Cyberpunk: Cascadia (Open|IC)

[Anowa]

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.

Within, was obviously the delivery boy, handing off a stack of what seemed like pizzas to a younger woman behind the help desk, without the bag concealing them, it was clear that the 'pizzas' had electronic signatures that were actively on at that moment. The young woman quickly ducked into the back as the delivery boy stood at the desk. A few moments later, the woman gave a departing few words to the boy, who quickly departed.

Outside of those two, there were maybe a dozen others in the laundromat, the two most notable was a rather burly man sitting on a chair next to a dryer, reading a news tablet, seemingly waiting for his laundry to finish. The other was a decrepit old woman with an ancient right arm prosthetic loading laundry into a dryer. She stood no more than five feet tall, and had a fashion sense that could easily be stereotyped as 'eastern european grandmother'.

---

-snip-

As the 9mm rounds from Athena simply bounced off the gunman's armor, the driver of the vehicle swiftly passed the shredded taxi and brake checked it. With the driver dead, there was no real response outside of simply stopping.

The gunner from the roof immediately climbed out and walked down the rear of his vehicle and on to the asphalt as cars whipped past at highway speeds. The driver, and two other passengers also piled out, all of them armed with assault rifles, and aimed pointedly at Athena. All of them wore the obvious gang colors, but only the driver didn't have red boot laces, nor did she have many gang related tattoos outside of a Valknot on the side of her partially shaven head. The trio of unarmoured passengers stood stock still in positions where they could mag dump Athena at the drop of a hat. But the heavily armored one, obviously betting that Athena wasn't suicidal, just opened the rear passenger door that wasn't shunted into the guardrail.

He just looked in the glowing red lenses illuminating the back seat to a degree. For a moment, silence, before he spoke simply, and to the point, "Mask off. Now."

---

"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?"

Talitsyn's eyes started narrowing further and further the more this guy went on about trying to not be suspect. It didn't sound a whole lot more outside of simple excuses as to why they'd never seen each other before. Talityn knew he'd seen this guy somewhere before, he didn't know where, but he knew he wasn't a squeaky clean merc like most of the people he gave jobs. Unfortunately for the guy, Talitsyn didn't have any proper jobs, at least not for him. But he did have grudges.

Talitsyn, knew deep down that if 'Lily' was wearing any sort of wire or was a cop, he'd more than likely be able to pay his way out. But as for Lily himself, there had to be some sort of test.

The fixer gave a low hum, "Yeah. A few nights ago some rat bastard decided to take a knife to one of my employees who makes house calls. She's not dead, but she's in intensive care. He lives at 1107 Chruchil Avenue, with his trophy wife, three story mansion, hilarious lack of security. It's in Oak Bay, Victoria. Fastest way there is through Discovery Tunnel under the strait. Johnathan Irons, you probably know him, has ties to Biotechnica, city council member, fucking scumbag. I don't want him dead, I just want him beat so bad he won't be able to shit without a machine for the rest of his life. As for his wife, kill her, or don't. That's up to you."

[Endem]

Tristan Del

Customers, customers, and more customers, and two that sorely stuck out, the burly man, and the, as one Novosibirsk Russian he knew would call, a babushka, potentially enforcers or informants of the Russian mafia, either way, most likely connected to it, a liability or risk, need to keep on the watch, or splatter on the focus focus focus.

Tristan took off, swiftly moving through the crowd, and towards the entrance of the laundromat, he was nearly certain that the two sticking out people were watching him, most likely, most definitely even, he needed to focus on something else. He walked through the door, his sensory extension was switching between the man and the babushka, he needed to see their reaction.

He walked up to the desk the boy was previously at and placed his package on it, the nearest he was to the Bratva and Vladivostok was when he had a brief gig in Korea, they shouldn't hold any malice towards him, should, it always was an uncertainty though.

"From the Tiger behind the drinks Bar"

He alluded Tailitsyn, obviously he would, what other tiger-barman-fixer was there in Cascadia.

[Brettenwald]

He just looked in the glowing red lenses illuminating the back seat to a degree. For a moment, silence, before he spoke simply, and to the point, "Mask off. Now."

Well, shit.

Athena was happy enough to be alive for the time being considering that the Übernazi in the armor could easily have reduced her to little more than a pile of scrap metal & a substantial bloodstain on the cab's back seat if he'd wanted to, but she was still pretty fucking scared. Severely outgunned, too. Huh. Wasn't expecting a woman.

"Whatever you say, gato, you're the one calling the shots... sorry, bad joke."

A few clicks, a whirring of motors and the display retracted up as the breathing apparatus dropped down, revealing green eye implants that would have shown fear had they the ability set in a young, androgynous face beaded with sweat and flushed in anxiety & stress. Taking off a glove for a second to brush a few stray strands of brown hair out of the way, she made sure her pistol wasn't anywhere near her (the floorboard seemed like a decent place for it) before affixing one of her trademark cocky but good-natured grins and trying to look as unthreatening as possible.

"Look, I'm just some small-time indie, I'm not taking sides in any gang wars or corpo shit. I got no clue what I did to piss you guys off, I haven't covered up any of your graffiti or written any angry blogs on the Net." She laughed nervously.

"I'm assuming this isn't a 'you show me yours and I'll show you mine' kind of thing, so, uh, what now?"

[Mandicoria]

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.

"Fucking christ..." Biker would mutter to themself. The realization hitting like a truck with how they'd have to dip in that noxious water if they wanted a good chance of not getting spotted. "I hate going to the dry cleaners, especially with shit like this..."

Shaking their head, and looking down for an approach. They could only let out a few sighs as they tried to process their surroundings. They really didn't wanna jump in that muckwater, and get.... whatever was in that all over them. A small chuckle escaped them. With Biker remembering, it's actually a lot cleaner than what they say Night City's water was like. Hell they could actually see a good amount of actual water poking out from the garbage. Funny. It was at least a thought to take the edge off from what they were going to do. Anything to get the job done right?

