Cyberpunk: Cascadia (Open|IC)

[Anowa]

>>OOC<<

---

The Pacific Northwest had always been known for unrelenting rain, and that day was no different. Not for Vancouver, not for Seattle, not for the Gulf Islands, and not fore The Belt^[1], and not for the Orbital Air Center smack dab on the island that was once the Vancouver Int't Airport, bought out nearly 60 years ago.

Many of the individuals heading through security from the baggage claim were ordinary folks, or rather as ordinary as could be, seeing as they could afford the liberties of air and space travel. Two however glaringly stood out.

The first stood at nearly two meters in height, a cowboy hat, white shirt, leather jacket and denim pants concealed a majority of the man's form, however the lack of boots revealed metal and polymer feet, and the face of an Alpha Class full body conversion instead of a man gave no illusion to the nature of the being holding a comparatively small suitcase. Ahead of him in the line, a woman of equal height, yet the exact opposite in nature. A black denim jacket and acid washed jeans with a pair of combat boots, hair pulled into a somewhat messy ponytail, and no sign of any chrome beyond the endemic jack in the side of a person's head. She looked young, maybe late twenties if not thirties, the look in her eyes -and dated fashion sense- said otherwise however.

The two were singled out by security, and brought over to a much less public screening area, no doubt because of the IEC company IDs on their coat pockets.

As security opened their cases for a physical check, an excited "Holy shit!" was given out by the youngest, or newest, guard on the job, who's hand immediately went for his holster. His cry of surprise wasn't exactly expected, but understandable, given the dozen or so firearms, firearm parts, knifes, explosives, and general other things that indicated that the woman who owned that luggage wasn't here on ordinary corporate business. behind thw two checking their luggae, a duo of more heavily armed guards looked between themselves. The Full Borg, who's ID named him as Charlie McKinnon gave a tinny sigh, as the woman, who's own ID, Elza Van Der Knapp, simply stared impassively at the nervous guard.

The elder of the two simply started sorting through the luggage looking for what was considered hard contraband, things like animals, or anything that could be a biohazard. Charlie's luggage was comparatively less lethal in nature, being many copies of the clothing he was currently wearing, a photo of what looked like a family, and Likely the supervisor, he spoke in an almost bored tone, "Calm down Davy, so long as they're not using them on us, we don't care."

the younger of the "Are you seeing how many fucking guns she has in that luggage?"

With a tired tone, the supervisor sighed, "Yeah, she's also got an IEC Corporate ID, so unless you want to get locked out of your fridge, dishwasher, and toilet, you should probably let them go on with their business."

The nervous man looked at the supervisor with a mild look of incredulousness. before calming down and methodically sorting through the bag of guns.

The duo then went through the song and dance of getting scanned. The 15 second process gave Elza the all clear, though complications arose from Charlie stepping through. He looked expectedly over at the guard manning the scanner's display, "Sir, you mind disarming your weapon and stepping through again."

The weathered full borg spoke, in a southern drawl, "Ah, right." lifting up his shirt and jacker, his abdomen opened up revealing a revolver that wouldn't be out of place hunting dinosaurs. He handed it to the guard who approached him as he took a few strides back into the scanner, where it came back clean. Stepping out, the duo went on their way.

They turned heads as they made their way through the terminal, before leaving and entering an automated taxi. Pulling away the two comrades began to speak in earnest once they pulled away and were on the highway.

Elza was the first pulling her cyberdeck out, and tapping away at it, likely for the information regarding their assignment to the water soaked city, her voice had a notable accent to it, one that could only be vaguely attributed to the nations along the Rhine valley, without any specific pattern, "To recap, the case's GPS tracker was damaged during the initial ambush on the convoy over in Chilliwack. From the the case's distress beacon started linking with IEC appliances in range giving us a path of distress logs up to Mission. Which is kind of odd given the area's is mostly upper class or corporate housing."

Charlie's bassy drawl filled the cabin as he removed his hat, "You thinkin' espionage?"

Elza shook her head snorting a bit, "Maybe, but if so, whoever did it is an idiot. No, I think Mission was the in between point. The case loitered there for an hour and a half before connection was lost, either the battery died because it was damaged, or because the hijackers managed to turn it off. So we don't know if it was moved any further or if it's still there."

Charlie nodded, "So they either got away with it or they're still camping out in in their retired Nana's basement. Wonderful."

Elza shrugged, "The case had other methods of tracking it, just not as easy as this." the woman brought up her hand and started counting things off, "There's a geotag on it that pings every 48 hours, the handle will spray a funky invisible ink every 6 minutes, an auditory sensor that detects IEC IDs and starts an alarm if they're close, and a speaker on it that starts belting out canned orders trying to convince people to turn it in to IEC personnel if found."

"How much you want to bet the speaker's already done for?"

"I'm not stupid enough to fall for that." Elza stowed her cyberdeck and gazed out the window, "Regardless, it's gonna be another 12 hours before we get a notification from the geotag, we don't have the proper equipment for scanning for ink yet, and we're not close enough for it to yell at us, so we're doing it the old fashioned way."

"You mean the fun way." said Charlie, raising his finger.

Elza shook her head, "Maybe it was fun for you before cyberlimbs became a thing. But it's become a pain in the ass. You and I both know how much of a fucking shitshow it is to track someone who erases themselves from cameras."

Charlie chuckled, "That just makes it more fun."

Elza sighed, leaning her head back.

---

The Belt [1]: The portion of Cascadia that bridged the previous city limits of Greater Vancouver and Greater Seattle, effectively swallowed the coastline from Everett to Langley. The area around Burlington is the city's largest combat zone.

[Endem]

Tristan Del

He was in Cascadia for a day or two, Victoria to be specific, living in some cheap motel, one of those 'we don't ask, you don't tell' type of places, he couldn't recount how many times he had been to such motels, they all looked the same, they all were equally dirty and dilapidated. His sensory extension tucked itself into the sleeve of his long-sleeved plain white shirt, it would get dirty soon enough, as soon as he'd start getting jobs.

He checked everything again, RT-46 Burya, strong enough to blow through walls, it made things easier, no need to look at what that weapon does to someone, he still remembered closing one contract by turning a man's head into flesh-colored confetti, his fault that he didn't have any subdermal armor on his head. M-221 Saratoga, perhaps one of the more common submachine guns out there, reliable, cheap, any gunsmith could fix it.

Then he checked his knife, its blade undulled, it was mostly for show and emergency, he had the real weapon in his arm. 3 X-22 flashbangs, useful, especially if the opfor don't have any fancy optics installed. Lastly, he checked the spike that could extend from the wrist of his hand, he should get it to be poisoned one day and they would not notice until too.

He cut his thoughts off with a self-administered punch, focus, focus on anything but that, this was the last thing he needed now, anything but that. He walked out of that decrepit room, focus, where to go, he was an out-of-towner solo, the first thing to do is to get to know at least one local fixer, after that it would be easier, fixer, jobs, recognition, more fixers, more jobs, more recognition, and so on, he had gone through the process before, he remembered it, right, his mind was not too clouded yet, especially not by the crimson gleam beyond the ocean, another punch.

From all the local bars one looked most promising 'the Velvet Staircase', aupposedly run by a fixer, one Alexandr Talitsyn, it was by all accounts a neutral ground, or a hotbed, depending on how you look at it, gang deals, brain potato's and what not, he'd get a job there easily enough. Some time later, after catching a ferry from Victoria to Vancouver, and subsequently catching a taxi from port side to the Velvet Staircase, making sure his weapons were concealed, no need to cause any trouble. He passed through the bouncer and found himself sitting before the bar, waiting on the exotic bartender to finish giving the other guests alcohol, he could only assume that aside from being the bartender, that tiger looking exotic might have also been the faceman of Talitsyn, Tristan doubted Talitsyn would be tending to the bar himself.

