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[Synik]

A couple of pods drift by the wall length window, their hooks slung on the private sky-road that leads to the Corporate Zone. Beneath you, you can see the lush grass and trees of Turing Park. Your eyes snap to a man on a mountain bike as he crests a hill near the duck pond. Automatically, you begin to track his progress, predicting when he'll slip from cover and on to the road...

Behind you the apartment's answerphone wakes up. The fake static hisses gently. "Good afternoon, Mr Cooper. You have been invited to a corporate party at 10 Williams Street in 2 weeks' time. Your host regrets that the invitation extends to yourself during these special circumstances. Please return your reply if you are interested." The machine falls silent, the butler AI knowing better than to interrupt your coffee.

10 Williams Street. That's a hefty sum for the Department, you think. No plus one? That means don't bring your own gear to the party. How cryptic. You pause to enjoy the imported coffee. As for special circumstances, that's a custom slump. Those kind of wet work jobs never end well.

[Tyrion]

The coffee began to do it's work, but he'd only have the one cup, especially if there was work to do. In that way Jarek likened himself to a surgeon. No alcohol or major caffiene intakes whilst on the job. You never knew if that slight trembling could be the fine divider before the success and failure of a mission.
Jared picked up the small plastic tumbler from the stark white breakfast table, gazed at it thoughtfully before tipping it's rainbow coloured assortment of pills into his mouth and down his throat. Breakfast, lunch, antibac and painkiller in one nurtitionally balanced swallow.
Without any particular interest Kell dispassionately looked back out the window. A pleasant view he appreciated, better than the squallid slums of the city itself that was for sure, but it wasn't something that he was really interested in as his gaze slipped back to the mountain biker. What it did mean was that if he could see such a vista, was that the vista could also see him. The nerves that were left in the back of his neck tried to raise hairs that were no longer there. He felt exposed. Naked. Vulnerable. He didn't like the feeling and although the sunlight filtered through the window he didn't feel any warmer. Then again why should he, his apartment was climatically controlled perfectly. The air was cleaned, the windows filtered, the apartment hermetically sealed, everything here in this sparse white-walled white-furnished cell was sterile.
And cold. Oh so cold....

[Synik]

A surgeon, cutting out the undesirables from the fair city-state of Magdalene. But the maiden city is ill, sick with corruption. No matter what you remove, something else rises to take its place like some cancerous hydra. Bitterly ironic considering the birthplace of the city was a church: Saint Mary Magdalene. How many people would remember that? Perhaps a few, but many memories were lost in the Long War.

As your coffee cup clinks softly against the fine china, the apartment's AI coughs politely from surround sound speakers. If it had a physical presence, it would be stood off to your right, near the kitchen. "Excuse me, sir. The voice-blurt. Would you like me to attend to it?"

[Tyrion]

Instictively as the AI jarred him out of his reverie Kell's hand groped for a weapon. A pinprick of danger. A sense something wasn't quite right even before his brain filtered the computer's words and found the discrepancy. Kell dropped to the floor fluidly and rolled away from the huge window towards his small drab sleeping chamber. Attend to it. Attend to what? As he scrambled through the door he wondered what threat exactly had tripped the AI's subroutines. Tasersword. Standing quickly he smoothly unsheathed it from it's wall mount and flicked the capacitor. The blade gently hummed to life in his hand. Unfortunately his guns were stored in the living area. To make them he was going to have to cross the full length of the apartment. Cautiously blade held out vertically in front of him Kell eased to the wall and risked a quick look back through into the kitchen area. He turned his head back almost instantly, and let the cyberoptically captured image play back at a speed his brain could pick the bones from.

Edited by Tyrion, 16 July 2008 - 05:34 AM.

[Synik]

The sound of shouting echoes in your head... but it's all in your head. There are no assailants. No threats. You are safe here. Home is safe.

The AI's well mannered tone doesn't skip a beat - but then why would it? Can a machine panic? "Sir? Are you in distress?" It asks. "There is no-one in your appartment except yourself. Would you like me to call for medical assistance?"

You find yourself counting under your breath. It's not the first time this week.

[Tyrion]

[color=#6666CC;]"No! No, thank you, i'm fine."[/color] said Kell shaking, a sween of sweat on his face, as he tried to control himself. Again. Damnit. Again. Phantoms. Ghosts. His brain still after all this time trying to cope with all he'd been through. All he'd seen. All he'd felt. All he'd smelt. And the doctors and their drugs? Worthless. They might as well prescribed leeches. It didn't matter how advanced they had become, chopping and swapping limbs, marrying metal with flesh, the workings of the mind still remained shrouded in doubt, in pseudoscience, in opinion rather than pure fact. Oh the guesses were educated alright, but still just that guesses. Speculation. Kell opened the fridge and grabbed a bottle of pure H2O almost icecold out, broke the bottle's seal and closed the door with his foot. He chugged it down. Almost causing brainfreeze pain at that temp. Aaah. He tossed the empty vessel in the bin and mopped his hand across the imperfect contours of his brow, before just standing hands braced against his knees, slowing his breathing and heartrate back down to optimal. Helluva way to start the day...

