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Post by NoOnesShowMonkey on Aug 15, 2010 12:47:46 GMT -5
In character posts for Droid Rage!
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Post by NoOnesShowMonkey on Aug 16, 2010 11:27:49 GMT -5
[20:08 - 04 March, 2069 - corner of 25th and 70th ave, Tacoma]Butts parks his Nissan Patrol and gets out onto the dark street amidst the rain. A pair of bums are debating the nature of water, one claiming that 'it ain't got no bottom - like, the bottom of a glass of water could be its top!' while the other stares on in amazement, clearly wrapped up. A couple of joygirls across the street cast nasty looks at Butts as he steps out of his vehicle and one of the girls starts accessing her commlink. Within a half a blocks walk, two trolls round a corner and eye Butts. The larger of the two growls at Butts. 'Get back in your pig-rig, hamslice. We don't want your kind around here.'
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Post by NoOnesShowMonkey on Aug 16, 2010 11:28:26 GMT -5
[19:51 - 04 March, 2069 - on I-5 near the exit for 54th]The Five is pretty normal today - the rain causes a disgusting slick on the inside of turns and wherever the drains are clogged and these in turn cause fender benders galore. One the way into Tacoma, Clint passes a bimbo-box that is burning and has a hastily tagged nail through a skull on its flank amidst numerous bullet holes. An animated ARO of an huge, musclebound troll tearing the head off of an elf and ramming it onto a spear plays in continuous loop. The Star is nowhere to be found and, besides the usual rubber necking, nobody really seems to care. Slowing his cruiser down to exit I-5, Clint first hears and then sees in his mirrors a pair of enormous Choppers pulling up to flank his car. The bass heavy blasts of their exhaust are ratting the windows of nearby cars. Clint can clearly see one of them gesturing at his vehicle with a Streetsweeper.
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Post by NoOnesShowMonkey on Aug 16, 2010 12:57:40 GMT -5
[19:52 - 04 March, 2069 - on I-5 near the exit for 54th]
Looking in his rearview mirror, Clint sees one of the large trolls raise a bullhorn to his gaping mouth and a guttural 'Hey, pull it the fuck over or we will END you! Nobody takes their flash ride, or comes heavy through our turf without ponying up!' comes belching forth.
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Post by drzaius on Aug 16, 2010 13:42:05 GMT -5
[19:52 - 04 March, 2069 - on I-5 near the exit for 54th]
As Clint heads down the I-5, traffic begins to slow and thicken. On the median lay a burning bimbo box with an ARO tag of a troll tearing the head off an elf and ramming it onto a stake. Drivers rubberneck and try to avoid the bits of wreckage.
Within a quarter of a mile or so, Clint notices two choppers in his rearview. One of them is waving a Streetsweeper while the other bellows into a bullhorn. 'Pull over or we will END you!'
'Nobody takes their flash ride or comes heavy into Spikes territory without paying up!'
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Post by NoOnesShowMonkey on Aug 16, 2010 17:25:49 GMT -5
[19:51 - 04 March, 2069 - The Ring, south Downtown, Seattle]
Descending The Ring - the multi story, multi level super highway belt running through Downtown - Sterling's Autonav starts to chirp and a traffic safety advisory plays. Like all GridSec advisories, this one comes autotranslated in eleven different linguasofts with a selectable personality. Sterling's stock options produce a soothing female voice...
<<Caution. Caution. Traffic Safety Advisory in effect for I-5 Southbound and Northbound past 54th street exits. Please route your travels through safe zones. LoneStar and GridSecurity are aware of the issues and are already hard at work ensuring your safety.>>
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Post by NoOnesShowMonkey on Aug 16, 2010 23:22:54 GMT -5
[20:09 - 04 March, 2069 - corner of 25th and 70th ave, Tacoma]'I said get back in your pig-rig. The Star ain't welcome around here. I thought we taught you cops a lesson about rolling off I-5 around here...'The larger of the two, the speaker, stands two meters in front of Butts, baring his way. His buddy now stands a few meters back and one meter to the left, idly letting his hand slide down near the shotgun. Butts recognizes that this may be ye olde shakedown that many a LoneStar officer with neither spine nor scruples would simply pay off. He also notices that these trolls seem more interested in having him get out of here than fighting. The trolls also are convinced that he is LoneStar plainclothes.