Times like this, he wished he could go further with cybernetic extensions, to enhance his hearing to know how that barman talked, but that would mean slipping further, he didn't want to slip further, he couldn't. Focus, wait on the barman to come here, if he'd be lucky he'd overhear some conversations from him, do not use the sensory extension, too obvious, especially with the neon blue lights lining the bar. The club itself looked surprisingly normal, tables populated by patrons, and a couple poles drenched in neon light.

[Mandicoria]

Cascadia, The Belt. Silver light Apartments, Apartment 741
//TRACK 1 NOW PLAYING//

A light groan would break the silence in the small, but well furnished apartment. The accompanying creaking of bed springs and pitter-patter of feet on the hard wood floors echoing throughout the empty halls. The Tenant, a young woman somwhere in her twenties, looks like they had one rough night before. With cuts and scrape marks all over her bare arms and shins. Of course this wasn't even taking into account her hair being an absolute mess, and the fact she was waking up in the Afternoon of all times. It didn't take long for her to completely ignore the prospect of taking a shower, and going straight to the kitchen. Why? What else for, to raid her liquor cabinet and pull out a shot glass and some tequila.

Picking up a remote and flicking the switch before pouring herself a shot, she'd immediately get bombarded with the violent news of the day. Ignoring everything from the news while pouring her shot. It was almost like she wanted to hear something specific, and not the news of some poor idiots shooting each other in the streets. Downing her shot and giving a pained exhale as the news was finally wrapping up, she was overtaken with a genuine disappointment. Not a single fucking word on what shit did, the fuck?

She could only clench her fists and shake her head, before finally just letting out a loud groan. Shutting off the TV and slamming her fist on the counter. Staring for a bit before just yelling "FUCKING BULLSHIT! I SHOULD'VE BEEN ON THERE!" Dropping her head down and murmuring to herself angrily for a good few moments. "I worked so fucking hard cracking those fucking junkies skulls open, and I get this? No recognition..." Pulling herself up and angrily looking to the computer. "Fuck it I'll just get the goddamn shower out of the way, not like I have anything else to do... Maybe that same fucker'll call again about another junkie den or something... Hopefully..."

A good few minutes would pass while she got herself fixed up in the restroom. Getting dressed up in much more appropriate attire after everything. The whole process not taking more than 10 minutes, and not a single goddamn text or anything on her phone. "Of course nobody wants to give poor Amélie another job. Fucking christ..." She muttered to herself, finally slipping her jacket on to finish her little "morning" routine. But just before she finished, a message appeared on her phone.

"VELVET STAIRCASE. NEW JOB OPENED UP. DON'T LOOK SUSPICIOUS."

Her face brightened up almost immediately. With her running to her bedroom, packing up her weapons and other goodies she uses on jobs. Was it a smash job? Likely not, it's a fucking night club. A pretty nice one too. Prolly just some opportunity, maybe some guy's hiring there? Fuck that, she didn't wanna be no errand girl... But it was the best she had as a lead, and hey maybe it was decent. Fuck it. She continued with her rush, making sure to conceal everything before even thinking of opening her door. She was ready.

Sometime later...

Amélie's bike would pull up right outside that "Velvet Staircase" joint she was messaged of. Looked busy. Prolly some guy in the back alley or something waiting for her. She didn't have any reservation there, so she'd have to wait outside. Not that these types of places would do that shit, but you could tell it wouldn't be easy just getting in if all you got is attitude. Cracking her knuckles and constantly checking her phone, she'd just stay there with her bike. At least keep an eye out for someone who looked like they were in the know at least.

[Brettenwald]

"Hold still, would you?" Petra squinted and picked another shard of broken lense out of the latest poor bastard's optical implant. "There... sit your ass back down, I'm not done with you yet. What happened to this poor chunk of chrome, anyway? Get into an argument with someone who hits harder than you?" Drawers and bins were rapidly opened, rifled through and closed until she found the right replacement parts. "I can get it functional again, but if you want it perfect you want a ripperdoc to replace the whole thing. I don't fix the meat, just the chrome attached to it. What do you say?" The gonk thought for a moment. "Try and get it working." She nodded. "Right. Lie back down." About an hour of annoyingly tiny parts and muttered curses later, she stood back up and peeled off her rubber work gloves. "Done. Everything should work now." Her patient grinned. "Oh, yeah, it's great. What do I owe you?" His smile disappeared instantly. "Hey, work's been mega slow lately and I'm behind a month on rent," she said, half-defensively and half-apologetically as the guy on the table sighed. "Fine..." Her credchip reader beeped a few seconds later. She nodded. "Great. Hit up a ripperdoc, like I said. You know where the door is. C-YA." She tapped a few numbers and notes into her terminal as the door opened and closed, dispensing another satisfied customer out into a seemingly endless rain before methodically cleaning up her tools in the workshop's cold LED light.

She paused for a moment, thinking. Well, it's now or never. Getting back into the game, living on the real edge. She'd been planning her next moves for a while now, and step one was for her the same as it had been for countless others before her: head to Vancouver and hit up Aleksandr Talitsyn. Right. Time to get the ball rolling. Change of clothes or two, check. Weaponry and ammo, check. The Nekomata was getting left behind, it wasn't exactly the kind of thing you could just casually tote around in front of the police and the proles. Tool kit, check. Body armor, check. Helmet- she smoothed her hair back, pulled it on, and snapped its various attachment points into her exoskeleton's frame- online, check. Her message to Ren asking if she could crash at his place for a while was still unanswered but sometimes it was more expedient to ask forgiveness than seek permission. Delta time, she thought, lacing a beefy pair of steel-toed boots up and pulling her tactical SAP gloves on. The taxi arrived at her door just as she finished arming the security system, and soon enough Petra was on her way to the nearest CART station, strapped in and loaded up with butterflies in her stomach and a weekend bag slung over her shoulder, ready for what would no doubt be one hell of an adventure.

Thankfully she'd been able to get a ticket on one of the express trains, so this wasn't going to be the four-hour slog it usually was. A little music, an idle game of chess or three against the helmet's computer, a quick power nap, and before you know it you're in Vancouver. Ren had finally replied and said yeah, sure, so that wasn't an issue. Another taxi ride brought her to a run-down apartment building, and soon enough she was knocking on her old choom's door. "What, no hug for your sister from another mister?" Ren frowned. "I would, but I just got this new cyber arm on and the pain's a bitch. I am happy to see you, though. Just dump your stuff over there... Leaving so soon?" Petra grinned, clapping him on his good shoulder. "The edge and the eddies are callin' my name, gato. Want to tag along? No? You've gotten boring- kidding, kidding, C-YA." The Velvet Staircase was one busy joint tonight, everybody trying to look hard and angling to get a line on a job instead of all those other gonks, make a little more jack and get a little more street cred than the other guys. She wasn't the most imposing figure there by a long margin, but six total feet of head-to-toe black, leather, and titanium was bound to get someone's attention. She'd have plenty of time to admire the preem bike over there considering how slowly the line to get in the club was moving, not that she had to worry about getting in since she'd made a reservation. As much as she'd have liked to just drop in and receive her marching orders, fixers and facemen operated on a strict "don't call us, we'll call you" basis, so this wasn't the only waiting she'd have to do tonight.

[Anowa]

//Now Playing Track 07//

Times like this, he wished he could go further with cybernetic extensions, to enhance his hearing to know how that barman talked, but that would mean slipping further, he didn't want to slip further, he couldn't. Focus, wait on the barman to come here, if he'd be lucky he'd overhear some conversations from him, do not use the sensory extension, too obvious, especially with the neon blue lights lining the bar. The club itself looked surprisingly normal, tables populated by patrons, and a couple poles drenched in neon light.

