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Topic: Cerebral Paradox - Mature Content
Subject: Daylight?
The Metalstrom – Upper East Side – Night City – March, Friday 13th, 2020, 3:25am
Firewind had no doubt that the waitress was talking to Peacekeeper, but when the bounty hunter dropped her hand beneath the table he felt obligated to save the girl’s life.
“Two beers,” he said quickly, leaning forward to impose himself on her view. When the waitress had left, he removed his helmet and ran a hand through his hair, peering about at the loud maelstrom of activity with more than a little interest.
At the bar, Croaker and Bull’s Eye were treated to beers as well, though their stomachs growled in protest when they discovered that the bar offered nothing in the way of food. They waited for some time before Croaker finally caught sight of Scarface pushing through the crowd followed by Hightower.
“All right, Choombattas,” Scarface said as he drew close, addressing the two of them. “It’s been decided that we’ll help you get rid of the vehicle as a favor to Bull’s Eye, and we’ll set you up in a safehouse for one day due to the information you’ve provided us. The Council is appreciative. Where are these other two you’re wanting to bring along?”
(OOC: assuming Firewind and Peacekeeper are pointed out…)
Scarface nodded and then turned to the stairs. “Follow me, an’ bring your friends.”
The group found themselves following the ganger up the stairs to the second floor. Heavy metal head banging was the name of the game with piercing laser lights, glowing light tattoos, and screaming recorded music adding to the ambiance. Scarface led them back through the crowd to a steel door that was banged up and scratched to no end. Pulling a key from his pocket, the ganger opened the door and led the others through. Once inside, they were met by a set of five steps, up these and they found themselves in a sparsely furnished flat with very little insulation from the sound.
“This is it, Choomba,” Scarface turned and held his hands out. “Home, sweet home, for the next twenty-four hours that is. If you leave, lock up. You can usually find one of the Brawlers in the club, but it closes down around six and don’t open again until three, so if you decide to leave before it opens then leave the key at the bar downstairs, under the register. Sweet dreams, Hombre.”
That said, the two gangers left the four of them to themselves.
The Metalstrom – Upper East Side – Night City – March, Friday 13th, 2020, 5:40am
Crisis Medical Center – Medical Center – Night City – March, Friday 13th, 2020, 4:00am
Preacher raised his eyebrows and then quickly lowered them at the pain he felt despite the care he’d just endured. He allowed his hat to tip just slightly to cover his eyes as remembered pain filled them—the pain of loss, the pain of death’s cold grip on his throat. Taking a deep breath he collected himself once more and slowly shook his head.
“I don’t run no more, Spiff. What I did back there was pretty basic, pretty dirty. I’m a street samurai now, an’ that’s it.”
The look in his eye was cold, hollow, and it seemed as if his complexion had paled a bit, though that could have just been the injury and the light.
“Thanks, but I don’t think I can be of any help to you. Now, there’s the matter of the money I owe you…I’ll hang out, play your bodyguard for the next twenty-four hours. That should bring us even. Unless you want the cash, that is. If that’s the case, I’ll have to owe you straight up. I’m good for it though, and so long as you survive this deal with the megacorp, you’ll find what I owe you in hand soon enough. So, what’ll it be?”
‘
DigitalScribe glanced at Guardian to see if he could read the big man’s face in relation to the interaction that had just taken place, but the bodyguard was busy scanning their surroundings and keeping him safe to reveal what he thought. So far, Scribe had liked Preacher. The man had seemed straight forward enough, if somewhat rough around the edges, but now that the cowboy had turned Spiff down, after having admitted to netrunning previously—well, there was a story there, and being a media, that piqued Frankie’s interest.
“Take him up on the bodyguard bit, Spiff. Lord knows we could use another gun, and so long as he already owes you…” Scribe caught site of a Red Cab van turning into the pale glow of the awning and shifted his weight to the other foot.
(OOC: will backpost the response to Preacher and Scribe.)
“You scuffed the casing’s all, Spiff.” Scribe looked down at his bag where his precious camera was stowed. “Everything still works fine. Look, the cab’s on me. It’ll drop you boys wherever you want to go, but I, for one, am going to a motel where I’m going to try and catch a few hours of sleep before starting on the second leg of this adventure.
“Guardian, I’ll maintain your contract.”
The red cab drew to the curb and with a push of a button, the cabbie had opened the side doors revealing a gray interior with stained carpet and a plastic-coated plaque that detailed the fees as well as the cabbie’s name. This cabbie was an African-American, small and wiry with huge hair and a dull expression on his face.
