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."

Vann nods sharply, hears her out and then nods again. "Sounds like a good time. Are we traveling there through conventional channels? Border security, customs, and all that?", he sits back and orders an elderflower gin-drink through the open Node at the bar.

"I'll have to pick up some equipment at home. When and where do we meet for departure?" the golden-eyed troll in the brown jacket asked, the first he had spoken since he entered the meeting room.

"Goldeye by the way. You can call me Goldie."

Vann grunts, "If we need to go see a doctor, I need some nuyen... and a doctor. Anyone know somebody?", he looks around the room to his new comrades.

Looking back to Jane, "What is our entry point like? Are we coming into a public airport? Do we need to worry about carrying our... tools of the trade... past unfriendly security?"

He leans in close to the picture of Samriel and uses him image-link optics to store the picture on his 'link.

I’m legal... Jericho catches himself mid sentence, Guess that makes me the mage, to all of you. General utility, lighter on the spiritual, he says with a smirk.

Vann looks to Mouse with a smirk, "Eh, I too shoot things... when necessary... Um, I am also trained in the techniques of social engineering, and social and physical infiltration, as taught by the Gesaelig Court of the Sinsearach peoples...", he nods and sits back to sip at his fragrant gin drink.

What's that, then? Jericho grabs for the dossier Jane had dropped near the photo.

It's fine, it's just like back in the corp, back at my desk. Paperwork. Not shooting. Right? Who are we shooting, anyhow? Jericho takes comfort in the paper in his hands, comfort in the distraction it affords.

"I'm what people call a Street Samurai. I think that's a drek term though, considering that I serve no single master. Ronin would be more fitting to keep with the Japanese terminology. I'm also a driver, pilot, and mechanic. Been to Lagos before by the way. Back in the Seven King War. Where I lost my eye... Was a pretty hellish place back then. I doubt it's changed much..."

Goldie knocks out a Red Harvest from his package and lights it with his golden zippo, before closing its lid with a metalic click. He then gets up from his chair and walks over to the table to look at the picture of Samriel.

"So that is our competition? Doesn't look like much of a challenge to me to be honest, but hey, looks can be deceiving..."

"What's in the dossier?" he asks Jericho after the dwarf has had time to read the hardcopy files.

Nothing she didn't already tell us, Jericho sighs dismissively. Guess I'll see you all bright and early. I better pack.

Well, see you guys in the morning then. Gotta get equipment stuff prepared for Lagos., growls Mouse as he waves the team a goodbye. As he passes the entrance, he picks up his gear and gives it a once over and steps out into the rain.

As the others wrap up and take their leave, Vann remains in his seat and orders another drink. Raising his nearly-empty glass to the others as they go. 'Hells... if I've got a payday on the way - and who-knows-what waiting in Lagos, might as well enjoy the night!', he muses to himself.

Once alone in the room, he ventures out to the bar and starts mingling with the upper crust. He had little packing or preparation to do. He was carrying most of what he needed with him right now in his messenger bag. And the rest would be waiting in his loft, in a backpack. It wasn't that he hadn't unpacked yet from the move, he had, but that was all the things he needed for living. For 'Running, well, ya gotta be mobile. And those types of things, they never get unpacked... until they need to be used, of course...

Vann stows his pack in an overhead compartment and his messenger bag under his seat, then settles in for take-off.

At the mention of Linguasofts he grimaces, and addresses Jane, "I'm sure Lagos is quite, eh... metropolitan, but isn't the official language of Nigeria still English? Don't get me wrong, I want to be able to speak to the locals - what good is a face if he can't be understood - but also, when in all of the Winter Court's reign am I ever going to need Your-uuu-bah again? I'll spring for the nanopaste trodes when we land, but this is a business expense. Would your, er, our, now, benevolent employer cover a low rating 'soft to ensure I can do the job they presumably hired me to do?

