[Jack_Spade]

Isaint suppressed a grin as he recognized Deckard. What had it been? Two years already? With his deep voice he said:
"Mr Deckard, how nice to see you again. Yes, the weather is splendid for this time of year - one can never have enough sun, at least of course until one has to much of it."

Before a reply could come, he became aware of an elvish looking lady with - if he wasn't mistaken - a dog that had most likely some hell-hound in him.
When she called out the name of the dog, Isaint couldn't suppress a short laugh:
"Your dog is called AL? Oh, I can't wait to see his face when he hears that. Yes please, take the seat, but be warned: This bar is bad enough that a quick evacuation might be necessary. So don't be surprised when we just grab you to get out of here..."

The rest of the sentence trailed of as the next guest arrived.
For a moment Isaint thought Goodnight had ventured above ground again, but than he realized that he looked at a completely different person. Only a moment later he realized that it was the aura that had let him confuse the two.
He closed his mouth and avoided only narrowly to croak: "That is correct. Welcome."

#236

[Mercy Merchant]

Robyn froze at the words of the unknown man with the deep voice, her mind racing.  It must be a coincidence.  She carefully keeps her voice even as she says, "You know an Al as well?  It is a common name, I suppose.  I named him after a close friend I met in Cambodia eight years ago.  Would that be the Al you know?  And if you are planning on a quick grab, I would ask that you allow Al here to get a good sniff.  Not that I would terribly mind a strong man and a quick grab, but he might have an objection."

Robyn clicks her tongue and the massive Hell Hound rises and approaches the two men, setting their scents in as friendlies until his mistress indicated otherwise, then returning to his place at the end of the bench.  Robyn's Fly-Spy that she had left on sentry duty outside had picked up Iris' arrival fed her the information.  The Dryad walks up to the table and puts a hand on Robyn's shoulder and the decker shifts to stand.  "Iris.  What a lovely surprise.  And here I was wondering if I would know anyone.  And it does appear that the job applicants are gathering."  You know Al, but do you know our companions?  Neither do I.  Gentlemen, may we have your names at least?"

[adamu]

The neighborhood was a hell of a lot nicer than his car, which was always a minor concern. He'd spent the last month rebuilding his shop after his last one got burned down, so he hadn't had time to juice up the anti-theft like he'd planned.

He parked in front of a fire hydrant, locked her up, and stopped in his tracks. The place he was going called itself Angels, and apparently they catered to same. He watched her as she traversed the sidewalk and blew past the door guy. A skyscraper build atop skyscraper boot heels, pricey blue skirt that barely covered her pert ass, and then a black cloak sending the whole thing over the top and utterly failing to conceal about the most beaudacious set of ta-tas he'd ever seen on any woman that thin. He wasn't really into women that wore money for clothes. Always vaguely suspicious of anyone that put that much thought into how they looked. But this one stood out - easily sim-star class. A peer in that sense, when he thought about it. Definitely worth an eye-sip or two, even if she wasn't his cup of tea.

And of course, standing out like that, he had to wonder if she was one of the new bunch of sociopaths he'd be paired up with tonight. Probably not the decker - he supposedly knew her, and he'd remember this one. Iris - some sort of devil worshipper? Or maybe just the highest-priced whore he'd seen on four continents. Whatever. Once she was in he dodged a few passing cars and handed the doorman a fifty, nodding at his car. Looked at the guy's face just long enough to let him know he'd remember it.

Then he lit a fresh Lucky, stepped in, and took his time with a few drags while he scanned the room.

Of course, she guided him to the right table like a lightning bug on swamp water. Walking up, there were already several figures present, though none he knew - no, scratch that, big tusker with thick eyebrows and a healthy patch of nose-spinach caught his eye and gave a smile. Isaint, playing musical faces again. The ork's eyes flipped down in amusement to a huge dog lying next to the booth - but scratch that again, the red eyes gave it away as an abomination. He couldn't think why his friend would be amused by that, but he didn't have time for pets - there were people to size up. Still crossing the room, he spotted two more men - one would be the other Satanist, Deckard, and the last guy the Johnson. Probably the arrogant-looking one of the two. Or one could be this Halfpint, but neither looked like the name fit.