“Motel eight,” Scribe said as he ducked and entered the interior. “On Harbor.”
(OOC: I’m assuming they won’t want to separate at this point in time. If I’m incorrect, I’ll post a fix.)
The cab pulled away from the curb and headed towards the Bay Bridge. Everyone within remained quiet, lost in their own thoughts, tired, hungry, and more than a little worn down. Scribe retrieved his camera from the bag and began to review the playback, occasionally raising his eyebrows, but otherwise remaining quiet. Preacher continued to look around, watching the streets they passed and remaining alert, his hat tipped back on his bandaged head. Eventually, the vehicle pulled into a round-about beneath the glowing yellow sign that read, “MOTEL 8” in bright, neon lettering followed by the flashing “Vacancy”. Scribe paid the man using a credchip before following Guardian out into the rain once more.
Stepping into the small lobby, the group was hit by the faint smell of mildew. The lobby was painted a sick green color and sported plaid furniture, a small, scarred coffee table strewn with old magazines, screamsheets, and newspapers. There was a half-empty water cooler in the corner, and a small, color television hung in the corner where the clerk could see it playing channel 7, NHTV, the Japanese channel. At that moment, there was a commercial for foam furniture playing.
Scribe handled the arrangements with the Asian attendant, receiving two keycards in return for another swipe of his credchip before leading the group back down a hall to the elevator. They arrived on the second floor without delay and soon found themselves separating into two adjoining rooms that also smelled of mildew, sported a television in each room, and two queen size beds in each room. There was also a bathroom with a small shower, toilet, and sink.
DigitalScribe went straight to the closest bed, leaving the one next to the window for Guardian. Dropping his duffle at the foot of the bed, the media stripped off his jacket, set his handgun next to the bed on the nightstand, set the alarm on the clock for nine in the morning, and dropped off to sleep.
The following morning, Scribe was up before the alarm went off talking on his cell.
“Isaac Winefield, please.” Frankie ran his hand through his ruffled techhair, immediately straightening it and causing it to fall into programmed place. The media was wearing the same blue jeans he’d been wearing the night before, but had stripped off his Morplex shirt, removed his Ruf Tread boots, and was now pacing about the room wearing an open button up black shirt with a small American flag over the right breast pocket, and padding around in his grey wool socks. After a time, he made his way to the bed and sat down once more, taking the remote and switching to channel thirteen for the latest news. Though the sound was turned way low, Scribe could hear the discussion between an investigative reporter and a political analyst concerning an ongoing investigation into the origin of new designer drugs that had hit the market. Below the setting of the two men chatting around a glossy, brown table, a scrolling marquee gave the weather report: it looked as though the storm would be continuing.
“Isaac?” Scribe perked up. “Hey, it’s DigitalScribe. How are you? Good? Not too bad. Actually, that’s why I’m calling. I’ve got this wicked lead, but I need assurance that it’ll go public and I’ll get paid—I can’t do that, Isaac. No. If I do, there’s a chance that it’ll get out and the whole thing will be blown to hell. I’m not—Isaac, calm down, man. Look, I haven’t asked for anything before, now have I? OK, well, all I’m asking is that you’ll guarantee two things. First, that when I bring you this, you’ll take the time to review it and that should WNS decide to buy, I’ll get compensated…and recognized. Second, is that you’ll put a leader out there. Hold on—yeah, I know I said I couldn’t tell—Isaac, the leader just needs to be a brief statement; something eluding to a major corporation’s involvement in a dangerous drug being released on the street.
“Yeah, I know what I’m doing. No, I don’t think this has to do with that designer drug deal the government is investigating. Yes, I realize that you’d be risking a lot, but I guarantee you: this story is hot, and you’ll be the one breaking it to the public once I’ve got the piece.” Scribe sighed. “Need I remind you about L.A.? I didn’t want to have to go there either, Isaac, but you forced my hand. Yes. You do those two things and we’ll be even. Straight up even, Isaac. You’re in? Fantastic!
“Look, I’ll be in touch. There’s some more footwork I’ve got to do, and there’s a limited window of opportunity here. I’ll look for your lead. Thanks, Isaac.”
Scribe hung up the phone and looked over at Guardian. “OK, the seed’s been planted. That ought to give this corpse who’s haunting us a little to think about. Now, we need to contact Croaker and see how things are adding up on that end. Hopefully Jack’s gotten back to him with a lead, or I’ve just played a hand I can’t collect on.”