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Post by NoOnesShowMonkey on Aug 17, 2010 10:06:35 GMT -5
[19:52 - 04 March, 2069 - on I-5 near the exit for 54th]
The concrete walls of I-5 reverberate with the roaring echo of engines revving to the red line. Clint sinks his foot down on the accelerator, urging his cruiser towards its top speed, staring straight ahead and soft focusing to take in the now rapidly oncoming traffic. Smoke roils from his rear tires as his cruiser lays down a pair of thick rubber lines. Where most cars start to rattle and shake when the tachometer spikes, the police interceptor engine is almost laughing, finally getting a chance to do what it was made to do.
In his rearview, however, Clint sees the front tire of one bike fly up into the air and twin clouds of smoke to mark the peeling out of the two gangers. Over the din of his engine, Clint can hear one of the trolls chanting 'Spikes! Spikes! Spikes!' The trolls close the gap between the two vehicles and one pulls alongside the rear of Clint's interceptor while the other pulls along the other side.
The highway is turning into a series of blurs, lights stretching out into the night in long tails. People are on their way to restaurants or home or to work or to wherever the hell they go. The I-5 is busy tonight - either a boon or a curse depending on how you look at it.
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Post by phatgdog69 on Aug 17, 2010 13:00:29 GMT -5
[19:52 - 04 March, 2069 - The Ring, south Downtown, Seattle]
Sterling groans - it figures, an advisory by the '54 exit. In this town, that was like saying 'heavy traffic' or 'chance of rain'. A simple command was all it took to get the navsoft to plot a path with a stint on highway 99 around the advisory zone and zip back along the 'Grid. It would take a little longer, but still faster than the likely traffic on the 5 if a bunch of punk gangers were trashing the place.
As much as he relished the idea of running down a couple of bikers - and glad he brought his favorite gun - this was still an uninvited mission. The fewer the complications, the better - and there were always complications.
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Post by drzaius on Aug 17, 2010 15:12:57 GMT -5
[19:53 - 04 March, 2069 - on I-5 near the exit for 54th]
Clint makes a quick decision, and decides he doesn't like the cut of this Gang's jib. He sends a mental command to lower his window, and quick-draws his Predator from it's holster, firing at the Spike on his driverside.
The shot connects, but the Troll grins as it glances off of his armor. This appears to have pissed them off more, because both trolls gun their throttles, the meaty bass of their choppers filling Clint's car as they pull up to flank him.
Both draw weapons, and Clint sees the gleam of a sawed off in his mirror as he sends another mental command to raise the window.
Well, that didn't work.
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Post by phatgdog69 on Aug 17, 2010 15:35:10 GMT -5
[20:01 - 04 March, 2069 - Hwy 99, south Downtown, Seattle]
"What is this drek! Ridiculous!" Sterling cursed at the traffic - at this rate, there was no way he'd make it to the meeting on time, despite padding his trip. The car, sensing his stress level, attempted to relieve it by increasing the O2 in the cabin and changing the sat radio station to something more relaxing.
<<Estimated time of arrival, Eight Fifty Eight P-M. Please enjoy your trip courtesy of AresAres Navigation>>
Nope, not any more relaxed - thats more than 'fashionably late' by an uncomfortable margin. So, Sterling switched to semi-manual mode and proverbially 'floored it'.
<<Now exceeding recommended driving parameters>>
"Tell me something I don't know!"
The pleasantly soothing woman happily obliged.
<<Interesting Modern Facts - In 2048, Maria Mercurial's first single "Who Weeps For The Children" debuted at #1 on the Oricon and Billboard charts!>>
Still not helping. However, Sterling was at least making some serious progress in diving through the infamous Seattle traffic, though not enough. He really wished he could have brought his Bimmer instead, especially as the enthusiastic autonav chirped away.
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Post by NoOnesShowMonkey on Aug 17, 2010 15:57:54 GMT -5
[19:53 - 04 March, 2069 - on I-5 near the exit for 54th]
Clint swerves suddenly hard to the left, smashing into the Spikes ganger and his bike. The trog's eyes widen, the whites getting enormous in Clint's driverside window. The impact is jarring, the ganger's shotgun smashing in through the driverside window and discharging a round harmlessly into the roof of the cruiser.
