[Shadowrun] IC: The Old Dogs of War Redux - Chapter 1

[Jeff Hauze]

The last shot rings out, with the echoes of the gunfire slowly dying away. The empty clip slips free and falls into the hands of the shooter, replaced by a fresh magazine. Worn hands slowly return the pistol to its holster, before removing the noise-dampening earphones. The tattered target is removed from its holder, and replaced with a fresh one.

Blake smiles slightly, as he pays the old man behind the register for the time spent on the archaic firing range found in the basement of Ark's. "Good to see that some things haven't changed over the years, Ark."

The wizened old ork steps out from behind the counter and extends a hand to Jerome. "I could say the same about you, old man. You're still out there playing the game, no matter what the official records may state. When was it last? Essen? No...New York." Ark shudders at a nightmare that ideally should have been long forgotten.

Blake pats his former teammate on the shoulder in sympathy. "I'm sorry I couldn't be there for the funeral. I know he would have understood, but I still regret not saying goodbye."

"All part of the life we lead, old man. If you're back in the Rainy City though, I know you're not hear just to visit a friend. What is it you really came here for, Saint John?"

Blake shakes his head as he shrugs his way into his heavy overcoat. "The end of the world, Ken. What else? Take a vacation, my friend. Be anywhere but here for the next few weeks. I owe him...and you...that much of a warning."

The old operative steps out into the cold of Seattle's winter, and leaves his "friend" wondering just how much truth was behind that warning. The storm clouds are slowly moving in off the Sound, and the rain has just begun to fall.

[Jeff Hauze]

Somewhere in an abandoned Fuchi system, running off the backbone of the new Novatech SeaTac Network

The purple-tinted frog lowers its sunglasses with a webbed "hand" and nods to its companion. "The Buzzard says that it is nearly complete. Will you have everything in place?"

The goat-headed man snorts in derision. "While I may hate this medium of communication, dear King, do not believe I am unfamiliar with the intricacies of technology. And do not question my abilities again. This is your domain, but I will not tolerate anyone's intervention in my project. We will meet the timetable, and we will be ready. Just make sure that your ragged band of children are ready to do your part."

The frog laughs as he leaps off the shoulder of the man and begins to hop away. "We'll be ready, Andie boy."

The goat-headed man known as Andhrimnir watches the ugly little frog leap out of the network and break the connection before smiling. "Oh, you won't be ready for this, child. The prodigal son is coming home, and the wolves are already howling."

[Jeff Hauze]

The message is short and sweet. At 9 am local time, the message is sent by Blake.

We'll need to meet one final time for a short review this evening, before the event tomorrow. 10 pm, 105 Pacific Highway, Suite 102, Everett. Final player will be introduced then.

[3278]

Peter awakened at the bottom of a bubble, drifting gently in the current, several meters below the surface. Curious fish darted in and away, their nervous systems not equipped to make judgments about so strange a sight as a man drifting beneath the sound in a bubble of air. He yawned, and realized that air had gotten quite stale; it was fortunate he had awakened.

He mentally directed himself - and thus, the sphere - upward, relying on the early-morning sun to silhouette any vessels on the surface. As he broke over the face of the waves, he unhooked the barrier from its focus and bent light about himself, hanging that on its own focus. Surface brought signal, and a message from Blake: a meeting, this eveing. There would be much time to waste; though he had drifted quite some distance in the night, he had many hours before the meeting. Flipping his plexi into his hands, he absently checked the address, near where Gibson crossed 99. Easy enough to find from the air.

Tapping briefly into the mana-charged astral plane to directly fuel the mitochondria in his cells; not a satisfying breakfast, but nourishing and somehow energizing. He looked around a bit to get his bearings, twisted his shape into that of a raven - a common corvid in this area - and let light reflect from him once again. Taking wing, he set forth in the approximate direction of Everett, to see what lay at 105 Pacific Highway before the meeting began.