Motel 8 – Upper Marina – Night City – March, Friday 13th, 2020, 9:05am
Sam’s Place – Night City – March, Friday 13th, 2020, 10:33am
MDK had been waiting a few minutes when the door opened revealing two men in designer trench coats, three piece suits, and very expensive sunglasses. The first was tall, athletic-looking, with sweeping blonde hair that he wore a little long over the ears and collar. His face was angular, Anglo, and bore a little scar near his chin. He wore black leather gloves along with his business attire, and carried himself very confidently. The other was slightly shorter, bald, wore a deep black van dyke, and had bare hands. MDK could see the end, or beginning, of a tattoo on the back of his left hand that ran up into his sleeve. Both men scanned the room before quietly conversing. Then they turned and made their way to his table, slowly, with their hands in plain sight so as not to cause undue stress. Once at the table, the blonde man spoke.
“You’re who is called, MDK, are you not?” He didn’t wait for affirmation, but motioned at the seat across from the solo. “Mind if I join you?”
His bodyguard—for that’s easily who this other fellow was—remained standing slightly to the side, ready to act should the meeting require it. Outside, the storm still raged.
Sam’s Place – Night City – March, Friday 13th, 2020, 10:33am
Posted on 2008-01-27 at 23:02:42.
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Topic: Continuing Where We Last Left Off
Subject: What did you miss?
Dapple's question didn't draw the ranger's gaze, though he was somewhat surprised by it. Instead, he kept searching their surroundings with all of his senses, trying to locate the position of their invisible attackers.
"Arien's gone," he muttered. "Tru da wall, an' we go' invisible wizar's somewhere in 'ere."
With Da' Moon awake, Char moved slightly to her right in order to allow her room to do her dance should she need to. The whole while he continued his search, every muscle ready to respond to the threat that he knew still existed while looking for a way they might all get to the other side of that wall and find out what happened to Arien.
Posted on 2008-01-27 at 21:51:37.
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Topic: A Cold Day in Hell
Subject: Odd...
Monty racked his brains for the location of the main laboratory within his mental map. There was too much distance between their current location and the lab for his tastes to split into fire teams again, and besides that, there were some things that weren't adding up in the soldier's story. The other problem that presented itself was that the Looey was pretty sure if he questioned these boys' sanity out loud they'd like as think him playing at games and shoot him as not, and though he'd appeared fairly cavalier about strolling into the observatory unarmed and as helpless as a baby on birthing day, he was well aware of his own mortality--if he hadn't been before. All that blood in the hall had sealed the deal. True, he'd been party to some real nasty hot spots in the past. Seen dismembered people--friend and foe--as well as living through the thick of it, so it wasn't a debilitating recognition of one's own short existence, but more of a don't be a hero, Monty sort of thing. Psychology was not his cup of tea.
"Yeah, OK," Monty began, his tone accepting and as calm as he could manage. "My team and I will check it out. But look here, Corporal. There's got to be a level of trust between us if we're gonna get out of here in one piece. You agree? I mean, you boys look like you're about ready to fall over from fatigue, and I've still got to get a fix on that machine you're speakin' of--we might as well help each other out. The more we do that, the less time all of us got to spend here.
"What do you say? Huh? We've got some special Army issue coffee. And some MRE's. How long has it been since you've eaten proper--not that this prepack is proper, but it's a helluvah start."
Monty was seriously wanting a medical evaluation on these two as well as the ability to get as much information out of them as he could without staring down the barrel of a weapon. Usually the person holding the weapon was asking the questions, and the last thing the lieutenant wanted was for role-reversal to happen yet again. He needed his team in here, and they needed to get to the bottom of this quick. The whole operation was beginning to give him the creeps.
Was it possible that these two had been locked away in here out of fear, lost track of time, had no way to track the passage of the days, and mistook how long its been since the infamous machine went off? Was it possible they'd become so addled that they'd combined the names and ranks of two different people? Monty could recall a Twilight Zone he'd seen once where a squad had been experiencing the strangest deviations to the reality they'd known: people who had been important in their lives suddenly didn't know them, there was a different president at the White House, the war they'd been fighting in had never happened. Most of them are killed off leaving one man standing, forlorn, broken, sobbing and crying out that he couldn't take it anymore. Everything he had cared about had been false, and he couldn't live in the new reality. As it turned out, it had been the government putting this squad through that hell to test a know psychotropic chemical weapon.
A chill suddenly swept Monty's spine as he waited on the soldier's response. The same feeling one get's after psyching themselves out walking home in the dark after a slasher film.
Monty really hoped this wasn't an episode of the Twilight Zone.
Posted on 2008-01-26 at 07:36:14.
Edited on 2008-01-26 at 07:40:35 by Bromern Sal
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Topic: A Cold Day in Hell Q&A
Subject: By Jove!