As with all clubs in this day and age, there was an abundance of neon colors. A lot of booths with associated numbers posted, a few doors off to the side leading into back rooms, and a full on bar. It was close to peak business hours, so it wasn't as active inside as it was about to be.

It was a few minutes before the bartender came over, the man was barely even a man anymore. There was no doubt that the bartender had undergone a mass amount of bodysculpting surgeries, given the fact that he was now an anthropomorphic tiger. His voice cut through the hum and haw of the club with a surprising ease, "That is a face of someone who's just got off the boat, running from something." the accent was thick and undeniably Russian. A small chuckle, "So, here to drink your pain away, or to get back in the saddle?"

---

Amélie's bike would pull up right outside that "Velvet Staircase" joint she was messaged of. Looked busy. Prolly some guy in the back alley or something waiting for her. She didn't have any reservation there, so she'd have to wait outside. Not that these types of places would do that shit, but you could tell it wouldn't be easy just getting in if all you got is attitude. Cracking her knuckles and constantly checking her phone, she'd just stay there with her bike. At least keep an eye out for someone who looked like they were in the know at least.

It would be an unexpected sight of a man walking out of the bar towards the biker that would likely draw the woman's attention the most. The white haired man's garb wasn't too out of place, a deep purple trenchcoat, black turtleneck and cargo pants, along with combat boots, and a pair of Ozzy Osbourne sunglasses. The last of which was glaringly unnecessary given the overcast conditions, but fashion was fashion.

He approached and simply offered a small box within his cybernetic hand, not unlike a jewelry box, it had a velvet exterior that was keeping the rain away quite well. "Biker. Base pay for the contract is three grand, conditional payout is an extra grand. Brief is on the data shard."

It was a short period of contact, and the man subsequently moved back towards the entrance, however a brief pause as his gaze was cast further down the line. There was a small amount of hesitation in his stride, as he traded a brief few words with one of the bouncers at the door. Then he stepped back inside the building.

The bouncer the man spoke to, a lumbering giant of a man who would probably shake the ground if he fell.

much as she'd have liked to just drop in and receive her marching orders, fixers and facemen operated on a strict "don't call us, we'll call you" basis, so this wasn't the only waiting she'd have to do tonight.

Approaching the tall black clad individual he spoke, with his finger pointing directly at Athena to make no mistake of who he was addressing, "You, head inside, sit at Booth 17. Someone will be with you shortly."

[Endem]

Tristan Del

The tiger bartender made his way to Tristan, there were too many easy cat jokes too make, and neither would earn him any respect from the barman-fixer, he just chuckled internally that the game of cat and mouse had begun.

"I know this is not how you guys usually operate, but I'm a Bennie in here, and I figured it would be for the best to let know the big Gato that he got new fodder that needs to earn some eddies"

He tried to make a better impression of himself, by appealing to the fixer's ego, maybe it wasn't the best marketing strategy, but hey, it worked that one time he was contracted as a deniable person for booster gangs in RPA, at the same time, he could no longer set foot in Johannesburg in fear of getting dirty. The second offer of the tiger was intriguing, he didn't drink in a long time, mainly out of fear it would worsen his condition, and he didn't want that, he didn't want it at all, especially here even if neon lights hide stains easily, he shook his head, focus, he kept repeating his mantra in his thoughts.

"As for drinks, maybe a shot of something light"

He prepared himself to transfer the eurodollars from his account, it got, drained quite a bit by getting to US, but he still should have 500 eurodollars on it, he'd been on harder times, especially at the start of this voyage of his, and if this tiger-fixer gets him a job, whatever it would be, bouncing back should come naturally, after that it will only be a bit more for baloperidol.

[Brettenwald]

Approaching the tall black clad individual he spoke, with his finger pointing directly at Athena to make no mistake of who he was addressing, "You, head inside, sit at Booth 17. Someone will be with you shortly."

"If I'd known I'd get the VIP treatment I'd have saved my eddies and skipped the reservation. Muchas gracias, gato."

Petra grinned behind her helmet, ignoring the annoyed glances from the others in the line as she cut past them and sauntered inside. Huh. Either it's my lucky day or I look like an easy mark. The Staircase was a fairly typical kind of joint: neon all over the place, pounding, uptempo music, side doors giving you privacy for debauchery, even more unsavory business deals or both at the same time, spotlit poles currently free of dancers or strippers. She'd expected something with a little more panache given Talitsyn's comparatively meteoric rise in the underworld, but its reputation as a neutral ground was reassuring. Booth 17 wasn't anything special either, though her body armor and exoskeleton made the bench something of a tight squeeze. Overall, everything was going pretty smoothly so far. Was that Talitsyn behind the bar? He was known to be an Exotic, but somehow she didn't think he'd have gone the tiger route... or stayed out in front of everyone, for that matter. In her admittedly limited experience the Mr. & Mrs. Whos of Cascadia's criminal world tended to be a little more reclusive. Tap, tap, tap. She drummed her gloved fingers on the table in burgeoning impatience. "Shortly" must have a different meaning around here.

As it turned out, she didn't have to wait much longer.

[Anowa]

"I know this is not how you guys usually operate, but I'm a Bennie in here, and I figured it would be for the best to let know the big Gato that he got new fodder that needs to earn some eddies"

"As for drinks, maybe a shot of something light"

"Peach Schnapps it is." As the fixer poured the shot from a freshly produced shot glass, his eyes put a predatory gaze on Tristan that betrayed his expression of a friendly bartender, simply there to listen to folk's sorrows as they dished out eddies hand over fist for more booze. In the man's mind, he already knew the man sitting at his bar, was no ordinary gonk. The accent betrayed his French origins, and most Euro-Solos he'd met had done the song and dance in the Middle East, an irradiated hellhole, or Africa, a not so irradiated hellhole, both of them midway through their second era of being raped by foreign powers, though instead of nations, it was corporations this time. Which meant the man was experienced as a solo, probably a rough around the mental edges, but he could use an experienced Solo in his phonebook. The tiger-man finished pouring and his gaze softened.

He hummed as he rocked his jaw side to side, "I will be honest, I appreciate you not outright demanding a job like you think you're hot shit, so I'll give you a so called 'trial run'." Reaching under the counter, he produced a package that looked like it was wrapped in packing tape. The kind you'd find on packages of synthcoke or -god forbid the cartels find out- actual coke. "Get that package to Megabuilding T7 in New Westminster, business unit number 237, ask for Baba." producing what seemed like a hastily made business card, he presented that as well, "Call that number when it is delivered. If you don't call it within a day, I will assume you have died, or that you've klepped the package. Either way, your worries will not last long."

He held out his hand, "Aleksandr Talitsyn, pleasure to become associated..?" his sentence trailed, obviously waiting for a name.

---

As it turned out, she didn't have to wait much longer.

Across from her in the booth, an asian man sat down in a finely tailored suit, the kind that, just by looking at it you could figure out it was expensive, probably made of actual thread, and not the synthetic crap used now-a-days, yakuza wouldn't be this well dressed. The man's complexion was also spotless, though the telltale signs of cybernetics were there, like the metallic lined grooves on his face and unnatural eye color. At the entrance to the booth, a duo of equally well dressed, but notably more burly men stood in a silent vigil over the interaction.

The man who sat down cleared his throat, subsequently speaking English accented in what was most definitely Japanese, "You're a new face. One that no one knows, which is good for us." a pause, "We have a job for you."

Yakuza weren't this well dressed. Arasaka, the company had ended up in a death spiral late in 2077, thanks to a rather unexpected coup from it's heir, Yorinobu Arasaka. It had leveled out a little bit, but it had still lost billions and a lot of political influence. If you had told someone two years ago that Arasaka would be scraping the bottom of the barrel for solos, they'd call you fucking nuts. The terrifying thing about this was that they had specifically chosen Athena based on the fact that no one knew her. Which meant they had someone that couldn't be traced back to them, another corpse in the street if things went sideways, literal fodder.