While they wanted to, they wouldn't hesitate when they began scaling down towards the water. They had their plan in motion. Swim through all that shit, climb up that anchor, torch the ship, and exit where they came in from. Simple plan. Detailed enough for them to dwell on as they finally reached the water. Trying their absolute best to keep their mind off the fact they're starting to swim around in polluted filth. Their boots sinking right into the muddy shore. Sending a chill right up their spine with each squich and sqounch into the water. With them inevitably finally being able to swim to the boat. Definitely grossed out beyond belief.

Their swim was kept as brief as possible as they stressed on getting to that fucking anchor as soon as possible. Which they luckily did, considering the ship wasn't too far off. Swim was much longer than Biker would've liked though, yep this was definitely a guaranteed trip to the dry cleaners. They couldn't help feeling utterly disgusted with every movement as they grabbed onto the anchor. Slowly climbing up it as the grimy water dripped off of their clothing. Fuck, this might not wash out after all.

Yet they couldn't keep their mind on such superficial things. Could always buy new clothes with the contract money, and this contract had to get done. A newfound vigor finally took them over as they cleared their way up the anchor. Peering inside the hole to see if the coast was clear inside. Then getting taken off guard by an involuntary shudder, a reaction to the stuff covering them. Fuck man, this grime was really messing up their vibe.

[Segral]

Leon Saint-Fleur
The Velvet Staircase

Leon's eyes gleamed further and further as Talitsyn spoke, his fingers beginning to unconsciously drum on the bar counter as he appeared to stew over the information in his head. He didn't smile though, his lips remaining tightly pursed and his head only betraying a few nods of confirmation as the bartender went through the details of his task. He wasn't a psychopath, he didn't take pleasure in the idea of beating a man within an inch of his life. But money was money, and he couldn't handle this pain no more. Money would stop it. Money would get himself out of it, help him afford what a shitty hand of cards in life had never helped him get close to. The fact that the guy he was beating was a scumbag just sweetened the deal slightly. If Leon didn't do it, someone else would.

Although, now churning over the details, he wasn't quite sure if he wanted this. There was a lot to consider here. Apparently, the security was laughable, but even laughable security could trip someone up if they were careless. And how was he going to get close to death without actually toeing over the line? He'd have to get Irons to medical care quickly, or at least lead medical care to him. Getting inside the house was another issue, if Irons was even there at all. He would prefer to finish this tonight, it was just how he worked, but it was entirely possible he'd have to stake this one out for the next few days. He needed more info if he was going to be able to get through this one. The rest he could come up with during the drive through the Discovery Tunnel.

"I got a few questions about this corpse and his choomba. If you don't got any answers, I get it, but if you do, they'd be appreciated." Leon replied stiffly in a hushed tone of voice, leaning forward and resting his chin on his fists. "How hilarious is the security? Any eyes around the house I need to watch for? How much visibility from the street, from neighbors? I'm not planning anything stupid, but the more I know, the better."

[Anowa]

"From the Tiger behind the drinks Bar"

The young woman looked up and yelled something out in Russian. In response, the Babushka loading laundry stepped down from her footstool and strode over towards the counter. The burly man stood and began rifling through the washer he was sat at. The babushka's focus was on the package as her wrist flicked and blade sprouted from the mechanical palm. Taking the package with her organic hand, she neatly sliced it's side and peeled off the packaging... revealing the cover of an east orthodox bible.

There was a sound of a gun being decocked from under the counter as the young woman went back to staring at the computer screen, both hands now in view. The Babushka spoke in Russian and the man rooting through laundry stepped back after a clunk resounded from the machine, taking his seat again.

The elderly woman looked up, "I'll let Talitsyn know you made the delivery." a pause, "Tell me young man, this job means you're new in town. Do you know what it is we do here?"

---

"Look, I'm just some small-time indie, I'm not taking sides in any gang wars or corpo shit. I got no clue what I did to piss you guys off, I haven't covered up any of your graffiti or written any angry blogs on the Net." She laughed nervously.

"I'm assuming this isn't a 'you show me yours and I'll show you mine' kind of thing, so, uh, what now?"

The man remained silent as he stared at the young woman's face, shaking his head as he sighed, he grabbed the IEC case and stood, drawing it out of the vehicle. "Now, nothing. Thank your lucky stars that you're one of us. Sorry for fucking up your day." he turned to the girl with the partially shaven head, "Anya, you aren't getting your laces today. Courier's not a 'Saka mongol." At this, the young girl, Anya, turned to look at Athena, a mix of disappointment and anger in her eyes.

Things were quiet now, though coming up the rear, a very angry engine started rising above the others on the highway.

As the other skinheads loaded in to the car, and the armoured one put the case in the back seat, a single shot rang out from behind. A single tracer slipped through the air and struck the armoured man, quite literally ripping him in half with a bang that could've only come from a high explosive round. As the Skinhead's vehicle burned rubber to accelerate back on to the highway, the Hella from earlier ripped past, a full borg armed with a massive revolver hanging out the passenger window. As soon as they arrived, they disappeared.

And like that, Athena was alone, with sirens wailing and getting closer by the second.

---

Peering inside the hole to see if the coast was clear inside.

Clear was relative.

There were two men inside the room, working on what looked like the motor to wind the anchor back in. There was a notable amount of soot surrounding it indicative of fire damage. Outside of that, the room was rather barren, outside of the spool of chain wrapped around an axle connected to the motor.

One of them was sat down and sifting through parts reassembling it the best he could, the other stood behind him a few feet and was more busy with his phone. Both were preoccupied further by their topic of conversation.

"Why's that fat fuck gotta skimp on all the shit we need for this boat? First it was plumbing motors, then it was the fucking wiring, and now it's the goddamned lubricants. Like, have you seen the kitchen?"

"Yup, speaker wire everywhere."

"Yeah! Who the fuck wires lights with speaker wire? Who wires a fucking oven with speaker wire? That's some fucking brain dead contracting right there."

"They were probably paid off."

"Just like the fucking plumbers. Fucking one inch pipe for fucking staff toilets. Who the fuck does he think he is?" a pause, "Alright, that should do it, flip the breaker, we'll see if we need to fuck off for the night."

