ShadowSea.Seattle@Jackpoint - March

[NoOnesShowMonkey]

[9 March, 2069. 13:05, Gracie's For Ribs]

Jorge leans forward a bit and listens to his brother, brow arching. Looking left and then right, he narrows his eyes and puts a large arm around Arakan

'Now, you are my brother. You know that I love you and that I would help with you anything... But I thought you were done with this kind of thing. I kept telling you that it wasn't for you, that you weren't cut out for it.'

Cocking his head to a side, he cracks a wry grin. 'But you are my brother. I know a few guys who are putting something together that might have some problems you might be able to solve. I'll keep an ear open; you keep your nose clean.'

Sitting back, he coughs once and looks for a waitress. 'Let's eat, eh?'

[blackcoat]

[9 March, 2069. 14:09, Gracie's For Ribs]
[PAN Mode - Hidden]

After a giant pile of lovely brisket, a couple of beers and the traditional after lunch hurlg, Arakan staggered up.
"Alright, dude. You've got my contact, call me when you know more about your friends."

Then staggers back to his apartment to nap off the booze.

[NoOnesShowMonkey]

[5 March, 2069. 15:00, Meridian & 152nd Ave; Warehouse Loading Dock - Tacoma]

Gunning the engine, Screech directs his 18 wheeler head on into the oncoming GMC. An explosion sound, the white flash of impact and the rear end of the oncoming truck lifts off of the ground a full meter. Smoke roils up from the tires as the truck is driven backwards in spite of its recent headlong speed, skidding three full meters before Screech puts the breaks on.

Settling to the ground with an thud, the echoes attenuating down the alleyway, the smoke rises and dust settles. Fully the entire front end of the GMC is compressed to a fourth of its original size.

Screech notes Trigger and one of the ork delinquents running over, the ork leveling a machine pistol into the passenger window of the now stopped GMC. A long burrrrrrp fills the alleyway as the ork empties his magazine into the driverside compartment.

Little good it would do - the engine was likely already on the laps of the passengers.

Trigger takes long strides around back and levels his shotgun at the rear doors. Eight slamming concussions later, he is slipping fresh shells into the breech and motioning for the ork to pop the doors.

When they doors swing open, a grimace passes between the two before being replaced by a look of satisfaction.

[ScornMandark]

[5 March, 2069. 15:00, Meridian & 152nd Ave; Warehouse Loading Dock - Tacoma]
[PAN Mode - Hidden]

Like the aftershock of an earthquake, the Hauler rumbles violently as Screech works it back out of what was left of the step van. Watching through the rear camera and feeling the shake, he guesses a cocked axle, wheels are shot, probably a few other minor annoyances asides from the body work. [green] Checking the internal readouts, his suspicions are confirmed and then some. Rear axle bent, wheel rims bent and tire shredded, extensive structural damage, pressure loss in the brake lines (probably a leak) and the door closing mechanism won't respond at all, definitely shot.[/green] He absentmindedly rubs at his lower back, the pain of impact was not something most people really understood on this scale. Like getting all your teeth out at once by a boulder in the face, or maybe someone hitting your tailbone dead on by a 16-pound sledge.

Screech is intensely watchful as he works the damaged trailer over the slag that used to be the step van. He is pretty sure they weren't there to offer a new job, seeing as they hit the corner at 60kph and were accelerating. Normally he would keep an eye out for anyone who might have survived that impact. Probably not too many people could have, but it's an important thing to keep from getting surprised by another cyber-freak who can take cannon shells to the chest and laugh it off. However, between Trigger and the rest of the hired guns, anything that might have been left were naught but quivering giblets running out of the GMC's battered weather seals. He was a bit curious how many guests were lined up in the back of that van for Trigger to crack a grimace at.