Petra had just stepped knee deep into something she had no business being in, and it was likely 'No' wasn't an answer.

[Endem]

Tristan Del

Going good so far, Tristan shook Talitsyn's hand.

"Tristan Del, but I'm usually called by Tri"

He carefully hid the business card inside one of the various pockets of his pants, and also carefully picking up the package. Tristan swirled the glass of schnapps enjoying the peach aroma, the alcohol reminded him of vodka, one of the Polish Harbingers taught him how to properly down shots of spirits, breathe in while drinking, he poured the shot into his mouth, this wouldn't be enough to get him drunk, but hopefully, any negative influences of alcohol will be mitigated by his adrenaline booster during any potential combat.

"Well better get going, wouldn't want to keep the client waiting"

He said while transferring the eurodollars for the shot to Talitsyn's account, along with a tip. He walked out of the bar with the block wrapped in tape nestled in the grip of one of his hands, on his way he saw a young woman being led to one of the booths, judging by attire, it seemed another solo also got lucky with jobs tonight.

Tristan managed to catch the same taxi that got him there, directing it about a street away from the block, the short drive to New Westminster was uneventful, he instructed the driver to wait yet another street further, and that if he wasn't back in an hour, the driver can assume Tristan's dead. Tristan walked towards the imposing block T7, number 237, grey slabs of concrete with windows sprinkled around it, stretching high into the polluted atmosphere, it looked dismal.

Before entering he activated his sonar, a couple pings came up, as expected from a megabuilding, all of his cyberware was running, ready to do its job at a moment's noticed, he walked in, a small market presented himself, stalls selling any number of things, he walked up to the nearest one.

"Hello, I'm looking for a person called Baba"

He said to the vendor.

[Brettenwald]

Petra had just stepped knee deep into something she had no business being in, and it was likely 'No' wasn't an answer.

Huh. Definitely Japanese, definitely fucking loaded, and too classy-looking to be Yakuza, and that could only mean... Shit, this dude was probably Arasaka, wasn't he? Oh, fuck this. Petra was suddenly feeling very cold despite her leather jacket & pants and her body armor. Take it slow, stay calm, stay respectful, don't freak out.

"You're a new face. One that no one knows, which is good for us."

Which means I'm disposable fodder you can use and there's nobody around here to miss me if I get zeroed, you heartless son of a bitch. And then, resisting the urge to laugh: I didn't know you guys were this desperate. Arasaka had its own particular issues to deal with, but condescending to deal with unknown newbies like her was either a ruse or a new low. Probably both. Guys like this played nine-dimensional chess, and if you were lucky you were one of the puppets whose strings didn't get cut and didn't get themselves scraped off the sidewalk in a bad part of town shortly thereafter.

"We have a job for you."

Those would have been nicer words to hear coming from literally anyone else, but Petra didn't have a lot of choice in the matter. Sometimes you got thrown in at the deep end without a rope, and you only had your wits and your [insert relevant pair of reproductive organs] to get yourself out with. Well, here I go. Ren, get ready to identify a body sometime in the next 48 hours. She took a deep breath and switched on the voice modulator.

"I'm interested." Androgynous and faintly metallic, but it worked in real-time so there wasn't an echo effect. "Who or what can I do for you?" Keeping it polite, of course. The Japanese were big on manners.

[Mandicoria]

It would be an unexpected sight of a man walking out of the bar towards the biker that would likely draw the woman's attention the most. The white haired man's garb wasn't too out of place, a deep purple trenchcoat, black turtleneck and cargo pants, along with combat boots, and a pair of Ozzy Osbourne sunglasses. The last of which was glaringly unnecessary given the overcast conditions, but fashion was fashion.

He approached and simply offered a small box within his cybernetic hand, not unlike a jewelry box, it had a velvet exterior that was keeping the rain away quite well. "Biker. Base pay for the contract is three grand, conditional payout is an extra grand. Brief is on the data shard."

Their contact ended just as fast as it began, with Biker immediately taking the box and giving an assuring nod to the man. With their attention turning to the little box they were handed. They'd examine the contents, but they were in public. They had to go somewhere else, somewhere quiet. So where else than a nearby dark alley? Yes, yes a perfect location to listen in on that data chip. Lightly nodding their head to their thoughts, Biker would remount their bike. The engines revving up again before they took off, heading all the way down the road. Looking for the right little nook to duck away in for a short moment.

They found exactly what they wanted in this quaint little alleyway. Nobody visible, no peering eyes. With their bike slowing down for a quick turn down this alley. Finally coming to a complete stop, stomping down on the stand for the bike and turning it off. They could only let out a little sigh before pulling out that little box, and opening it. This contract had to be a good one, after all. Three big ones? That's more than enough for a night or too of debauchery.

"Let's see what they want this time..." She mumbled to herself, opening the box and accessing the data chip inside. "Hope its not junkies again..."

[Sudbrazil]

Dry Season
The Velvet Staircase, Vancouver

---

It was only his first year, but Tsuge had quickly learned from hearsay that there were always dry seasons in the industry. The trickle of customers would slow down over a few weeks, then stop abruptly. Maybe there was something in the weather calming people down, maybe some shady government agent was occasionally slipping pacifying chemicals into the water supply. Maybe the Lord was just mercifully holding back the hordes of gangs and kidnappers and burglars, but this drought was particularly harsh. Whether the citizens of Cascadura were slightly safer or just shyer, his wallet was becoming thinner, and a little voice at the back of his head teased him for buying that Sternmeyer rifle.

That same voice teased him as he approached the Velvet Staircase’s doorway. It was not the kind of establishment he would be caught dead in, but the last gig had been a week ago, and it was only an old lady looking for one of her felines, not nearly enough to pay the bills or even the range ammo for that matter. Desperate times calling for desperate measures, he made his way past the bouncer into the aggressively neon nightclub. As a particularly heinous song assailed his ears, his hand reached for the earplugs in his suit’s pockets, but decided against putting them on. The owner could take it as an insult. Speaking of which, the detective was rather taken aback by the man, if he still deserving of the title ‘Man’.

He had never seen a picture of Talitsyn. Of course, he knew the man was an exotic, but not this exotic. Arakawa sighed as he approached the bar and signaled Tony the Tiger for a drink. At least he had not turned himself into a catgirl.

“Sake, please”

[Anowa]

"Hello, I'm looking for a person called Baba"

The man behind the vending stand, who was selling what looked like collector's figurines, simply looked up at Tristan from his tablet. He was young, maybe early 20s or late teens. "Uh, baba's Laundromat is on the 77th Floor, bud." he pointed straight up as he said this. gesturing to the side he pointed out one of the quartet of elevators in the megabuilding, "That one there has an express to the 77th floor, it's around the corner on the left, big neon sign. I think Anya's on shift right now, she can probably help you out... maybe." he gave a slight look at Tristan's clothes, "Not sure even they can get that much grime out." The young man very promptly went back to doing whatever it was that was occupying before Tristan had arrived.

However, the Solo's sonar would pick up some movement from behind him about 30 meters back, right about the time the young man mentioned 'grime'. He'd given someone a signal at the very least.

---

"I'm interested. Who or what can I do for you?"

The man nodded, appreciating, or it at least seemed like he appreciated, the fact that Athena wanted to get straight to the point. "In the Mission District, there is an Avergreen 18 Golf and Country Club. In that country club, there is a locker room. A locked hardcase was left as a dead drop for one of our runners, who is now been let go from our company. The Locker number is 626, the locker combination is 23-16-8." he raised his hand on to the table, and slid a single wrapped stack of what was clearly labeled as five thousand eddies in 100 eb bills, "This will be the up front payment, an additional fifteen thousand will be delivered upon the delivery of the case. Which will be on the east side of Point Roberts Marina, a yellow fishing trawler. We will know when the contract is completed."