As the man on the phone pocketed it and started walking across the darkened room, the other remained looking at the open panel full of wires and fuses he supposedly just repaired.

---

"How hilarious is the security? Any eyes around the house I need to watch for? How much visibility from the street, from neighbors? I'm not planning anything stupid, but the more I know, the better."

Talitsyn shrugged, "Hilarious as in borderline retarded, usually just a roving band of Silver Slash. Standard suburbia seven foot tall hedge row bullshit without any proper fencing, so the neighbours probably aren't gonna see anything. No front gate or fence or anything, it's a gated community so they don't expect hoodlums to make it that far. As with all houses now it's sound proofed, so go nuts." a pause, "I think is wife is Spanish or something. Brunette, young looking, chances are she won't do much considering there's probably a thirty year age difference. probably in it for the money."

With that he grabbed the glass from a now finished patron and started cleaning it as the balding man stumbled towards the dance floor, "And while I'd prefer you do it soon, the fucker isn't going to be moving any time fast."

[Endem]

Tristan Del

He watched the scene unfold, deciding it would be better to not do anything stupid or spontaneous. Thankfully the sound of a decocked gun and the two mafia members shifting back to their seats, meant the package was satisfactory. The old woman asked if Tristan knew what they were doing here, he didn't, and could only speculate.

"Here? The laundry, I assume."

He obviously meant money laundering, maybe a bit on the nose, since this front was a laundromat, but could well be. Tristan thought that there could potentially also be something else running in tandem, or instead of the money launder, maybe there's a whole other shop in the back, which wouldn't be surprising.

"Though, your sponsor probably has a much more diverse portfolio."

He added, realizing the question could also be taken as what is the Russian Mafia, in general, doing in, if he knew anything about Russian mafias, probably peddling illegal weapons, maybe also drugs or the killing business, but those roles are usually taken by different organizations.

[Segral]

Leon Saint-Fleur
The Velvet Staircase

"Duly noted, choomba." Leon said, roughly sliding back out of his bar stool and landing silently on his two boots as he pulled a small, nondescript looking cell from the pocket of his jacket. After a few taps and gnashes of the teeth from Leon upon seeing the state of his finances, Talitsyn would receive a small deposit of eurodollars for the beers, along with a tip for the quick service. Then, he would receive a look dead in the face from the dilapidated man, accompanied with a slight Mona Lisa smile. "If it all goes according to plan, you'll be seeing my face again soon. I take these jobs mad serious. Deadly serious. Don't forget that." Leon affirmed as a hushed addendum, letting the word "deadly" hang in the air as he turned his back on the bar counter without a second look back and made a beeline for the dancefloor crowd. Presumably, it was to blend in among the blinding lights and crowds instead of suspiciously walking straight to the bar and straight out. That wasn't very "boga", as he so loved to say. Despite his twitching jaw and heavy boots making him clunky at best at any sort of late-night clubbing, he was somehow able to work his way against the current without slipping under, his height letting him keep an eye out above the canopy of heads until he made like an ape and swung right out of the jungle. The whole ordeal left him drenched in a thin layer of mildly disgusting sweat, but it was worth it to avoid looking like a gonk who didn't dance and had a firm hand on the pint glass.

Leon had parked his car down a nearby side alley, but, despite nearly vomiting at the thought of what the fines and fares would be at the end of the night, he wasn't gonna drive that thing to Victoria. Instead, he calmly walked over to the side of the road and threw a hand up to hail for a nice armored taxicab as soon as he had peeled his way out of the Staircase's front doors. It was gonna take at least three hours to get to Oak Bay and three hours back, and if someone noticed the same car driving in and out of the scene, even if he never drove into that stupid gate-and-topiary paradise himself, someone would connect the dots real quick and he would be busted. Better to take a taxi and flee the house on foot. That way, nobody would know how he got there. You had to spend money to make money, that was the first rule of self-made men. And he was a self-made man.

Eventually, a bored cabbie pulled over to let Leon hitch a ride, a move which he gracefully obliged by opening up the backseat passenger's door and swinging himself in. Only his leather gloves ever touched the door handle. The cabbie was a mirror-muscle man, someone who clearly had some nice little biosculpting to give himself some nice muscles around the abs, arms, and pecs, but when it came to anything on his lower half, he had either run out of money or integrity. Probably the latter, these gonks didn't even know how to give themselves muscle when they had the cash. Other than that disturbing inequality, there wasn't much to him. Oddly hard, broad jaw, close-cropped sandy hair, some dabs of green around the eyes, no hair on the chin. Looked as plain as you get.

"Where to?" he simply asked, a surprisingly husky, deep voice coming out of his baby-faced mouth.

"Oak Bay, Victoria."

The cabbie snorted in response, rolling his eyes in the rearview mirror. "That's three hours man, maybe some more with traffic. I don't have time to go that far out of my way."

"But you service all of Cascadia, correct?" Leon asked in response, one eyebrow piquing up in an attempt to throw the cabbie back into the hot-seat.

"Yeah, but..." the cabbie replied, shaking his head with a slight chuckle of his confusion. "That's far. It'll cost you."

With a sigh, Leon reached into one of his jacket's pockets and pulled out a slightly crumpled stack of Eurodollars, all real, no counterfeit. 50 apiece, thin, almost-crisp, and sealed up with a tight cloth band. With a flick of his wrist, the stack of bills ended up tossed into the passenger's seat, making a slight thump as it hit the soft surface.

"There's your up-front fee, just to convince you. I've got some clubs to hit before the night's over, and I'll be plenty pissed if they close up before I get there. Now, get me there fast before you lose your job to another piece of code on a chip."

---

3 HOURS LATER
Oak Bay, Victoria

Leon made the cabbie drop him off a little ways away from Churchill Ave and its little hamlet, maybe four kilometers. If Irons was a creature of even dim intelligence, he wouldn't squeal for pigs, but in the case that he wasn't, it was good not to leave his driver with any memories of dropping a strange man right in front of the pearly gates. Instead, the cabbie, if he remembered him at all in between his grumblings over having to drive three hours, would remember dropping said strange man off at a nightclub in downtown Victoria, not at a pricey suburb in Oak Bay. A short Lev-train to the sky-high pillars of the suburbs later was all it took to bridge the distance. True, he probably could've taken that whole trip by train, but standing around in a crowded train with an Overture, a Lexington, and a knife strapped to his body? Risky business. Somebody could've gotten hurt. With a fat cash tip like that, no cab driver asked questions.