The sim-star had her hood off now - natch a keeb. She was standing with her hand on the shoulder of the last one. She had her back to Al's approach - a woman with a long ponytail, ridiculous little hat, and some sort of Victorian-looking jacket. She was apparently the owner of the mutant, which was now rising and giving Isaint and the one he'd decided was Deckard a good greeting sniff. So she must be Robyn, he thought, as he closed the last few steps.

He started speaking from behind her, even as she started turning to face him. "So how is it we know each other, darlin'?" he asked and then he saw her face and it was like someone had hit him in the sternum with a sledge hammer so he missed a beat, but just one, before continuing, "Well...as I live and breathe." He'd stopped moving, leaving some distance between them, and he congratulated himself on still being able to speak since his mouth had gone as dry as Oklahoma dust.

 

[Jack_Spade]

"If you are talking about Al Guthrie, than yes. Seems like this man has been everywhere and met everyone." Without hesitation but slowly Isaint stretched his arm towards the hell hound to let him get his scent.
"I gather your Al is well trained otherwise he could come into conflict with Spike. As I understood Torrent both of them should turn up any minute."
He grinned at Deckard:
"And I apologize for my rudeness: I am called Isaint. Pleasure to meet you.

I don't suppose one of you Ladies has the handle Pintsize, so I guess you are the promised matrix specialist and you," he turned to the dryad, "are one of our two arcane specialists.

This young man here is Mr. Deckard, likewise an arcanist and a very good chummer to have in your corner."

While he said that he had spotted Al and grinned again, but saying nothing so he wouldn't spoil his friends entrance.

[BrickyardBabe]

Oh lord, not Al Guthrie! Iris stifled a laugh as she realized who the aggressively ugly man had to be, and then another as she saw the look on his face when he spotted Robyn. She'd gotten the- probably edited- story of their time in Cambodia when Robyn had gotten her incredibly overqualified seeing eye dog, so at least she knew that he was a good man in a tight spot, but she'd never expected to actually meet him! Iris looked him up and down. There was something about him, despite his craggy features and general aura of disheveled-ness. It was like...like standing next to the primal essence of a man, when the veneer of society had been stripped away. He was most definitely not attractive, being far too old and far too rough-hewn for even her broad tastes, but all the same, he had a certain draw to him. She let her senses slide over into the astral again, then stifled a sound of surprise.

Was there anyone on this team, save Robyn, who wasn't magically active? And where had Torrent found so many awakened 'runners?

Shaking her head slightly, Iris turned her gleaming eyes back to the two men at the table, the light striking them a vivid aqua for a moment. "I'm afraid not." She told Isaint, her posh upper-crust voice apologetic. "As The Lady here has named me," she said The Lady as though it were a proper title rather than a reference, "I am Iris." She curtsied to Isaint and Deckard. "A pleasure to meet you both." Turning to Al, Iris continued, "The inestimable Mr. Guthrie needs no introduction, of course." Another curtsy, this one with a hint of a smile playing about her pouting lips.

Iris snagged a chair from a nearby table and dropped gracefully into it, crossing her legs and draping the folds of her cloak around her. An idle adjustment of the top of one boot confirmed that her wand was within easy drawing distance. She didn't check the difficulty of pulling the knife. With four other 'runners here, if she needed the knife out in the open like this they were probably already so far up drek creek that no paddle would save them. Nodding to Isaint, Iris confirmed, "You have me pegged correctly, Mr. Isaint. I am a mage. Though considering the formidable awakened power concentrated at this table, I suspect that I am contracted as much for my contacts and my appearance as my sorcerous prowess."

