Dusk

Borek Valtus aka Goldeye (Goldie among friends) was sitting in his couch in his rented apartment in Seattle, a cup of soykaf on the table next to the computer and a Red Harvest smoking in his metallic right hand. He tried not to lean too far back, as his horns would easily get stuck in the fabric of the couch. It had happened enough times before, that it had become a habit for him to make sure it didn't happen. Sometimes he forgot and he always felt really stupid when it happened. Troll life wasn't all beer and skittles.

A lot had happened since his adventures in Africa. His lust for adventure had made him travel to North America instead of traveling back to Prague and there he had lived for a few years now, first in Chicago, Illinois, and then later in Seattle City, continuing his work as a Shadowrunner and making friends and enemies and all that good stuff on the far side of the Atlantic from where he had grown up.

He was watching a really peaceful nature documentary about a specific subspecies of butterflies which would all annually migrate to one specific tree when the AR call came, and it made him jump and nearly knock his soykaf over his computer with his cyber arm.

He listened attentively to the fixer and answered:

"77 Club, Renton. 5 o'clock. I'll be there."

He closed the call, got up from his couch and went over to his coat stand to put on his coat. He then looked himself in the mirror. Damn he was a beautiful troll. He looked sharp as a wing feather!

Time to go to Renton and meet Ms. Johnson and his crew...

Sno-fragging-homish... what in all the hells am I doing here?

This is the kind of thought that ran through Rhovannion's head as he walked into the Snohomish Sheradon, to scam on Seattle's "disposable income" class. Just north of the 522, full of people who wanted to pretend they lived in Bellevue, without any of the savvy to have gotten themselves there.

He had worked hard to drag his hairless-ass out of the Barrens, but to what ends, really? The Barrens' rules were so much simpler... 100% real. Respect. Command it, always. Give it, when necessary. This polished drek-hole was the exact opposite. Fake as a beardless-dwarf. Slather them in respect they don't deserve, always. And command that same respect, drek... pretty much never. Until the jig is up.

He had good access here, he reminded himself again... for the hundredth time ... Downtown, Bellevue, Redmond, and Salish, all with Snohomish at the center. Isn't that Limbo? The world in between all worlds? I decided to live in fragging Limbo., he mused.

But perhaps Limbo fit him. The demon which comes from nothing must be able to become anything, yea? If you can make people believe exactly what they want to believe, you can - with a little effort on the side - have whatever you want to have... He sidled up to the bar, trying to figure out his shape tonight. The salt-and-peppered lady in the power suit, or the fresh outta gradschool frat boy-turned-broker?

It was about this time that his comm began to light-up the ol' image link. Meridian... the info-broker... The girl was tapped in to Seattle for sure, but Rhovannion hardly knew her... he scanned the message.

Miz Johnson... overseas and tropical... the 77 at 5? Drek! It's already 4, and I just sold the Rabbit for this drek Snohomish flat! AND the Sound Transit is in the middle of strikes... Double-drek!! He eyed the drink coming his way that he didn't even pay for yet, and he turned to go giving the bartender a mournful look.

This room used to be pretty nice, actually. This tenant used to have standards. Now it’s littered in little white take-out boxes, dirty dishes, unwashed garments, fragments of arcane dabblings… the remnants of a decaying life. All of this is visible only by the grace of the neon lights from the street level some stories below, diffused through the smog. It was day, but you wouldn’t know it… almost always dark this close to street level. Hell, to even get a window was a luxury that certainly wasn’t affordable now.

Jericho stands at the single window, silhouetted in that glowing churning fog, and wonders exactly how he’d gotten here. Amazing how quick life goes to shit, actually. One mistake is all it takes, sometimes. One bad call.

No matter. That life was over. He’d been good, though. He’d made people a lot of money. Sometimes, they needed someone who knew Magic - practice, theory, and law - inside and out. And those people needed Jericho. But not any more, he hadn’t worked for months. Blacklisted, probably. No one even bothered to call back, even those he’d counted among his friends.

As a last resort he’d gone to a ‘Fixer,’ they called it. Could set you up with work that paid. The sort of work that he--in his past life--was sometimes called in look at. After everyone was dead. He needed the work, anyhow.

The com rang and he answered fast enough that anyone could guess he’d been waiting. Tonight? That’s soon. Yeah. I think so. Right, thanks. Jericho ends the call and hangs his head, unsure exactly what to expect.

*clang clang clang*
An short, stocky Ork hammers a heavy steel door into place, muttering past the steel nails he's holding in his mouth.

"Murthm Furkthm..," he spits past clenched teeth as he slams the last nail in place. He takes a step back and surveys his handiwork - the end result looks like a porcupine merged with the doorframe -- nails sticking out at all sorts of odd angles but the door is locked firmly in place.

Satisfied, the ork tosses his tools on the ground where they land with a heavy thud. Cracking open a can of "100% Real Beer," the ork swaggers over to a table where a truly impressive arsenal of guns lay disassembled.