With that, the man stood, and faded into the now bustling crowd with his compatriots, leaving Athena alone with a stack of cash on the table.

---

"Let's see what they want this time... Hope its not junkies again..."

The front door to the club was effectively opened as Biker stepped into the alleyway. Pretty much any attention to her was lost as she did so, both from people having the common sense not to snoop, and being more focused on getting into the club. The alley was dark, dingy, and had enough garbage in it to permeate through the cyclist's helmet.

But as she put the shard into her head, and her optic nerve started getting hijacked signals, images of the mayor, his wife, an anchored Yacht and the headlines of his very anti-crime focused election campaign, it was clear that her wish for it not to be junkies had come true. Talitsyn's voice rang true through the data, as if the man was there, though obviously not the case.

"Chances are whoever you are, you're both trusted not to fuck this up and likely already rearing to go, so. This job is simple, tonight Cascadia's mayor, Ishwar Gurang, is having a rather large party on his yacht celebrating his recent election win. Organized crime are a bit unhappy with Mayor Gurang's attempts at stopping the so called 'plague' upon Cascadia. The client is asking for a message to be sent, but a subtle one. There's going to be a party on the yacht with a lot of his cronies on board tonight, due to legal bullshit it'll be docked, so it makes your job easier. All you have to do is start a fire, somewhere below decks so people have time to get off. We want to send a message that preferably isn't written in blood, that also means that you should try not to kill anyone below decks either. It's anchored and tied off to Cold Harbour Marina, less than 4 blocks from here. Given that it's tonight, this is very much time sensitive. Good luck. Oh, make sure you snap this shard when you're done so some gonk doesn't nab it... or Carlos, fucken..." the message would trail on as the man's voice grew distant from the microphone, ranting about a man who had a bad habit of falling prey to lone sharks and bad news, until the audio cut out mid sentence.

Nonetheless, burning down a yacht without killing anyone was certainly one way to send a message.

---

“Sake, please”

Talitsyn simply nodded, turned around, reached not into the racks above where most of the hooch was displayed, but into a cabinet underneath grabbing a rather antiquated looking bottle, that had collected some dust. wiping it off, the man shook his head, "Always one bottle we miss." he set a glass down beside it and presented it to Arakawa, he then spoke further, "Judging by the state of the bottle, you can probably guess we don't get too many patrons from that side of the Japanese tracks. And you're here, which means you're not allowed in a Yakuza club. So it means you're probably a Solo in a dry spell, looking to grovel for a job, right?"

[Endem]

Tristan Del

Good enough, to that ping was worrying, if one was to concentrate they'd probably could hear the subtle sound of something coming under pressure, like a spring slowly compressing, coming from Tristan arm, while his free arm also subtly moved towards the holster with the RT-46. make him spill it, he's hiding it, the corners of Tristan's lips curled up slightly, before he shook his head, focus, focus, focus, if you get Max-Tac here you're failing.


Tristan moved fast towards the elevator, still with his hand near the holster, under his very clean white shirt anybody could now see something wriggling, almost as if a giant worm was underneath it, before a sensory extension wiggled out of it, and started to look behind Tristan, as his eyes were suddenly drowned in a mixture of red and blues, infrared vision could prove useful.

If any goons are waiting for me around that corner, they're getting flatlined, hopefully through the wall itself, because if they get the drop on me, my only hope is the MicroGenerator and Subdermal, Tristan thought to himself. He was near enough the corner that even the 50 meters sonar should start giving pings.

[Segral]

Leon Saint-Fleur
The Velvet Staircase

This club was a fuckin' waste. "Recharge Station"? "Power Play"? What was this, a kid's arcade? 13-year old reality junkies would have a field day here, a bunch of weird mocktails, gimmicky neon-blue lighting, and mediocre strippers would be up any kid's alley. For a grown-ass man though, the experience was...underwhelming. Maybe he shouldn't have expected so much out of a club known for being one of the fattest sources of easy pickings and handouts in all of Cascadia, but coming from clubs like Goldrail and The Peacock's Nest, the downgrade was a bitter pill to swallow. Still, maybe it would be worth it. He was sick of sticking his neck out for Paint Boys all the time, and there was no way in hell he would be caught dead with some pasty-ass Pastas.

At least the beer selection was better here. You'd think a club called "Goldrail" would have some decent pints, but unless you were looking for smash that tasted like it was cooked up in someone's kitchen sink, you were shit outta luck. They didn't even try to hide it. Maybe that's how they got shot up. He was probably safer here in Recharge Station, at least there was a good few dozen people between him and the door. Blame the pig life for making him muddy-minded, but he had started getting into the habit of analyzing his surroundings for exits in case everything went to shit. Fires and bombings or whatever didn't happen 99% of the time, those were fairytales. Most likely, they'd barricade the entrance and start spraying with a Crusher. Take advantage of the ricochet to let off serious damage. Leon would probably use the bar for cover if that happened, find an exit from behind and try to slip out. Work from table to table and hit any side door or other exit if possible. Kicking a few tables over would probably help with that.

Sweet lord, he was already dreaming of ways to get out of this place. If he had to watch that same dancer fall off her pole a seventh time he was just going to walk right the fuck out. He had no choomba here, he had no one to see or talk to aside from that weird-lookin' exotic at the bar, the one who would likely be his touchpoint if he wanted any hope of finding some work. Everybody biosculpted and chipped in a little bit, but there was a fine line between an upgrade and a midlife crisis, or an upgrade and a lack of self-esteem, no matter how boga it was. He made it out well enough with a little disk in his heel that let him know who was approaching him without even turning and cyberware in his eyes and ears that let him see and hear the world in HD, even it felt like a knife was being driven through his cheek every time he twitched. It was why he was in this bar in the first place. His money was dry, and someone was going to think he was twisted if he kept walking through life with one perpetually twitching eye and constant tugs of his cheek that kept the muscles popping in and out and grinded the right side of his jaw into fine bone dust. If anyone looked at him. He had purposefully chosen a dark, simple jacket and pants with scuffed-out shoes to draw as little attention as possible. Usually, he did that without any specific outfits by not looking like a complete and utter freak, but with his face constantly jumping, he needed to take special precautions.

So, in lieu of instant recognition, he focused on lifting two fingers in the air and uttering out a short "Aye!" to get the bartender's attention. He needed a refill anyways, his tumbler was almost empty. It would be a good way to break the ice and spark up some conversation. If a Bag Man of his apparent stature was even interested in conversation with him.

[Sudbrazil]

“Sake, please”

Talitsyn simply nodded, turned around, reached not into the racks above where most of the hooch was displayed, but into a cabinet underneath grabbing a rather antiquated looking bottle, that had collected some dust. wiping it off, the man shook his head, "Always one bottle we miss." he set a glass down beside it and presented it to Arakawa, he then spoke further, "Judging by the state of the bottle, you can probably guess we don't get too many patrons from that side of the Japanese tracks. And you're here, which means you're not allowed in a Yakuza club. So it means you're probably a Solo in a dry spell, looking to grovel for a job, right?"

“I suppose the suit was a giveaway... but surely your clientele is not purely composed by soldiers of fortune.”

There was no choko, no sakazuki, or masu – not that he expected any special cups – but the rice wine was still rather decent. A bit dry for his tastes, but decent. He took a sip as he reeled from the stunningly direct approach taken by the bartender.

“Anyway, let’s just say neither cop nor citizen is looking for private eyes this time of the year. I appreciate anything you can offer.”

[Brettenwald]

With that, the man stood, and faded into the now bustling crowd with his compatriots, leaving Athena alone with a stack of cash on the table.

