1.1 - Nixing the Sixers

Kessel completes his "diagnostics" on Breecha. It was all just a ruse. In truth he was examining the data he stole from the Sixers and saved to Breecha's databanks. The encrypted data (which was a cinch for Kessel to hack) contained detailed Sixers personnel files. Might've been valuable before, but since most of these guys had just been blown to smithereens, maybe not so much anymore. Still, it might be useful to have. Kessel files it away with his own triple encryption and turns his mind to other things.

"So what do we do now, boys? You guys wanna take another job, or you wanna go spend some of our ill-gotten wealth?"

His task complete, Breecha heads over to his charging station and hooks himself into the machinery. As his power supplies are replenished, his memory banks and processors begin to reorganize and file data into their appropriate directories, backing up what's needed, reclaiming space where available.

"I think it's time for a good night's sleep, first." Mack announces and sets down the RAINpad to wander off to his quarters. "We can debate jobs versus spending tomorrow morning?"

Preserver goes to the kitchen and comes back to the common area with four blue and white packets, about the size of half sandwich each. A round plastic nozzle sticks out of each one. Preserver sits in a poser converting chair across from BR33CH-A. He sits and wires along his leg feed out into ports along the seat of the chair. He raises the first packet to his mouth and a small semi transparent tube comes out from under his "tongue" and connects to the packet. The blue glowing semi solid material flows up the tube lighting it up. The light in his components seem to grow a little brighter as the bio nutrient gel suffices his systems. Tossing the first packet into a waste bin nearby, Preserver adds to the conversation,
"You know I'm up for just about anything that brings some good into the world."

Then he "eats" the other three pouches of nutrients.

The following morning, Mack is up early -- anticipating his noodles and poached egg breakfast. After a quick, refreshing, shower (unusual for Mack who prefers to use up most of hot water) he quickly makes his way into the kitchen and makes a bit too much noise whilst preparing his pots and pans for a careful reheating of the noodles without overcooking them and his less-than-perfect poached eggs.

"Good morning!" he'll call out to his 'forged friends.

As he carefully monitors his breakfast he asks, "Anyone seen Kessel yet? I guess we should figure out what our plan is for today."

"ANSWER: Commanding Officer Is Not Currently Available," intones Breecha. To the follow-up statement, he continues, "ADVISORY: Obtain Medical Supplies."

Behind him, the displays scroll lines of code alongside replays of the battles the group has seen thus far. It seems Breecha is studying past footage to glean better insight into his own combat capabilities.

"Fair enough," says Mack. "Medical supplies it is. Can one of you guys turn the music on in Kessel's quarters up to about a 13 out of 10 or something? Perhaps shake him awake with one of those tunes with the heavy bass?" He smiles to himself, both for the picture he crafts in his mind and the pleasure he takes from the breakfast before him.

"I think Tymora said she knew some folks with some kit we could talk to. How much should we budget for the shopping spree? I think we agreed we wanted to keep a good bit of that ten grand for a rainy day or four."

I did, Tymora says as she walks into the kitchen area and takes a slice of bacon off of your plate and shovels it into her mouth, A guy I know, runs a shop on the south side of the Trade Ward. Real low-key. I promise this one won't try and kill you.

She pulls up her tablet and shoots the location to you. The place you are looking for is Dave's Datapad Repair. He runs a more...black markety...operation out of the back.

"Do we need to know anything important to see the... nicer stuff?"

Just tell him I sent you..., she says as she snatches another piece of bacon and takes a bite out of it, ...oh, and don't mention his scar. Seriously. She chews on bacon for another moment and then looks at Mack again, Seriously, don't.

Mack sighs. "Great."

With a whine of servos, Breecha detaches himself from his charging station. His red optics run some last-minute diagnostics and calibrations before he loudly steps down the hallway to Kessel's room. Breecha stands in front of the door and knocks, politely.

Breecha taps politely at Kessel's door. It's not a proper bunk, just an unmade cot in the midsr of a jumble of wires and consoles, all enclosed in a Faraday cage. Breecha can clearly see through the cage that Kessel is still jacked into the datasphere. Current session length: 24 hours, 13 minutes, 7 seconds, and counting. With his face hugged by a complex system of optics and probes, and with cables snaking into his various cyber implants, it almost looks as if the technomancer is being devoured by his computers. The combat 'forged knows from long experience that when his 'commanding officer,' as he calls Kessel, is wired in like this no force on the planet can move or reach him - at least not safely. Obviously the summons will remain unheard for a while longer.

Breecha enters the room and closes the door. He calibrates his transmitters and receivers to an appropriate frequency, not only to prevent any interference from Kessel's faraday cage, but to send a coded missive to the hacker with a simple statement: Presence Requested At Morning Mess.

The message itself is unobtrusive, like a blinking alert in a terminal covered by layers of windows and shells. Breecha's own red optics remain steady and impassive as it patiently waits for a reply.