The actual hamlet itself was pretty nice for a graveyard. Lots of long, sloping roads that fell and rose over the hills from what he could see through the gates, and lots of green too, so much green that it dominated your eye and left you unable to see anything else. It made the cabbie's eyes look dull and washed. The hedges were green, the trees were green, the lawns (or what he could see of them) were green, the bushes were green, even the footprints were green. It was absolutely gross, he could practically feel the nausea ripping through him. Did these people even understand modernity? Whatever happened to pavement, metal, artificial lighting? Was this the new Back to Africa? Back to the Forest, but only for corpses and beavers? Eh, what did he care? It made his job easy. Sure, getting in was a problem because of whatever Silver Slash they had hired to keep a lazy eye on the front gate, but there were workarounds for that. Namely, the forest they had chosen to hole themselves up in.

Well, it wasn't really forest so much as it was a golf course that just so happened to border Churchill Avenue, a golf course that was practically teething with trees. Finding his way there at all had been a bit of a challenge. The community itself (fittingly called "Uplands" considering how hilly the fucking place was) wasn't too hard to find from the Lev station, and 1107 Churchill was a pretty easy find given that it was just two doors down from the gate, but actually figuring out how to get inside without getting into a scrap with a band of corporate bootlickers was a real puzzle. It wasn't after some wasted minutes and blocks of walking that he realized there was an uphill path accessible from the sidewalk that was fairly close to Uplands, a path that came complete with a delicate little arch reading "UPLANDS GOLF AND COUNTRY CLUB". Corpse shit. It was his golden ticket. The place was covered in trees, so many of them, left, right, and center of the footpath, with no fence at all to keep someone from ducking inside. They saved that for the actual club.

And now, here he stood, donned in a new ski mask he had tucked into the inside fold of his jacket before leaving, ready to plunge into the woods of opportunity.

With a deep breath and a quick look behind him both ways to make sure nobody could see him, Leon sprinted into a patch of evergreen trees to the left of the path, taking care to make as little noise as he could while staying low to the ground. Even if his face was covered, he didn't want to risk startling some Slash on patrol and blowing his element of surprise. At one point, he had to get extremely light-footed; there was a shallow marsh that broke out of the trees and agonized a select minority of community-dwellers that didn't have a clue what they were swinging at, and the reeds had a tendency to crackle under his weight. Luckily, the crackling wasn't destined for long. Before he got himself too deep into the weeds, he was able to spot a red roof poking out over the hedge, a nice, crisp, dark splotch of red lying a little bit ahead and to his left. That was 1107's roof! He recognized it from the quick glimpse he had gotten from the outside. He was grinning so hard he felt like his jaw was about to explode from pain, nearly jumping for joy as he turned left and away from the marsh, heading deeper into the trees as he moved forward.

After some more walking, the red roof came into perfect definition directly to his side as the trees began to break, along with a strip of gray stone that poked out over the top of a tall, sickeningly green, neatly trimmed hedge. And what a fucking hedge. That bastard Talitsyn had lied about seven-feet hedges, this had to have been nine, maybe ten. Maybe even eleven. Either way, he wasn't climbing it. He could see a small gap at the base of the hedge, almost directly in the middle of where he was guessing Irons' backyard sat. A combination of a slight dip in the ground and some uneven growth had left a small space with only a few light branches and an even lighter coating of leaves. It would be tight, but he had slipped through tighter. The fire in his mouth and cheek was even hotter, a heat that convinced him to drop down to his elbows and knees and begin to squirm his way through the gap. It was...uncomfortable to say the least, a few leaves to the face caused his eyes to begin itching and watering from foreign contact, and the poking, rough scratches of the branches on his back and limbs came close enough to snagging on his clothes a few times, his heart practically stopped with every snag. Yet, after some cursing and shoving, he was eventually able to bring his head and shoulders out, getting his first true glimpse of an Uplands backyard...

[Tayner]

Rey 'Lucky' Andrews
Megabuilding H-12, Cascadia

The hot water was out.

It was always out.

Rey was standing in the shower, cold water flowing over him as he sighed, thinking. His last job didn't end too well. A simple courier gig gone wrong. Well, not too wrong, the package was delivered, just the surprise introduction of gun wielding gonks with itchy fingers rendered things, difficult. Four on one, Rey was driving a car given to him when they t-boned him in an intersection near the Delta. After the collision, a brief firefight ensued between Rey and the gonks through the streets of Cascadia. Revolvers weren't the best for running and gunning, but when his bullet found it's mark, nine times out of ten they hit the floor. After the threat was dispatched, package in hand, Rey ended up on a public bus. All in all, it got delivered. Rey didn't know what it was, and didn't ask.

He winced as the cold water washed over the exit wound of a bullet. Fuck. He saw as the eddies hit his account, before stepping out of the shower and grabbing a towel and drying himself off. He grabbed a packet with a hemostatic agent, and applied it to the wound before packing it with a bandage. He took out a cinerite and lit it, smoking as he started dressing himself. For half a day's work and a gunshot wound, he had enough to cover about half his rent this month. An easy day.

After he got dressed, he hopped on his desktop, and wrote his super another email bitching about the hot water being out, before cleaning his weapon. The Overture Revolver was a simple enough firearm, just a bigger version of the six shooters of old. He wiped gun oil over the carbon covered components, and dusted off the exterior. The scratched and weathered finish of the firearm showed it's years of use. It was a gift from Miranda, a Bakker, when he turned 16. "It can get you into trouble, but sometimes it can't get you out." She said. "Don't be stupid, and shoot straight, and you'll find yourself out of trouble more often than not." Ever since then, he'd tried to heed those words. It was solid advice.