[obidancer]

Deckard was surprise when the big man mentioned his name. He couldn't put a name on the face. But a mage knew oh too well to not trust simple senses like sight. He switch his senses to astrally perceive and though he preferred to usually wait for every one to be here to do so, he read the aura in front of him. ISaint! What a surprise. Of course, outside of a grin on his face, he didn't mention anything about the man. If he wanted to have a cover, Deckard wouldn't be the one blowing it up for an accolade with an old time acquaintance.

Sensing another arrival, he turned around to this glowing aura. The sheer power took his breath away; so many powerful spells auras were like dancing around her. Even more interesting their Mana seemed to be like looping on itself sustained only by some sort of essence and their own power. It was fascinating, and also the sign of a Mage initiated in the Art of Metamagics, rare and powerful individuals. The fascination caught him off guard though, realizing than, from the outside, he was probably just starring! Rude. He revert to his normal senses to be as shocked. He could almost still feel the aura emanating from the rich and glamorous looking elf alike woman standing in front of him. Instinctively he stood up. That was what was proper in high society, where the doll alike woman certainly looked like she belonged. Feeling a bit stupid, as he was the only one to have stood up and more rude of him he hadn't bothered doing so with the steampunk blind girl, he sat down. They were as far remote from high society as one could be while staying in the London sprawl.

Then came the one by the name of Al Guthrie. The rough looking man was definitely more dressed like he belonged here, yet for some reason Deckard had yet to understand, he stood up again from his chair. Not even knowing if his out-of-place manners were noticed, but still feeling embarrassed, he left his chair to either the Sorceress or Al to take, and squeezed inside the booth next to ISaint. He remembered and cursed his mom, teaching him the good manners to always stand up and be courteous to women and the elderlies.

[pistolgrip]

Jackhammer was reclining on a dilapidated couch, holding an ice pack to his lower ribs and swiping his other hand over his 'link to change channels on the trid player. A few empty takeout boxes littered the floor and plastic coffee table-turned-footstool. He pulled up the ice pack and looked at the bruise, smaller now than it was yesterday. It hurt to get punched there, but he'd had the better of it--elf fragger broke his hand on the titanium.

The 'link buzzed and he flicked the message to the trid reflexively. The message popped up over the programming, the sound of ork women kickboxing each other temporarily muffled to emphasize the message display.
<< [Torrent]: I’ve got a new business opportunity that you might be interested in. Confirm your interest and I’ll send you the meet details>>
Jackhammer leaned forward, wincing slightly as his ribs protested. For a while he just let his mind go blank, looking at the words like they were a ghost floating in the living "room" of his rented micro-suite apartment. The words hung there for a while, then auto-dismissed to resume the kickboxing trid he'd been watching a moment earlier. Jackhammer glanced at his black backpack in the corner, still holding his body armor right where he'd left it after quitting his job. A moment passed before the large, muscled ork smashed the heel of his hand into the coffee table in protest of life in general. What was worse, the table didn't shatter or explode, but just bent and tore in the wake of his powerful strike. He looked at the table with a spiteful glare and then turned towards the fridge; definitely a good time for a beer.

[Thursday July 2nd, 2076; Steelman's Fight Club, London outskirts]
He was only 3 guys in, but already showing some wear. This scrawny elf had gone all judo on him and was making a sport out of putting Jackhammer on his back over and over. It was getting a little stale, like an old joke nobody laughs at anymore. The guy was fighting like he had some chance of winning, and that kind of arrogance was enough to put Jackhammer in a fouler mood than when he stepped in the cage. So, eventually, he decided to do something he really knew better than to do; he got in close and left a big opening on his left side. As the elf went in for some bodywork, confidence beaming through the sweat on his stupid symmetrical face, Jackhammer neglected to block. He let the elf come in hard, but at the same time set up a hammer fist above his head that he never saw coming.

