Track #1: Nightcall

COLD OPEN:


It's another blistering summer night in Starlight City.

At 2 am, the streets of the Downtown area are mostly desolate. Businesses are closed, parking spaces are empty, and buildings are dark. Yet the area remains well-lit by neon street lights and glowing florescent signage that drench everything in retina-scorching purples, greens, and reds. Overhead, Vapor creates its own light show as ribbons of blue and fuchsia gyrate in the night sky, backdropped by a nearly full moon.

A large armored truck takes an onramp and merges onto Interstate 395, a major transportation artery that cuts through the heart of the city. The truck — a moving vault of bulletproof glass and gunmetal-gray steel plating — has the logo for "Loomis Armored" emblazoned on its sides. The imposing vehicle rides along the expressway, which happens to be just as desolate as the rest of the city at this hour. No other vehicles are coming in either direction. The truck drives through the night, seemingly alone.

But the quiet and solitude don't last for long. As the truck passes by, a series of bright magenta headlights suddenly come to life. From the darkness beneath an overpass, six motorcycles emerge. They roar onto the expressway not far behind the truck. The high-end motorcycles are sleek black sports bikes with no license plates. As is common with vehicles in Starlight City, the bikes are customized with neon LEDs along the rims, spokes, and undercarriage, giving each machine a futuristic appeal, like something out of that Tron movie from '82. The riders are equally stylish; clad in tight-fitting black clothes and sporting gleaming dark helmets with blacked out visors.

The motorcycles accelerate and make a B line for the armored truck. The driver of the truck, seeing the oncoming bikes in his sideview mirror, realizes that something is amiss and starts to speed up. The motorcycles are much faster than a nine-ton truck, however, and so they quickly overtake the vehicle. The bikes match the armored truck's speed and surround it: two on either side and one at the rear. With a roar of her engine, the sixth rider rockets ahead of the others and positions herself about a hundred feet in front of the truck. The rider at the lead is armed with a submachine gun, which she holds up in the air, menacingly. She motions for the truck driver to pull over.

The two guards in the truck cabin are unwilling to comply. While the driver begins evasive driving, the other guard frantically radios for help. The large vehicle swerves sharply in an attempt to collide with the flanking motorcycles, but the bikes are much too nimble. They anticipate the maneuver and easily move away before returning back to formation. A full minute of this ensues. Finally, one of the flanking motorcyclists pulls out a flat black cylinder. It resembles a hockey puck, except for its blinking red light. He moves in close to the truck and deftly sticks the device inside the rear driver's side wheel well. It's a tricky thing to do while moving at such high speed, but the rider does it with practiced ease.

As if on cue, the four flanking motorcyclists simultaneously break away. A few seconds later, a sudden explosion rocks the truck, causing it to swerve dangerously from side to side. Black smoke billows from the rear driver's side wheel. The driver tries to maintain control but to no avail; the truck collides sidelong with the concrete median that divides the northbound and southbound lanes of I-395. The heavy vehicle has partially demolished the median and now appears to be wedged into the concrete divider. The driver makes several attempts to coax the vehicle forward or backward, but it refuses to respond.

The six riders pull up and again surround the incapacitated armored truck. Each leaves their bike idling and draws a firearm, pointing it at the vehicle. The rider with the submachine gun now motions for the security guards to exit the truck. When the guards don't comply and instead prepare their sidearms, another rider steps up to the truck carrying a second black cylindrical explosive. This time, the device is planted on the truck's windshield. Its red light blinks ominously. The motorcyclist holds up a remote detonator in his hand and taps on the glass, imploring the guards to make a decision. The two guards stare at the explosive and take a moment to heatedly deliberate before finally opening their doors. As soon as they step out, the riders converge on the guards with guns at the ready. The two security personnel set their weapons on the ground and lay face down on the pavement, after which their hands a zip-tied behind their backs.

