The Spanish Suitcase (3rd ed)

The morning begins much like any other, the sun rise painting the city strange colours through the smog, the sounds of cars and bikes punctuated by occasional sirens and the ringing of your phone.

The beaming face of Scopes, an afro-orc fixer of your slight acquaintance appears on the screen, and launches into a typical avalanche verbage.

Yo chummer! Long time no see, I'd love to tell you what I've been doing the last few months but time as they say is money, anyway an old pal o' mine's back in town, I think you should meet him, be in the Skeleton over in Redmond tonight eight thirty, ask for Maurice he'll point you the right direction. Godda dash!

Before you have a chance to get a word in edgewise he's already gone.



OOC: This is a 3rd edition campaign set in 2064 in and around Seattle.

The original application tread: link

Dramatis Personae

The Runners, centre stage:
ScareCrow (Nathanius)
Lone Wolf (T_Hawk)
The Shadow (Mirikon)
Taur (wngd_phantom)
Burk (Jimb011)

Members of the Criminal Classes of Seattle:

Scopes - afro-orc fixer with a mercurial tongue
Maurice - Employee of that well known Redmond nightclub, the Skeleton
"Mr Johnson" - Asiatic employer and erstwhile owner of chemical substances

This early in the evening the area around the Skeleton is quiet. The sun has dipped below the horizon and the rain soaked street gleams under the sodium yellow glow of the remaining street lamps combined with the neon glare of store signs. Those few pedestrians out in the light rain hurry on with their heads down, collars and hoods pulled up.
An orc in black and white biker leathers and an incongruous red fez leans nonchalantly against the trunk of a street lamp outside the nightclub, one eye on the rank of bikes before him, the other on the passing traffic.

The two muscular bouncers give you a long hard stare before opening the door for you. A wash of warmth and noise hits you as you step through the portal into the foyer. The featureless gleaming chrome eyes of a smartly dressed troll look you up and down before he points to a large sign beside him proclaiming "No Weapons". With firearms and blades left in his custody and a ticket issued to allow you to reclaim them on the way out, you are finally ushered into the the source of the pounding music that has been throbbing in the background all this time.
The UV and TriD strobes wash across a dancefloor that is as of yet only half full of bodies moving in time to the heavy Indi-dream beat. Making your way to the bar you order a drink, and ask if the barman knows where you might find Maurice. Grinning, the barman hands you a card with your drink, and points towards a door the far side of the dancefloor marked VIP. Making your way through the swaying, sweating crowd you come to the VIP lounge. The card opens the maglock, and you, and three other card carriers step out of the pounding madness behind you into cool, quiet relief.
The room you find yourself in has a semicircular floor plan with soft chairs and tables around the curve, and a full bar making up the straight edge, with a door on each side (one of which you have just come through). The place is decorated in varnished mahogany panelling with brass highlights, and the ceiling is painted to resemble the night sky, with the twinkling 'stars' illuminating the room. Aside from the three who entered the room with you there is only one person in the room. Behind the bar is grey haired elf in butlers attire, with the name 'Maurice' picked out in white embroidery on the brest pocket of his pristine black jacket.

OOC: If you could start your first post with a brief description it would be helpful

Character Description

Scarecrow stands six feet 4 inches tall, has dirt-brown hair and bright green eyes. He is an elf, and comfortable around metas of all types (that he's met so far). He wears an Ulysses line greatcoat, knee length, white, with a high collar that comes up to just above his chin and usually wears the hood pulled up to hide his long, pointed ears. Under the greatcoat he wears a victory rapid transit heavy jumpsuit, black with cargo pockets and forearm guards. The combination of his height and his lanky build gave him the nickname of ScareCrow, and it has stuck since childhood.

Action

The low rumble of ScareCrow's idling Aurora racing bike drew the attention of the troll leaning on the light post, and as he cut the engine and stepped off he saw the biker troll eye the machine jealously. Looks like it's a bit out of his price range he thought to himself and smiled. Walking past the mountain of a metahuman, he patted the bouncer on the arm and said "Someday chummer, just keep saving." The troll only grinned a mouth full of tusks.