A fountain of sparks shoot up alongside the two vehicles and the wall, trailing long into the night rapidly passing behind them. Clint grits his teeth and leans on the accelerator, keeping the bike pinned against the wall until he realizes that the bike is no longer there and it is just him and the retaining wall... Checking his rearview, he can see bike parts glittering in the highway's streetlights like snow in the streetlamps, the troll bouncing down the road behind him, a super-ball thrown by an angry child. A large cargo van swoops out of the way, just narrowly missing the troll... only to reveal an oncoming 18-wheeler. The flat fog horn of a large tractor trailer sounds before the troll can be seen disappearing under the wheels amidst a pink puff and scattering of limbs and gear.
His autonav is squaking 'Caution! Caution!', his engine is roaring. Adrenaline thunders in his ears still ringing from the discharge of the shotgun. He whiteknuckles the wheel, suddenly aware of a driving need for self preservation.
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Post by drzaius on Aug 17, 2010 16:16:07 GMT -5
[19:53 - 04 March, 2069 - on I-5 near the exit for 54th]
Clint somehow manages to peel his car off the retaining wall and thrust it back into traffic, dodging and weaving through a series of commuters as his car caroms wildly across 3 lanes of traffic. Amazingly, he's able to straighten it back out, moments before running a soccer mom off the road.
His car's alignment is a bit off, and the paint has seen better days, but besides that it's no worse for the wear.
<<CAUTion. You have bEEn in an accident-dent-dent. Please pull to the sssside of the roAD AND EXchange informATIon with the other driv..>>
is all the autonav is able to spit out before Clint punches it quiet. The acrid smell of gunpowder is still in his cabin, the shotgun appearing to have hit the computer.
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Post by NoOnesShowMonkey on Aug 18, 2010 10:37:03 GMT -5
[19:54 - 04 March, 2069 - on I-5 near the exit for 54th]
Over a hundred meters goes by in a flash, a few heartbeats. Clint's cruiser is laying low in its struts, hunkered down and coiled like a cat. The engine roars, eight cylinders of fire-ball-fury pounding away in a symphony of hammer blows. Every time he asks his cruiser to go faster, she gives a rebel yell and cries 'more, more, more!' in a deep, throaty snarl. Auctioned or not, hard loved and hard worked, the interceptor was made for this kind of work.
Leaning hard on the accelerator, Clint's autonav plots a best route through incoming traffic and displays it on the vehicle HUD. Every half second sees Clint jerking the wheel this way and that, dodging commuter vehicles as they change lanes to exit the freeway, allow someone to pass or merge, out of reflex at seeing a Patrol-1's silhouette in their rearview, or simply get the hell out of the way of the bad news coming up behind them. The autonav is arguing with itself, first suggesting a merge right, then a merge left and occasionally advising a u-turn while always suggesting reducing speed. Whole cars of families on their way home from dinner. Kids coming back from dance class or violin lessons. A few athletes. Lonely wage slaves finally done with their 14 hour days. The bored, the restless and the numb out on the light-worm of the I-5, getting outside of their little apartments into their little cars and trading their Trid for the paneled screen of the windshield. No where to go. Nothing to do. No one to see.
The Spikes ganger is dropping back now, unable to keep pace. Though his vehicle be smaller, the chaos in Clint's wake leaves the ganger little in the way of choices. Well, you play the cards you are dealt... Or you shoot your way out.
Holding in his big mits an Ingram Smartgun, easily mistaken for a toy or a machine pistol, the ganger lets roll a long burst, emptying the magazine in under three seconds. The hollow burrrrrrrrrraaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhip is audible moments after the hail on metal sounds of rounds impacting the cruiser register in Clint's ears. Without thought, he swerves.
In the gap Clint leaves, a small Mercury Comet zooms in, cutting across four lanes of traffic and intent on exiting the highway. Incoming Ingram rounds tear through the rear window and the windshield cracks into spiders, turning deep red in a few splotches like thrown tomatoes or dropped paint cans. The Comet jack knifes, turning perpendicular to the traffic and its forward velocity rips it from the pavement and it turns end over end in a barrel roll, majestic. From underneath the flying sedan in the space between pavement and car, the troll like an arrow, ducking low to avoid the rapidly disintegrating hulk.
Rounds continue spewing out of the Ingram as the troll swerves to avoid glass and debris, the submachine gun going wild in his grip. The muzzle swings right and left wildly as the troll fights to maintain control of his bike and keep his weapon on Clint's cruiser. The former is managed while smg rounds pound into nearby vehicles, pocking their bodies. A tire blows out and soundlessly joins the cacophony of gunshots. In the midst of the flying glass, shell casings, rubber, twisted metal and polymers, a van swerves off of the highway towards an onramp, clearly out of control. The nose points towards the highway, intent on rejoining traffic but the midline of the vehicle is headed off. A compromise is found as the vehicle smashes into the plascrete divider separating exiting lanes from the thruway. The vehicle comes to a complete and sickeningly violent stop, rocking back onto its driverside wheels.