For the first time, the uzi-wielding lead motorcyclist speaks. From behind the faceless black helmet, a woman's voice informs the guards that she is aware of the third guard posted inside the cargo section. She tells the two prisoners to contact the remaining guard and instruct him to exit the vehicle without resisting. Failure to do so will result in the two captured guards being shot in the head. Following a tense conversation over walkies, the rear doors of the armored truck unlock and open, revealing the third guard. He is similarly disarmed and restrained.

Matter-of-factly, one of the motorcyclists states "We have three minutes." With the rear cargo section now open, the riders get to work and empty the truck of its cash-laden burlap sacks. The sacks are secured to each bike where the saddle bags would be located. It takes only about sixty seconds to empty the vehicle of its contents.

The six motorcyclists hop back onto their bikes, rev their engines, and speed off into the night at full throttle. They disappear down the expressway just as the sound of police sirens can be heard in the distance. The security personnel remain on the ground, bound but unharmed.




Track 1: Nightcall

It's 11 pm on a Sunday night in Starlight City.

As each of you does your thing, you are suddenly interrupted by the familiar beeping of your pager. A glance at the pager's small, monochrome screen reveals the following message:

Things got out of hand last night. We need to discuss family values. — La Voz

This is typical for "La Voz" — born Esteban Camargo — the man serving as your Wolfpack case officer (better known as a "Watcher"). Even for an operative of a secret agency, Camargo is mysterious and eccentric. His modus operandi usually involves paging your team with a cryptic message, and that's your cue to drop what you're doing and meet with him for more information. It doesn't matter the time. As a Street Wolf, you are always on call, day or night. Your team is expected to rendezvous at Esteban's estate, where you will be briefed about your mission and equipped with any additional gear that you may have been assigned.

Esteban's residence is located in Victoria Beach, one of the wealthiest neighborhoods in Starlight City. As the "nice part of town," Victoria Beach is home to Glowtown's social elites. It has the highest concentration of millionaires in the city, and its inhabitants are an interesting mix of Old Money families and nouveau riche entrepreneurs. The neighborhood is a gated community that boasts a very high standard of living. On the way to Esteban's place, you pass mansions with long driveways and perfectly manicured lawns, gleaming high performance sports cars, marinas choked with 100 foot yachts, a golf course, and other overt displays of luxury. Residential streets and sidewalks are immaculate, and lines of palm trees hug the boulevards. The police seem to have a 24-hour presence in the area, and more than once do you witness a squad car rolling through the neighborhood, keeping vigilant for anything suspicious.

Esteban's estate is surrounded by a perimeter wall. You pull up to a pair of French gothic-style wrought iron gates. Upon announcing yourself to the entry system intercom, the gates slowly begin to part, permitting you access to the property. The driveway winds through extensive gardens and some subtropical forest until you reach the main house. Esteban toughs it out in a three-story Italian villa built in the 18th century. The building is elegant without being gaudy, consisting of a white façade, terracotta shingled roof, widely overhanging eaves, and tall, narrow windows. Every portal, be it a window or door, is topped by a curved arch, and columned porticos extend across the entirety of the front porch. At the terminus of the driveway, it wraps around a large bubbling fountain coated in tiny mosaic tiles. Here you see other vehicles are already parked.

You've done this dance before. A steward, always the same gray-haired Cuban man, answers the door. No matter the time of night that you visit, he is always smartly dressed in a suit. He gives you a nod of acknowledgment and silently leads you through an opulent foyer of marble floors, tassled rugs, and dark mahogany walls. You glimpse an array of statues and portraiture gracing the walls and end tables; Mr. Camargo is clearly a lover of the arts. After walking down several hallways, the old steward deposits you in what appears to be a study or parlor. The walls of the room are lined with bookcases and endless volumes of books, and it's comfortably furnished with plush chairs, love seats, and side tables. An ornate desk made of Brazilian rosewood sits at one end of the chamber. There are only a few things atop the desk: several whiskey glasses, a crystal bottle of reddish-brown liquid (usually cognac), and a speaker for an intercom system.

After getting you situated, the steward leaves and shuts the door.