ScareCrow walked through the open the doors into the Skeleton and stood in the foyer for a moment as the obviously cybered, chrome-eyed troll looked him up and down. He pushed the hood back and unbuttoned the double-breasted front of the jacket to remove the Hatamoto II from it's holster at his lower back, then unstrapped the hidden armslide and dropped both into the bin offered by the coatcheck. Having taken the ticket from the troll, he stepped into the bar and grinned at the familiar throbbing dance beat. On most nights he would have joined the people on the dancefloor, but this night was about business.

He moved to the bar and called for a drink, nothing fancy, just a synth-hol from the tap, and asked about a Maurice. The bartender slid him a card with his drink and pointed at the rear door. VIP? Sounds fancy, I like this Maurice fellow already, ScareCrow took a sip of the bitter drink and pressed his way through the crowd. The door opened with the maglock key and he found himself in an almost empty room. The music faded to an almost inaudible level as the door shut behind him and he smiled at the bartender. Moving to the bar, he sat at one of the many open stools, set his synth-hol on a coaster and said "You must be the man I'm looking for. Scopes said you were back in town and needed somethin' taken care of. Where do I come in?" ScareCrow's bright green eyes looked the bartender up and down trying to judge where the man was from. Three others entered the room as well, but Scarecrow just stayed at the bar, drinking his synth-hol and waiting to hear what Maurice had to say.

Physical Description:
Taur stands at roughly 6'1", his Long white braided hair was braided down his back as the end of his braid traveled down his white leather business suit, oddly clothed considering his profesion nearly demanded that of black clothes and often heavy armor. His skin was very pale, the shadows in which he ran looking as if the paid a permenant toll on his body. The only hint of any weapons on his body would be if you could see inside of his ankle length coat, a pistol gripped handle could barely be seen with the best of eyes. His body would be ravaged by the infection that riddled his being to the soul, or lack of it. The discoloration being but a small and nearly insignifcant handicap, what truly caused people to fear the infected would lye elsewhere buried deep down to the metaphysical terrain of the soul.

The Game

The deep belting tones of his Harley-Davidson Scorpion would echo off of the high rise buildings in Redmond as a lone figure pulled in front of the nightclub Skelton. He would stop his engine as the figure dressd in all white rose from his ride, placing it on the kickstand as he looked towards the club, the stoic guards presenting an interesting prospect.

His white boots would click into the ground with each step as the area seemed to go silent stricty for his own personal use. "Tallulah, it's easier to live alone..."

--
Siren Song (fear)
TN 5
Guard 1 - 0 hits
Guard 2 - 0 hits

Effect: -3 to all tests
--

As he strolled closer to the door, only the figure would see threads appear from the words that came from his voice, each thread going into the ears of the two guards, and anyone else who dared to listen. The threads traveled through their bodies and into the soul of the person, instilling fear that chilled them down to their very core. One guard would run off in fear trying to get away from the man in ghostly white as fast as he could, the other guard standing stock still, fear keeping him from moving.
With a smile he would keep the threads winding around the men as he entered the club, handing his overcoat and gun to the inside guard as he recieved the ticket, wondering if the number meant anything '666'.

Traveling to the bar he enjoyed the music as he requested his favorite drink, his voice having a light and airy sing song style to it, very typical of europeans "i'll have a touch o' gin and tonic, and could ye tell me where i can find Maurice?" After receiving his drink and card, he would indeed go through the maglock door and into the private vip room. He would sit down, eyeing everything in the room.