Well, lookee there. You know, as I was posting I thought something was whack, but seeing how I was posting from my phone I didn't bother to double check.
I don't care what you say about him when he's gone, Tann. Olan's a right fine guy, and a decent DM as well.
Posted on 2008-01-26 at 01:26:13.
Edited on 2008-01-26 at 01:27:03 by Bromern Sal
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Topic: A Cold Day in Hell
Subject: Hooray, Monty is still alive!
The Lieutenant knew that these two were addled as the continued with their belief that the Rangers had been disbanded, but he also knew that if he changed his story to try and make them feel better, he'd lose credibility, and trust (what little he had gained). So, he decided to gloss over the subject for now.
"Son, I don't lie. We're here to evacuate personnel, but also try and figure out what the he'll happened. A few days back communications with this station ceased. That about when this machine went heywire? And where might this machine be located--oh, not to pester you, but what exactly happened?"
Posted on 2008-01-25 at 02:53:47.
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Topic: Star Trek: Operation:Persephone - Q&A
Subject: Ok
Real Life occassionaly grabs some by the unmentionables and twists. No way around it. However, there's still plenty of posting opportunity folk's, so keep the ball rolling please.
Posted on 2008-01-25 at 01:01:14.
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Topic: Star Trek: Operation Persephone
Subject: Farrow
Stardate: 2374.09.01
Deep Space Nine - Quark's - 14:32
Captain Kelsey Gavison was thought to be a loose cannon. It was considered a casualty of war--unfortunate, but unforeseable. A near exemplary record had taken him to a posting of his choice; a terrible loss had earned him the right to be left alone. That specter of death that hovered over his shoulder frightened all but those closest to him, or those forced to work with him, away nearly as much as his scarred face caused children to stare in horror, but Kel had turned this handicap to his advantage as any tactician worth their weight in trillium would.
Immediately following his family's deaths at the hands of the Jem'Hadar, Kelsey had dug as fad into Federation intelligence files as his clearance would allow in search of information that could put him in contact with the enemy--anything that would allow him to satiate his vengeance for the short time that walking through the Jem'Hadar, or Cardassian, ships strewn with their bodies allowed. He'd quickly found that his limited access led to a drought of information, and frustrated by this turn of events, had resorted to dealing with the less than reputable for more information. His appearance and demeanor had set security staff on edge, his rank had held them at bay, and his gnarly attitude had fended off even the persistent questioning Otto insisted on inflicting him with. All of this so that he could sit in Quark's, draped in shadow on one of the balconies overlooking the tables, and hold private conversation with another shadowy figure sitting in the booth behind him.
"Well, Gavison?" the shadow hissed withmore than a little disdain. "You called me here, and I've arrived. Now state your business so I can be on about mine."
Kelsey turned the amber colored cup in his hand and shifted in his seat to further bring his face into the shadows. Station security could read lips. "ever seen one of these, Farrow?"
The Star Fleet captain dropped his hand to his side and offered the crystal he'd received that morning behind him. A moment later he felt the scaly fingers of the shadowy man accept the item, removing if from his grasp.
"Where'd you get this?" Farrow breathed.
"I take it you've seen it before." Kelsey's voice was dry as he reached back for the crystal.
"No. I haven't seen one before, but I've heard of them."
"If you hven't seen one, how do you know what it is?" The captain couln't remember any identifying marks on the crystal.
"I can sense it," Farrow hissed with some urgency as he placed it back in Kel's hand. "Where did you get it?"
"Tell me about it."
"I am not the one to do so, Gavison. You must check in holier places."
Holier places? What in the System does he mean by that? Kelsey pondered the words a bit while pausing to take a drink of his whiskey.
"What place?" he asked.
Receiving no answer, he turned slightly in his seat. Farrow was gone.
Posted on 2008-01-24 at 06:07:24.
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Topic: Cerebral Paradox - Cyberpunk 2020
Subject: No laughing.
Old Goat, Old Bull, Old One...titles given to the head of a tribe, which Croaker currently represents. That's all that statement referred to.
Posted on 2008-01-24 at 02:08:49.
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Topic: Cerebral Paradox - Cyberpunk 2020
Subject: Shiny
Sounds like a pain on the butt, Drakar. Intro Lightning, and reply to MDK's communication. You're still in.
Sui, go ahead and have your friend let me know what he wants to play. We'll work if out. Now's the time as reinforcements are being sought.
Posted on 2008-01-21 at 07:02:57.
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Topic: Cerebral Paradox - Cyberpunk 2020
Subject: Tomatoes tomatoes
Dockside, East Marina, basically the same thing.
