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[6E] Dome Sweet Home IC

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Aria

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« on: <10-15-19/1146:54> »
[Early Evening, Monday November 13th, 2079; Downfall, Redmond, Seattle Metroplex]
 
The Downfall was nice, at least by the available standards of Redmond.  He’d done some research on the way here and it seemed like as good a place as any to collect his thoughts, although now he was beginning to regret his decision to come at all.  The clientele were the usual eclectic mix of street toughs and SINless just trying to scrape by after whatever crap job their limited status afforded them.  But there was also some Talent here, and from the curious glances he’d received when he came in he knew they’d seen the dim spark that was in him too.
 
The air wasn’t too laden with nic or stale alcohol and piss and the music was loud enough to drown out casual conversation but not make your ears bleed!
 
Watcher nursed his drink musing at the water still pooling off his cuffs from the soaking he’d taken getting to Redmond from his ratty apartment all the way over in Puyallup.  He ruefully reflected that he was getting jaded, a bit of rain had never bothered him much but he would once have made more of an effort to stay dry at least.  He’d removed his damp gloves and his metallic right cyber hand tapped an unconscious rhythm on the faded table top as he considered the message from his daughter again.
 
> Hi Dad, hope you’re ok?  Sorry haven’t got time to talk, maybe next week?  Tom’s in trouble, possibly big trouble, I’ve seen it coming.  I know you don’t see eye to eye and if I could I would be there myself to stop you two fighting, but I can’t…some things are even more important than family.  He won’t want your help, he’s too damn stubborn, but I know you will want to do something.
> Lace
 
He sighed, damn it Beth, Silkie, Lace, whatever she was calling herself these days…  He’d tried, he really had.  But Beth was right, Tom blamed him for the death of their mother and the wound was fresh even after all these years.  He’d gone to where Tom had holed up with his tribe, had tried to speak to his son… and had been turned away.  But he knew that Beth wouldn’t have sent him there without good cause, so a new plan was needed…
 
Time to recruit some outside assistance.  With what he wasn’t sure but there were runners that would help a cause for more than just nuyen.  He’d briefly pondered trying to recruit some himself, possibly even at a bar like this one, but it was too random, he didn’t know this part of town any more (too many painful memories) and he didn’t want to end up on the wrong end of some street razor’s grudge.  So that meant squeezing his limited funds further and getting hold of a fixer to set him up with a team.  Thankfully Feather owed him one and it might be time to check in that marker…
 
***
 
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ZeroSum

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« Reply #1 on: <10-15-19/1434:30> »
[Early Morning, Monday November 13th, 2079; Enumclaw, Auburn, Seattle Metroplex]
The little apartment wasn't much, but the lock on the door was strong and the electrical grid only rarely suffered from blackouts; aside from the omnipresent hum of heavy industry in the area, the wireless signal to noise ratio was better than any of the other places he would have been able to afford.

Viktor was seated at the large workbench in the middle of the room, the internals of a Shiawase Cyber-6 laid out before him and surrounded by spare parts and various junk. He adjusted the overhead lamp to provide better light for the task at hand, and gingerly slipped the tiny optical relay into place. Despite being mostly broken and in pieces the deck had cost him most of his savings, and that was even after the trade-in on his old model.

"The circuits are good, but she needs a little TLC before she'll purr like a kitten." Max, one of Viktor's corporate contacts at Shiawase, had been adamant that the deck was worth the price even in it's present condition. "If anyone can fix 'er up it's you, and I'll give you a real good price on part. Chip truth!"

Thinking back on that conversation, Viktor realized he should have picked up on the somewhat obvious attempt at flattery, but the temptation had just been too great. Outside of the corporate elite and state of the art tech, a Shiawase Cyber-6 was about as advanced a deck as he'd ever expected to see, no less own! So instead of haggling like he should have, he had thrown caution to the wind and now all of his hopes and dreams rested on the various little pieces of plastic and metal arrayed in front of him.

He sighed deeply, then set to work reassembling the miniaturized cyberdeck. Everything fit onto a slot no larger than a couple of credsticks, and within a few hours he had everything neatly wrapped up. The circuit tester chirrped happily when he applied it to the optical connection port, indicating that the procedure had gone well.