Lone Wolf walks down the street in Redmond, dressed in an armored leather jacket, a white sleeveless shirt beneath it, loose black jeans with a multitude of zippers on on them, and thick-soled black combat boots. He has his hands pushed causally into his front pants pockets, his shoulders back and his eyes moving slowly from side to side as he walks up to the club. He inhales, smelling the sharp burning of exhaust fumes from the road, the stench of filth in the gutters (human and otherwise), and the stink of far too many people in far too little space.
He walks into the bar, passing by a guard who stank of fear. You didn't need to have a nose to notice this though, as the man's pants had a long, wet streak running down from his crotch. Inside he is stopped by a heavily chromed troll, who requires his weapons. Although very reluctant to part with them, Lone Wolf has been in the city long enough to know that not acquiescing to the man's demand would lead to a fight. And that would most likely lead to his losing this job. And with no money in his pocket, that would not do. Dumpster diving lost its appeal pretty fraggin' quickly. Especially since real food was so hard to find in this city. It was all that soy drek.
He reaches around his back, his hands going under the jacket and he pulls out his Cougar and Crusader, in his left and right hands, respectively. Wolf draws the knife back in a threatening pose, but then reverses the blade and hands it and the Crusader to the troll. For his part, the bouncer scowled at Wolf and clenched his fists before taking the weapon. He hesitates and then checks the weapon, thrusting the ticket into Wolf's hands with violence. As Wolf turns to leave, he hears the troll growl, "Watch your back, meat." Wolf looked over his shoulders and showed the troll his teeth. With that, he then walked away. "...He probably thinks I was smiling. Stupid slot."
Walking over to the bar, Wolf runs a hand over his shaven head, the bristles of his silver hair rough against his palms. He had no cash, so he simply ordered a glass of water. The drek tasted like it had come from a tap that was full of rust and grime. Grimacing at the taste he put the glass down and left the thing sitting on the counter, glaring at the bartender as he left. His silver eyes caught the light of the strobes and reflected it back at the man, much as a cat's would when caught in the light.
Walking back to the meeting room he spies the others. He wrinkles his nose and his hackles raise as he smells the pale one. He cannot suppress a low growl in his throat. This elf was an unnatural thing, and Wolf make sure that he stayed back away from the man as they enter the room. Wolf looks the room over as he enters, surprised by the opulence of the surroundings. He spies the bar across the room and his stomach growls. Desperate to wash the sludge out of his mouth, he crosses over and looks over the selection. He grins from ear to ear when he finds a tap with real Guinness in it. He pulls a draught and heads over to sit down, as far from the elf as he could manage. He sips his drink, waiting for the meeting to begin.

Description:
The man in front of you is about 5'10" tall. He looks like a well built man, but he's wearing a long, dusty lined coat, with a fedora pulled low down over his brow. He's human, that much is clear, but he's had work done. The glint of dermal sheathing can be seen just above the neck of his tight shirt. He's clearly geared up for a fight.



The Shadow knew how to make an entrance when he wanted to be seen. A jet black Eurocar Westwind Turbo rolled up outside the club, parking out in front. The door opens and out steps a man who looks like he stepped out of an old trid. Long lined coat, and hanging from his belt were two weapons decidedly out of place in the sprawl, a katana and a kusarigama. This was supposed to be a business call, so he left the sniper rifle in the car.

At the desk, he handed over the two weapons without hesitation, taking the card offered to him. Of course, if things came down to it, he wouldn't be defenseless. But they didn't need to know that, did they?

Moving to the bar, The Shadow ordered a whiskey, straight up, on the rocks. Taking a sip of his drink, he chuckled. It wasn't as watered down as he'd expected it to be. That was a good sign. Palming the magkey, he moved across the room, slipping silently between the dancers, until he got to the door. Producing the keycard again, he slides it through the lock, and moves through. His eyes fall on each of the people in the room, as though sizing them up.

Nodding politely to each of you in turn, Maurice presses a button on the bar, and a screen rises from the surface of the bar showing the face of an orc with a gleaming datajack visable on his temple.

I am glad the five of you could join me this evening, Maurice intones in lyrical tones reminiscent of the Caribbean. There is a gentleman of my acquaintance who has found himself in a most dreadful predicament, and he hoped the unique talents of your good selves may be brought to bear on the matter. Pausing for a moment, Maurice nods towards the far door as an asiatic gentleman in a pristine business suit enters. The black silk of his tie gleams against the raw silk of his shirt, the midnight indigo of the hand tailored suit jacket is interrupted only by a fragile black flower through his buttonhole. in one hand he carries a furled umbrella, still glistening with water droplets, in the other an expensive looking attaché case in tan leather.

Mr Johnson, Maurice intones, these are the gentlemen.