Screech glances into the trailer to see how many of the metas survived the impact. There was one who he didn't really expect to find alive, but once the coast was clear again, he wanted to look. He really felt terrible about it; there just hadn't been time to secure everyone before he needed to deal with the van. Limping back behind the dock and lining up the battered trailer to the protrusion, he hollers over the loudspeakers, [red]"Omae, more friends? Not sure this party can get much livelier..."[/red]

[green]Screech takes a look at how many of the auto-decouplers are still functional - it might be easier at this point to ditch the trailer and try to make it back without it.[/green]

[ScornMandark]

[5 March, 2069. 15:05, Meridian & 152nd Ave; Warehouse Loading Dock - Tacoma]
[PAN Mode - Hidden]

Working the auto-decouplers for a few minutes, Screech is forced to accept the fact that they simply are non-responsive. Annoyed, he jacks out and hops down from the truck. With Ingram tucked into the back of his pants like a ludicrously large pistol, he goes to the manual disconnect. The first several pop out fairly readily, but the 8th is jammed in pretty good, and needs a little "persuasion." He steps back, looking around for a crowbar, sledgehammer, something...

"Oy, Trigger! Can you give me a hand with this?"

[ScornMandark]

[5 March, 2069. 15:07, Meridian & 152nd Ave; Warehouse Loading Dock - Tacoma]
[PAN Mode - Hidden]

Screech works away at the last restraining coupler when he stops suddenly, thinking. No real reason to leave the trailer here in the alley, waiting for some corp-cop to come find it. In fact, the Yak's would probably be kinda upset about that, and they'd want what's left of the trailer along with the cab back at the bar. Trigger pokes his head around the trailer to see what Screech is doing, but gets waved off. Thinking, Screech jacks into the external port on the Rigger Black Box on the rig and begins looking for any information about the minimal number of functional couplers this trailer needs to stay attached. he spends a few minutes working at this, not really finding much out about it. He notices peripherally that the goons are handing an envelope to Trigger, who takes it and starts walking back to the truck. Mentally shrugging, he commands the functional autodecouplers to recouple. He then finally works loose the last, sticking coupler. With 7/8 functional couplers, the trailer should hold on just fine. He climbs back into the rig, and turns to Trigger.

"Nice work back there. Messy, but nice." He lays in the auto-nav back to the bar and shifts painfully into gear. He can still feel the pain of the rig, but it is dulling now, like your knee after cracking it on a table. He pulls straight out of the alley, carefully merges into traffic, and heads back to Fast Eddie's.

Screech is still kinda torn about this one. He feels bad about the meta who sailed, so to speak, and he's never been a fan of taking the trafficking jobs. Of course, they always seem to be the "You don't need to know" jobs too, so maybe there was something there. As he turns back onto 169, he notices a group of leather wearing metas, all obviously pushing their "wares." The nausea rises in his throat, violently forced down. There was time for that later, once the drinks started flowing.

[ScornMandark]

[5 March, 2069. 17:07, Fast Eddie's Chop Shop - Tacoma]
[PAN Mode - Hidden]

The drive back was uneventful. That is to say, only took twice as long as it should have to work around the traffic on the highway, snarled from multiple shootings and several fatal crashes. And then rush hour started in earnest.

Screech and Trigger rode most of the way in silence, neither feeling the need to fill the space with small talk. Screech puts the Rig on autopilot for most of the way, only occasionally taking over when the mess swirling around him starts to make him anxious.

Screech drums his fingers lightly on the steering wheel as they go. Not that the wheel is really all that related to the direction of the truck anymore, but it was something to do. He was working very consciously to avoid thinking much about the job, it was really more than he wanted to deal with right now.

Finally, after the third firefight that erupted around the Rig settled down, he managed to pull off the highway and cruise the last few blocks to the bar. The drive hadn't done the smashed trailer any favors, but it's not like he was going fast enough to really make a difference. Pulling into the parking lot, he backs the trailer into the parking spot where he pulled it from, hiding most of the damage from the street, sandwiched between the building and the next truck over. Mentally waving goodbye to the truck, he signs out of it and jacks out, pulling the fiber optic cable back out from under the dash and coiling it into his pocket.