Believe it or not, I already had plans for every single cred of that down-payment, geared toward increasing the chances of this missions success."

Goldie silently settles into his seat on the plane and places a pillow behind his head, so that he can sit comfortable despite his horns.

The golden-eyed troll smiles when he hears Rhovannion's attempt at smooth-talking Jane into sponsoring his Linguasoft, remembering how the elven face had already succeded in convincing her to up their daily payment to 2,500 nuyen. The crew seemed like a good bunch and Borek already felt confident they were going to work well together and have a good time in the process.

Jericho chuckles to himself as the elf tries to talk his way into something else. Jericho was glad the guy responsible for talking was actually quite good at it. Less trouble for me to get into, he thinks, allowing himself to feel at ease for the first time since his phone rang for the job. He sits back and relaxes, awaiting their departure.

Vann also shrugs and settles back into his seat for take-off.

Once at their cruising altitude, he fires up his 'link and sends a ping to any Nodes in the cabin identifiable as his new teammates inviting them to accept a user access level to the subvocal mic and image link feeds of his audio/visual devices - which are turned off at the moment.

He also sends a group message to the same Nodes;

>>>user_id vanndamn//Anyone else want to talk shop? Jane, is there a plan when we hit the ground?

>>>user_id CorpLegal054// Let's talk.

>>>user_id CorpLegal054// Shit. I need to change that...

>>>user_id CorpLegal054 has changed user_id to RunJeriRun

>>>user_id RunJeriRun// Better. Anyone else think this mission seems super vague and directionless? Find some I'll-defined item of unknown whereabouts before some unknown elf finds it first? She's clearly not telling us all we need to know.

Mouse folds his arms as he sees the group of armed Orks heading his way and sighs, I swear, shakedowns seem to follow a script nowadays. Doesn't matter where you are, it's always the biggest thugs choosing the longest way to walk to you so you can see all the guns and muscles.

We've just landed now, maybe we should try to not draw attention to ourselves? Also, I need to meet my guy to pick up my gear,
no big boy guns right now. he says, eyeing Vann.

Black Mamba... are you our true Johnson then?, he muses.

Vann doesn't even cast a glance toward the approaching Orks, instead he fussed with the straps of his minimal baggage and speaks softly but hurriedly to Jane, "Seems you've dealt with them before...? They got a standard rate?"

Rho turns on the orks casually, as if he'd only now noticed them. His hands clasped, a slight smile turning into a flat expression of simple regard, "You are here to tax us?!", he gestures to his traveling troupe, "Where do you think your wages come from in the first place? Have you seen, before, what happens when a rat bites a black mamba?", he puts just enough emphasis on the last two words to put the uncertainty in their minds. Was it just a coincidence, or was it a veiled reference to whoever' name seemed to carry this weight?

Mouse sees the gun being raised and he frowns and pushes past Jane, filling up the entire doorway of the plane. He leers down at the lead orc and crosses his arms. As Mouse folds his arms, his sleeve falls back revealing a spiderweb of tiny tattoos that climb up his arm, disappearing into his sleeve. Any ganger would recognize these as kill count tattoos and Mouse seems to have dozens of them

I'm a bit new in town, but we seem to share the same language. Why don't we just stick with the 100?, says Mouse in a snakelike tone.

Vann curses inwardly, the gamble was a big whiff... Black Mamba is no local.

He steps up next to Mouse, moving with the calm and purpose of one who is obviously. - to the orks- used to being under gunpoint, using the mystic control of every muscle in his body and voice to project lethality, and smiling a smile that doesn't reach his eyes, "Heh, you seem to have misunderstood... we are the snake."

