#[Screech].Shadowsea.Seattle@Jackpoint

[ScornMandark]

[12 March, 2069. 12:25, Joe's Chop Shop - Tacoma.]
[PAN Mode - Hidden]

Screech looks back over his shoulder at Joe. "Friends?" He laughed sharply, a little louder than he intended to. "With friends like these..."

Still chuckling, he heads back into the shop. That Comet wasn't going to fix itself...

Several hours pass largely uninterrupted save the sound of the pneumatic ratchet and the occasional spot weld.

About 6:15, Screech slides out from under the 'Rabbit clone he was poking at and wipes his hands. "Oy, Joe! I'm out."

Joe pokes his head out from the office. "No Neil tonight? Shame." He laughs at Screech's near comical expression. "Seriously, though, careful out there."

Screech nods. "Daijoubu, yo. I'll be in by lunch."

He heads back to his flat and showers, then puts on his nice clothes. Nice meaning the one set of clothes he hasn't worn to the shop yet, thus is not grease stained. 'I really should get a set of nicer clothes if I'm going to be doing this more. No sense standing out more than strictly necessary.'

[12 March, 2069. 19:45, Kenshiro Sushi.]
[PAN Mode - Hidden]

Screech pulls into the parking lot early. No sense showing up late like last time. He parks his Roadmaster off to the side of the parking lot, by where the delivery vans park. Not being the most discrete vehicle, it at least almost blends in over there.

Turning up his collar at the continued drizzle of death, he mentally locks the doors and double checks the inventory of the car. Remington, check. Gel Rounds loaded in LMG, check. Fuel topped off - almost. Running at about 83%, he really should top off the next time he goes out. Feeling in his pocket for his credstick, he is reassured by the rough texture of his jumpsuit. Not exactly welded plate like that crazy gang out east, but better than nothing.

With a deep breath, he walks inside. Looking around and not immediately seeing the man who entered the shop earlier, Screech nods at the man at the door and walks up to the bar. He orders a mid grade sake, sliding the 8+2 (tip) creds over to the barkeep. Sipping slowly, he waits patiently for his contact, watching the door.

<<<NOTE: Copied over from main thread>>>

[NoOnesShowMonkey]

[12 March, 2069. 20:00, Kenshiro Sushi.]

Fifteen minutes go by smoothly, the light k's and long s's of Japanese playing lightly over the music in Kenshiro's. The interior of the sushi restaurant is not exactly cramped, but hardly spacious. A sushi bar, manned by two human chefs, occupies the left hand wall, lined by high-top chairs. Beyond that, to the right, lay a series of tables, the right hand wall occupied by booths. Seating no more than perhaps thirty, the small restaurant is cosy, somehow not cramped. The patrons are a mixture of upper-middle-class wage-slaves, all human, and a few obvious locals out for a splurge, their high-nuyen clothes not quite looking right.

At precisely 19:59, in walks the same Japanese, wearing almost the same conservative grey-black suit. He notices Screech with a mechanical gaze and, without a nod, walks over to where Screech sits at the sushi bar. 'A table, Junichi-san. Or should I say, Hideo-san?'

Eying Screech cooly, the two walk over to a booth and sit in silence until the order is placed. The Japanese breaks the silence, 'I am Hideo. You come highly recommended from Keller.' After a brief pause, waiting for Screech to react, he continues, 'Your last work was quite satisfactory. I am here to offer you further work of a similar kind - transport - should you be interested. This next job will take you farther afield than your last. I am prepared to offer you well into four figures for the work. Are you interested?'

[ScornMandark]

Screech's eyebrows raise a bit at the man as he gestures to the booth. Ordering an ahi sushi plate and a green tea, he leans back and waits for the Johnson-san to begin.

"Keller, hm?" He hasn't talked to Keller for nearly a week now, since before the last Yak offer. He really should touch base with him after this 'run. The Johnson, or, rather, Hideo continues with the job offer.

Screech nods at the man. "Thank you for your kind words. Indeed, I am interested. Will this be another pre-arranged transport? Or will I be using my own vehicle?" The adrenaline starts up again, he loved this part.

[NoOnesShowMonkey]

Nodding slightly at the mention of Screech's personal vehicle, Hideo begins, 'Sou desu, the choice of vehicle is up to you.'