"Only one way to find out," Viktor thought as he slid the deck into the receptacle in the back of his head. A barely perceptible *click* announced that the connection had seated firmly, and the dwarf subconsciously moved his hand over the implant location before steeling himself for the next crucial part. He couldn't afford the hospital stay if this didn't work, and the deck going critical inside his skull would be the least of his long-term issues. He inhaled deeply, closed his eyes, and leaned back in his favourite chair.

"This is it. All or nothing, chummer. You got this."

With a mental trigger, he bridged the neural interface between his cyberjack and the new deck lodged firmly inside his skull. For several nano-seconds nothing seemed to happen; his stomach began to sink, when all of a sudden the Matrix rushed out of nowhere and wrapped his consciousness in digital code.

Clad in the blackened armor of a modern samurai, 0day, his persona, rose from a smoke cloud into the Emerald City host.

"Time to see what this baby can do..."

[Early Evening, Monday November 13th, 2079; Enumclaw, Auburn, Seattle Metroplex]

Hours had passed and the Cyber-6 has handled every test he'd thrown at it. Viktor had sliced through the Matrix for hours, and he couldn't have been happier.

The notification that someone was at his door had brought him back to reality, and he checked the video feed from the tiny MCT Gnat positioned in the corner of the hallway leading up to his apartment.

"Ah, delivery!" he exclaimed to no one in particular inside the host he'd been decking. He had completely forgotten that he'd placed a McHugh's order earlier that day to ensure he would eat, but now that he was reminded of it he realized he was starving.

Jacking out of the Matrix brought the familiar sense of loss with it, and it took a few tries before he managed to get out of his chair.

He plodded to the door after grabbing his commlink, and was instantly reminded of how low his funds were. "Drek. I should have gone and picked it up myself" he muttered to himself as he opened the door.

After ensuring his note about no soy had been adhered to he settled up, and shook his head at the mere ¥195 left in his account. Back in the apartment with a plate of chick pea falafel neatly organized on a tray in front of him, he began cataloging local events and news stories in the hope that he could find some work.

#1
« Last Edit: <10-22-19/1106:01> by ZeroSum »

gwilym

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« Reply #2 on: <10-16-19/0902:30> »
Phaeton and Dynamyt stool holding hands at the flames lick up around the box that contained their mother's remains. They probably should have buried her but the idea of devil rats knawing on her did not sit well with either of the sisters .
"I spoke Mr Wu you can stay at his and work on his stall." said Dynamyt as they stared at the dying flames
Phaeton tried to speak but Dynamyt held her hand up,
" you need a place he needs the help, with both his boys dead "
" but he don't speak English and I ain't got no 'nese "
" he speaks English plenty good when I sort his burns and cuts, he just pretends"
Both girl giggled
"we better get back, Grimble will be there soon."
Grimble was dutifully solemn but everyone knew he had wanted this pitch of years
"I be sorry for your loss there Shaman, glad it were quick. She were go people. Look theres te things you wanted even fueled it up and here's some script n cred. You can be turned can you, folks are no happy you going an all"
"Grimble, I gotta go find what behind the mountains, I got Phaeton a good 'prentice. An' got me a bike" she eyed the keys "you sure this feather is straight up?"
Grimble chuckled "peice of advice, e everyone wants something, nothin' 'ti's free"
You are not what you think you are. you are an imitation of what your wish you were

