Something went wrong.

The ball-drone is almost not worth salvaging. The internal motor was damaged and caught fire burning all the other circuits to the point of uselessness. The shell is serviceable and would make a good casing if replacement parts could be found and the optics seem to be intact. The drone is inactive whoever was using it is gone now…

craining his head left, right, up, and down with a mysticle look in his eyes: 'Noyce' diggs tools out from the back of his van in the safe house, to beguien the 'make shift repair's and disection of the ball-drone, tossing random uneeded tool's and parts aside in the tangel-mess of cords and parts he calls a van, Noyce constanly mumbles to himself a lit ciggaret dangels losesly in the mumbleing lips as he works, a strange and evorpresant look of dileussion filling his eye's.. as the repairs continue-on: he absently listins to the other's discuss plan's but more or less views the others in the room with blank stairs as if he was watching telivision as oposed to interacting with other beings, ocasiounly filling the air with the stench of deep-weed smoke from the random 'splif'...

Back at the safehouse, Simon considered thoughtfully, but after a few seconds shrugged. If it's me - and that would seem likely since my name was mentioned, I really don't know.

I don't know why anyone would have an axe to grind with me - that is, more then any other 'runner. I'm sure there's more then a few corperations who would love to kill me, but that sort of goes with the territory doesn't it?

As to personal life... an ex? I can't think of any who were THAT crazy.

It could just be someone who's thoughts I puppeted. That sort of thing tends to be infuriating. I know it was the first
time my teacher did it to me.

On the way back to the safehouse, Mirikon made the call. No matter how friendly you are with a dragon, you should never call them lightly. But he needed information, and he needed it fast. And he didn't know anyone with better connections than Ellaneth.

<Begin Transmission>
To: Ellaneth
From: Iceblade
Subject: Run info

Hail, Lady Ellaneth! I come to you seeking knowledge regarding a group of brigands who stole an item of powerful magic from one of the Seattle corps just six hours ago. I, and those who accompany me, have been tasked in ensuring its safe and expedient return. I humbly beg your assistance in showing us the way. I have attached what little trid they have provided us, in hopes that it will aid in your efforts.

Yours, Iceblade
<End Transmission>

As he sent it, Mirikon laughed to himself. Sure, no one really talked like that any more, not even dragons, for the most part, but Ellaneth got a kick out of it when he did things like that for her.

Back at the safehouse, Mirikon looked Simon over. "Well, we'll have to be on our guard from here on in. Fortunately, Spirits can't affect the real world unless they manifest, so that means we won't have to bother with the whole business of keeping an eye on the astral the entire time. But the spirit likely saw that you weren't alone, which means the mage will either not bother us until you're alone, or they'll bring help. Either way, we got to be on high alert, because of you. This is why I don't bother with the mind control spells."

"Insufferable elven bastard!" Simon thought, supressing his immediate retort with an effort - he concentrated hard on keeping his face calm and level. "I'm sure you've never left a mess with that frakking blade of yours."

He considered Iceblade's criticism for a few moments an decided he'd just live with it - wouldn't even make a come back or try and argue. He'd be annoyed at being unsafe because of someone else's personal drek too.

Besides, he was totally correct about one thing - Simon needed some friends right now, or at least well armed and skilled runners who were likely to waste anything that came after him while he was in their vicinity.

With his regular allies dead or vanished, he was just going to have to eat his fair share of drek, no matter how distateful. At least until he had a chance to save their asses a few times.

He took another sip of his chemically pure water.

I was pondering that divination our friend performed. Didn't you see a Valkyrie taking up the wounded... isn't there an emergency medical provider that uses that name?

If you want to be less literal, there's also the Boeing airport in the vicinity. If our group's contacts are less then swift with useful information, we might try checking up on these possibilities.

Odin ignores the inner team sniping, not his buissiness that. But in response to the question, he shruged. "Not that familar with the diffrent versions of med-evac. But first and foremost, a valkryie is a choose of the slain, one who collects the souls of the dead. Which is why I believe that the vision is one of the target's death, rather then a tie to flight. I suspect we should be checking the shipyard, since both my divinations and the 'trix search indicated a connection there."