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Post by drzaius on Aug 19, 2010 19:35:58 GMT -5
[19:54 - 04 March, 2069 - on I-5 near the exit for 54th]
As the final Spike grew smaller in Clint's rearview, Clint continued to dodge and weave through the thick traffic until he was no longer in view. He quickly exited the I-5, working his way towards the meet location in Tacoma. He peered outside his window at his scratched up paint job, and sent his mechanic a message.
<<Clint@Greasy Al>>
<<Hey Al- got some more work for you. If I didn't know better, I'd figure you hired all these gangers out there to keep your busy year-round cleaning up after their mess. Got a bit of one to scrape off my left fender when you get a chance. Also, we should talk about adding a little extra protection to this thing; something of the more 'proactive' variety. Let me know.>>
Clint pointed his car towards the bar where the meet would take place, and gunned the engine, with only the slightest whimper of pain from the bodywork that was crumpled in the crash.
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Post by segwaycop on Aug 20, 2010 22:05:26 GMT -5
[20:08 - 04 March, 2069 - streets near Lazy Axel, Tacoma]
Butts sees the imposing threat of the two big ass trolls. Holy Lord, those guys are big. After a once-over he ignores their presence, concentrating primarily on the buildings nearby and chatting as if on the phone.
Reggi you sick bastard! Hahahaha. Quick glance at the gangers Uh I got a situation here, I'll call your pedofillic ass back. Gentlemen, how can I help you? The larger beast's response is something between an insult and a gargle. That shithead! I'm so sorry. I never meant to offend a creature as large as you. That bastard Reggi and his terrible advice. My friend and rival investor, Reggi Johnson told me that this was the most appropriate car/outfit for this area of town. I see by your furrowed brows that he was being an asshole and setting me up for a beating. Oh, I should apologize again, I have yet to introduce myself. My name is Kent Butler of Butler and Butler Investments, LLC. Butts extends his hand to shake hands knowing full well it will not be met halfway. We purchase new and failing commercial and revenue driven companies, revamp their infrastructure and resell them at double the initial wraparound annuity capital. Really basic stuff, He taps the closest one on the bicep w/ the back of his hand but you'd be suprised how much you can make off of these kinds of turnarounds. Anyways, I know you two specimens are busy and you don't want to hear me rattle off about my nuyen and I don't want to bore you with my trivial deals, but I tell you that to ask you this. I need some protection. It has got to be local boys. Now I assume by your patches you work for a group nearby and I'm wondering if I can get the number of your financial administrator or coordinator. That way I can work out payment for your services. See, when my company buys and sells during the turnaround, we get a lot of push and shove from people thinking we are exploiting them. Your job would be to do some shoving of your own. If I could get your names I would really like your two as my main contacts for this job. I'll even throw in bonuses based on perfomance. Think about my offer gentlemen. I'll give you a moment to discuss.
Butts pops his collar and gets on another "call". He walks away hoping what he said was enough to keep those thickheads rolling. He goes straight to the meet, head held high brimming with confidence and almost scared at how natural lying through his teeth is to him.
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Post by NoOnesShowMonkey on Aug 20, 2010 22:57:35 GMT -5
[20:09 - 04 March, 2069 - streets near Lazy Axel, Tacoma]
The two trolls are taken aback, not sure how to handle Butts. Maybe he just has a lot of moxie and the biggest balls they have ever seen, or maybe he just didn't notice the two towering trolls? Butts walks on past, chatting into his commlink. As he walks by, he hears the two trying their best to figure out what happened.
'He sure ain't no cop, man. Cops don't use words like a-new-city or whatever.'
'Maybe he is some kind of under cover cop. Some kind of business cop.'
'They don't have those, omae. Pig is pig, and he ain't a pig!'
'Yeah, whatever. I don't care who the hell he is, he owes us some cred.'
'Truth.'
'Hey, where did that little fucker go?'