An extra fifteen fucking thousand? You don't have to tell me twice. Perhaps I judged you too harshly, gato. Petey was grinning like the Cheshire Cat behind her helmet as she stuffed the initial five grand into an inner coat pocket. She'd taken the liberty of recording her conversation and had set up some notes and an objective list in the top left corner of her AR screen. Mission Country Club, 626, 23-16-8, drop off @ Pt. Roberts, yellow trawler. The place was getting pretty lively now, so this seemed like as good an opportunity to jump out and start making tracks as any. You don't keep Mr. Who waiting. It did cross her mind that perhaps this was hazard pay, but come on, this was Arasaka. Nobody was going to know about the case unless they wanted them to. Game plan: drop off the advance at Ren's, get on CART to Mission, time a taxi for extraction all the way out and around the bay to the Marina.

"Ren, you beautiful bastard, you are not gonna believe my luck!"

Petra pushed her hood back and opened the front of her helmet before giving Ren a big fat kiss on the lips and spinning him around by the shoulders. "Look at this. Five thousand up front, and that's not all. Fif-teen more on delivery! Can you believe it? Anyway, I gotta drop all these eddies with you. When I get back I'll jack into your system and you can help me shop for cyberware. I am so getting reflex boosters put in. Should have had it done years ago, honestly. As much as I want to blow the rest on a spectacular weekend of joyboys, braindance, drugs and debauchery I think I should put it aside for my own set of wheels. I wonder how much you can pick up a used Yaiba Kusanagi for these days..." She seemed to come back down to Earth in a second.

"Sorry, I'm hyper." She shook her head and pressed a button, sealing her face back in. "Anyway, I've got no idea when I'll be back. Love you," she said through the mike. Ren could only shake his head in awe as the door to his apartment slammed shut once more. Petey knew what she was getting into, she was capable of defending herself and she sure as hell wasn't stupid, but she was still a little green and he was still going to worry about her. They kind of had a big brother/little sister relationship dynamic going on even if they weren't related, so maybe he was just naturally protective, who knew? As for Petra herself, now aboard the train out east, the butterflies were back.

Mission, BC, an hour and change later:

---

As a matter of fact, they'd only gotten worse, she decided, staring up at an archway sign reading Evergreen 18 Golf & Country Club in the rapidly fading dusk. Time was of the essence, since she stood out in this upper-class Beav den like a sore thumb. She couldn't get in that way, too obvious. Deciding that hopping the fence was the best course of action, she quickly disappeared into the woods surrounding the golf course, looking for an alternate way in. Salvation was eventually found in the form of a conveniently placed and eminently climbable tree branch, and- one, two, three -with a jump and a push she cleared the fence, tucking and rolling into a smooth landing before straightening up and sprinting across the grass toward the clubhouse. Heart pounding, she flattened herself against a wall that looked suspiciously like what you'd find surrounding a locker room, thanks to the wide but vertically short high-set windows.

Jackpot.

She shimmied up a drain pipe and peered inside. Yep, locker room. Tearing a hole through the window screen and reaching in to snap the latch on the window frame was the work of moments, and she dropped into the darkness before toggling night vision on and searching for the magic number. 612, 614, 616, 618... 626! Hell yeah. The combination worked, the case was there, and she had fifteen large waiting for her in Point Roberts, so she sure as hell wasn't going to stick around. The briefcase fell to the ground, she followed it out the window, and from then it was a sprint through the darkness across the 18th fairway once more and a running jump over the fence before meeting the taxi at the corner of a nearby intersection. Petra's heart rate began to lower slowly as the car set off on its hour-long journey to the marina. That went well... and holy shit do I need that Kusanagi, I can't take CART or cabs everywhere. It's going to play hell with business opportunities.

Of course, what she didn't know was that the heist was going to be the easiest part of her night by far.

[Anowa]

If any goons are waiting for me around that corner, they're getting flatlined, hopefully through the wall itself, because if they get the drop on me, my only hope is the MicroGenerator and Subdermal, Tristan thought to himself. He was near enough the corner that even the 50 meters sonar should start giving pings.

One of the pair of pings hung back, but still in range. The other got closer and closer to the corner, the larger of the two pings. At about 10 meters, the sounds of light footsteps in a very short stride were heard, and around the corner came a young man carrying two thermal bags labeled with the tell tale sign of the Buck-A-Slice pizza brand. The pizza shaped hat he wore framed a face that looked absolutely fucking miserable.

The man gave a heavy sigh as he reached for the same button that Tristan had pressed moment before, though a look of mild surprise and a curious hum escaped the man. As the doors to the elevator closed the man subconsciously looked up at the numbers ticking away above the door. After a few moments of silence he spoke, "So. You're getting a package to Baba too, I take it?"

---

“I suppose the suit was a giveaway... but surely your clientele is not purely composed by soldiers of fortune.”
“Anyway, let’s just say neither cop nor citizen is looking for private eyes this time of the year. I appreciate anything you can offer.”

Talitsyn shrugged, "Not all of our patrons, no. Most of them are just normal folk looking for decent booze and a hang out where they won't get fragged within an hour of opening." the man rapped on the counter, "Helps that most of the stuff in here that is bolted down is resistant up to .50 BMG."

The man did a double take as he watched as one of the dancer fell off a pole, for the first time he'd noticed at least. He turned to the side to call one of the bouncers, "Carla, could you get Naomi into the back? She is not supposed to be working with the whole inner ear thing she has right now." a simple nod was the only response.

Returning to the Solo's conversation, Talitsyn responded to the lament of the Private Dick, "That is honestly surprising, Cascadia may not be a meat grinder like Night City, but it's still got a lot of parents looking for closure. Got nothing for you from my end though." a sorry shrug and the man turned towards another patron for a moment before he stopped and a look of realization came upon his face, he turned back towards Arakawa, "Actually, I have something of my own that might be down your alley. One of my BD editors has gone dark for a couple of weeks now. Usually this would not be too concerning, the man gets real into his work and usually goes silent until he drops off his projects. Though he has missed his schedule by about 3 days without any word. That is something he never does. At best this will be nothing more than a welfare check. Worst case scenario is that you will have a good week of worth for you lined up." he pulled out a napkin and scrawled down a phone number, "Megabuilding T6, Room 2344, a block south of here. Literally can't miss it. Knock seven times and tell him it's from Talitsyn. If he doesn't answer then you will have my grace to kick his door in. Seven times, not six and not eight, he has mines rigged all over his fucking flat to blow if a percussive tone isn't matched. We'll discuss payment when you get there and find out what has happened. My number's on the napkin there." a pause, "You can go ahead and take the bottle with, you're the first person to order Sake since the last owner."

With that, he gave a mock salute, and walked down the bar. Notably, the exotic didn't ask for a name.

---

So, in lieu of instant recognition, he focused on lifting two fingers in the air and uttering out a short "Aye!" to get the bartender's attention. He needed a refill anyways, his tumbler was almost empty. It would be a good way to break the ice and spark up some conversation. If a Bag Man of his apparent stature was even interested in conversation with him.

It was a few moments before the orange colored fixer strolled over, grabbing another pint glass. He took a second to remember what it was the man had gone with when he came in, before filling the second glass. A few more bartenders came out as the bar started filling with occupants. Talitsyn couldn't help but pause as he got a better look at the man's face.

There was a slight look of thought across the exotic's face as he looked at Leon, "We haven't met before have we?"

---

Of course, what she didn't know was that the heist was going to be the easiest part of her night by far.

In the somewhat better lighting of Cascadia's street lamps, occasionally shining through the windows of the Taxi, focusing on the case was that much easier. As the cabbie in the front simply kept an eye on the road, he was blissfully unaware of what Athena had in her possession. Every time a light shone through the window, it illuminated the monochrome IEC logo on the front of the case, which was about double the width of a normal business briefcase. It was armoured, given the heftiness of it that Athena was only now registering thanks to the waning adrenaline high. On the top alongside the handle, were a duo of speakers that seemed to be drilled out rather crudely, and an LCD display that seemed to have been jimmied off and subsequently taped back in place with duct tape.