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« Reply #3 on: <10-16-19/1713:29> »
Omen sat at his acustomed place at the bar he had chosen as his current haunt - drinking away what remained of his last mission's salary.
As usual he raised his glass in a silent toast to his dead brothers in arms. 'Vive la mort, vive la guerre, vive le sacre mercenaire'.
The drink tasted bitter - not just because of the quinine from the tonic water, but also because of the memories of their last mission.
For a moment he thought about going back on board of the ship, before remembering that the "Sea Witch" had already left two days ago while he had decided to go on a bender.
Seattle was as good a place as anywhere to get back on his feet now that the malaria had finally been purged from his system.
Better in fact, since he actually new someone here. Right. Enough self pity. He pulled out his commlink and searched for her number.
"Hey honey, guess who."
"Omen? Curse your disease ridden hide. I hope the jackals finally got your balls."
"Bah, after living with you for three years, a jackal's bite would be akin to a soft kiss.
Speaking of which, are you still with that prick of a pimp Marshall?"
"You've been away for awhile. Marshall's dead. I took over his business."
"Seriously? You are a Madam now with a stable of mares? Congratulations, I guess.
Anyway, I'm not calling for a quicky for old times sake. I'm back in the city and I need a job."
"Sorry, there's currently no demand for a good-for-nothing piece of drek that can't even manage to get himself killed with the rest of his unit."
"Listen Sandra, forget for a moment that you are my ex and try to act like a goddamn business woman: You know my talents, you know the commission that's in for you and you goddamn know I'm calling you instead of Sharkeye, because I don't want the kind of jobs he is handing out.
So either use old Mars' contacts for me, or hang up and think about what a man with my talents can do for a real piece of work like old Sharky."
"Don't get your knickers in a twist. I'll put the word out that you are back on the market. And stay away from Sharkeye. Bastard."
The call dropped and Omen smiled.
Sandra wasn't half bad all in all - in any case she'd be a better fixer than a wife.
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« Reply #4 on: <10-16-19/1828:02> »
"Mrs. Mary, Quite contrary
How does your garden grow?
With souless shells and about three hells
and mutations all in a row."

Elga seemed calmer if Tipperman made himself heard before walking into the 'cottage'.  And recently she seemed to be responding to silliness and wordplay, so the dwarf had been digging up vaguely remembered songs and rhymes and playing around with the words.

He entered the converted shipping container, and was pleased to see that Elga was still there, that she was not hiding in a corner, and that it looked like the posts and dishes were still in the sink.  In the first weeks she'd kept taking things like that and hiding them, or making shivs out of cutlery.  He'd almost think that she had been in prison, but her skin just seemed too good for that.  Or it had been, somewhere between living on mostly soy paste and living in a radiation zone she was losing some of her glow.

He made small talk at her, and even coaxed out a few 'yes' and 'no' answers -- along with the usual ratio of what seemed like nonsense.  But his thoughts were elsewhere, and eventually he said out loud "I think you'll be OK for a while if I take on some work."  He definitely needed to find a way to move her somewhere better, and to get proper treatment for whatever had happened to her.

There was a lot of people he could call, but in the end he decided to start to start with his old protege.  The image on his link still showed Brianna in her Neonet security uniform, dark hair buzzed short, a petite and athletic figure.  It was hard to remember that her hair was showing grey, her face and hips had rounded out and she'd been civilian for a decade.  But at least her mind was still sharp -- he may have changed less physically but his mind was not as fit as it had been back then.  And he had to remember to use her business name, not her personal one.

<<Branta, Got any work you could throw my way?>>
<<Tipperman, you coherent enough to present to a Johnson?>>
<< I'm as clear as one credit beer.  I've got someone I'm taking care of, keeping me focused>>
<< Spirits, you've adopted another stray?>>
<< More like a discard.  Found her half dead, still making less sense than me>>
<< If you found her around your place she's lucky.  Almost anyone else would have seen her dead or ... well you know.  I'm glad you have a cause and you ready to work, but I'm afraid I can't risk adding you to an existing team, nor trust you solo -- not until I see that you can stay focused.  Let me see if anyone is looking for a less proven team.>>
Tipperman  --
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« Reply #5 on: <10-18-19/0831:50> »
[ Early Evening, Monday November 13th, 2079; Seattle Opera House, 800 North Taylor Avenue, Downtown Seattle]

Feather sighed in annoyance, he’d been about to silence his ‘link in order to enjoy the performance but there were a few moments to deal with Watcher’s request.  He doubted many of the runners he knew to be available would be interested in the kind of work that was on offer but there were some that were principled enough, or desperate enough, to bite.

He composed a quick message and after doing a quick search through his database fired it to four individuals that looked promising.  If any of them declined there were two more possibilities but scrambling a temporary team together was a delicate business and he knew that they reflected on his reputation so best to go with first choice if possible.