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Post by NoOnesShowMonkey on Aug 21, 2010 16:30:31 GMT -5
[20:30 - 04 March, 2069 - Lazy Axel bar in Tacoma]Parking on a Monday night is not scarce, though by looking at the lot for the Axel, you wouldn't know it was the start of the week. A few spots remain open, but most are full of working class sedans mixed in with a few upper class rides and a larger amount of total beaters. The front wall of the bar proper bristles with bikes and a large ARO states that the establishment is 'Biker Friendly'. Most of the stallions are choppers and Harley style, with a few rice rockets mixed in, their garish colors looking out of place against the backdrop of chrome and black leather. Entering the bar prompts an automatic log-on for most PANs, popping up a yes/no request for more secure units. Logging onto the network, the ambient music comes up steadily - ballsy classic trans-humanist rock mixed with plenty of trog-style thrash metal and even a few electro-blues tracks for good measure. A sea of patrons fills the interior for by eight the bar is generally at capacity. A pair of thickly muscled orks lean against the walls near the door, nodding aloofly at those that enter with a distant 'we are watching' stare. Mixed in with the crowd are servers, mostly plain looking women in too-tight shirts but a few lookers in the mix, milling about carrying drinks and food. No one seems to notice as you enter, though, and soon a pop-up ARO offers you a seat at the bar and shows the menu. The fare is simple bar food: varieties of soyburgers and burritos, soy-chicken sandwiches and everything offered grilled and fried. The beer list is pleasantly long, however, and offers a few local and import brews in addition to the big-market standbys. A few taste like something other than piss, presumably. Characters enter the establishment in the order that they post, save for Sterling who enters about 15 minutes late. Eventually a hostess will notice the PC and ask to seat them. Asking about a 'back room' will first be met by confusion but will eventually get them to a back room for the meet. Please feel free to handle all other details about your character's arrival.
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Post by drzaius on Aug 21, 2010 16:49:12 GMT -5
[20:30 - 04 March, 2069 - Lazy Axel bar in Tacoma]
Clint parks his scratched cruiser outside the bar, next to a line of choppers. Probably some of the same assholes in here, might be a good idea to watch my back.. Clint thought to himself, the <<woop-WOOP!>> of his car locking drawing some looks from some of the more unsavory crowd. It wasn't much to look at now that half of it looked like it had been attacked by a pissed off hell-hound, but it had saved his ass yet again.
As he walked into the bar, he was pleased the bouncers didn't frisk him. Wasn't really the type of place to bother that much with security; keep things civil, live and let live. Besides, if they took guns away from all the people packing in here, the bouncers wouldn't have any time left to watch the crowd for trouble. Clint liked their hands-off approach, and once he saw the menu of drinks available, made a mental note to keep this place in mind for his next epic bender after a successful job. I'd need a successful job first... He thought to himself, as he walked up to the hostess/waitress/tail, who looked extremely overworked but still managed to put on a fake smile for the hoards of degenerates giving her grief all night.
"Sweetheart; I'm looking for the back room. I'm meeting someone here; they're expecting me." Clint slipped her a 20 :nuyen: credstick, and gave her a wink, looking at her expectantly.
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Post by segwaycop on Aug 21, 2010 21:56:45 GMT -5
[20:30 - 04 March, 2069 - Lazy Axel bar in Tacoma]Butts beaming with confidence, slips on his way into the bar. Not even one look. I think I'm going to like this place. After a jaunt to what he hopes was a bathroom, he steps up to the bar. Two whiskeys. House shot, Jack neat. Oh and I'm looking for someone, Sweetness. Don't suppose there is a more private room in this joint? She pours his drink, puts on her best fake smile, and nods to the swinging double doors on her right. The shot goes down a little too easy. He picks up his Jack and steps through the doors. A couple flights of stairs down and it's almost as if he's in another bar entirely. The music changes to a tenor who loves his vibratto too much and an orchestra, which seems computer generated. Everything, from the lighting to the smell, tries desperately hard to be classier. A couple of fat men in the corner stuff their faces as plastic-faced women giggle and smash their plastic tits into their . Butts takes a seat at an empty table and shoots off a message to the wifey. <<Hey Honey. It might be a late night for me. I'll let you know when I am headed home. I love you! xoxo>>He pops some Psyche and sits, soaking up all the details about this place that he can possibly intake. The little things always calms his mind.