Leaning back in his seat, Hideo regards Screech through slightly squinted eyes, his palms flat on the table. 'My client desires to have some containers shipped out of the main city a ways, into Puyallup. We do not wish to draw as much... attention... by using a traditional secure carrier. Do you have the means to transport two metric tons, separable into allotments no smaller than a half-ton?'

[ScornMandark]

Screech nods at his words. "I can have the means in short order. When would the deadline be for these goods to arrive at the destination?"

Running through the numbers in his head, he estimates his Roadmaster could maybe do it in 2 trips, but it would probably take 3 if he didn't want to grind his axles on the way. He really should reinforce the frame, this issue has come up a few times now. Instead, he's going to have to get a trailer or another truck.

Ugh.

[NoOnesShowMonkey]

'The sooner the better.' Taking a sip from his sake and downing a bite of sushi, Hideo continues, 'I have some men ready to load up the material this evening, but I can put them on standby for tomorrow night. My client needs these goods delivered no later than two days, however.'

Downing his sake and gesturing to a waitress for another, Hideo pauses for a moment, then leans forward and lowers his voice. 'You must understand that my client is interested in the integrity of these goods and that discretion is exercised at all times. The material will be loaded by men I provide in sealed containers provided by the client. Under no circumstances are these to be opened. Failure to abide by this simple mandate will result in termination of our agreement.'

Sitting back, he spreads his arms out wide, resting them on the booth-back. Smiling his thin, wiley smile, Hideo chippers up. 'Sorede, I imagine you might be interested in payment. I am prepared to offer twenty-five hundred nuyen for safe delivery.'

[ScornMandark]

His eyebrow twitched at the price. "Your offer is most satisfactory. One of my operating principles is, 'The less I know, the better.' I certainly have no problem ensuring the containers remain sealed. I do have some logistical questions, of course."

Screech leaned forward slightly. "Are the containers of a...standard size? As in about 1.2 by 1.0 meters footprint, 500 kg each? or do I need to account for a nonstandard size? Also, will the contents of said containers withstand a bit of rough driving? or does there need to be extra attention to safe routes? Considering the destination, I think it's a fair question."

[NoOnesShowMonkey]

'A principle that will take you far in this business.'

Hideo's eyes glaze over for a moment and twitch, as if in REM sleep, his hands flexing slightly. After a moment, his gaze hardens again, and he nods. 'The containers can all fit into a footprint no larger than two and a half meters wide by four meters deep.'

Fiddling with his empty sake cup, he smiles glowingly as the waitress comes by and refills it. 'The conditions of your travel are entirely up to you - your own methods and means are at your discretion. As to the nature of the contents, they are, how shall I say this...' A crafty smile creases his face as he suppresses a chortle. 'More resilient than your last cargo.'

[ScornMandark]

Screech nods again, a weak half smile at the Yak's words about the Meta cargo he shipped a few days ago. "Sounds good. What are the coordinates for drop off and pickup? I may get a run in tonight, but I may have to wait until tomorrow to arrange the necessary transportation." Considering the destination, it wasn't going to be a pretty 'run either way he cut it.

[NoOnesShowMonkey]

Nodding, Hideo appears pleased. 'Bargained and done. I have sent you the location of the goods. If you intend on taking them tonight, please let me know within the next two hours. You have my contact information.'

Standing to leave, he turns to Screech once more, 'Remember, no harm is to come to the cargo, and, more importantly, the containers are to arrive sealed.'

At that, he turns and is out the door of the restaurant in moments and into the rainy gloom, lost beyond the water-covered windows and into the night.

[ScornMandark]

[12 March, 2069. 20:28, Kenshiro Sushi.]
[PAN Mode - Hidden]

Screech salutes the man with his sake and watches him disappear into the rain. His mind is cranking like a rotary engine, working on the best way to do this. His preference would be to split the 'run, honestly, just to try to secure some of the cargo. His frustration at his inability to load his Roadmaster all at once is mounting, and plans for the upgrades after this run are already underway in his head.

This is one of those times where Screech forgets he doesn't know why he knows how to design a load-bearing member, or estimate the minimum k-value for coil-over springs to support a 3-4 metric ton load. The sketches begin laying out in his head, and he tags them in his comm for later review.

