lights up with a 3D rendering of the facility with the patrol, the van they are in highlighted.  After Achak mentions the Bulldog it appears on the display as well.  The feed is primarily from Patsy, but FlySpys add their data feeds as well.  As one of the flyspys covertly passes over the patrol it's sensors pick up their conversation.

[rednblack]

Achak focuses in on the voices being broadcast through Spitfire's audio system.  The wind coming off of the sound muffles a word or two, but the seasoned Amerind has little trouble duplicating the conversation.  The pair seamlessly blends Spanish with cityspeak.

"Dwarf: . . . isn't going to be happy.

"Human: Hell, I'm not happy.  If they wanted the wendigo to be secure, they should move them to a secure facility, not bring a fraggin' skeleton crew out to Dash-fraggin'-Point. 

"Dwarf: Well, Kreutz doesn't want them moved.

"Human: But it isn't Kreutz's call.  Or his friends."

Over the vid feed, the team can see the human jerking his thumb toward the interior of the warehouse.

"Human: They keep playing obstructionist, and we'll end up taking our share back to the pyramid, and--

"Dwarf: You think that's the way it's gonna play? 

"Human: From the way Jiminez's been talkin?  Maybe.  Or maybe Kreutz'll pack it up in three days, and move them himself.  Whole lot better for everybody that way.

"Dwarf: And we get away from those fucking weirdos in there.

"Human: Exactly.  They give me the creeps."

In Achak's present state-of-mind he has no trouble translating the colorful and explicit insults that follow directed toward whoever is inside the warehouse.  If the pair is to be believed, they've developed quite the affinity for romantic interludes with devil rats and one in particular wouldn't be so bad if she was a Bunraku puppet. 

"Yeah, that looks like that's about all of what's useful," Achak says, and soon the pair separate and continue with their sentry duties.

[Malevolence]

"So, I can try popping my head in," Flickr says, "but that spirit will probably take note."


"I know a guy, sneaky on the astral, but not. Kinda hard to explain. More importantly, he's got himself a powerful Lodge so's he can keep from being tracked, as I understand it. Given there's probably a mess of Infected in there, all permanently tuned in to the astral, might be a good play to be stealthy. If they spot him, they'll be on high alert, but if we're ready we can make a quick go/no-go based on what he does see, maybe not give them enough time to do much about it." Achak, quite buzzed, gives him a "why didn't you bring him up earlier" stare. "He's not really a combat kinda mage, per se. Great for intelligence gathering - like now - but..." Mercer was trying to phrase it gently, but ultimately couldn't come up with anything better than "he's unique looking, often draws the kind of attention you don't want. Also, he's not used to the kind of conditions that lend themselves to our work." He looks around at the swanky interior of Spitfire's "Home". "'course, I wasn't counting on our present ride. This might get him to come out and play for more than just one gig."


The crew discuss it, and ultimately decide that Mercer should make the call.


<<@Jaeger [Mercer] Dunno if you've been following along on Grooto1, but lucky me, I ain't dead. Peep me if you like, but I got work for ya if yer interested. Warehouse full of Infected we need peeped. Info's attached. Try not to get spotted - we don't wanna roil the hornet's nest just yet.>>
<<AROs: Me.loc, BadGuys.loc>>


The BadGuys ARO included what they knew about the guards outside the building - especially the spirit of air - as well as the warehouse location. With that addressed, he considers the rest of the plan. Spitfire agrees to get some eyes inside, and while he's working his own type of magic, the rest of the team firm up plans for how to hit the place - assuming their intel shows it isn't a suicide mission.

[Tecumseh]

Achak, quite buzzed, summons up his best "why didn't you bring him up earlier" stare and levels it at Mercer. Stake and I hit Century's Peak with Sister Rebecca as backup and Elijah as eyes in the sky four days ago. But that was then, and this has gotten much bigger. No ego. This isn't about shares, or profit. We need all the help we can get. Step one, stay alive. Step two, get rich. Step three, never forget the order of steps one and two. Remember Yohan and Stake.

"What's he like?" Achak asks Mercer. "Is he like me? I'm a likable guy. He'll like me. Hold that thought; drones picking up audio."

Achak swallows hard as he hears the Spanish. He learned his Spanish from Stake and the conversation brings up memories of his dead friend. At least the two sentries are speaking with Aztlaner accents rather than Stake's Cuban flair. Achak repeats the conversation in English for the benefit of those in the van.

"A wendigo is worth two vampires," he says, remembering his UCAS bounty tables. He turns around in the passenger seat to look at those in the back of the Roadmaster. "They're the big, furry brutes with the mind rapey magic, neh? That's why wendigos and nosferatu are worth so much more than all the other leeches, No? Never hunted a wendigo myself. Anyone ever bagged a wendigo? Is the fur soft?"