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Post by NoOnesShowMonkey on Aug 22, 2010 17:33:40 GMT -5
[20:33 - 04 March, 2069 - Lazy Axel bar in Tacoma, back room and lounge]Arc stumbles in out of the rain, a bit groggy and unsure of his feet. He looks like a fighter that has just gone nine rounds and feels like it is the twelfth. 'Which way to the back room,' he inquires gruffly. After a few misdirections, more than a couple of sidelong glances, and several shouts amounting to the fact that Arc and his pointy ears were a long way from home, he is directed to the back and down a flight of stairs.
From his overstuffed leather chair, Butts leans back, letting the drug surge through his bloodstream, feeling his eyes widen and a warm buzz start in the back of his head. He notes a tall gentleman with a lean face and a western flair come sauntering through the beaded curtain that serves for a door to the downstairs lounge. Butts is able to clearly note the man's cyberarm - highly illegal and some of the finest enthusiast grade tech around - and the generally cold demeanor of the fellow. Gazing about the room, Butts takes in four overstuffed suits playing with six joygirls and two security detail, complete with bulges under boxy fitting suits. When Arc stumbles down the steps, sopping wet and looking like hell, one of the security operators approaches the elf and very emphatically insists that he is not allowed down here. Only after a few terse words is a grudging truce established and Arc is allowed to stay. Several of the joygirls look up nervously, but once the nod is given, one walks over and tries to see if Arc is buying whatever it is that she is selling. A few moments pass and a heavy grey door pops open with a dull clunk and two more security detail enter the lounge. A few knowing looks later, and Arc, Butts and Clint find themselves in the company of a total of four security operators - a mix of a lean, mean human, two thick orks and a single enormous troll with several tattoo removal scars covering his face. Before anyone can do so much as cough nervously, a door at the far end of the room opens and a man in a coal black pin-stripe suite walks in. Greying at the temples, his raven hair shines, well groomed and oiled. His suit is crisp, his cufflinks gleaming. Everything about him looks like an ad from a Trid but for his sharks' eyes. Dead in his sockets rest a pair of eyes - clearly aftermarket - that neither roll nor blink and have the same endless depth of two drops of mercury. 'Hello. I am Mr. Johnson.'The suit gestures at a small conference table that had been of yet overlooked by all, so busy noting the four predatory security goons to take it all in. Four chairs sit across one long face open towards the three standouts with the opposite side having a single chair. The Johnson smiles amiably and gestures for everyone to sit before backing his own chair out and sitting down. 'I represent an organization with a problem. The job is relatively simple: some merchandise has gone AWOL while being transfered between facilities and they want it back. The whereabouts are currently unknown and time is of the essence. I am prepared to offer you twenty thousand nuyen for the retrieval of my employer's goods with a five thousand nuyen bonus if they are retrieved within the next three days. Further, I am authorized to offer another five thousand nuyen if the goods are returned in good condition.' Reaching into his suit jacket, the Johnson produces a small datacard and a certified credstick. 'Finally, if you accept the job I am prepared to give you twenty five hundred nuyen of the principle up front as a retainer and to compensate any expenses you may come across.'After a brief pause, the suit pushes the datacard and credstick across the table. His manicure is exquisite. The cufflinks are choice - probably twenty five hundred for the set... This data card includes information from my client vital to the retrieval of their goods. I am prepared to give you decryption information upon your agreement to take on the job.' His hand pulls back and meets the other, forming his fingers into a triangle - thumbs together on the base and fingers arched. His brow is crinkled expectantly, the dim fluorescent light playing off the silver flecks. His eyes. Those eyes. They sit, liquid and rolling like metallic surf in his head, unblinking and unmoving.
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Post by phatgdog69 on Aug 23, 2010 11:31:06 GMT -5
[20:25 - 04 March, 2069 - Inside Tacoma, Seattle]
Ugh! Sterling growled quietly to himself. Despite his quick moves, he couldn't get the little econobox to move any better.
"Thats the last time I drive this cheap - ha!"
He continues screaming through traffic towards the bar and shoots Torin a quick wave.
<<Gangers held me up, I need to that delay that Johnson a few minutes - can you buy me some time? I've got some cred your way if you can>>
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Post by phatgdog69 on Aug 23, 2010 11:45:25 GMT -5
[20:43 - 04 March, 2069 - Lazy Axel bar in Tacoma, Outside]
PAN Status - Passive
This was getting to be an expensive trip already - this had better be worth it....