A light on the front of the case blinked. A few miles down the road, a duo of contractors in a rental car were alerted to an updated location of the case. But Athena didn't know this, all she knew was that she was carrying a case that notably didn't belong to Arasaka, and another vehicle was now tailgating the cab with it's headlights off.

The grille of the vehicle was black anodized chrome, a sedan that was either custom made or so heavily modified it may as well have been custom made. Though to be fair, the whole vehicle was black anodized chrome, except for the trimming and the windows, instead, those were all a chrome red, or a tint of a metallic red.

A bald man wearing nothing more than a black and red bulletproof vest and a number of less than socially acceptable tattoos leaned out the front passenger side window with a shotgun antiquated enough to still use a pump action. Which he promptly demonstrated before blowing the back window of the cab out. The cabby gave a shout of surprise as he ducked down, putting his foot to the floor.

Should've been expected given how easy things had gone up until then.

[Endem]

Tristan Del

His sensory extension scanned the pizza delivery boy curiously, mostly looking for any signs of weapons, and chrome, Tristan's IR vision would unfortunately not do much, if there was any abnormality, the pizza boxes were masking it well.

"Yeah"

His sensory extension started to look all around the elevator, for microphones, bugs, and anything else someone could use for recording, maybe it was a bit paranoid of him, but after Brazil, he was not going to risk anyone recording him.

"You know if he's into anything shady? Someone was following me here"

Tristan asked, the boy looked safe, if miserable, maybe a liability if anything broke down unless it was some clever ploy or trick, but if it was one, it would severely limit what that boy could do, unless those pizza boxes held anything other than pizza. Tristan's extension reflected his thoughts, as it shifted its view for a brief moment towards the boxes.

Tristan switched off the infrared vision for a moment to look at the floors ticking by, 21, 22, 23, they would have some time for conversation. He learned in his job to never discard what anybody says, that was a lesson he learned quite early and being a careful listener benefited him greatly since.

[Brettenwald]

Should've been expected given how easy things had gone up until then.

It was always the fucking exfil that went wrong. Not like she wasn't completely out of danger even before their tail decided to get nasty, what with it becoming apparent on further examination of the briefcase that this was one: serious corpo shit, and thus two: way the hell above her pay grade and expertise, but this was not good. Very, very not good. All I wanted was a set of reflex boosters and a down payment on a CPO Kusanagi, not to fucking die.

"Sorry about your cab, choom!" Petra yelled over the road and wind noise before whipping her Lexington out and putting a few well-aimed rounds into the gunman's right shoulder and upper arm before ducking back down. This cabbie wasn't a bad getaway driver, she had to give him that.

She did have to laugh to herself a little too, but maybe it was just the adrenaline rush. Considering her own political leanings, of course it had to be the goddamn Nazis. Irony and all that shit. A second blast and a couple of holes in the hood of her coat & some chips in her exoskeleton's paint combined with a pellet pinging off her helmet to just plain piss her the hell off. Okay, now it's fucking personal, asshole. Damage this baby and I'll damage your master-race face. The Lexington spat another bullet at said asshole (if he had any sense he'd have learned not to pump the damn shotgun outside the car after Petra turned his right biceps and deltoid into ground beef), and this time it took a sizable chunk out of the right side of his forehead. She'd been going for a headshot given the positioning of the two cars relative to each other, but it was still an incredibly lucky shot. Not guaranteed to kill him, sadly, but it was good enough for her.

From Antifa, with love.

[Mandicoria]

The front door to the club was effectively opened as Biker stepped into the alleyway. Pretty much any attention to her was lost as she did so, both from people having the common sense not to snoop, and being more focused on getting into the club. The alley was dark, dingy, and had enough garbage in it to permeate through the cyclist's helmet.

But as she put the shard into her head, and her optic nerve started getting hijacked signals, images of the mayor, his wife, an anchored Yacht and the headlines of his very anti-crime focused election campaign, it was clear that her wish for it not to be junkies had come true. Talitsyn's voice rang true through the data, as if the man was there, though obviously not the case.

"Chances are whoever you are, you're both trusted not to fuck this up and likely already rearing to go, so. This job is simple, tonight Cascadia's mayor, Ishwar Gurang, is having a rather large party on his yacht celebrating his recent election win. Organized crime are a bit unhappy with Mayor Gurang's attempts at stopping the so called 'plague' upon Cascadia. The client is asking for a message to be sent, but a subtle one. There's going to be a party on the yacht with a lot of his cronies on board tonight, due to legal bullshit it'll be docked, so it makes your job easier. All you have to do is start a fire, somewhere below decks so people have time to get off. We want to send a message that preferably isn't written in blood, that also means that you should try not to kill anyone below decks either. It's anchored and tied off to Cold Harbour Marina, less than 4 blocks from here. Given that it's tonight, this is very much time sensitive. Good luck. Oh, make sure you snap this shard when you're done so some gonk doesn't nab it... or Carlos, fucken..." the message would trail on as the man's voice grew distant from the microphone, ranting about a man who had a bad habit of falling prey to lone sharks and bad news, until the audio cut out mid sentence.

Nonetheless, burning down a yacht without killing anyone was certainly one way to send a message.

"Well son of a bitch." She quietly mused to herself. Adopting a very entertained, curious tone to their voice as a smile began forming underneath that helmet. "Shouldn't be too hard to start some fire, maybe knock a few guys out."

She began to start humming to herself as they pulled out the data shard out of their head. Crushing the shard into a fine dust with their gloved hand as they turned back to their bike. Getting on and letting out a nice little exhale. A light cough coming from her as she waved the air. The stench of the alley really was too much, even for someone as rugged as her. With Biker not even taking a moment's hesitation to start her bike up again, just to get the fuck out of that dingy alley, and get started on the job. Revving up the engine and riding off back to the streets, kicking up a good cloud of smoke and dust on their way out of the alley. Beginning a high speed transit to the Marina.

The trip itself wasn't too long. After all her destination was only about 4 blocks from where she started, hardly really an effort to get to. Pulling up her bike across from the marina in a nice, secluded spot. Hidden from any would be jackers, hell it was ID locked so it wasn't going anywhere anyways. Most importantly though, in a good enough location where she could get the fuck out of there. Biker could only feel smug with all this info, and the view of the Marina down below made this aura even stronger. Looked easy enough to get on the ship, maybe knock a few guys out and hide the bodies. Heh, wouldn't be the first time she had to enter a place all sneaky-beaky like.

Adjusting herself on the rails overlooking the marina, they could only think to themselves. How were they gonna get this done without any intentional bloodshed? After all, had to please the guys hiring her. Her eyes fell upon anything she could use to her advantage down below.

[Anowa]

"You know if he's into anything shady? Someone was following me here"

The biggest red flag the young man had was that there was nothing coming from the thermal bags he was carrying. It wasn't the expected mid level of heat that indicates there was warm food inside, but rather there was no heat at all. Not even ambient. Something in the bags was being shielded.

The pizza boy shrugged, "Well, yeah, she is an arms dealer. Pretty closely connected with the Bratva." he shook his head, "Hell, I'm not even carrying pizza, this is just a disguise. Dunno what's in the boxes, but I know better than to look." The young man looked up as the floors ticked away, Tri's scan of the elevator found nothing out of the ordinary besides the standard CCTV in the corner.

The boy piped up again as the elevator hit the 64th floor, "Well, whetever you're carrying obviously isn't big enough to need a dedicated box, so it's probably pretty important."

---

"Sorry about your cab, choom!" Petra yelled over the road and wind noise before whipping her Lexington out and putting a few well-aimed rounds into the gunman's right shoulder and upper arm before ducking back down. This cabbie wasn't a bad getaway driver, she had to give him that.