> Hoi. There’s a work opportunity, couple of days’ worth probably. Remuneration might not be high but apart from the warm fuzzy feeling of doing good there are some solid contact opportunities in this one.  It’s not a corporate deal, the J has his own handle, Watcher, he’s at the Downfall in Redmond this evening <Profile attached>.  If you’re interested go and hear what he has to say, I’ve arranged a meet at around 21:00.  If you’re not let me know so I can get a replacement.
> Feather

[Early Evening, Monday November 13th, 2079; Downfall, Redmond, Seattle Metroplex]

Well Feather was putting the word out, hopefully someone would turn up.  Watcher began to pull together the info he’d need to supply the prospective runners whilst he absentmindedly ordered another drink and some soy snacks.  A brief intro to his son and the urban tribe he lead.  Their living accommodation <file> and the perceived threat to them… looking over it there wasn’t much to go on, it would have to do…

***

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ZeroSum

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« Reply #6 on: <10-18-19/1124:06> »
Viktor glanced at the AR notification from Feather between mouthfuls of falafel.
"Work. Low rate in exchange for connects. Civvie. "Watcher". Where have I seen that face before..."

The dwarf kept on chewing, and closed his eyes to focus as he searched his mind for clues. 1
"The Fre∑dom tribe raid... Some researcher got caught up in that mess, ended up in a coma. Could be the same guy. Intriguing. Most intriguing." Something from Feather's message tugged at his consciousness. "Wait. Downfall, in Redmond? Drek..."

Viktor cleared away the tray and threw away the rubbish while he pulled up his mapsoft in AR.

"70-80 kilometers to the north end of the Barrens. That's going to be at least 150 nuyen just to get there by taxicab." He weighed the comfort of a direct ride over the cheaper options, then glanced at his account balance again. "Bus it is; better get going if I want to get there in time."

As he began gathering his gear he compiled a brief response to Feather.
> Interested. On my way.

The dwarf slipped various tools and equipment into the pockets of his jumpsuit, checking them off his mental checklist one item at a time. "Bug scanner, credsticks, ah the medkit of course. Tag eraser, and tool kit." As an afterthought, he added a second reply to the fixer while he put on his go-bag.
> Oh. And thank you.

On his way out the door he latched the arm slide holding his pistol under the jumpsuit sleeve on his left arm, then donned the heavy lined coat he usually wore outside; the acid rain had been particularly foul these last few months. He once more checked the video feed from the hallway outside his front door to ensure no one was waiting to jump him, and once he was satisfied he wouldn't run into anyone he headed downstairs. He made it to the front door of his building before he realized he had forgotten to check the weather.

"Blast it, more rain" he exhaled through gritted teeth. Viktor adjusted the collar on his coat and ran the few meters down the road to the nearest bus stop. Fortunately, the gangs had left this one alone and it provided a modicum of protection from the rain while he waited. Still, it had been built to accommodate humans and orks, and with the rain coming in somewhat horizontal he wasn't completely sheltered from the elements.

"Ah, the wonders of living as a dwarf in a human-centric society." The sarcasm in the muttered statement was as acidic as the rain.

Viktor wiped the wetness from his brow and scalp before it could do any real damage. He would need to change lines in Auburn, to the Tacoma-Everett line, so he pulled up a browse program and keyed in search parameters for Watcher. 2 Within minutes he had found the connection he was looking for; Alex Smart, the Seattle University alum gone cold for three years before resurfacing.

"Another time" he thought to himself, wondering what the real story there was. The screamsheets just spoke of a corporate raid on so-called 'decker gangs', and 'a local anthropologist' ending up in a coma as a result, and scuttlebutt on the usual rumour sites weren't much better.

The trip to Auburn and then onto Everett was thankfully uneventful, besides the rain fouling his mood as much as it did the streets. After the change of bus lines and with another 40 minutes left on his trip, Viktor pulled out a tool kit from his pocket and released one of his microdrones. The little insect drone would keep watch over him as he sunk into the seat and slipped into VR.