Borek, the golden-eyed troll merely stands behind the others, mildly annoyed that they choose to run a risk with armed thugs over 100 nuyen each, when they have just landed and haven't even acquired arms yet. A stupid risk to run in his opinion. He did have the concealed heavy pistol that could unfold from his lower right arm at any moment, slide into his hand and blast off the heads of the thugs, but he still felt it was an unnecessary risk over such a meager price, especially as they ran the risk of becoming targets of the larger outfit the thugs most likely belonged to. He didn't find it professional being so indiscrete and reckless and was a bit disappointed and embarrassed with the eagerness to prove themselves over being careful and thinking ahead. Running the shadows successfully did require a certain measure of discretion, cooperation and goodwill with the underworld. It would be a major slap in the face to the local powers in the underworld to kill of a bunch of their goons right on arrival, a sign of disrespect they surely wouldn't let slide. It would most likely make their job more difficult but oh well...

Mouse nods and makes the payment.

After the thugs move away, Mouse turns to Wak and murmurs, "We want to be unknown right? Well, who's going to bat an eye at a group that pays the full price? Besides, it was the principal of paying more than the full price that irked me."

Jericho quickly transfers the nuyen, relieved that he was no longer staring down the wrong end of a rifle.

Cash or words, I don't care. As long as we're not fighting people just doing their jobs. I'm just glad they're gone.

Vann rolls his eyes at the orks further posturing, and all the subsequent hemming and hawing, and finally moves along with the group.

Before entering the tent he clears his voice sharply and speaks to the others while manipulating his 'link, "Anyone who wants to share my image-link feed, I'll send you the icon. Anyone who wants in on some sub-vocal mic chat, same with my audio i/o. Anyone who wants to share their visual or audio channels with me, I think it'd be a good tactical move if we all start getting on the same page... starting about now."

As they leave the tent he get's on the 'trix in AR, and starts absent mindedly browsing some Agent retailers while taking in the sights...

Mouse ducks out of the tent after picking up his per diem. Finally in Lagos, he takes a quick look around the area before moving forward to follow Jane to the hotel.

Jericho turns, eyes following the boy, and reflexively snaps off a spell. Years of investigative work under his belt, and yet rarely did he get to interrogate anyone. He was always on scene much later. Not now...

Vann's head jerks around as his brain registers what happened, "H... hey!!", turning for just a moment about to run after the street child, Vann reconsiders and instead grabs Janes bag and pulls it up close to his face scrutinizing the placed object, readying himself to yank it off, "That street rat just stuck something on ya..."

Does anyone understand what he just said? Jane?

Vann keeps ahold of the bag, looking back and forth from the device to Jane when she says it's a tracker.

His eyes calculating he says, "Is it? ... Well... perhaps we can use this to our advantage... Some one is making moves. We will make our own. Don't destroy it... Let's transfer that thing to a cabby... For some time at least, the end user might believe they're onto our movements, when really they'll be wasting their time."

Mouse eyes the device and thinks back on the small child.

"Hm, maybe gang related? We're new, fell for the "entry fee." Maybe they're looking for something more...," mutters Mouse as he eyes the fleeing form of the child.

Vann frowns, "Seems a little sophisticated for street gangs, to me. We're either on their turf or we aren't. They don't care where we go...

Not to mention we know we have an adversarial operator in town... and who knows who else might be after these antiques. Unless someone already has one, we could pick up a Tag Eraser somewhere just to make sure we didn't miss anything. But for now, let's keep moving like nothing happened and find somewhere good to plant that thing?"

We've got a more immediate concern... anyone good with computers?

"Until that street rat came along, I was browsing some hardware and software options to help out our capabilities on the 'trix while we're here. With about 40 large in upgrades, my 'link could pass as a decent hacker... Anyone want to pitch in on that effort?", Vann looks about sardonically.

Then to Jericho, "I think we're doing this one without a presence on the Big Shiny."

As Wak makes his way into the alley, Goldie takes up position at the only way out of the alley into the street, the large golden-eyed troll in the knee-long brown jacket crossing his arms and making as menacing a presence as possible while simultaneously keeping an eye out for passer-bys on the street as well as a firm eye on the goon Wak is interrogating. After Wak has spoken, he adds:

"If you value your limbs and life, you better start talking, and that talk has better damn well be of use to us. None of your friends can help you out of this one kámoš. What's another dead goon in an alleyway mean to anyone here in Lagos? Sure as hell doesn't matter to us."