While the elf was dragged unconscious from the ring, Jackhammer bent over and grasped at the injured ribs. A look of pain shot across his face, but he waved off the announcer and stood up mostly straight again, signaling another round. He looked into the audience, and the man was still there: a grizzled-looking Spanish troll in a hoodie. He'd been watching the fight with apparent boredom for the last 3 matches, almost like he was just burning time. The lighting and distance made it hard to tell, but Jackhammer thought he might see the beginnings of a dragon tattoo on the troll's neck. He'd seen a troll like that skulking around here and there, and had a pretty good guess of what he was up to. But as the troll approached the ring--apparently the next volunteer match--Jackhammer knew this was his chance to be sure.

[pistolgrip]

[Thursday July 2nd, 2076; Steelman's Fight Club, London outskirts]
There are a few annoying things about fighting trolls. First of all, they're just big. Tall, broad, with long arms. When you're used to being the biggest guy in the ring, suddenly being the smaller guy is a difficult adjustment. Secondly, they're strong. When a troll hits you, it's not a prelude to some ninjitsu drek, he means to knock you out. And for a lot of trolls, he'll have pretty good odds of doing just that. And finally, they're just tough. Skin like leather, bones where they ought not to be, and muscles like bricks packed inside, all make it pretty hard to find a soft spot to hit. But for all that, they're also slow, usually stupid, and almost always think they're the hottest drek on the block. Jackhammer figured it was kind of like fighting a bulldozer. Trouble was, this bulldozer had him in a headlock.

"I hope you haven't forgotten your obligations." The troll grunted. So that was it. The troll was a messenger sent to remind him that no matter how much he paid, he would always owe. "Let me jog your memory." The troll said as he swung a meaty, bony fist towards Jackhammer's captive face. Jackhammer put his leg between the troll's and used the momentum to throw him forward onto the floor on his hands and knees. A swift kick in the gut produced a satisfying moan, but not as much motion as he would have liked. As the troll tried to stand, Jackhammer followed it with an elbow on the back of his neck. The troll's face hit the floor with a satisfying *thud*, but the fight wasn't over yet. He swept Jackhammer's legs and kicked him hard, but Jackhammer rolled into it and was back on his feet before the troll could get his balance. A sudden titanium-laced backhand knocked a few teeth from the troll's face before an uppercut brought him a few inches off the ground. The troll staggered back, blood running down his face. "And I have a message for them too." Jackhammer growled as he approached. "Leave me and my family alone."  A right cross in the solar plexus put the troll on his knees, and Jackhammer was walking away before they could drag the beaten fragger from the ring.

[pistolgrip]

[Saturday July 4th, 2076; Jackhammer's apartment]
The bottom of another empty beer bottle distorted his view of the ceiling.

He wasn't sure how Torrent had found his new commcode, but he didn't really know how that matrix stuff worked. But he was pretty sure that, since it was a group message, those other guys--Al and Isaint, as he'd known them--now had his code too. Which means one of them would probably come try to buy him a beer or something and rope him up in some other bad business. He had no interest in that, so Jackhammer tossed the bottle into the garbage, or recycling, or whatever that can was, and popped open another. Orks don't get buzzed very quickly, and he was half convinced that this cheap drek was actually all water. At least that was a good excuse to not worry about how many he had.

So he'd ignore the and pretend he died or something. Surely no matrix wizards had some kind of vitals tracker on him. But then again, there were the actual wizards to worry about. So Jackhammer thought a bit, then shrugged, taking another heavy drink. "Ah, let 'em come. They can knock but I don't needa answer. They know better than to come busting down this door." he said smugly and sat back down on the couch. But then he thought of the people who didn't know better. Those lenders were getting aggressive. And if they decided to call in a hit, they might not have the courtesy to knock. And those two guys he worked with, those Shadowrunners that made it out alive, they were tough as nails. Or at least the ork one. He couldn't tell if the little racist guy was tough or just lucky. But anyway, they'd be alright guys to help him handle this business, and a few extra nuyen for a few extra augs probably wouldn't hurt anything. Besides that, it's not like hearing the job would kill him. He tossed the bottle into the bin and went for another, but then the terrible truth struck. "Drek, I'm out of beer."