He put out his cigarette as he assembled his weapon, and returned it to it's holster before going through his contact list.

William Henderson.

A former Nomad, Rey had never worked with him before but he was told to give the man a call for some higher paying, more serious biz. Besides, working for a Nomad would hopefully heard him some cred amongst the nearby clans. Rey hit call.

[Brettenwald]

Shit.

Athena grabbed her pistol, hastily jamming it into its holster at her hip before jumping out of the wrecked taxi.

Double shit.

She vaulted the guardrail and immediately took an ignominious tumble down the embankment, wasting precious moments untangling her pile of limbs and metal and clothing before hitting night vision on and sprinting as fast as years of physical training and mechanical assistance could carry her.

I should have just stayed in Seattle and kept going in the fucking workshop. It's not like I'm getting too old for this, but if you're in you're in and once you're out you should probably stay out.

She crashed through a few errant tree branches, mentally scanning the old-school paper map of Cascadia she had tacked up near her desk. Maple Ridge was to her northwest. Definitely beav city so the cops would be woefully competent and she'd stick out like a sore thumb, but it wasn't like she had any fucking options right now, that'd be too easy.

If I'm too late to get CART back in from the Port Haney or Maple Meadows stations, I could always hop a freight train.

She kept running.

[Greater Kopmakia]

Francksine Orera

Francksine sighed and gripped the can of Surreal Cola™, lamenting her fall from fame for the 5th time today. She tightened her grip on the can and threw it against the wall of the grody hotel room, soda spurting form the can and splattering the off-white wall a bright purple.

She rubs her eyes and turns to the kitchen's pre-installed clock. Hell... 1 AM... not like I'm sleeping tonight anyways. She thought as she took a deep breath. She stepped forwards and left the hotel room, taking the stairs down to the first floor after seeing the 'Out of Order' sign taped on the elevator doors. Elevator down every single time... hell... how old even is this building? She wondered. The off-white and stained walls and the eternally down elevator gave her the feeling this building was built sometime in the 2010s. The whole building reminded her of the rotting communities she travelled through on her 2070 Canada Tour.

Or maybe that one slum in the United States that she had to stay in back in 2075... what was it's name? She couldn't remember.

She arrived on the first floor of the building and gave an unconscious wave towards the clerk as she left before pushing open the door.

The sounds and neon lights of the city hit her all at once. It was almost overwhelming, but she had gotten used to it over the time she had spent in the city. She headed down the street to the bar at the end of the block: The Xiǎo Mài Zhī. A decade before, she wouldn't dare have let herself be seen there, but now? she couldn't care less.

As she walked, she remembered her time in the Bay Metroplex of NorCal. Cascadia was shockingly similar, she realized. Although it's not like cities are much different nowadays, all festering dens of crime. At least I can breathe here without lung implants.

She looked down at the neon blue line as she crossed the border, the sign above the ancient station defaced to such a degree that she couldn't tell whether the sign said 'America' or 'Canada'. Francksine wondered why they didn't just tear this old station down already. The buildings around it looked like they were ready to squeeze the rotting station into nothing.

She turned the corner and entered the bar, passing the Silver Slash officials by the door before taking a seat at the cramped counter. She ordered a water. It was the only thing she could afford what with the inflation. She took a sip of her water, and turned to look at the cork board on the back of the wall. There she saw it.

She dropped her water and read the flyer again. It was a crudely put together flyer written with paint and ballpoint pen hidden among the scattered papers, notices, and other flyers reading 'Lost IEC Cache somewhere in Cascadia. If found, bring to... she stopped reading. She knew who the IEC were, and she knew that cache was extremely important.

Could this be my way out of this slum and back into the limelight? Francksine wondered

"Hey! ...hey!" The worker snapped his fingers in her face as she zoned back in. "You're gonna need to pay for that."

[Anowa]

He added, realizing the question could also be taken as what is the Russian Mafia, in general, doing in, if he knew anything about Russian mafias, probably peddling illegal weapons, maybe also drugs or the killing business, but those roles are usually taken by different organizations.

The elderly woman beckoned for the younger man to follow as they stepped in to the back.

Immediately the smell of cosmoline took over from that of detergent and soap. Crates upon crates with sanded down patches on their sides, front and tops indicated that whatever they held was not something that wanted to be traced. Most were wooden, some were metallic. All of them still had the sealing dates stamped on to their tops along with a hand written serial number.

"We don't simply do the laundry. The book you delivered from Talitsyn tells me you're a new face in town and need a few jobs." She put the bible on a shelf as she passed it, where it joined a number of other bibles. "Fortunately, we have a lot of work to do as an independent entity. So we'll likely be calling you through Talitsyn for some time."

She stopped and turned as they reached the probable middle of the room, surrounded by multiple stacks of crate, "Of course, we also take orders. Do give us a few days however, we have a lot of stock to sort through for such things."

---

Leon Saint-Fleur
The Velvet Staircase
Yet, after some cursing and shoving, he was eventually able to bring his head and shoulders out, getting his first true glimpse of an Uplands backyard...

It was expectedly bougie in nature, a massive pool, perfectly maintained lawn, a nice looking garden. To the right was a small shed, likely housing various gardening and groundskeeping tools, and to the left was four sets of glowing eyes staring at Leon in the darkness. An instant later, there was a watery spray that erupted from several spot on the lawn, not only dousing Leon in a spray of water, but from the sound of chittering and small footfalls on grass, the family of racoons that were passing through the yard.

As the raccoons made for the hedges to the next yard over, they triggered a motion light which illuminated a good half of the yard. Revealing a good chunk of grounds, and the deck leading in to the two story house. There were no lights on in the house it seemed, and no stickers on any windows to indicate a security system.

---

A former Nomad, Rey had never worked with him before but he was told to give the man a call for some higher paying, more serious biz. Besides, working for a Nomad would hopefully heard him some cred amongst the nearby clans. Rey hit call.

In a distant fishing boat, a yell of surprise came from a sleeping boat captain as the boat bobbed gently in it's mooring. Bolting upright, the man scrambled for the phone mounted to the wall. Almost six rings as the one legged man hobbled across the room, "Yaarr! Who be calling me at this unholy hour!? It had better be important!"