His eyes fall on Flickr. "You doing all right, omae? You look like two meters of stacked drek. Are you still coughing up bloody corn? That's 'bloody' as in 'with blood', not 'bloody' as in your Old World expression for shock, annoyance, or emphasis. I hope none of that gets lodged in your brainbox." He glances at Mercer, as if Mercer might know some remedy for free-floating corn circulating in the bloodstream. Achak turns back to face out the windshield and idly wonders if the corn is some sort of magical reagent.

Achak speaks up, as if projecting his voice will make it more audible to SpitFire. "IF YOU NEED UPGRADES FOR THE DRONE EYES, LET'S GET UPGRADES FOR THE DRONE EYES." Ideally a rigger would come with drones ready to rock, but Achak was more concerned about finding someone reliable who didn't rattle at the sound of some little vampire corporation/cabal/conspiracy. SpitFire had heard the bleak assessment and had stuck around. Achak was willing to work with that. If that meant a few Ks of operational funds went toward Punch and The Other One, then he was willing to play ball. "LET'S ORDER STOCK. NO TIME TO JUNKYARD DIVE."

With that, he settles into his seat - which he sincerely doubts is real leather - and waits for the drone feeds to update with the footage of SpitFire's aerial maneuverings.

[Zweiblumen]

"No need to shout omae, I can hear every whisper you make in here.  We'll worry about upgrades tomorrow, neh?"

There's a pause in the audio feed as Spitfire transfers his consciousness from the van into one of the tiny machines Horizon has been producing since the Az/Amt war.  The Noizquito is just a little larger than it's name implies, but is full of audible and ocular mischief.  Also, it's capable of getting in remarkably small places un-noticed despite it being designed for the opposite.

As his mind takes root in the micro-drones body he continues his dialog.  "I'd say watch this, but you won't see much.  If you don't get motion sick feel free to pull this feed!"  And with that he take the drone on a flight path that would make the dogfighters from his namesake era jealous.  The micro drone skims the ground flying between the weeds at break-neck speeds.  Approaching the building, the machine makes a maneuver that no natural creature could.  Moving at almost 100km/hr the drone gets to within a centimeter of the wall before lifting vertically.  The g-forces of the maneuver threaten to break the tiny machine apart, but it holds, if just.  As it darts up the side of the building, almost invisible, an exhaust duct that has mesh a mesh covering comes into view.  As if it weren't even there, Spitfire spins the drone through the protective grill and into the duct system.  Using the ultrasound and radar sensors in the minuscule sensor suite Horizon provides by default, Spitfire quickly maps the comparatively small HVAC system.  The blowers aren't a problem for him, as he dare-devil dives through the blades, but several of the filtration systems are more of a problem and he's forced to duck out and jump back in for his mapping.

With that done, he transmits the layout back to the trid-display inside the van and begins doing his surveillance.

[Herr Brackhaus]

Seated in a comfortable leather reclining chair in what he'd come to call the operations room of his Bellevue apartment, Erik perused the local news feeds with the assistance of his Nixdorf agent program. Even the direct neural interface provided by the trode net he was wearing on his head was unable to provide him with eyesight; the doctors at UC in Aurora, CO had claimed that the trauma of having his optical nerves ripped right out of his skull had created a sensory feedback loop that had permanently damaged the occipital cortex. Without the ability to see the physical world, without the ability to read, he had come to rely on semi-autonomous knowbots for the past 15 or so years. "I wonder why some people name their agents; it's not like they're alive, not really. Not like spirits, certainly. Although... Perhaps true AI qualify as... No. They're sentient, there can be no doubt about that, but they are not alive."

Erik continued his musings about what exactly made something alive while he sorted through the information the agent presented to him. The past few weeks had seemed quiet. "Too quiet. It's been more than a year since de Vries, almost as long since Fear The Dark made themselves known. Disappearances in Seattle is nothing new, between gangs like the 162s and all the organized crime outfits, but... I wonder..."

The agent interrupted Erik's train of thoughts as usual, speaking as it did with its programmed British accent; it was almost perfect, just a hint of the linguasoft would set it apart from an Oxford professor. "Incoming message, sir, origin: Mercer. Playback available at your convenience."

"Begin" he replied simply with a wave of his hand to no one in particular. "Old friends calling in the middle of the night is rarely social" he though to himself and sent a mental command to the SPU to brew a fresh cup of soycaf with a decent helping of the '53 Bushmills, as the agent brought the audio online over the speakers in the shielded room.

"Dunno if you've been following along on Grooto1, but lucky me, I ain't dead. Peep me if you like, but I got work for ya if yer interested. Warehouse full of Infected we need peeped. Info's attached. Try not to get spotted - we don't wanna roil the hornet's nest just yet."