[2045 hours local, Monday November 13th, 2079; Downfall, Redmond, Seattle Metroplex]
NE 175th St and 140th Ave NE was a blessed quarter block from the nearest bus stop, and Viktor hurried along the street dodging scurrying rats and spillwater pouring down from the nearby gutters. He had barely managed to avoid getting drenched when a particularly burly ork had ridden by on a big hog of a bike, splashing water all over the sidewalk.

Finally, the door to Downfall loomed ahead of him; he gently pulled it open and slipped inside. While he would never be able to actively hide in the real world, one benefit of being a dwarf was being casually overlooked. He'd configured his deck for stealth 3, and seeing the number of icons in the bar told him he wasn't alone in being cautious. Some quick tweaks to his deck's attributes and a few more icons revealed themselves. 4

"Ah, there you are." He chuckled; some of these script-kiddies were about as obvious as an ostrich with it's head in the sand.

He picked a booth at random and settled in, and ordered a cheap, non-soy based synthetic bourbon from the disinterested waiter. "Let's see what we're working with" he thought to himself, digging the bug scanner out of one pocket. 4

A few more icons had been revealed as a result of his cursory scan, including a stealth tag that looked like it was sitting in someone's drink. "Mental note, check drinks for tags from now on..." he thought to himself as he eyed the glass in front of him. He had left one of the Gnats on the door just outside the entrance, up high and out of the rain, keeping an eye on the street just outside Downfall. The weather was making it hard to see to clearly using the tiny drone's camera sensor, so he loaded up a clearsight soft to improve the feed. He then launched a second and third drone and used them to leapfrog through the room, looking for Mr Johnson, aka Watcher.

"Who watches the Watcher," he smiled to himself slyly. "Who watches, indeed." 6 With all of his usual prep out of the way, he settled in to wait.

1 Memory Test (Local News): "Watcher": 13d6t5 5
2Matrix Search: "Watcher", "Fre∑dom tribe", "Seattle University": 15d6t5 5
3Running Silent: 14d6t5 8
4Matrix Perception: 15d6t5 3
5Matrix Perception (Bug Scanner): 17d6t5 4
6Perception: 13d6t5 3


#2
« Last Edit: <10-22-19/1106:17> by ZeroSum »

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« Reply #7 on: <10-18-19/1735:16> »
There were a few things from his old life that Tipperman hadn’t been able to give up, and taking this job would give him a chance to use all three of them: his coat, his Ingram, and his customized Harley.  “You know Princess, I said I was working again to help get you better care, and this job offer says it doesn’t pay so great.  So should pass, right?  But I gotta say, after I got Inga and Bella all cleaned and oiled and my coat all brushed down, I’m feeling all ‘Hi-ho, hi-ho, it’s off to work I go.’  I guess my brain doesn’t work well enough to know better anymore or something?  What I’m saying is that I’m going out for the evening.  I’ll be back with some supplies later tonight, but then I might be gone for a bit and you are going to have to take care of the place, OK?

Elga smiled vacantly and Tipperman worried that his words had passed by entirely, but then she replied “’Each player must accept the cards life deals him or her: but once they are in hand, he or she alone must decide how to play.’” And after a moment added “My rates double after midnight.” 

Tipperman was fairly certain that the first had been a quote from one philosopher or another – he’d given up looking them up after recognizing her pattern – but the second sounded like a memory of something she used to say.  A clue to who she may have been in the past, but he found himself not wanting to think what sort of work would have inspired a line like that.  “OK, sounds like the communication was received.

Half an hour later he rolled up the door at the ‘back’ end of the shipping container, then rolled out on Bella.  The bike had been re-build multiple times over the years, first to fit a dwarf, then because of various damaging incidents.  Each time it had ended up being just a little more fitted to him, until now being back on her felt like pulling on a tailored suit.  He patted his smartgun in its holster on the bike frame and muttered “Shouldn’t be any business for you tonight, Inga, but you never know around here.”  Then he made his way through Renton, going fast enough to discourage interactions, but slow enough to manage with his reduced skills.