Sterling screeches to a halt along the curb with a few other patrons parked there. He locks up and runs up to the door, looking a bit more rushed than he'd like to. Hm, typical biker/ganger trash bar. Sterling logs on with his backup comm and immediately cuts down the audio - some sort of noise, typical of this sort of place. He nods passingly to the Orcs at the door like a regular and strolls in - and not much better on the inside, either. Certainly no good scotch on the menu, but a good ol' Jack-and-Jack would do fine.
He grabs the attention of an average-looking server and gives her his order with a half-power smile. No need to draw any attention now, though a few of the servers were decent enough to warrant some attention of their own.
Sterling takes a sip of his drink and a moment to set the room to memory - always something you miss the first time through, of course. Now, to find that room...shouldn't be too hard, but it was always easier to ask.
"'Scuse me, miss, but I've got a meeting and I'd hate to be any later than I already am - could you direct me to the room?"
Pushing your way uninvited into a 'run was risky, but hey, thats how Sterling liked to roll. He smirked as he composed himself for the meet, pushing his tardiness to the back of his mind, far from his face.
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Post by phatgdog69 on Aug 23, 2010 12:46:40 GMT -5
[20:45 - 04 March, 2069 - Lazy Axel bar in Tacoma, Main Bar]
PAN Status - Passive
Sterling gives the waitress a bit more smile as he presses his luck.
"Actually, d'ya think you could bring us a round? I'd bet my friends could use another one by now"
The poor waitress looks a bit worried at his request - that was a pretty steep request at her bottom line, after all.
"Aww, don't make that face - I can't imagine these guys make it too easy for you around here. I'm not asking for a discount or anything, I just want to make things run smooth, y'know?"
Well, you can't have everything - but he did feel sorry for the poor waitress, having to field leers, gropes and stiffed tips every night.
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Post by NoOnesShowMonkey on Aug 23, 2010 12:58:28 GMT -5
[20:45 - 04 March, 2069 - Lazy Axel bar in Tacoma, Main Bar]The waitress blushes a bit under Sterling's withering barrage of smiles and charm. She fidgets and casts about looking for a fellow waitress. Her eyes light upon a coworker, 'Hey, Dawn, can we bring a round to the backroom?'Dawn's response is lost in the din of the bar's countless conversations and thumping post-rock, but her brunette head is clearly bobbing up and down, though her eyes are wary. 'Well, sugar, looks like this is your lucky night,' she says, doing her best to sound like she knows what she is doing. She passes Sterling his double whiskey and asks, 'You want how many more of these?' After leaning in to try and hear Don's response and instead getting a nosefull of delicious pheromones and expensive cologne, she blushes again, harder this time. 'You can head on down, honey. I'll bring these by personally in just a few moments. Tell Dex that I sent you down and he ought to leave you alone.'Sterling succeeds in getting the waitress to bring a round of drinks down to the Johnson in the back room. The round will be four doubles of their top-shelf whiskey @ 30 nuyen a shot = 150 nuyen. Further, she equips Don with a means to enter the back room unhassled by the security goons - notably 'Dex'.
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Post by drzaius on Aug 24, 2010 17:32:22 GMT -5
[20:35 - 04 March, 2069 - Lazy Axel bar in Tacoma, back room and lounge]Clint puts his hands on the table in an open gesture, and addresses the Johnson. "I obviously can't speak for my new colleagues, but I came here interested for work. I have a few questions though, and I make it a habit never to agree to the price of a job before I know as many details as I can."Clint takes a sip of his drink, and continues, eyeing the other members at the table. "Clearly, the 'type' of merchandise is the heart of the matter; The dynamics and presumed payout of a job differ greatly given the items in question. Are the items really your clients', or are they just items your client wants to own? I have no problem either way, it's just handy to know what type of job we're looking at. Additionally, what level of opposition should we expect? Again, the difference between pissin' off some high-level security versus some gang of thugs is a pretty wide margin. If you could clear up some of those questions, I think I'd be inclined to help your employer find what he's lookin' for."