"Fraggin druggies high as a kite again... interrupted 'me' time," he mutters as he sits down. His eyes settle on an almost comically-large hunting rifle, which he audibly sighs in pleasure as he wipes it clean. His hands move with with as if they've repeated the process thousands of times.

His commlink rings across the room and the ork sighs in disgust again, having his "me time" so rudely interrupted.

"What," he barks into the commlink. As he listens to the voice on the other end of the line, his aggressive stance shifts subtly to be more reserved as he nods in place. A few minutes later, the ork responds with a simple, "Expect Mouse there."

Mouse stands in place, holding the commlink as he looks around his sad, dirty pad. He crumples his beer can and tosses it in a corner stacked high with pizza boxes and empty bottles.

"Yeah, I definitely need an upgrade."

Rhovannion hands over two pistols with a courteous smile, it turns into a slight smirk as he walks away, removing his set of shock gloves which had been folded in his inner jacket pocket. He tugs them both on as he paces down the halls. It was truthfully a habit aimed more toward not leaving any biometrics around as much as believing he'd need to take someone out... but that second part was always a useful option too.

He walks slowly, openly looking around as they go, also taking some time to appreciate the hostess' augs as she guides him to the room. He takes a seat shaking off the offer of refreshments.

He sits quietly as everyone settles, before looking around and musing wryly, "A troll, two orks, a dwarf, and an elf walk into a bar... Let's hope this joke gets better."

Sitting with his arms crossed in front of his chest, obviously out of place and uncomfortable, Jericho chuckles despite himself. Agreed. This place is something, eh? Can't say I've seen it's like. Even when I had it pretty good, it wasn't this.

He sips his drink, luxuriating in it, unsure when he'd have the chance again.

Mouse hands over a short, ugly-looking SMG and plops down a few magazines of ammunition. Shifting his jacket ever so slightly, he proceeds to walk down the hallway. He glances around the space as he walks down the hallway, obviously out of his comfort zone.

He asks for a simple beer from the hostess, obviously taking solace in the one drink that he's most familiar with. Glancing at the rest of the assembled party, he says, "I'm guessing you chummers are here for more than just fancy drinks, eh?

Rhovannion, or "Vann" as he calls himself, sweeps his eyes across all the strangers in the room and sighs in a subdued fashion, "Sub-contracting?", he shakes his head, "No. You say you're a Runner, even if you style yourself a Johnson. Then that would make us your team. And accordingly, I - and I'm suspecting each of these lads - is gonna need an equal share of that 'finder's fee'.", he raises an eyebrow to the elfess, his fingers steepled in front of his chest.

Borek paid the cab-driver and stepped out of the cab onto the wet Renton street in his sturdy, dark gray military-grade steel-toe boots. The lights of various neon signs and traffic signals were reflected in the dark pools of rainwater and some bums were gathered around a fire in a barrel in an alley just across from him. A cold wind blew across the street, whirling up the various litter that had been thrown on the street by Seattle citizens who were apparently oblivious to the invention of the trash can or just didn't have a care in the world. Borek suspected it was the latter...

The troll popped up the collar of his brown leather jacket and lit a Red Harvest with a gilded zippo lighter. While he enjoyed his cigarette, he casually surveyed the street, before he finally let his gaze settle on the blue-glowing numbers of the neon sign above the club entrance down the street. 77. He took three quick drags on his Red Harvest to finish it off and threw it in one of the rain pools on the street, blew out the smoke and crossed the street, displaying just enough confidence to let everyone know that he wasn't one to be messed with, but not so much as to evoke undesirable attention.

---

Inside the club, Goldeye played the stoic role. He placed his heavy Remington revolvers on the counter and quietly followed the hostess down the wood-panneled corridor to the private room where the meeting with Ms. Johnson was to take place. He nodded respectfully to the other Runners gathered there and took a seat with his back against a wall, politely declining the offered refreshments, and patiently waited for the beautiful wine-sipping elven lady, who was obviously the Johnson, to initiate the meeting.

At the mention of Lagos, the troll made a little twitch. The Fixer had mentioned overseas and tropical, but Goldeye had not expected the job to take him back to Nigeria, the place where he had tracked down his father's killer, avenged his death and lost his right eye in the process.

The pay sounded good and the other Runners seemed capable enough, but there probably was a catch. There always was...

Borek considered mentioning his familiarity with Lagos, but decided to remain quiet instead and listen to what the others might ask Ms. Johnson, and more important, what her answers would be...

Jericho's jaw works silently, dumbstruck but ready to accept the job on the spot. His eyes were wide with surprise; that was good money.

His eyes grow even wider in shock as the elf next to him tries to negotiate even more dosh. Just who the hell are these people...

He swallows, his mouth going dry at her smile, and blinks composing himself. Kinesics don't fail me now..., he invokes the muscle-control discipline, "Ahem heh, well I would imagine you know most of that. You put the order in after all, yea? But between recognizing the obvious hotness of the Goods - whatever they are -", he casts a glance acknowledging Wak's question, then to the Ms. acknowledging the double entendre, "and your obvious need for muscle, and your short time frame to find it, it's just good business.

Make the deal, and no one will get any closer to you than me. Unless you want them to of course."