Iceblade nodded to Simon, and Odin. "The shipyards are a good place to hide out. But we'll never search them all without tipping off our quarry that someone's sweeping the docks. We need to know where in the yards to look, and who we're looking for. So we should try and track down any information we can on both options. We need to know who these people are, and what their tricks are. A layout of whatever building they're in would be great, too. Then we can plan how we're going to assault the building."

He looks to the assembled runners, and says, "When we go in, we go in hard, and fast. If it so much as twitches wrong, you take it out. No survivors, no potential messes down the road." Odin would know that while Iceblade didn't always start the fights, he always finished them. He was brutally efficient with his blades, and utterly ruthless. But if he made a deal with someone, to let them walk away, he always stuck to the letter of his deal.

"You prefer a knife in the back later?" Odin turns to sightlessly regard the other runner. How naive. "That was Odin's mistake with Loki, you know, and it will bring about the end of time. The only good foe is one safely banished to either the cold lands or valhalla.

Iceblade chuckled at that. "Its a simple equation. When it comes down to me or them, I choose me. Mercy is a luxury of those who know they have all the cards. I know I don't have all the cards, and so until those few situations where I do come around, I go with what I do best."

"I've seen things you wouldn't believe, lived through horror trids unfolding around me. When in doubt, kill them all. This is a dangerous life we're living. The reason I'm still around is simple. I keep my killing strictly business, I always honor a deal I make, and I don't go mucking around in people's heads, and let them live, afterwards."

"People will accept getting shot at or stabbed in the course of business. Its a fact of life around here. Same people who will shrug it off if you stabbed them in the belly will come after you with a vengeance if you start mind controlling them. If you make a deal, and follow through, then people are more willing to deal with you. And if you aren't a raging psychopath, killing everything in sight when it isn't your job, then people are going to toss more work your way."

"But when you're in a fight, don't hold back, ever."

Silvers commlink beeps as an incoming call arrives, your beat cop contact from Lonestar, Joe.

“Hey kid,” he munches on something off camera and returns with some white powder on his mouth, swallowing visibly “I got some data on yer buddies here… But it aint cheap I had to lean pretty hard on some parolees.” He waits until his cred account increases before beginning again “Seems you got some awful busy little friends there. Those pics didn’t turn up much ‘til I showed em to some ‘formally bad’ chummers. Nothin’ on police records but the human here” he holds up the pic of the human runner you sent him “He was in and out on a B&E against some small holdings corp, he is very well known amongst the previously criminal minded parolees. Seems to me like you got a nasty fight on yer hands if ya go buttin heads with these runners. The intel I got puts them in a safehouse down by the Federated-Boeing Shipyards over on the west side o’ town, some warehouse right on the seaside, aint too many right on the water that aint owned by some big fancy import corp, and uhh cred is runnin low at the moment chum, any extra you got for dis intel would go a long way towards not havin’ lonestar show up right away if shooting starts down there…”

Iceblade’s commlink buzzes like an angry hornet. The screen comes alive with a small non-descript woman. (you recognize her as the meatbag that speaks for Ellaneth over the electrons) She clears her throat. “Little one. Contact Edward Finnley at this LTG number.” The woman on screen holds up a handwritten card with a number on it, waits for you to copy it down, then destroys the card with fire. “The number is for one use only and Finnley will only speak with you for ten minutes. He has answers to your questions about those runners.” The telecom line goes black as the call ends.

Rock on Joe your one of a kind. Sounds like your looking for the usual rate, think I can handle that. Oh and Joe, don't spend it all on doughnuts OK.

Mirikon grinned to himself as he listened to what Ellaneth's mouthpiece has to say. He knew she'd come through for him. Of course, he'd likely have to pay her back somehow, but that would come after finishing this job.

He went to an isolated part of the safehouse, and called the number he'd been given. Time to see what Mr. Finnley could tell him.