With a half grin, he offers the handle of the Ingram back to Trigger. "Thanks, I'm glad I didn't have to embarrass myself with this."

Trigger throws his head back and laughs. "With a ram like this one, who needs a gun, eh omae?" He shakes his head and both disembark from the cab, hopping the last foot or so to the ground.

Screech looks back at the truck a little regretfully. "Oy, Trigger - Is it gonna be a problem about that trailer?

Trigger glances back. "Probably not, might shave off a few percent for it. Mitigating circumstances and all."

With a shrug, Screech follows the man inside. Just inside the door, a black suited Japanese man holds up a hand. "Chotto dake. Please wait here." Trigger looks back at him and adds, "I'll be back in a sec."

Sighing, Screech nods and leans up against the bar, pretending to be interested in the ball game. With a thought, he sends a quick email to Joe. "Yo - just finishing up here, be back soon. Sorry it took so long..."

[ScornMandark]

[5 March, 2069. 17:43, Fast Eddie's Chop Shop - Tacoma]
[PAN Mode - Hidden]

Screech is getting a bit nervous, considering he's been here for over over half an hour with no sign of Trigger coming back out. Also, he hasn't gotten a message back from Joe; he's less nervous about that since Joe doesn't have an installed 'deck, so he doesn't check his messages all that often.

Nervous might be the wrong word, really annoyed, actually. It's not a good idea to show too much of that around the boys in black, however, so he downs another cola and munches on the sesame ginger sticks at the bar. Finally, Trigger comes out from the back, looking as stoic and unimpressed by everything around him as usual. He tosses a credstick at Screech and drawls, "Took a minute to explain about the trailer, but overall, not too bad. They've got your number if they're interested in the future." With that, he turns and leaves again.

Shaking his head a little, Screech pockets the stick and walks out the bar, leaving a few cred behind for the bartender. Not too bad of a job, really, asides from the whole trafficking thing. He needs to head back to Joe's, but he really just wants to drink a bit. Ah well. Duty calls.

Walking up to his Roadmaster, he slaps a palm to the biometric reader in the door and hops into the seat. He pops the fiber into his jack and slides back into the familiar realm of AR overlay and VR city. He sets the autonav to head back to Joe's, taking the same route back. He shouldn't be more than another 45 minutes getting back, and that'll leave plenty of light to finish up the job he started earlier. Presuming there were no mishaps on the way. Maybe he'd take tomorrow off, just kick back for once.

[NoOnesShowMonkey]

[12 March, 2069. 12:21, Chop Shop - Tacoma]

A few days have passed uneventfully, Screech falling back into the routine of work.

The weather has been oppressive - unrelenting rain for nearly a full week, intermittently broken up with a dense, funerary fog that raises out of the dirty streets, smelling like something.

...<<#Growler>>
Don't expect much let up out there, kids, there is a large tropical storm system brewing out near Indonesia. Spreading its wings, elbowing out the sun, that little bitch is going to keep us good and soaked for a while yet...

The din of talk radio is drown out by compressors and tools, filling out a background sound that calms the nerves some.

Screech is elbow deep in a Mercury Comet when Joe lays a heavy hand on his back. 'Omae, that japanese is back.' Without having to turn, Screech can hear the scowl in his words. 'You might want to consider meeting him someplace other than the shop - I don't know if the attention is worth it.'

Pulling out of the Comet's guts, Screech grabs a rag and starts wiping off the grime caking his hands. Through the tinted glass, he can see the waiting area and the straight backed be-suited japanese waiting calmly. Luckily, the shop is empty for the moment, no customers sharing the room.

'You did an excellent job with your last bit of work, even though there were a few complications. Our man had only good things to say about you. We have another job - another driving job - coming up, if you are interested.'