A warehouse full of Infected sounded like work, and the bounties alone would likely cover expenses, but this was short notice and short notice usually meant trouble in Erik's experience. He began reviewing the intel Mercer had sent him as the Renraku Manservant-3 that maintained his apartment brought him the faux-Irish Coffee from the processing unit. "Hundreds of years of technology, and we Yanks still cannot hold a candle to the Irish and the Scottish distilleries. Fascinating."

"Not much to go on, old chap" he said out loud, and took a moment to savor the taste of the warm liquid before addressing the drone. "Lay the Synergist out on the bed, then get the kit bag from storage, stow it in the back of the car, and bring the car out front." He removed his synthetic silk robe and walked towards his private room with the cup still in hand, the astral world alive around him showing him the the way. The potential hunt at hand brought a smile to his scarred face.

"Agent, plot a route to Tacoma, but take 520 West out of Bellevue to 5 South; let us avoid the Renton rabble. And send the following response to Mercer; "On my way, ETA roughly one hour. Don't do anything rash." Now, time to prepare..." Even if he hadn't been using his Astral sight the tell-tale tingle of crossing an active mana barrier would have alerted him to the presence of the lodge, and he took in the familiar feel of the room as he kneeled in the center of the ring of rune stones that filled the room. Focusing on the mana swirling around him, he reached out with his mind's eye and began the ritual that would summon an ancestor spirit to help protect him. He gritted his teeth as mojo coursed through him, and felt the familiar pressure build in his mind as the contest of wills between him and the spirit peaked. Moments later, a cloaked and helmeted viking warrior stepped out of the swirling energies on the Astral and kneeled in front of Erik, and the pressure in his mind vanished as if a bubble had burst, leaving him feeling slightly weary.

"Heil, seggr. The old blood still sings." The spirit smiled at the ancient warrior greeting and removed its helmet, revealing the face of a fierce young woman staring back at Erik. "What is your name?" she asked, and they briefly exchanged pleasantries. Erik then explained that they were going to hunt old enemies, and that he might need the help of a mighty einherjar to defeat them. "You will have my aid, vinr. Memory never fades, and we still fight."

Once the spirit, who identified herself as Fríða, had agreed to help, Erik called upon his bound spirit who appeared as a gruff, old man in fine robes, his long bear white with age. "Asgeir, this is Fríða; she's agree to assist us in our fight. Both of you are free to do as you please in this world, as the old compacts go, until I have need of you."

Satisfied that his preparations were done for now, Erik rose and dressed quickly, albeit with a mild headache. Luckily, he'd already showered for the night and it only took him a few minutes to don the tailored Vashon Island business suit, and moments later he was walking down the hallway towards the garage where the Renault-Fiat FunOne was waiting with the door held open by the drone. As the car piloted itself out of the garage and into the night, he reclined the center set seat fully and closed his eyes, letting go of the Astral in order to get some rest.

[rednblack]

Spitfire's Noizquito takes turn after turn expertly, navigating the warehouse's HVAC system as if they were the well known streets of Puyallup.  At the last moment -- way too close for comfort for anyone other than Spitfire who's observing the feed -- the drone's wings reverse their orientation and lay the drone down for a soft landing against an industrial air diffuser that's at least 1.5 meters wide.  Next, he crawls the Noizquito through the diffuser, and it hangs upside down just inside the warehouse proper.  It's not terribly large for a warehouse, about 80 meters by 30 meters, with a locker room near the front door and a glass-enclosed office just beyond it.  Spitfire pans the drone up to show the currently unmanned catwalk that runs along the perimeter, and then pans back down to show three shipping containers, about 12 meters by 2.5 meters, that are placed near the middle of the warehouse. 

A moment later a troll-sized metahuman covered in long white fur with rust-colored stains across his maw and upper chest exits the west-most shipping container and approaches the office.  A woman comes out to meet him.  She's wearing her auburn-colored hair in a utilitarian ponytail which drapes behind her in a way that would be quite fetching under different circumstances.  She's carrying an electronic clipboard in one hand, which she regards before speaking.  "Yes, number eight?" she says.

The figure mumbles something in Japanese in response.

"So, we're getting our appetite back," she answers, all the joviality of an impressed pediatrician.  "That's good.  That's very good."

She punches a short code into the clipboard, and the middle of the three shipping containers hisses as it opens.  The wendigo nods to her and begins walking in that direction, calling out as he does so, and a second figure, practically identical to the first, exits the west-most shipping container and follows him to the newly-opened one.  They enter and emerge a few seconds later, both with two corpses slung over their shoulders, and return to their original container.  The woman returns to the office.

Back in the van Mercers says, "I think that's the same woman from Sunrise.  Not Pachis, the other one.  Spitfire, see if you can get a little closer, and get a bead on what she's doing in there."