[Synik]

The apartment's telephone rings again, but this time with the urgent long beeps the Company keeps for emergenciy calls. There won't be an AI or an office drone on the end of this call. It'll be someone senior, someone far enough up the food chain to know exactly why you're paid and what you're capable of. Someone who can also make the judgement that you're expendable. Your old team leader made some crack about it called the 'bat phone' but that just didn't seem funny.

The handset rings again. This is no offer of work, no-one makes this call unless the s*** has really hit the fan. The ice-water enduces calm begins to boil away...

[Tyrion]

Slowly, as if walking through water, Jarek made his way to the phone. An assignment. And a critical one if they were ringing him direct. A small part of Kell's mind screamed to be heard. A small part that yelled futilely that he shouldn't pick up the phone. His hand rested upon the cool hard plastic casing of the phone's reciever, feeling the vibration of the oncoming call. The ominous incoming call. Plucking up both resolve and the reciever he answered the call with a terse, [color=#6666CC;]"Yes."[/color] after all names held clues and mutual plausible deniability was often beneficial. Plus the less the machines, concentrated at both ends of the line, or intercept software got the better. His AI was good but he knew there were a damn sight more efficient packages out there...

[Synik]

The line pops and swirls as the encrypted packets swarm through the city's network. "We have a situation that requires your attention," the soulless male voice states. "Make your way to the slums of the City - the Stack to be precise - and find out who has obtained an experimental weapon. Our intelligence suggests a man called Winston Haller may be related but comm-taps are not reliable due to decker interference."

There's a pause. Perhaps the person at the other end is thinking.

"Images will be sent to your mobile and will decrypt on DNA contact. Do not eliminate the carrier unless you feel it necessary to continue your investigations. Also, do not contact the Company for assistance via any channel except the primary contact: Mr Aleph. This is an Eye's Only investigation. Report via this number - " the telephone's base station shows a ten digit number that floats in yellow holographics " - to Mr Aleph as mentioned previously."

The line goes dead. The handset rests in your hand. The contact number floats in holo over the base station. No good luck, no be seeing you. Instead, the unspoken do or die. Such is the lot of a corporate security executive.

As you gather your thoughts, your mobile emits a faint buzz as it receives a message. No doubt the photos Special Cirumstances spoke of.

[Tyrion]

Committing the number to memory Jarek flipped open the phone. Experimental weapon? Great. Way to narrow it down. That could be anything from a somna wave gun to a cobalt infused nuke. And guess which son of a bitch was gonna be in line to cop it first. What a way to make a living, sighed Kell wearily, as the phone verified his DNA and the message packet unspooled.
[color=#6666CC;]"Computer,"[/color] he called out to the AI, [color=#6666CC;]"Search for anything related to one Mister Winston Haller and send it to my phone. Standard encyption."[/color]
Better get myself ready. Kell went and got dressed, attaching and stowing his hardware as he went.

[Synik]

"Searching," comments the house AI as you busy yourself getting ready. After a time the voice says "Within the context of the previous conversation and the data specified, I have found and sent the information requested." You wonder if a simple 'search complete' would have been enough.

The mobie buzzes as the blurt hits it. On DNA confirmation, the data unfolds to show a classified Civ-Watch file on Mr Haller. There's a picture of a unshaven man repairing a data plug for a SHARC customer. The holo must have been taken at high speed or a great distance because some of the close-in detail, the SHARC's tattoo and Haller's t-shirt logo are slightly blurred. Haller appears in his early 40s, although what does that mean nowadays. His has coffee coloured skin and close cropped dark hair. He has a smart-monocle fixed into his right eye and the device looking like an upside down spider-crab is operating with tiny fingers on the customer's implant.

The file goes on to list Haller's possible involvement with a slam-hound hit on a BlackWatch weapons truck during the war - so maybe he is over 40 - and a series of neural implant hacks done for various names. Some of the names on the list are familiar to you. Hawks: that explains how he got his combat threads fixed so quickly. Edderson: her overlay processor was top of the line too.

Scrolling through the file you skim read it for known associates and places where you might find him. The Spider Clinic - wherever or whatever that is - pops up as does Joe's Bar (in the Stack; complete with location co-ordinates), P45 (Ruben Street strip joint), Centra Towers (housing near Necroville), Jo Nugent. (ex-customer, partner. Business or pleasure? The file doesn't say). Nugent's address has been pulled from a prostituion licence. A pretty young thing, but you spot the clinic bought cheekbones. Apt 16, Pink Sunshine , Stack 42. Wasn't Pink Sunshine a shipping company from back in the day?