After stiffly executing a formal bow "Mr Johnson" makes his way to the bar. Placing the case on the varnished surface he turns and makes a sweeping gesture with the umbrella to encompass the five of you, and adresses you in the clipped tones of one who has learned English as a foreign language. All I tell you now is in the strictest confidence. You will of course be recompensed for your time even if you find you cannot aid me. The implied message remained unspoken, proof this Mr Johnson had at least some experience or common sense.

My business partner in Hong Kong has made an error, and a shipment of goods have been misrouted. A most unfortunate set of circumstances have lead to them falling into the hands of a dishonourable gentleman who seeks to rob me of them, and sell them to the highest bidder. He frowns before continuing.

As this gentleman knows myself and my associates, I am having to turn to outside aid to recover the goods, namely yourselves. This case, He taps the attaché case on the table, Contains two million nuyen in used UCAS bills. Of course most of it is fake, with a scant few thousand in real bills on the surface. I want you gentlemen to arrange to buy my lost goods, you may be able to beat him down to around one and a half million if other parties are not as keen as yourselves, and to pay him with this. A small amount of satisfaction on my part in defrauding the thief.

I am willing to pay each of you five thousand Nuyen now, and a further twenty thousand upon the safe return of my goods. In real money of course. He grins at his feeble quip. Used notes, or bank transfer via Zurich Orbital to the account of your choice. You will recieve five hundred even if you chose to leave now. What say you?

He looks to each of you with one eyebrow raised, questionly

"Twenty-five thousand, hmm? Sounds good to me. What size package are we talking about here? Something that can be easily carried, or will we need to obtain a vehicle to haul it away? And should the deal go south, are there any special restrictions on our actions, or is getting the package and getting it out safely the only concern?" In other words, if the fake money doesn't work, do they have permission to kill anyone who gets in their way? Every job was different, and had a different level of... subtlety required, so it was always good lookout to find out about such things beforehand.

Looking over to the others, he says, "Introduction time, I guess. You can call me the Shadow. Specialize in melee fighting, though I like to think I'm a good shot with a rifle, and I've some stealth training. Also have skill in 'persuading' information out of people."

Burk, having been informed that a conference for a run was being held, clears his schedule and listens in on the video phone link provided by Scopes.
After hearing the conversation Burk wonders if its a two-way link. Over the Video phone Burk says in a formal serious voice:

"Name's Burk I'm in"

While waiting for a response he begins to check some of the gear he has scattered around is apartment.

Bills to pay

Wolf sat back in his chair, watching the Johnson and Maurice over his glass. It sounded like an easy job... just show up and snag back the goods. He breathed in deeply, but could smell nothing but the reek of the collective cologne from the wealthy men in the room. It nearly made him gag. "Why do people feel the need to bathe themselves in the stuff? It usually stinks worse than they do!"

Putting his Guinness down for a moment, Wolf leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees, his gaze centered on the Johnson in a fixed stare that would make most uncomfortable. "I'm Lone Wolf. I guess you could call me a specialist. I can work up close, but I'm best at taking care of problems at a distance.'
"Now... the job sounds simple enough. In fact, it sounds like you could do it with just a face or two. Not that I'm not all for an easy paycheck, but I gotta ask: Why go to the trouble of getting as much muscle together as you have in this room?"

Taur would lean back in his seat as each person gave thier own brief life story, he wasn't ready to go that far with these people yet. Not until he could truly see what drove them to the shadows that served as his home. "I'd salute ya if i could Mr. Johnson for at least having the stones to come up with a mission like that. Truthfully, it wasn't the money that drove him, but the desire to see someone in pain.

Deciding to at least get them a taste of what he could really do, Taur decided it wouldn't be at least a bad idea to introduce himself. "My name is Taur Arielon, retired member of her royal majesty's Knights."

After the introductions were made, Taur would turn back to the Johnson, "Alright, before we do much else. What are the rules of engagement, are we allowed to kill, maim, and otherwise cause untold horror unto the enemy? Or is this mearly just a business deal? I would also like to know exactly what it is we are going to be retrieving for you, dimensions and other such details."