<<#Screech @ #Joe>> Hey Joe, do you have a 2 Tonne trailer I can borrow tomorrow?

[NoOnesShowMonkey]

Within seconds, Joe responds.

In the intervening moments, Screech puts the cords into his navsoft, pulling up the location. Hot drek in December... It is out in the sticks, way out near Ranier.

SPOILER: Click to show

Joe Higashi makes an Edge + Connection to see if he has a trailer. (6d6.hits(5)=1)

<<Joe @ Screech>> The only trailer I have is the flatbed on the back of the tow truck, and it takes a tractor trailer hookup. That oughta haul 2 tonnes like nothing. Do I want to know why you need that trailer?>>

[ScornMandark]

<<Screech @ Joe>> Probably not, and I need something a little more... enclosed, I think. Thanks, though. I've got a day off coming up, I probably won't be in tomorrow. Nothing pressing at the shop?>>

Screech mulls over the route a bit, massaging the autonav until he's got it down to an estimated 37-45 minutes each way. 'Hour and a half round trip, might not be so bad.' He isn't going to want to make 4 trips, but a quick trip tonight would probably still fit in.

<<Screech @ Hideo>> Hideo-san, I will be making a partial trip tonight, and the remainder tomorrow. Is there anything in particular I should be aware of before making the trip?>>

Next, though, is the trailer. He still needs one for tomorrow, and the flat bed isn't something he's comfortable with. He only needs it to haul 1 Tonne, since the other 500 kg can fit in the Roadmaster. The only other contact he's really got is Keller, who isn't likely to have much. On the other hand, you never know. Plus, he needs to thank him for the recommendation.

<<Screech @ Keller>> Hi Keller - Thank you for the recommendation! I believe this will benefit both parties admirably, and we both have you to thank. This may seem like an odd request, but are you aware of any enclosed trailers with a standard rear hitch I could get access to for a day or two? I'd rather avoid U-Hump-Its if I can, but they are a fall back if needed. Thanks again!>>

[NoOnesShowMonkey]

<<Keller @ Screech>> It seemed like a point of mutual advantage. I had no trouble recommending you. If you do well, I'll get a nice cut as a middle man. As far as a trailer goes, I may know someone that has one... It will cost you, though, a cut to me to arrange it and whatever fee my man charges. Probably a few hundred nuyen. Shall I contact him?>>

SPOILER: Click to show

Edge + Connection test to see if Keller has a trailer on hand for Screech. -2 dice because the contact does not normally deal with these items. Threshold 2 to get a trailer. (6d6.hits(5)=2)

[ScornMandark]

Screech's eyebrows raise at this. 'Nothing ventured, nothing gained, I suppose.'

<<Screech @ Keller>> Please contact your man, thank you. I'm sure whatever fees will be more than reasonable. I'd like to get it sometime tomorrow morning, if that would be possible.>>

[NoOnesShowMonkey]

Within the hour, Keller responds with a Tacoma address and a name - Burns. The final line of the message states that the cost is 200 nuyen to Burns and 100 to Keller for making it happen. Attached are pictures of a 3 to 4 meter trailer, set with double wheels and a heavy duty hitch - more than enough to transport what Screech intends to move.

[ScornMandark]

While waiting for Keller's reply, Screech gets up from the table, leaving behind a few extra cred as a tip on top of the dinner. Not Japanese tradition, but still an old 'State-side custom. Heading to the lot, he spends a few minutes thinking over his trip tonight.

Realizing that for all the space in the back of the Roadmaster, he doesn't actually have any tie down straps for the cargo, he stops in at the closest Super-Convenience store and picks up a few simple manual ratcheting tie-downs. Back in the parking lot, he takes a few minutes cleaning the tags from the simple devices.

Running down his mental checklist from earlier, he decides it's really in his best interest to top off his fuel tanks before heading into Puyallup. He lets the autonav pick a random fueling station on the way to the pickup and tops off.

Half an hour after leaving the restaurant, Screech pulls up to the pickup location.

When the note from Keller comes, Screech notes the address in his contact list, along with Burns and the trailer picture.

[NoOnesShowMonkey]

[12 March, 2069. 21:20, Kenshiro Sushi.]