---

She kept running.

Surprisingly enough, there was no pursuer. No signs of anyone following or chasing Athena, not when she crossed through multiple strees, not when she boarded the all but empty CART, and not during every stop on the way did anyone else board the car she rooted down in.

The fact that Cascadia's police weren't on her tail the moment she hit the ground running was, at best suspicious and at worst terrifying. Especially on the Canadian side of Cascadia. The RCMP didn't fuck around one bit, they had a reputation of doing anything within their power to apprehend or neutralize problems to the community. They were like the NCPD, if the NCPD were polite... and competent. Them not going after her meant they thought she wasn't worth the concern, and seeing as the little chase she was in with the Chrome-Heads was very much a public spectacle, was right out. It was either that, or a corporate overlord told them not to go after her, and there weren't a whole lot of corporations that knew she was on the job.

It was a two hour trip by rail, and by then, back in Seattle. It was a short walk to her own workshop and apartment, and an equally long walk to Ren's apartment, though in the opposite direction.

Behind her on the platform, the last CART ride of the day departed the station, leaving it quiet except for the typical late night hustle and bustle of Seattle. At the end of the platform, a man light his cigarette. Shrouded in darkness, he pushed off the wall and started walking down a set of stairs to street level, opposite side of the platform from Athena.

[Endem]

Tristan "Tri" Del

Tristan followed the old lady and listened to her. The number of crates was almost nauseating, he wondered, how many illegal things harbored those wooden walls, and would the police department reward him for them, it would be sim- focus, he nodded to the old lady, focus, before answering.

"I will wait impatiently for whatever you need to be done, though I would probably receive a stellar recommendation from what is left of a Hanoi triad leadership, regarding my usual businesses of assassination and killing, I will handle any job you throw at me."

He wanted to assure the old lady, and through her, the Vladivostokian Bratva, about his willingness, and ability, to do whatever it is they would be paying for.

"Forgive me please, but I need to make a phone call to a number that Talitsyn gave me."

He excused himself, the night was still young, perhaps the barman had some more drinks and jobs to offer. He hoped so, he needed so, he didn't know how long he had, but cyber psychosis was still ongoing, he felt that with every passing second, and only a hefty dosage of Baloperidol and a psychoshrink will solve that.

He walked out of the laundromat as fast as he could and perched himself on a railing a bit further down the lane, before dialing and soon connecting the number Talitsyn gave him.

"Package delivered."

He spoke to the person on the receiving end, not waiting for them to identify themselves. About now any trace effects of the Schnapps would wear off.

[Tayner]

"Yaarr! Who be calling me at this unholy hour!? It had better be important!"

Rey 'Lucky' Andrews
Megabuilding H-12, Cascadia

When Rey had heard that Henderson was a pirate, he thought metaphorically, not that the man spoke like a pirate. Of course. Rey thought before speaking. "Captain Henderson I presume? My name's 'Lucky,' I was referred to your services by a friend, I'm lookin' for some serious biz, something that pays good, you got anything?" He asked.

[Segral]

Leon Saint-Fleur
1107 Churchill Road, Oak Bay, Victoria

"Fuck!" Leon sputtered, coughing as the water hit his entire face, masked up or not. If the water wasn't hitting his eyes and leaving his vision completely blurred over, it was drenching the mask that was right up against his face, leaving the skin underneath frozen. And that was just his face. His leather jacket protected the sleeveless white tee underneath from being soaked over, but his jeans, boots, and gloves weren't spared in the process, all of it hitting him in a massive flash flood that left him chilled and damp to the goddamn skeleton. He wasn't ready for it, and he wasn't ready for the grass underneath to get so slick, slick enough for him to lose his footing as he stumbled back and fall with a muddy *squelch* right on his ass. On new fucking jeans, too!

Thankfully, the fall back had let him drop just out of the motion light's field of glow, the edge of the light placed just six inches or so away from his right boot. He didn't have the time or headspace to thank the lucky stars for that though, because his ears were soon filled with enough nails-on-a-chalkboard chattering from what felt like five different places, a chirping that he definitely recognized. Raccoons. Scum of the goddamn razed earth. They terrorized his shack in Little Haiti every night. All up in the trash, all up in the front yard digging out the grass. He trimmed the branches the best he could when old man was busy eating himself into an early grave, but he never had time to fix the gaps in the roof of the porch, so they would crawl out and make noise under the boards anytime he walked and would shit in the damn attic. He hated those damn raccoons, fucking...hated them! Already he was starting to see red. He hated those fucking rodents, he wanted to strangle them, crush their stupid heads under his boo--

And then the chattering stopped, and he woke up again, his hand locked firmly around the grip of the revolver at his belt.

Breathing once in and out, he got up to his feet, brushing any wet grass blades he could find off of his pants. He had a job to do, and he wouldn't let no goddamn rodent get in the way. There was too much to enjoy here, and a trained eye could hit all over it in seconds. Not the sparkling blue duck pond or the newly-renovated mahogany deck, but the wet grass, perfect for masking his steps if he could stay out of the light that was covering about half the yard. The stone paths running through the garden, ones that would definitely give away his footsteps if he stepped up on them. The bushes and trees, where he could duck and hide if some Silver rat tried to catch him. And the shed.

He might be able to pop the window open with his knife, but if there was something nicer in that shed, he'd prefer it by a longshot. Wouldn't hurt to pick up some extra weaponry too, he could only pistol-whip for so long. At worst, he could just rip a piece of drainpipe loose and start using that to whack Irons out. But he was a civilized man. And civilized men didn't just smack grown men with metal pipes. They were the type to press their body as close as they could to the hedge without rustling it and begin gracefully tiptoeing out of the patch of light, tiptoeing further and further to the right until the shed was straight ahead and they had hit the dark patch of the grounds. They were the type to keep themselves low to the ground, quietly making a break for the shed by rushing forward and alternating from bush to tree to (at one point) a massive topiary parrot. These desk jockeys were weirdos. But, they made good cover. Good enough for him to reach the shed in no time at all, a shed that was probably tiny for them, a good ol' fixer-upper, but was also half the size of his damn apartment. Bourgy life.