Dutifully, the Noizquito descends from its perch, and makes an approach toward the office door.  It lands on a stack of crates, and Spitfire dismisses the ARO of the warehouse's layout with a direct feed of the interior.  The woman with the ponytail sits on a deck casually, as she manipulates her clipboard, and talks with an ork best described as gigantic, whom Achak identifies immediately as the big brute with the telescoping staff who kept calling him "nighthawker."

"So, that's good," the ork says, a hint of cockney in his accent.

"Yes, but now with talk of moving them, I wonder . . ."

"You think the nighthawkers got what was in the case."

"It's doubtful," the woman replies, setting her clipboard on the desk.  "This group hasn't shown themselves to be particularly technologically savvy.  We've already dealt with, what was his name, Eli? and our records don't show any other hunters who should be capable of cracking it.  And now that Mercer's outted us on Grotto1, well, who can they trust?  Who can they reach out to?  And this is all assuming that the case wasn't destroyed in the first place?"

"Assuming it wasn't, what would you do?"

"If I were them?"

The ork nods.

"I'd run."

The ork laughs, and the woman picks up her clipboard and begins manipulating it.  What follows is a discussion of the wendigo's lodge, how sensitive it can be in regards to the samples' physical well-being, and she would prefer to keep them at the warehouse much longer than the three days Aztechnology has given them to prepare the samples for transfer to their own facility.

About thirty minutes later, a GMC Phoenix with rental plates pulls up to the warehouse and parks, not so much in a parking space as right up by the front door.  A middle-aged man in a fine suit with salt and pepper hair and a day's growth of facial hair exits the car, and surveys the scene briefly.  On his heels, a troll emerges from the Bulldog, and approaches him.  With Spitfire keeping such close eyes on the inside of the warehouse, the greetings are lost to the team, but the two shake hands, the troll goes back to his place inside the van, and the man heads inside the front door.

"Kreutz," Flickr says.  "That's him.  He's the one running CRISPR in Ireland before," and then thinking better of it, "before they had to move here."

Spitfire pulls the Noizquito back to a higher altitude, "just in case," but gets a good bead on Kreutz as the woman in the ponytail and ork give him a tour of his new "laboratory," as Kreutz puts it.  The first order of business is to arrange the samples, and they emerge from their shipping container and line up military style at the eastern edge of the factory.  There's seven in all, each the size of a troll and covered in long white fur.  Kreutz calls them out by number: 3, 4, 6, 8, 9, 14, 15, and they each answer "Hai," in return. 

"Gut, gut," Kreutz says before switching to Japanese himself.  He barks and order, and the wendigo retreat to the eastern-most shipping container.

"Have they been exercised?" Kreutz asks the woman in the ponytail.  "No, of course not.  I hear there was some excitement at the offices a couple nights back."

"That is correct," the woman replies.  "We're still not sure how they found us."

"And yet you don't seem too worried here?"

"I'm not.  Not particularly."

"Well, I've decided to have them moved," Kreutz says.  "To the pyramid.  I want them packed up in forty-eight hours."

"You've decided?" the woman asks, and Kreutz shoots her a look that would silence a Barghest.  "Whatever you think is best, of course," she recovers.  "It's just, well, I don't think Ms. Pachis wanted the samples under the Azzie's control."

"I'm unsure of their safety under your watchful eye," Kreutz says.  "Sunrise was your domain, yes?  And now there's talk as to whether additional branches should shutter their doors.  What does that tell you?"

"That we're overestimating the power of a group of ragtag victuals," she replies.

"It tells me you're underestimating them," Kreutz counters.

The wendigo exit their shipping container in various levels of armor and form a circle at the eastern half of the warehouse.  Kreutz barks out something in clipped Japanese, and they break off into small groups and begin sparring.  They're incredibly fast, these infected orks, and seem as capable with unarmed combat as they are with long knives and polearms. 

"And do we have a location for where these hunters are now?" Kreutz asks smiling with the pride of a father.

"We're. . . we're working on that."

<< 7 Dec 2074, 01:34 // Westfield Logistics>>

Erik approaches the the pin in his Renault-Fiat, and when he's close enough to the warehouse, he casts a pair of spells to do through the astral what his empty eye sockets cannot.  Well, truth be told, do that and then some.  He picks up three metahuman life-forms outside the warehouse and between seven to ten inside.  Truth be told, there's a mess of figures in there, and things get a little hazy for him.  The layout of the warehouse is easy enough to map out, especially given that it's mostly empty space and shipping containers.  He does note crates as well, stacked near the front and back walls, a catwalk above, and a magical lodge in the eastern-most shipping container.  Most interesting, he picks up a false floor in the southeast corner of the warehouse, with a ladder going down ten meters to a thirty-by-thirty meter room below, and tunnels that stretch out to the east beyond the range of his spell.  Interesting.