Jericho turns to Vann, I think we've got bigger problems than lack of information... those two are gonna get us killed.

The elf looks over his shoulder, "Hm? Wha...!?", he quirks an eyebrow and unconsciously checks his Predator in its holster, then scoffs, "Didnt everyone just give me a speech about not drawing attention to ourselves?", he tries to keep Jane moving and guide her out of line of sight of possible gunfire.

Looking to Jane, Vann muses, "Those two are our muscle. If they can't handle these goons, we have a bigger issue..."

Next Vann inspects the tracker, to determine if there would be any danger in removing it from her bag, and if not he pops it off and crushed it under heel. "Guess there will be no using this to our advantage now..."

Vann cranes his neck and tries to peer back in the direction of the confrontation, "Are they talking to them!? ...well that's interesting... I figured they were just gonna go frag 'em. Forget gear, we need to have that 'game plan' talk that I tried to have on the plane... You've given us no hint at what we're actually doing, so people are just going out on limbs."

Goldie waits until Wak is safely out of the alley, before he too slips away from the goon's sight and joins the others with the ork. He wasn't going to leave a crew member alone in such a dangerous situation, regardless of the wisdom or lack thereof of Wak's action, and regardless of the fact that the two hadn't even really gotten to know each other yet. It was a matter of principle for the troll. A team of Shadowrunners had to have each others' backs. Knowing how things could easily have turned out when Wak pulled a gun on the goon, the troll had felt obligated to back the ork up. If he hadn't, the goons in the alley might not have let Wak withdraw without a fight... The thugs would surely soon report to their superiors that a ork and a golden-eyed troll had meddled in their affairs and even pulled a gun on one of them, but so long as it had only been sharp words and not bullets that had been exchanged, whoever was in charge of the goons probably wouldn't care that much again.

"We should probably gear up first. When in Rome as they say..." Goldie replies. He knocked out a Red Harvest and lit it with his golden zippo.

Vann shakes his head, subvocalizing his reply to anyone sharing 'links and whispering it to the rest, "I don't think there is any point in making anymore moves until we all know and hopefully can agree on what moves need to be made. I'm especially not inclined to ask by name after a Mark in a public forum of unknown repute, in any circumstance. Shouldn't we be pursuing the antiques - they're our real goal, and seems to me chasing Samriel is only guaranteed to get us to those after him.

Also, you want a map, all ya gotta do is buy a Mapsoft."

"Nice." Goldie grunted as he walked into the room. He decided to remain standing, watching the lizard munch on the cockroach, while wondering if it was really worth it to take this job...

I used to do this sort of work, in a past life... seems ya can’t run fast enough. Jericho muses.

No matter. What’s important now is where to start. We don’t even know what we don’t know. That sounds like a contradiction, but it ain’t. How’d you find out Samriel took it? How’d you track him here? Who’s he likely working for? What’s he got at his disposal? We can’t go in blind, we need a couple leads and some lines to color inside of, ya know?

After recounting to the group what he knows, Jericho says, An old one, that map. Delicate and yet resilient. Mysterious how it managed to be so ahead of it's time.

Jane, where's this guy likely to be? What's he got at his disposal? Who's he working for?

Where do you propose we start? This thing has stayed hidden for so long... might just be in it's nature to get lost again.

Does your employer have more money riding on this than the likely asking price? We can just buy it outright if they will fund it. I imagine it's not so simple, though, or we wouldn't be here.

"Uh, I guess? I'm gonna be honest, I don't really know what job you're having me do with these guys. The less I know the better, frankly. I'm just doing what they tell me, hoping this'll at least pay back a couple of those favors, haha," Felyx ends nervously.