Finally he arrived at the location, circled it once to look for any problems going on, then parked.  He latched his helmet to the bike, transferred Inga to his hip, then pulled his fedora out of the storage big and pulled that firmly down over his head.  Once he made sure his bike was locked up securely he walked around to the side, gathered up a shredded tire and carried it to the dumpster around back.  “Fragging lazy asses”.  Then finally he marched into the bar.

Inside the door he paused for a few seconds to give anyone who wanted to a chance to get any short jokes out of their system while he scanned the place for the Johnson.  When nobody decided to make their night more bruised, Tipperman went up to the bar before going to the Johnson, and ordered a bourbon. 

Make that four things from his old life he hadn’t been able to give up.
Tipperman  --
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« Reply #8 on: <10-20-19/1147:57> »
Omen hadn't finished his next drink before he received a message back from Sandra: <<Might be something for you. No corporate, but chances to get to meet a few local influencers. Take it or leave it.>>

'Great' he thought, 'a bunch of tough young ones crazy coons.' He sighed. If he was honest, he had to admit that he fit both categories in some way. And it would probably be better than to stay here and run out of money.
So he released his info to the would be Johnson and soon received his invite.
"Might as well get going then." He paid up and left - only to reenter a similar establishment about an hour later.

When he found the Johnson, he nodded and took a seat with the others.
"Hi there. What's up."
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To strive, to seek, to find and not to yield
Revenant Kynos Isaint Rex

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« Reply #9 on: <10-21-19/0747:27> »
[21:00 ish, Monday November 13th, 2079; Downfall, Redmond, Seattle Metroplex]


Watcher studied the runners as they approached him, weighing up their manner, dress and any visible weaponry.  For his part he was of that indeterminate age between forty and fifty with neatly trimmed greying hair and goatee.  His casual dress was probably better quality than normally graced the Downfall, slightly outdated Furba jacket and shirt, his only concession to fashion being a pair of platinum rings in his left ear.  All in all pretty average, were it not for the metallic cyberhand that rippled unnaturally as he toyed with a ‘link stylus.

“Thank you for coming.  You can call me Watcher, or Mr Johnson if you prefer.  Don’t worry, we can talk here, nothing I’m going to say is particularly sensitive.  I understand from Feather that you are all in the market for employment, and I asked him to stipulate that rewards won’t necessarily be solely financial, so I presume as you are here that that is acceptable in principle?  We can come back to that once you’ve heard my pitch.”

He paused to bring out a small projection unit attached to his ‘link.

“My son is an urban tribal leader here in Redmond…they are based out of a former retirement village north of Touristville. They haven’t given themselves any fancy titles, they are just the tribe to anyone in the area.  They’ve been operating peacefully enough with their neighbours in the last few years and even have a market supplying surplus fresh food back to the area.  But there are two new players in the district, gangs, and for some reason tensions are on the rise and the tribe look like they are going to get squeezed in the middle of a turf war.

I want to avoid that, quite how I leave to you if you take the job.  One additional wrinkle, my son and I don’t exactly get on, so when you talk to him for gods’ sake don’t mention my name.  Tell him Beth sent you and all should be well, but he’s a proud bastard so you may need to convince him to let you help at all.”

***

#03
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« Reply #10 on: <10-21-19/1139:49> »
As he listened to Watcher, Tipperman swirled the drink in his glass.  It certainly wasn't bourbon, although there had been some effort with artificial flavors to nudge the synthihol roughly in that direction.  When Watcher paused for questions Tipperman took a deep swallow and let the stuff burn its way down his throat before he answered. 

The easy solution would be to decapitate the leadership of the two new gangs and let it be known that this would happen to anyone threatening The Tribe, but in the long run that would make The Tribe bigger targets.  And it was apt to result in a lot of bullets and bodies littering the streets.  Hopefully their Johnson would pony up a good enough offer to justify a more elegant solution.

His words come out in quick bursts of bourbon tinted breath, some words almost caressed, corporate buzzwords clearly air-quoted.  He sounds perhaps a bit more like he is making a speech or preaching than having a casual conversation, although he keeps his voice low enough to not easily be heard beyond their table.