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Post by NoOnesShowMonkey on Aug 24, 2010 17:51:27 GMT -5
[20:38 - 04 March, 2069 - Lazy Axel bar in Tacoma, back room and lounge]The Johnson listens attentively, nodding slow and smooth. He reaches into his jacket while Clint is speaking and pulls out a cancer-stick and lighter, lighting the former and closing the latter with a quick flick of his wrist. Clint is never sure if the Johnson is making eye contact with him or not. 'I can understand your trepidation. While I am not at liberty to comment about the ownership of the items in question - afterall, possession is nine tenths... I can, however, tell you something of their nature.'The Johnson reaches into the middle of the table and pulls the datacard to him, deftly palming it into a commlink that appears in his other hand in the blink of an eye. With a light snick the card is slotted. Setting the commlink onto the table, the Johnson sits back in his chair and lets the image link display a trid output. 'As you can see here, the target are a trio of drones. My employer was transporting them from one facility to another when a competitor absconded with the prototypes. Three total drones, each a different model, were lost in the transaction. This datadisc includes some relevant and proprietary data about these drones. Without your agreement to the job and the transfer of retainer to bind you, I can not tell you much more.'
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Post by segwaycop on Aug 25, 2010 17:26:35 GMT -5
[20:40 - 04 March, 2069 - Lazy Axel bar in Tacoma, back room and lounge]Mr. Johnson, let me just be the first to say, wow I love those cufflinks. Mucho style points. I want to ask the obvious question, do you or the company you represent have any enemies that we should be aware of before we get into the nitty gritty of this job? Gang? Corp? Ex-girlfriend/boyfriend maybe? Any one wanting to get even with you?
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Post by NoOnesShowMonkey on Aug 25, 2010 17:53:20 GMT -5
[20:41 - 04 March, 2069 - Lazy Axel bar in Tacoma, back room and lounge]
Arc, Butts and Clint see before them a trio of drone profiles. Most important information has clearly been edited out of the datafile.
The trid, however, displays a full 3-d rendering of each model in a line, slowly rotating to allow inspection.
The first is vaguely kite shaped, organically curved and has numerous intake and exhaust ports along its underbelly and flanks, each flexing, opening and closing dynamically.
Second is an arachnid shaped model. Six, rather than eight legs support its thick, almond shaped body. A pair of smaller manipulator arms extend from near the 'head'.
Finally, the third is a clearly humanoid walker-type model. It's construction at once apes the metahuman form and perfects it, trading frail bones and organic, porous and irregular, for the smooth contours of precision engineering.
Butts notices the skin around the Johnson's eyes contract slightly into what would be an indication of a smile, though his face takes a slightly malevolent hue, his inhuman eyes incapable of registering happiness. His right hand flicks to his left wrist and he touches the cuff links.
'I appreciate a man who knows what good taste is. In regards to your question, I can assure you that goods of any quality or value create their own enemies in the form of interested parties. Though I am not at liberty to comment about my employer's relationship with fellow competitors, allow me to note that they are competitors in the finest old tradition.'
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Post by phatgdog69 on Aug 25, 2010 18:46:48 GMT -5
[20:47 - 04 March, 2069 - Lazy Axel bar in Tacoma, back room and lounge]"I'm afraid I didn't get your name" Sterling says to the waitress, catching himself. "Mary" smirks and bats her eyes at him. Sterling paces himself as he approaches the back room, waiting for the drinks to "conveniently" follow shortly behind him. He heads up to the two meat walls at the door - one of whom is clearly " Dex." He calls to them casually without breaking his calm stride. "Sorry I'm late, Dex, but Mary said not to worry about it. If you don't mind, I'll just step in and she'll be right behind me in a sec."The two guards were notably thrown off by the mysterious man approaching them - at least by bodyguard standards. One of them looks off to, presumably, confirm with Mary and sees her collecting the drinks in the distance. A little displeased at not getting to bounce anybody tonight, they open the doors and let Sterling pass. Inside, he gets a look at the room - four men around a conference table, one of whom is quite clearly the Johnson, looking at a trid display of some kind. Around the room stand the ominous and thoroughly expected security detail. His surprise entrance gets the attention of the Johnson. "Please forgive my tardy intrusion. I got word that something interesting was going down and that a gentle hand and voice would be needed to guide it. My name is Donald Sterling, and I wish to offer my services to you in your noble endeavor."Ballsy, sure, but an opportunity to make a grand entrance was too much to pass up. And it was a good thing he ordered drinks, since the players at the table nearly dropped theirs. A calculated *beat* pause later, Mary stepped in with a tray of drinks. "A round for you gentlemen, as a gesture of good faith"She passes out the drinks and the two of them exchange a coy smile as she returns to the busy bar. Sterling surveys the room to get a good look at the players as he watches for a response. Current social penalty due to lateness: -3. Roll 9d6 to negate - with 3 total hits, so Sterling is operating at status quo.
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