With one breath in and out to calm his nerves down, he finally closed the gap between him and the shed door. With another, he knelt down, peering at the handle and running a hand around the door to check for any locks and chains they saved for the most useless part of the house. Well, not to him.

[Anowa]

He spoke to the person on the receiving end, not waiting for them to identify themselves. About now any trace effects of the Schnapps would wear off.

There was no response, simply a click signifying the receiver of the call had hung up in response. Such exchanges weren't uncommon for courier jobs such as this, the fewer words exchanged about what had gone down the better. It was hard for pigs to claim you were moving something illegal if there was no evidence beyond two simple words.

That being said, there was a pair of eyes still watching the EuroSolo as he leant on the railing. The eyes belonged to a simple looking individual, all but indescernible from the throng of people moving about the megabuilding. Either he had a staring problem, or he had a more notable problem.

---

"Captain Henderson I presume? My name's 'Lucky,' I was referred to your services by a friend, I'm lookin' for some serious biz, something that pays good, you got anything?" He asked.

The sound of bottles being knocked over echoed through the phone, "God above lad, you couldn't wait until a more reasonable time!?" the sound of a fridge door opening followed, "Agh, fine. Come on down to port tomorrow at the crack o' dawn, I'll see about what business we have rolling through that day and if any of it is simple enough for ye." a pause as the fridge door closed, "And don't be expecting big money and don't go demanding more than you're share, or I'll have you keelhauled in the sludge we call water around these parts."

With that, the line closed. Given Henderson's reputation, it was unlikely he'd jump to such a punishment right off the bat, but if it ever got to the paint where he was genuinely angry, you had better hope you had reinforced skin and a set of iron lungs. A few moments later, a notification blipped on to Lucky's phone with the coordinates of Henderson's dock.

---

With one breath in and out to calm his nerves down, he finally closed the gap between him and the shed door. With another, he knelt down, peering at the handle and running a hand around the door to check for any locks and chains they saved for the most useless part of the house. Well, not to him.

The shack was seemingly left to fend for itself, there wasn't any other indentation on the door outside of the physical knob, no digital lock, no sensors, not even a deadbolt or chain. The door clicked open and gave a slight squeak as it swung open under it's own weight. Within was a collection of gardening tools. All arranged in a perfect order, a lot of sharp devices, some of which had no discernable purpose, shovels, trowels, a weed whacker, a lawnmower. A few jerry cans full of gas lay on the floor besides the lawnmower. A number of wrenches, screwdrivers, and a workbench lay on the other side of the room from the gardening stuff. It was clean and barren from most grime and detritus. Conveniently, a large pry bar leaned against the wall in the corner next to a small crow bar and a woodcutting axe.

The click of the motion light ticking off echoed in to through the door, followed by the light chittering of the raccoons returning. Whether or not they were going to be a definitive problem for the planned break in, or if they just wanted the rich man's garbage remained to be seen.

[Endem]

Tristan Del

'Course they did, whoever was on the other end of the phone, he or she, like every other person he made deliveries for, never spoke a word, just noted down the successful delivery. Tristan sighed and let himself tense down while putting his phone back into his pocket, where was he going to get a job from now, Talitsyn obviously intended to assign him mostly stuff with the bratva, whatever it may be, but they needed time.

His sensory extension, as always when not hidden, was curiously looking around, partly searching for possible threats, partly gathering information, most of what was collected was deemed useless and promptly filtered out before it ever reached Tristan's parietal lobe. Not this time, not when the sensory extension kept registering a person, an ordinary-looking person, that kept starting at Tristan.

Rude, do something, throw him off the le-Focus, focus, focus, that was an opportunity for EuroDollars, not wanton slaughter, Tristan discreetly slapped himself on the cheek before turning towards the staring person beaming the best smile he could muster and making eye contact.

"Come on, I don't bite, what's troubling you?" He encouraged the person.

[Segral]

Leon Saint-Fleur
1107 Churchill Road, Oak Bay, Victoria

"These white folks don't even try no more, huh..." Leon mumbled to himself as the shack door practically fell open under his weight, making an obvious creeeeeeeakon its way out. They couldn't even bother to keep the damn hinges clean? What if some Silver Slash doughboy heard him? He practically had to restrain himself to avoid tearing the entrance off the damn hinges. Rich people liked to take care of everything but their servant's domains. It was all horsehair and synthetic bio-material mattresses for the wife, but the servants still had to deal with rusty bed springs. Fitting that he cut the wife's head off with the servant's axe. Maybe the gardener would thank him for the favor. Flowers would be nice, but he wouldn't spit at a nice message, or some chocolate.

On the contrary, he wasn't expecting anything from those fucking raccoons. If he could hack them all with his damn axe, he would. If he could skin them clean with his damn knife, he would. Not only did they irritate the living shit out of him, but they were ruining his plan. The damn motion light had shut off, he could hear the click, but if it turned back on, it would catch him in an instant if he wasn't careful. He couldn't risk the raccoons running back to the hedge and letting it flick back on, and he definitely couldn't risk them chasing him up the deck. Speed would be of the essence. Get up as quietly as possible, get in through one of them windows, do the job, and get out. There were no alarm stickers, so it would be a quick job. Pop open the screen with something sharp, take the glass off, hop in, and put it back to keep the sound barrier. Easy and painless. Well, not for Irons.

Now, just to find something sharp.

As his eyes adjusted to the dark, it became quickly apparent that he wouldn't have much trouble with that job either. As his gaze shifted from wall to wall and floor to ceiling, he didn't just see one or two sharp things, he saw a fucking armada of sharp, a petty criminal's literal wet dream. Was this supposed to be a joke? He couldn't give a rat's ass about a lawnmower, he wasn't planning on taking the servant's place here, but shovels? Those cans, probably nice and full with gas given the cloying smell in the air? Wrenches, screwdrivers? Crow bars? This almost felt like a set-up. Way too easy. If he could carry it all, he would, but he already had two straps and a blade on him. He would have to keep his inventory limited.