Very well, the goods in question are of a nature that prevent me from asking Lone Star to retrieve them. They take the form of a suitcase of highly concentrated complex psychotropic chemical powders.
He takes a deep breath before continuing.
Yes, you would seem excessive for a simple exchange. I expect them to try some form of double cross and quite frankly, I suspect they may be using this as a lure to attempt to get at my organisation. Hence my wanting skilled professionals such as yourselves involved. If they are foolish enough to offer violence or to try and pass off a fake, I will provide a quick test kit, they will deserve everything they get.

Oh that was perfect. Nice, easily transported package, a testing kit provided by the Johnson to make sure that they weren't getting swindled, and carte blanch to rain bloody terror down upon the fools if they tried to screw with them. How could he possibly say no to this? It was perhaps the perfect run.

"Very well. Who is the person we'll be dealing with, and where will the deal go down? Also, where and when do you want the goods delivered?"

Hmm. Might wanna see if any of these other guys is a hacker. Maybe the guy talkin' through the trid? We'll wanna do some background work on all these people, just in case.

When Mr. Johnson came into the VIP room, ScareCrow turned on his stool to watch and hear what he had to say. Looks easy enough he thought to himself, and the money is good.

"Sounds like you're expecting a bit of trouble. I can hold my own in a fight, but would prefer to get around people than through them," he told the group, taking another swig of his synth-hol. "So where and when are we making the exchange? I'm in."

A blessing from the johnson to do as they pleased, so long as they get the gear out. This was going to be glorious. Taur would pretend to drink from his glass, making sure not a drop ever touched his lips, he knew what would happen if it did. "A map o' the area would be pretty useful Mr. Johnson."

The sheer joy of getting to see what honor men and women of this age truly prized above all else, although from what he had seen, the world had simply fallen to the time old tradition of greed, which perfectly suited Taur. That just meant more sinners that needed forgiveness exacted upon them.

Wolf picked his Guinness back up and leaned back in his seat. "Drugs? Or perhaps a chemical weapon? I don't suppose it matters. Money's money, after all. Still, I don't much like that I'm gonna be helping out whatever he's doing." Wolf blew out a breath through his nose. "Well, I don't guess I've got much choice. This is the price of living free, after all; you gotta take what work comes your way. And I'm too green, and too hungry, to be picky."

"I'm wanting to know who we're going to be going up against, Mr. Johnson. You don't hunt prey by walking into the woods and hoping you see something tasty. YOu've gotta know what you're after, where it likes to go, and what you need to bring it home. I'm sure that you've already got that for us, right?"

Addressing the last question first, Mr Johnson turns towards the screen on the bar.

The underground are a little... old fashioned. They like their money maliable. And the gentlman you will be cutting a deal with resides there, he goes by many names, but in this matter he is known as Professor Dee.

It will be up to your good selves to arange the meeting. The initial footwork has been done, one of my associates posing as a a member of the Irish-Italian family has established contact to pave the way for a Mr O'Malley to talk about a purchace. You will find the information in the case.

He leans nonchelantly on his umbrella.

There is a number for you to ring when you have retrieved the goods, and instructions for how to deliver them. Are there any more questions or are you all willing?

Wolf watches the Johnson as the man assumes his nonchalant pose. He tilts his drink back, his throat working as he drains it to the dregs. With a pleased sigh he sets the empty glass down and says, "Yeah, I'm in."

A world by any other name, is what you make of it. "I'm in."

As each of the runners announces their intention to join his escapade, the Johnson bows formally in their direction, until he is left facing the last of them.

And what say you, Mr Scarecrow. Are you in?

ScareCrow set his drink back on the bar, and smiled at the man in the suit, "Of course I am"

Excellent!

The Johnson bows to Scarecrow, then grins broadly.

To the confusion of Professor Dee, and the successful conclusion of our enterprise. Your advances gentlemen. He produces a handful of credsticks and distributes them among you, holding Burk's up to the credpoint on the screen to transfer the balance to his terminal.

If you have no further questions I shall bid you a good evening, and hope to hear soon of your success. He stands poised to leave.