Punching the pickup location into his autonav, Screech finds that the address is a container yard near the Tacoma docks. The autonav has a route planned that will take him across the I-5, to the 18, onto the 164 and finally towards his drop off via the 162: total travel time estimated at 105 minutes.

SPOILER: Click to show

Screech may make any relevant area knowledge checks for any troubles along his routes etc.

[ScornMandark]

While letting the autonav manage the driving, Screech frowns at the route picked out by the computer. 'That seems a bit... circuitous. Maybe....' He pokes at the autonav for a few minutes, massaging the route until it seems a little more straight forward.

After a moment, he gets the route to estimate 40-45 minutes, taking the 705 to the 5, then the 512 to 162. He's a fan of the larger highways when possible, even at the expense of a few minutes. 'This'll probably take closer to an hour, which is not too shabby.' He's not really aware of anything out of the ordinary going on out that way.

Which is to say, another day in Hell's Paradise.

So, he turns the radio to a local news station and keeps an ear out for traffic reports.

Presently, he rolls up to the container yard and pulls up to the loading area.

[NoOnesShowMonkey]

The Autonav takes him to a large shipping facility near Tacoma, multicolored stacks of containers piled in some places twenty high, towering like rainbow skyscrapers into the Seattle night. Arranged in blocks, like a city, the containers are stacked onto broad foundations and into huge frames of white painted steel, providing a skeleton that holds the whole pile together. Tracking along the white girders, automated picker machines whine and whirl, huge mechanical pincers grabbing containers and lifting, dropping, stacking like some child with blocks.

At the gate, Screech pulls up a bit nervous, but is relieved to find that he has, in fact, an appointment for pickup lasting through to the next day. Waved through the gate, his vehicle's PAN logs onto the network for the facility and slaves his autonav, guiding him back to a container stack deep in the facility.

Once clear of the gate, the number of humans drops from few to none, leaving only drones buzzing about. Making his final turn, Screech comes to a dead end filled with metahumans. A few orks, trolls and the odd human are sitting on a picnic table, bantering, pulling smokes out of their reflective vests or out from under their hardhats. They are thickly muscled and covered with tattoos. A few AROs nearby state the claim of the International Order of Stevedores.

Past them, at the end of the container row, a pair of black SUVs sit at idle. Standing poised and posed around the vehicles are a handful of dark suited, be-sunglass'ed men. Gazing about as he creeps up, Screech notes several of the suits are carrying automatic weapons.

One, a human with silver flecking the temples of his crew cut, walks over and points his square jaw right at Screech's window and knocks hard with a heavy fist. When the window opens, he asks 'You are here to pick up the containers, no?' The thick Eastern European accent is unmistakable.

[ScornMandark]

Rolling through the container yard, Screech is a little intimidated by the towering piles of goods. Knowing full well that this kind of inventory is standard for a dockyard like this doesn't make it any less imposing.

As he rolls into the docker's union area, his initial reaction is to keep his windows up. The large European has other ideas. He hesitantly rolls the windows down as the man questions him.

"Yes, I'm here to get one of the containers. I will be getting the rest tomorrow." As he looks at the arsenal on display here, he continues. "Should I be expecting something in particular en route?"

[NoOnesShowMonkey]

The thick, greying human shrugs slightly and inclines his head towards a group of packages palletted next to an open container. 'Back up to that, please.'

Screech pulls the van around and backs to the pallets and in moments several of the guards - stevedore's watching and smoking and drinking - use a drone jack to lift and load one of the units into his van.

'Where are the rest of the transports?' Turning his view from the loading, Screech notes the thick Russian addressing him again. Taking a step towards Screech, the thick security guard presses on. 'We won't be able to fit more than a quarter of this gear into your van. Where are the rest of the vehicles in the convoy?'

[ScornMandark]

Screech turned back to the Russian. "As I said, I will be getting the rest tomorrow. I will have an additional cargo hauler then." As the container settles into the Roadmaster, he pulls out the ratcheting tie downs and begins securing the crate.

[NoOnesShowMonkey]

The European beings swearing in dialect, gruff and low, in a practiced way. A few of the other guards that are assisting in loading look up briefly before turning back to their work.

'As you like it. We will stay here and guard this lot until you come back.'