Do you have any ‘constraints’ or ‘incentives’
on what sort of mess we make in this process
Or how much we solve for the here and now
or how much trouble we leave fermenting for later? 
Are you looking for ‘quick’ and ‘expedient’
-- and keep us on speed dial for next time? 
Or do you want something more thorough,
a ‘re-engineering’ of the situation?
It changes the job profile quite a bit, you see.


It wasn't how he'd wanted his words to come out, but his words seemed to have a will of their own since he was damaged.
« Last Edit: <10-21-19/1145:27> by Beta »
Tipperman  --
speechthoughtmatrix

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« Reply #11 on: <10-21-19/1434:07> »
Omen wore his scuffed and often repaired long coat that had kept him dry and warm for so long... and showed it through countless stains that no amount of washing were ever able to get out.
He had taken the time to shower and trimm his beard and hair - inexpertly. There was already a bit of grey in his hair and the deep lines in his leathery face made him look more like an average hobo. Except for the quite expensive glasses with the integrated vision enhancements.
Once or twice during Watcher's speech he put a green leave into his mouth and chewed.
He nodded at the other man:
"Paving gangs, is it? Not much restraint necessary. Just animals in need of culling.
But out of interest: What are those gangs names and how are they financing themselves? If you shoot them in the knees some gangs on the other side will carve them up for us just fine. We might even get something nice extra out of it if the pay is as shit as Mr. Watcher here has insinuated."
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« Reply #12 on: <10-21-19/1621:46> »
Tipperman runs calloused fingers through his bushy beard -- the radiation hasn't caused it to start falling out, yet -- as he listens to Omen.  He taps the brim of his hat to acknowledge the other man's point, and replies
"Just so I was thinking
Although i thought decapitating
-- Remove the leadership leaving turmoil.
Our basic ideas march together however:
wounded gangs won't threaten, but won't vanish,
It will take time for dangers to grow back.
To me that is the 'quick and expedient'.
"
Tipperman  --
speechthoughtmatrix

ZeroSum

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« Reply #13 on: <10-21-19/1747:35> »
Viktor watched the feed from his drones as a dwarf walked up to the Mysterious Mister Watcher. Shortly before the agreed-upon meeting time, a burly, mean-looking ork similarly made his way inside and to the prospective employer. With some reticence, the young dwarf grabbed his glass of synthetic bourbon, hopped down from the bench he'd been using as a hideout, and strode over to accompany the three men.

[...]

After the customary brief introductions, followed by Mr Johnsons' initial pitch, Viktor listened to the conversation. The other dwarf, Tipperman, seemed to be asking Mr Johnson for more information about the job; his way of speaking was something Viktor found odd, but intriguing.

"Not quite Cityspeak, but not quite English, either" he thought. "Strange; I wonder if the DSM-IX has any entries on disjointed speech patterns as a symptom." Between listening to the Ork, Omen, and Tipperman discussing options of how to deal with the gangs, the young hacker began running a search of medical journals. Cross-referencing peculiar symptoms like those exhibited by his kinsman should not take long. Once the discussion turned to more drastic measures, Viktor diverted his attention back to the real world.

"Ah..." he managed, then cleared his throat before continuing. "I'm not much for violence, direct or otherwise. That being said, a well-executed counter-intelligence campaign could have the desired effect." He paused for a brief swig of liquid courage, and he observed the reactions of the others over the rim of his glass. "Most gangs these days are beholden to someone or something. I say we find their respective pressure points and squeeze them until we have what we want."

Content at having said his peace, Viktor leaned back in his seat and continued listening.

#3
« Last Edit: <10-22-19/1106:27> by ZeroSum »

gwilym

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« Reply #14 on: <10-22-19/0352:09> »
Dynamyt checked the room as she entered, trying to not look like she was looking. She was pretty much sure she failed she ordered a drink at the bar for appearance sake. She saw a guy matching the description feather had described.
New to this she kept her introduction to a minimum.
She listened quietly to the man's explanation. Gang war OK she tried to listen to the other ideas as she thought of her own. Cat liked this job lots of thing to play with
You are not what you think you are. you are an imitation of what your wish you were