[pistolgrip]

[Saturday July 4th, 2076; Angel's eatery]
The reply to Torrent was curt and didn't include anyone else. He still wasn't 100% on this whole idea and didn't want anyone knowing otherwise.

He stood out in the rain for a long time. He was pretty sure nobody saw him given how far he was and how stealthy he could be for his size. He played with his 'link as the droplets decorated his screen and ran down, looking over his shoulder towards the diner now and then. Some people had gone in, but the only one he thought looked a little familiar was the one in the telltale bomber jacket. Another one walked like he was ex-military, so maybe Isaint, but from this distance it could have been anybody. Jackhammer growled at a homeless human that was getting a little to friendly, then turned back to his 'link. He'd apparently pulled the message back up without realizing it. With a heavy sigh, the big ork pulled his coat close around him and marched through the puddles and potholes to the entrance of the eatery.

He passed the security guard, marveling a bit at what passed for "security" these days, then strode through the door and paused. There was Al, and his dog--except apparently his dog had done some steroids and street drugs--and a few other people so mismatched and out-of-place that they could only be the rest of the team. He knew one of them had to be Isaint, but there was just no telling which. So he walked right up to the group and introduced himself exactly the way he felt. "One of you drek-heads owes me a drink. I'm here to collect." he said with a slight smile. "Don't make me listen to a Johnson sober." he added, not even considering that one of them might indeed be the "Johnson" as they called them in this business.

[Mercy Merchant]

At least Alyce was prepared.  Almost.  First, the man she now knows as Isaint indicates that he is indeed talking about Al Guthrie as if he is alive.  Second, the bomber jacket gave man away.  Her mosquito drone outside the diner had alerted her to his arrival.  She had stopped breathing for a few moments, not even realizing it.  Alyce commands the drone to fly in closer to the man to make sure.  The face was older, older than it should be after eight years, but that might be figured from his lifestyle, but there is something more.  His frame is different, less instead of more, and she realizes that he has been ill and probably very ill.  After circling the man several times, the drone flew back to its perch and she watched him approach the building and enter. 

She is only barely listening to the others talk, knowing that she can play it back later, trying to decide how she feels.  And failing to come up with an adequate answer.  She absolutely does not know how to react to this man returning to her life after eight years.  Al speaks and she immediately recognizes the voice that had been so dear to her.  Turning her sightless eyes to him, she opens her mouth to speak and fails.  A hand goes to her mouth and she finally says, "Al Guthrie.  I am glad that you are alive.  How are you?"  The monster that is sniffing Isaint's hand recognizes that his mistress is in distress and associates it with the newcomer.  A soft growl rumbles from its huge throat and his eyes glow a bit redder.  Before the hound can take even one step, Robyn places a hand on its fur and says, "Al.  Down."  The Hell Hound obeys instantly and the blind Keeb says, "We really should have a drink and go over old times and do some catching up.  But now we are here to for a job."  Robyn stands and makes room for Al to slide next to her in the booth.

[BrickyardBabe]

Iris watched Deckard rise and sit again with some small amusement tempered by curiosity, not the least of which was concentrated on figuring out where she had heard his name recently. He dressed like a 'runner, and he wore his power around him like a coat, just as she did. They were of a strength, or near enough to it that she didn't want to bet on a confrontation between them, but at the same time he had almost gaped at her when he looked at her aura. The quickened spells, maybe? She thought to herself. Well, its not every 'runner who benefits from a fortune in magical education. She mentally shrugged her shoulders and returned to her assessment. Powerful, yes, but surprised at that power in others. Someone newer to the heights of power that went beyond the casual hedge-wizardry of most street mages, perhaps? He had a good, solid decade or so on her. Maybe he hadn't always been a mage by profession?