[Roger Arneault]

Roger idled his truck, and then with no preamble pulled out into the street. It was a brief drive to the highway, and a half hour to the meet. He'd arrive a few minutes ahead of time, which would give him all the time he needed to check out the area. He wasn't sure what to expect so he was prepared for business. Wearing his armor wasn't as comfortable as the tailored suits he preferred, and his pistol rigs always bit into his ribs no matter how much he adjusted the leather harnesses. He was carrying an extra magazine for each weapon-which were of course loaded (One in the chamber, 15 in the clip-sixteen chances under each arm.), and a matching pair of silencers were holstered next to each weapon.

In the tool box in the bed of his truck his tools were packed and ready to go, for any situation, and hidden beneath them were the few items he might need of questionable legality-his surveillance equipment, restraints, and his special kit. He keyed the radio and an old Johnny Cash song blared through the cab.

I keep a close watch on this heart of mine
I keep my eyes wide open all the time.
I keep the ends out for the tie that binds
Because you're mine,
I walk the line

I find it very, very easy to be true
I find myself alone when each day is through
Yes, I'll admit that I'm a fool for you
Because you're mine,
I walk the line

[Roger Arneault]

Roger backed into the spot, and shut the engine down after a few seconds. After double checking his weapons, Roger slid his shades into place, and shucked on his jacket. It was time to make the doughnuts.

[Alleycat]

((Sorry...been feeling less than inspired to post something))

Alley spent the day checking in on her 'garden' as she called it, the array of people and places she carefully tended to, in hopes to make them useful and loyal sources for information. Blake's generous upfront money allowed for a little bribary in the way of gifts and extras that would sway opinion when she asked for favors later. Thankfully her cover clothes were where she left them, saving her the cost of more. At 9pm, she found herself back on the bus, unconciously looking for the kids she spotted before.

[Roger Arneault]

Roger was first, which was no real surprise in his own opinion. He wondered briefly, and with out real concern, how long till the others arrived?

[Scarlett]

With slow, methodical movements, the long, skeletal and clawlike fingers coiled up the cord. The area seemed clear enough, but just to be on the safe side she had some "eyes" and "ears" lurking in the electronic ether. They weren't intelligent or lifelike in anyway just little snippets of code programmed to monitor for certain types of events, while some would send periodic updates from the few cameras in the area. What little safeguards she had setup were just whistling in the face of a hurricane. But everyone needed a "blankie".

A face to face meet with new and completely unknown teammates. She was getting too old for this shit. A deep breath that was slowly let out resulted in a barely surpressed coughing fit. Somewhat irritably she shoved the tangled waist length blood red curls out of her pallid face, one that seemed off in the way of someone who has been ill for some time. Scarlett didn't bother to check on how her clothing looked, it was a clean, and vaguely neat cheap off the rack pants suit. There weren't hose miraculous enough to make her legs look even vaguely attractive anymore. Just before she entered the meeting spot, she slid a pair of shades over her eyes.

[Ajax]

The time was nearing that Ajax had to go into action again, and so, he was forcing himself to relax, containing the nervous energy inside himself with great effort. Only occassionally did it boil over and rise to the surface, making him shiver with anticipation, like making love to a beautiful woman for the first time after weeks of flirting. But he kept it bottled up as best he could, not letting it escape in a fit of nervousness, but savouring it, slowly, like a good bio-steak. And so he forced himself into a state of deliberation; focussing on preparing his food and not letting his mind wander. One litre of soy-milk, half in a glass, half in a bowl. A dozen bio-eggs, not that synth crap. Chopped mushrooms. Chopped bio-gen peppers. Union. Mixed together in the bowl with the milk. In the pan. Fried on both sides. Lots of salt. And then, miraculously, the last 200 grams of real goats cheese he could find at the market, straight out of the Salish. He ate it, slowly and deliberately, while watching the news. Slowly but surely the excitement got the better of him, and he quickly gulped the rest of the milk down, put the dishes away, grabbed his coat and headed out. He was early, but to hell with being fashionable. He was too old to be fashionable.