She did have to laugh to herself a little too, but maybe it was just the adrenaline rush. Considering her own political leanings, of course it had to be the goddamn Nazis. Irony and all that shit. A second blast and a couple of holes in the hood of her coat & some chips in her exoskeleton's paint combined with a pellet pinging off her helmet to just plain piss her the hell off. Okay, now it's fucking personal, asshole. Damage this baby and I'll damage your master-race face. The Lexington spat another bullet at said asshole (if he had any sense he'd have learned not to pump the damn shotgun outside the car after Petra turned his right biceps and deltoid into ground beef), and this time it took a sizable chunk out of the right side of his forehead. She'd been going for a headshot given the positioning of the two cars relative to each other, but it was still an incredibly lucky shot. Not guaranteed to kill him, sadly, but it was good enough for her.

From Antifa, with love.

The first couple of rounds stopped the man from immediately following up with a second shot. But he rather quickly adapted to a single handed pump out of a 90s action movie.

Athena put an end to that when he took a 9mm round to the braincase. His body went limp and the shotgun fell to the road, bouncing and clattering to a stop as the two cars sped away. His body hung out the window as one of his buddies in the backseat tried pulling him in.

With the tint of the windshield, it was difficult to see in to the vehicle, however the sunroof was opening, and out came the barrel of a larger weapon as an individual in some high class gear shoved his upper body and ancient machine gun through the sun roof and took aim. There was maybe a three round burst, the exact opposite expected from a weapon with the nickname of a buzzsaw. It wasn't directed at Athena, but rather the driver, as blood seeped through a trio of holes in the driver's seat, and headrest, along with a massive chunky spray across the now spiderwebbed windshield of the combat cab.

With no one at the helm, the car wavered as the road curved, and began grinding against the guardrail. The driver's foot heavy enough to keep the accelerator going.

In the opposite lane of the highway, an old Archer Hella whipped past and suddenly hit the brakes entering a U-Turn, a very stark reaction compared to every other car on the road which was trying to get the fuck away from the duo of battling machines.

---

Adjusting herself on the rails overlooking the marina, they could only think to themselves. How were they gonna get this done without any intentional bloodshed? After all, had to please the guys hiring her. Her eyes fell upon anything she could use to her advantage down below.

The Yacht was lit up like a Christmas tree, if anyone still actually celebrated it. It was large, not a millionaire yacht, but a billionare, nesting doll yacht. Despite the party taking place on the upper surface decks, it was obvious there was security in the darker decks away from the party. At the rear of the yacht, it looked like a duo of the guards were having a smoke break, right outside the wetdock that would usually hold a smaller boat, they seemed rather unattentive. The boarding ramp was obviously right out, seeing as it lead directly into a crowd and security in full view of everyone. The anchor was also hanging and a weigh. With the chain leading directly into the ship on the lower decks. Seemed like the stealthiest ways in involved getting wet.

[Endem]

Tristan Del

Good to know that the boy was honest, or at least recognized lying would be the wrong course of action, he was curious as to what the boxes held, weapons probably, though why would it need shielding then, maybe it was something unstable, exothermic or radioactive, and illegal He could so easily overpower him and take just a little peek, they wouldn't find him for , Tristan shook his head, focus, focus, focus. The only bits of insightful knowledge to come from the boy would be the fact Baba was a she, now it clicked, It was just a nickname, vulgar word for women in several Slavic languages, made sense after all the boy revealed she was connected to the Bratva.

"Well, whetever you're carrying obviously isn't big enough to need a dedicated box, so it's probably pretty important."

"Thought so"

A short ping filled the lift, and the doors were slowly opening, 77th floor welcomed with the neon signs of several businesses, the Laundromat was only about 20 meters away, the balconies were crowded with people, it was hard to recognize any individual face, unusual behavior, or sketchy look, nonetheless, crowds provided certain protection, small chance of anybody following him through the crowds. Unfortunately, his sonar was basically useless here, same goes with IR, way too many pings, way too many heat signatures.

The delivery boy exited first and promptly disappeared into the crowd, Tristan didn't need him anyway, trailing wasn't necessary, the destination was just ahead, Tristan exited the elevator and walked near the rail of the balcony, there was some 400-meter drop until the ground floor, he positioned himself precisely across the storefront of the Laundromat, still near the rail, the only thing to distinguish him from the crowd was his sensory extension looking above it, he wanted to see who was in that room before entering, call it paranoia, Tristan thought it was caution.

[Brettenwald]

In the opposite lane of the highway, an old Archer Hella whipped past and suddenly hit the brakes entering a U-Turn, a very stark reaction compared to every other car on the road which was trying to get the fuck away from the duo of battling machines.

Petra ducked to the floorboard as the driver's head basically disappeared.

Holy shit, these guys are committed.

Athena, for Petra had taken a back seat to all this and was now merely screaming while her steelier alter ego took control for the time being, disgustedly swatted a chunk of what looked suspiciously like brain off her pants as the potent coppery tang of blood made it past her mask's currently deactivated filters. Poor guy. Should give my eddies to his family. The car was basically an unguided missile at this point and all she could do was hope it didn't crash too hard or roll. She was tough and strapped into some seriously tough shit, but it wasn't fully fireproof. Pushing her former driver out wasn't exactly an option since she'd meet the same fate if she took the wheel. The Lexington was putting in overtime tonight, but it didn't seem to be doing much to Mr. Wolfenstein Cover Art back there. If she was even hitting him, of course. Second objective: get a Burya after this. We're in the big leagues now, gotta carry accordingly.

Oh, what now? In contrast to all the other drivers in this stretch of the old Trans-Canada, somebody Athena could have charitably described as batshit insane piloting a beater Hella decided to join the fun. Great. Just fucking great. First the Red Chrome bastards and now there's someone else who wants me wiped off the map? Whose fucking coffee did I piss in this morning?

Unbeknownst to her, at least the Hella's occupants were more immediately interested in the briefcase than her demise. Or so she chose to hope.

[Segral]

Leon Saint-Fleur
The Velvet Staircase

"Sak pasé, big man?" Leon asked with an attempt at a grin that came out more as a painful sneer, his eyelid continuing to flutter away as he brought the fresh glass of beer to his lips. Even his draws came out odd. He drank beer like a rich beaver mom drank wine, choppily sucking it in through a narrow, gurgling slit in his teeth instead of knocking a big swig backwards. It was just another one of the things that set him apart from everyone else. His Haitian accent. His twitches. His modest fashion. His modest appearance, relatively spared from a garish mess of metal implants and biosculpting of questionable legality. Ironically, among his fellow detectives, he was closer to falling into the same boat as everyone else; you'd be hard pressed to find an honest man or woman in those ranks. They were all crooks, and in Cascadia, if you were a crook, you went where the most suitable work called.

"You right. We haven't met. The name's Lily, it's a pleasure." Leon replied, leaning back in his chair and carelessly throwing an arm over the back as he began to size up Talitsyn. "I was always a bigger fan of other clubs, truthfully. Never really bothered coming here. The others were a bit more lowkey, less uh...vibrant than this one. Less boga. I think lowkey attracts too much attention. No boga attracts too much attention. When you don't stand out, when you're not fashionable or popular or colorful, people become suspicious of you. I don't want to be suspicious, never wanted to be. Even if you're as innocent as Mary's littlest, most favorite lamb, suspicion kills."

Leon took a pause in the middle of his speech to take a deep huff of breath through his nose and send a bit more beer down his gullet. If he didn't take breaks, his twitching muscles would eventually turn his words into a sloppy mash. "I'll cut to the chase. I need a bit of cash, but I'm no gonk. I know that I'm in no position to start demanding jobs from you. You run a tight ship here, and you can't risk any leaks. But I also don't want to be suspicious. I want to be boga. So, I come to you. You got anything small you could offer me?"