Within a few minutes, the load is tied down. The containers themselves consist of irregularly sized units of varying weights. Several seem to have highly shiftable contents - liquid or loose - and others are quite dense. On the sides of several containers, Screech notes a logo of some kind that has been scoured clean. Taking a moment to closely inspect them, the logo appears to be some kind of circle or series of inset circles - he is not quite sure.

Fully loaded, the thick, older guard approaches Screech again and extends a hand. Encased in a steely grip, the two shake. 'We will be here until tomorrow night, no later than 0200. If you do not come by then, we will notify our employer that you have failed. Are we clear?'

[ScornMandark]

[12 March, 2069. 21:45, Tacoma Dockyard]

As he is tying down the containers, Screech notes the remnants of the scoured logo. 'Are these toxic? Maybe that's why they want these sealed. I should be more clear in the future about added fees for toxic materials. Geh...' Not happy with his thoughts, he takes an eye-cam pic of what's left of the logo and makes a note to have someone look at it later.

Screech nods at the Russian. "Clear. Thanks for sticking around, I'll make sure to get the rest by then."

He climbs back into the Roadmaster and lets the autonav take him out of the docking area and to the 705. Jacking in, he checks his gages again. 'This is gonna be fun.' He keeps his massive sensor suite on passive for now, relying mostly on cameras and passives so as not to catch undue attention. His standard RADAR suite he leaves on a lower power, comparable to most commercially available sensor suites.

There'll be plenty of time to light up the night once the drek hits the fans.

SPOILER: Click to show

modified radioactive references to toxic...

[NoOnesShowMonkey]

[12 March, 2069. 23:00, Seattle Freeways]

Screech turns his van around with ease, despite the tight quarters. As he pulls out, he notes the icy stares of the security personnel follow his vehicle - like they were watching a hearse carrying a dead man.

<<Traffic is moderate to heavy. No traffic safety advisories active along the planned route. Accidents at exits 12, 22 and 42 along I-5. Accidents on I-90 at exits...>>

The hollow, mechanical female voice droned out exactly what Screech could tell about his trip thus far: the highways were packed, full of accidents where people were watching two shows at once and on a video commcall with the hubby while sending encrypted texts to their office sweetheart and e-mailing their boss status updates. Empty heads and empty hearts riding around in empty cars packed into a crowded freeway, playing bumper cars. In short, Sprawl-ways in the evening.

Everywhere, the world churned onwards, like the innards of some giant beast, the peristaltic action of the side streets pushing people into the main streets and onto the freeway. Wherever there was a problem, the right guys in the right uniforms swooped in to clean up the mess and make sure that everything kept limping along.

Easy as pie thus far.

Exiting the I-5 onto the 161, Screech notes the main city far off in the distance. The cold-sim AR city emerald green and sparkling despite the overcast, moonless night and the low-hanging cloud of pollution that made the city look like it was perched atop some range in the Himalayas. Onward and ahead, the Sprawl steadily decreased in height, multi-story commercial units and hab-plexes giving way to the strip-mall-sprawl: nothing over two stories, nothing but endless grey parking lots and the cold hum of florescent lights.

Steadily, the roads grew derelict, the 512 being a cutoff. Beyond the interchange, tags - meat and 'trix - covered buildings. Not really the arty ones, animated AROs with ironic statements. Simpler, hammer-stupid ones, claiming territory like a cat's piss. Steadily, the nicer cars gave way to jalopies out of yesteryear, a collector's dream turned into nightmare, whole fleets of cars given over to rust and neglect.

[ScornMandark]

Not pushing harder than necessary through the freeways, Screech chuckles at the change from the last run, frenetic and sloppy, shoving his way through the steamy pile of mess that was the freeway here. Letting himself get swept along with the rest of the wage slaves, it was much less stressful, considering he had more time than strictly necessary to finish the 'run.

As the corp clean mess of the freeways surrendered to the sprawling decay of the 'burbs, Screech started warming up his sensor array, beginning to get ready for whatever may go bump in the night. He didn't trust milk runs, especially ones that paid as well as this. Maybe it was just a hazardous cargo they didn't want to register, maybe there was a spirit tracker hooked to the bottles, maybe the drek would splatter the fans tomorrow.

He just didn't trust it.