Her eyes turned toward his outfit. Deckard- and where had she heard that damnable name?- dressed like a man of some means. She recognized that frag-off heavy coat as an Argentum, and those came with a hefty price tag. His clothes didn't speak particularly to poverty either, which meant that he either had a sideline as something more legitimate or was good enough at this job to make paydays that could buy him four-thousand-nuyen outerwear. Questions, either way.

Drek, that name was really going to bother her.

Iris turned her eyes toward Isaint and arched one thin golden brow slightly. Now there was a man who looked like a 'runner! She didn't have time to run down his every detail, however. The arrival of a still-smoking Al seemed to have blindsided Robyn completely, and Iris looked between the two with concern, placing her hand on her knee just above the cuff of one black boot. She reached out to touch her...friend? Acquiantance? Robyn, anyway, on the shoulder, and at the same time delved deep into her file of old matrix mail to scrounge up Robyn's commcode. DNI hairbands, wonderful things.

+Lady Lysander, are you well? You seem distressed by Mr. Guthrie's arrival+

Message sent, Iris turned, her eyes flickering through the color spectrum as the big ork walked up and dropped into the conversation like a particularly noisome drek. For the third time, she let her perception slide over to the astral and for the third time, she saw that there was more to her prospective companions than met the eye. Even the big bluff ork with the heavy tread and the holes in his essence where he'd bolted in new and unnatural enhancements was magically active.

Goddess alive, who the hell were these people?

Iris rose fluidly, her eyes glinting a pale green as she faced the big ork and nodded her head. Unlike previously, she didn't curtsy. "Hello, sir." She said in her oddly aristocratic manner. "Welcome to the party, sir. I am Iris. You're still ahead of Mr. Johnson." She glanced across the room to the serving counter and confirmed that it did indeed have bottles of some kind behind it. Gesturing at her now-empty chair, she said, "Here, take my seat. I'm going to wander over to what passes for a bar." She looked at Isaint and Deckard, then Al and Robyn. To Deckard she asked, "Care to join me for a moment, let these old friends catch up?" To the rest of the table, she added, "Would anyone like anything, since I'm headed that way anyway?"

[Mercy Merchant]

Robyn receives the message from Iris and replies, >>Al is someone I used to know.  He went missing eight years ago.  His appearance here surprised me. and says in a calm voice, << 

She acknowledges the new arrival with a nod and says in a calm voice, "Welcome, but I think that your choice of words is a bit off.  I would hazard a guess that everyone here is rather better than a drek head at what they specialize in, even you..  Please sit if there is room, and please let my four-legged companion sniff at you.  Just to make sure he knows you."  Robyn looks around at the others, "And just so no one is surprised, just about all the patrons and the barman seem to be well armed and are probably part of the Johnson's security detail.  Either that or this dive caters to an exceptionally strong clientele."

Strangely enough, and disturbingly enough, the feel and smell of Al sitting next to her at the booth takes her back over eight years to another booth and another table.  They had been the only people at that table and in some way she felt that they might be the only people at this table.  Then Iris' words cut into her thoughts and without looking up, she says, "Whiskey, neat, please, Iris.  The best they have.  For two."  She pauses then adds, "Is that still the drink of choice, Al?"

[obidancer]

Tear breaking reunions were all nice and all but it seemed everyone seemed to be ignoring the obvious, even more the Simstar Sorceress when she mentioned being ahead of the Johnson and about to start wandering around.
Deckard cough in his hand as in to clear his throat but didn't add speak yet. Instead, his eyes went sideways in the direction of the other man in the booth, the fit man of a certain age, along with a soft nod of the head in the same direction.

Mr. Johnson! he said so slighly louder, to remind everyone of his presence at the table. Apparently drinks are on the lady. Would you and/or your men would be interested in a beverage, while we wait for our the last of our associate?

[Mercy Merchant]

Robyn nods, "Yes, we should not forget or ignore the man who brought us together.  Who are we still missing, by the way?"