Edited by Synik, 25 July 2008 - 07:35 PM.

[Tyrion]

Time to lock and load. Get this over and done with as quickly as possible. The girl seemed an interesting starting point in finding Haller. And may possibly up to speed on his latest ventures. Pillow talk. It never ceased to amaze Kell how much people let slip in post-coital bliss. Strange address though for a hooker. Down in the Fuzzbox port part of town. Distinctly downrent these days, but there may be more to this Nugent whore than met the eye. With a final check of his hardware and to make sure his clothing was securely in place over his scars, Jarek slipped out of his apartment and started to make his way to the city and slums beyond.

[Synik]

OOC

Please confirm what your character is taking with you. I assume he's in street gear (to blend in) so weaponry may be light.

A journey on the building's inclinator and a few monorail rides later, you find yourself caught a shift change from one of the food factories in Kelper. A harsh glance here and there keeps people out of your way and discourages the odd tout looking to draw someone in.

Keeping a brisk pace you make your way through an abandoned market and a boarded up shopping plaza. A couple of drift-boarders are using the fake marble floor to street-surf but they give you a wide birth. Maybe they smell 'security' on you. You wonder if you're losing your touch.

Some time later you emerge into warm air packed with the spicy scent of cooking. Away from the overhand of the Paragon Shopping Plaza, the riot of colours that is the heaped array of transport pods rises into the distant. The Stack, it almost touches the next floor up. Your eyes scan the mesh of ladders and walkways that criss-cross the Stack's housing district. No urban planning here. Just a group anarchy that every now and then seems to work. Large cranes hang overhead allowing housing pods to be moved as required. It makes maps almost useless. Your vision locks on to a luminous pink transport crate. In white letters you make out the logo for Pink Sunshine.

A gang of Breed - the human animal hybrids - cross the street with their kids in tow. The parents laugh as the children play together. One of them holds a ballon with the logo of Papa's Human Circus on it. A little girl with eyes like a wolf smiles at you, her Mum chivvies her along.

[Tyrion]

OOC

Phone, pistol, tasersword. And yes, dressed in street clothes with hoodie...

Kell smiled back at the kid, before baring his teeth then laughing. Breeds, you gotta love 'em. Or otherwise face the truth to just how f**ked up as a race humanity was now. Kell moved on shaking his head. Whatta mess we've made of ourselves. And some politico joker called this progress. Asshole.
Kell made it to the entrance of the crate. The colour painful to his eyes and even more of an afront to his standard of aesthetics. He scrolled down the names on the list of buzzers, before pressing them all on the floor below the whores. [color=#6666CC;]"Pizza! "[/color]he yelled into the camera putting his face right up against the camera to almost blot out it's field of view.

[Synik]

OOC

The tasersword may draw some attention but in the Stack, you'd be okay. Let's hope you don't draw Security attention

Various camera lights wink on as you mash the pad. Some don't answer, some have AI butlers, but someone - and does it really matter who - presses 'okay'. The security barrier pops its magnetic catches allowing you to go through the well beaten turnstyle. Off the main strip, the Stack isn't so bad. You only spot a couple of rats and at least in this end of town, the robo-cleaners are working. Industrial bleach versus DNA: you can't but smile.

You pass a couple of working girls heading out, their outfits advertising them as clearly as any billboard. You wonder how many have felt the surgeon's knife. Age and looks don't last long in the life. Making your way up one of the raised ramps towards Stack 42, you begin to thread your way towards your target's address. Holo-posters have been slapped against the wall showing chop-shop treatments, new drugs or club nights. Your mobile buzzes as a couple of blurts get through its firewall. They're not selling bodies, they're offering surgery. Have you hit a Trix community? You'll never hear the last of this from Dennedy if word gets back to the office. Mind you, it would explain the perfect bodies that the adverts are showing. You now wonder what Nugent's relationship is to Haller. Lover? Friend? Family? Sponsor? How to exploit the angle?

You carry on moving through the neatly stacked containers. The walkway has been grafted on to the outside from some failed building project. None of the walkways match: some are industrial, some are ornate, others strictly sink estate brutality. You take a right at a junction that signs Pink Sunshine and the ever rising covered walkway takes you directly over the street far below. The back of your neck itches as you feel the imaginary laser dot and you bite back the paranoia.

Back under the safety of the walkways you pass apartment 1. You keep walking. A child's trike bumps against a door wanting to be let back in. You step over it. Apartment 10. You're about half way down the stack of pink crates. Bang. Apartment 16. A bold blue door has been cut into the outer skin of the transport pod. There's a vertigo inducing crack between the pod and the walkway. You smile knowing that Dennedy would never have made it this far. The door is shut and there another 30 or so doors before the walkway hits a dead end. Only one way out - unless the back end has an exit. Both good and bad news for you.