[ScornMandark]

With an apologetic glance to Joe, Screech bows halfway from the waist. With an adrenaline spike, this should alleviate the environmental depression this rain has been driving him to.

"Arigatou. I would be interested in discussing the job. Would you care to discuss this now? We have a more...discrete room for conferences, if you'd like. Or...would you like to meet later?"

[NoOnesShowMonkey]

Eyeing Joe, the Japanese nods his head slightly at the bow. 'You will meet me at Kenshiro Sushi tonight at eight PM.'

Inclining his head briefly, the Japanese turns and walks smoothly out of the shop.

Joe walks up behind Screech, watching over his shoulder at the Japanese leaving. 'Some kind of friends you have, these days...'

[NoOnesShowMonkey]

[9 March, 2069. 14:09, Gracie's For Ribs]
[PAN Mode - Hidden]

Sept 30, 2010 22:17:32 GMT -5 blackcoat said:

After a giant pile of lovely brisket, a couple of beers and the traditional after lunch hurlg, Arakan staggered up.
"Alright, dude. You've got my contact, call me when you know more about your friends."

As he turns to leave, Arakan feels the strong grip of his brother's hand on his forearm. 'Jibril, I know you did not seriously just come here asking me for work?'

After spending a moment searching his brother's eyes, Jorge nods slowly. 'If you need money...' He slips a credstick into Arakan's hand. 'Best leave heavy work to others, bro.'

Arakan is in the parking lot when a text hits his commlink.

<<Jorge to Arakan>> If I hear about anyone needing some mojo slingers, and it looks like it is a cake walk, I'll think about sending them your way. You keep your nose clean, brother.>>

[ScornMandark]

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.

[phatgdog69]

[12 March, 2069. 18:51, Markum, et al. offices]
[PAN Mode - Active]

Sterling sits in his office going through some papers. It had been nearly two weeks since his last "outside" job - and given the way that had gone, perhaps it was for the best. Since then, he had spent a lot more time in the office, trying to keep himself busy. He hadn't talked to Torin since then, either - he wasn't pleased at his associate's choice of clients. But, beggers can't be choosers - and the stacks of legal briefs and paperwork were dulling his senses. He rang up Torin on his secure line.

<<D. Sterling @ T. Lowell>>
Torin, its been awhile. This work is starting to grate on me and I don't want that last job to leave a mark on my reputation in this city. Has any word of work for a negotiator come down the pipeline to you?

[phatgdog69]

[11 March, 2069. 02:25, 12th Street apartment, Tacoma]
[PAN Mode - Hidden]

Nora dropped on the remnants of the apartment's probably-20th-century couch. Reasonably below "pleasant" by any standards, but good enough to wind down. Another night at the club wrapped and done, though it was a bit early by her standards - even Nancy wasn't back yet. It had been slow for a weekend - and despite getting better, she still hadn't made any kind of name for herself yet.

"Its not fair, nobody appreciates art in this town anymore...."

Kicking back, she flipped on the trid while checking through her message backlog. She hadn't heard much work as of late - and nothing from Erin in weeks...of course, after that last interview stunt, who could blame her...

[phatgdog69]

[12 March, 2069. 01:03, Fiori Floral]
[PAN Mode - Hidden]

Long after hours at the shop, Thag set his shovel by the door and flipped on the lights. "Another busy night," he thought, as a wail of red and blue rolled faintly through the shop. Hazama tapped his shoes at the door, following just behind him.

"Its a shame, really - those nice men will find their work rather vexing tonight..."
Thag sighed as he checked on orchids. Hazama furrowed his brow at the comment. Thag gave his friend a "tut-tut" motion -

"Oh, I know its our job to make theirs harder, willy. You need to learn to relax a little - always business with you///"

He said, making a pointed gesture with his small pruning shears. Hazama shook his head - he would have none of it. The troll was a strange one, certainly, but the closest someone might call a 'friend' to him. At least, an ally.

"Yes, business - So, whats next?"