Jerry cans would be nice if he had to erase any evidence if this all went to shit, but he couldn't exactly carry them inside. Ditto to the shovel, it was a good whacking stick, but the crowbar would be just as useful at that. That narrowed it down to anything on the workbench and anything in the far right corner, barely illuminated by a dusty, cobweb-caked window. He practically floated his way over to the former area, stepping on the tips of his toes to avoid making the floorboards turn to splinters under his weight. He kind of wished there were some pliers, or maybe a nice drill or two, but he would make do with whatever he got his hands on. Screwdrivers, different sizes. He put two in the pocket of his pants, the tips barely poking out of the deep fold. Wrench, one for his jacket pocket, somehow even deeper than the one in the pants. It noticeably poked out, but that was alright, Irons couldn't do anything about it. Then, the corner wall. The bigger, the better, so he chose the pry bar, letting the heavy rod weigh down on his gloved hand. And, finally, the pièce de résistance. How fitting indeed. The axe. It wasn't huge, and he had no idea what the hell it was for, but better in his hands than some underpaid immigrant's. He would give it some needed action. Sorely needed action.

He took special care to tread over his footsteps and scuff the dust of the floor as he walked out of the small shed, deliberately obscuring his own footprints on the cheap wood floor. All and all, it was a small place, barely bigger than Leon's kitchen, but the wealth of resources inside made it feel like Ali Baba's treasure den. He was already starting to miss the place by the time he let the door gently swing shut behind him, staring back out at the blackened yard with iron bar in one hand and rusted killing device in the other. The raccoons were nowhere to be seen, but he was sure the damn critters were lurking just out of sight, probably in some hedge. The pool was as still as ever, not a sound echoed from the garden, and not a single light could be seen, friendly or unfriendly. If there was such thing as friendly light right now. Either way, it let him refocus his attention on his next target; the deck.

It was a towering behemoth, a dark, expensively crafted brick stretching out adjacent to the entire back wall of the house with glass paneling and steel railings to prevent some drunken idiot from taking two steps one way and falling headfirst into the roses. He couldn't spot it from the back of the yard because of how dark it was, but now that he was just a few steps away from the shed door, the picture was perfectly clear. The deck sloped down in a triangle towards the left side of the yard, the opposite side of where he was now. To get through, he could take the short way, a stone path built between two rows of flowerbeds, or the long way, cutting back to the pool and taking a strip of grass between the concrete fringe and the nearest slice of garden. The decision was made in an instant, the same zig-zag, low-to-the-ground dash he had used to get to the shed in the first place being replicated towards the pool, and across the grassy path once he had cleared enough distance. His boots on stone would be as bad as firing a gun right in the air, especially with the raccoons hiding around. At least the grass would mask his steps, leave him quiet as he moved from place to place. He barely made a peep as he made it to the left side, turning on his heel and going back up the way he had came. It was almost as if he had taken a massive "U", going down towards the hedge on one side, crossing the yard to the west straight across, and crawling back up to the house on the other. Inefficient, but it was what got him safely to the deck's steps, taking them one at a time with the grace of a padding tiger.

In seconds, he was at the top, crossing the fresh planks of wood with his axe dangling dangerously close to the floor. The corners of his eyes took into account the patio furniture, the grill, the beams, but they were minor details, irrelevant. What was relevant were the windows, and what was behind them. As tempting as it was to get to work, he had to see what he was getting himself into. So, setting the bar and axe by his side and dropping to his knees, he crawled up to the nearest window, slowly poking his head up until he was eye-level with the windowsill. If someone spotted him from that height, they might think they were seeing shit and leave him alone. All this safety, all this precaution...it would feel good to let loose on that bastard soon.

[Brettenwald]

She kept running.

Surprisingly enough, there was no pursuer. No signs of anyone following or chasing Athena, not when she crossed through multiple strees, not when she boarded the all but empty CART, and not during every stop on the way did anyone else board the car she rooted down in.

The fact that Cascadia's police weren't on her tail the moment she hit the ground running was, at best suspicious and at worst terrifying. Especially on the Canadian side of Cascadia. The RCMP didn't fuck around one bit, they had a reputation of doing anything within their power to apprehend or neutralize problems to the community. They were like the NCPD, if the NCPD were polite... and competent. Them not going after her meant they thought she wasn't worth the concern, and seeing as the little chase she was in with the Chrome-Heads was very much a public spectacle, was right out. It was either that, or a corporate overlord told them not to go after her, and there weren't a whole lot of corporations that knew she was on the job.

It was a two hour trip by rail, and by then, back in Seattle. It was a short walk to her own workshop and apartment, and an equally long walk to Ren's apartment, though in the opposite direction.

Behind her on the platform, the last CART ride of the day departed the station, leaving it quiet except for the typical late night hustle and bustle of Seattle. At the end of the platform, a man light his cigarette. Shrouded in darkness, he pushed off the wall and started walking down a set of stairs to street level, opposite side of the platform from Athena.

Seattle was, of course, exactly as Petra'd left it: grimy, crowded, and generally depressing as all fuck. Not that she cared about that, she had more pressing issues on her mind as she clomped sullenly down the opposite set of stairs. One: why the hell wasn't she either in the back of a police truck or dead, two: did 'Saka know who she was and where she lived, and three: what was this guy's problem, anyway? She'd noticed him starting down the opposite staircase when she'd begun her descent. What was even more interesting was that he stopped and looked at her when she did the same to him where the stairs met under the platform. This was getting weird.

"If 'Saka sent you, tell your Mr. Who I've got better things to do with my time than get shot at by yono Nazis who seriously outgun and outnumber me. You didn't tell me that briefcase was hotter than the fuckin' sun, neh? It's the kind of thing I'd expect you to tell the gonks you send out to die doing your dirty work. If you're not from 'Saka, then either give me a job I have a chance in hell of pulling off or the keys to a Kusanagi, or fuck off. I'm not in the mood for a staring contest," the voice modulator eventually snapped as she put a hand to her pistol. Even weirder was that he didn't seem to give a shit.