[NoOnesShowMonkey]

[12 March, 2069. 23:27, Hell's Kitchen border, Puyallup]

The night was still young and the streets were awake. People mill about, going here and there. Though traffic had slowed as Screech had headed out of the main city, it was certainly not at ebb. A few kilometers back, Screech had to swap to fuel-cell, as the Grid was blinking in and out and unable to power his vehicle.

Nearing his final steer-point, Screech is driving along when he notices that the road ahead is lined with red lights. Not necessarily odd, as the Grid is usually on the fritz out in this part of town. None of the vehicles around him, coming or going, seemed to pay any mind to the signals, fish tailing for only a moment before weaving around each other, continuing on without much of a slow down. Out ahead, lit by the moon and set bone-white against the sparkling lights of the sprawl nearby, stood a few housing project towers.

Driving along, several roadsigns, hanging at dejected angles, have been spray painted to say 'Hell's Kitchen' with an arrow pointing onwards. Several cautionary AROs pop up, cautioning further travel. A LoneStar Security ARO pops up and displays a large translucent red wall ahead, marking the end of their policing. Soon, spam-ware is hammering on Screech's commlink, pop ups for all manner of illegal goods flooding in alongside demands for tribute set by various gangs. Several of the AROs easily appear out of date - the dress is from the 2050s, video and sound quality lacking etc.

Traffic is largely splitting off in every direction and nothing is coming in from the road ahead save a few vehicles. A loose term, as each appears cobbled together out of various parts from cars, trucks, anything that runs. A large flatbed truck bedecked in search lights rumbles past, headed out into the wastes of Hell's Kitchen, the bed filled with a heavy machine gun. Manning the gun is a mohawked ork wearing a lime green respirator and antique flight goggles. Several nearby vehicles obviously swerve out of the truck's way and, as it crosses the red line, it's engine lets out a throaty roar, the ork in back pumps his fist, and the truck takes off at easily 120 kph, belching smoke out of a pair of straight pipes.


Checking his mapsofts, he finds that his software is not registering even half of the streets here. As far as his navsoft was concerned, he had a straight shot towards his drop-off. Things did not look so simple, after all.

[ScornMandark]

Gritting his teeth a bit, Screech isn't looking forward to tonight's 'run, let alone tomorrow's return trip. As he pierces the LoneStar border, he fires up his full power sensor suite, ready to lock on to just about anything. As the Sprawl hits abject anarchy, he decides it's time.

With a thought, the hatch on the roof of the Roadmaster slides open and the turret extends. The Ares MP-LMG rises like a serpent, hissing and ready to strike. Both belt feeds are loaded, one with Gel and the other with ExExplosive rounds. The ExEx rounds are currently selected, mostly for the horrific damage they impart. With that last truck full of hot-headed metas and ammo, he's trying to be ready for just about anything.

As he goes, he lets the sensor array start mapping streets that aren't in the mapsoft, noting side streets and alleys for future reference.

With the Ultra-Wide Band RADAR active, he can see a meter or so below the street as well, a bizarre 3D conglomeration of asphalt and piping, abandoned repair projects and sewer access tunnels. He's a bit paranoid, since the disrepair of these roads would lend themselves easily to a minefield of partially buried devices.

A bit nervous, he plows ahead, keeping an eye out for anything that would keep him from his destination.

[NoOnesShowMonkey]

[12 March, 2069. 23:27, Somewhere along 162 in Hell's Kitchen, Puyallup]

Out each window is an apocalypse of lava flats and half engulfed shells of burned out buildings. A few light poles stick up out of the earth like broken fingers.

His sensor suite running hot, eyes peeled and every ounce of concentration given over to the drive, Screech is tuned in. The road resembles something of a bombed out runway - potholes the size of craters - and everywhere there are piles of junk that making the going difficult.

SPOILER: Click to show

The terrain will be applying a +4 threshold mod to all tests unless otherwise specified

Screech is scanning about, looking for trouble. Though his radar is of no help, Screech notes a pair of trolls pushing a large truck forward onto the road from the right, looking dead set on creating a roadblock. On the other side of the road an ork and a human push on a smaller car. Welded to the sides of the vehicles are large spikes fashioned out of bits of pipe and other scrap. Standing on the roof of the smaller car is a shorn headed human who is in the process of leveling an RPG towards Screech's oncoming van.