You may proceed without incident to your brunch date MDK. Drakar told me he would be posting shortly, but that was a couple of days ago.
Posted on 2008-01-20 at 07:36:28.
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Topic: Cerebral Paradox - Mature Content
Subject: Night
The Metalstrom – Upper East Side – Night City – March, Friday 13th, 2020, 3:20am
The weight Firewind felt was caused by weariness. Adrenaline has the same influence upon your body as drugs: giving you that rush only to leave you tired and numb. That’s how the medtech felt at the moment: tired and numb. He had to force himself to listen attentively to the nomad’s instructions, confident in his ability with a handgun, Keahi was less than confident in his ability with the shotgun. As a matter-of-fact, he’d steered clear of kickers like that because the recoil always startled him. He was more of a precision specialist, just like when he performed surgery. All that aside, he accepted the weapon and stood to see how he could best conceal it in his wardrobe—he didn’t favor the idea of having to tote another bag around. He didn’t wear a trench coat like so many other edgerunners (it seemed to be a badge of the trade), and was having no luck securing the weapon within his jumpsuit as Croaker and Bull’s Eye exited the vehicle.
“I’m not going to be any use with this,” he sighed with a tone that carried a little more edginess than he might have wished. Looking up at Peacekeeper he shook his head. “I’ll just as likely hit Croaker, or Bull’s Eye, if trouble happens. Here, you take it.”
That said, he shoved the shotgun into her hands and let go, forcing her to grip it. He didn’t look at her again as he bent to unzip his reactimesh bag, and began to retrieve various plates of armor, a helmet, and more armor. After he’d removed all of it from the bag, the medtech zipped it once more, and moved it aside. He was more than adept at strapping the medical armor to his person in a timely manner, and was half way finished before he caught Peacekeeper’s quizzical eye.
“If that place is half as dangerous as Bull’s Eye eluded, I’ll be damned if I’m going in with just the armor plates in my jumpsuit between me and whatever’s flying around. You’ll thank me later, and though I might draw some attention, at the very least I’ll be protected.”
(OOC: I will backpost a response if necessary to anything Peacekeeper might have to say about this).
Meanwhile, Bull’s Eye and Croaker walked side-by-side across the street, presenting the image of toughs unbothered by the storm despite the stinging rain and howling wind. They were opposites in height and weight, but practically matched in outfits, their trench coats billowing about their legs and whipping water into the wind. Despite their appearance, Colton had his doubts. He hadn’t called upon the Back Alley Brawlers since prison, and wasn’t altogether sure he’d run into anyone he knew. Street gangs were more prone to mistake you for a undercover than a friend, and the Brawlers—despite their guardian status—were still a street gang. He kept his reservations to himself however; Croaker had enough on his mind.
The Metalstrom’s doors weren’t guarded by bouncers; the club wasn’t exclusive enough to require that. Besides, the nature of the customers was enough to keep most of the elite crowd away. As they approached, the cacophony of raging chords and thundering drum insinuated itself upon the weather and eventually swallowed it whole. The wind, the rain, they were only felt, not heard. The cold, hard steel of the door handle—wet and slick—fit nicely in Colton’s hand as he pulled it open causing a wave of heat smelling of sweat, alcohol, and something a little more pungent to roll over them.
Before the pair there was an open floor, a convulsion of humanity, rolling and jumping, pushing and thrashing out. It was thick, pressing, and confining from a few meters in front of the door to the stage upon which a five member band was screaming their hatred into the room. The lyrics were familiar, unoriginal, and screamed without talent, but they fueled the chromer’s fire, tossed gasoline on the ganger’s drug-frenzied inferno, and could in a moment turn a mosh pit into a death pit. To the nomad’s left there was a small clearing near tables where it appeared a fight had just taken place. Three chromers—all with long, greasy hair, sleeveless shirt, and various, visible cyberware were picking themselves up from the floor, bloody and laughing. Chairs and tables were shattered, pieces lying about the floor and being pushed to the side by other patrons returning to their business.
Breathing in the filth, Colton squinted into the forest, seeking the telltale beret that would indicate a member of the gang he was looking for. After just seconds of the two standing at the door, drawing a few stares, but nothing lingering, Bull’s Eye smacked Croaker’s arm with the back of his hand and pointed through the crowd towards the bar. There, Richard could see a number of patrons ranging from scantily clad gangers to heavy set, chromed-up warriors. Still, there was a birth given to the two men that Bull’s Eye was pointing at.
One was easily almost seven feet in height, broad enough in the shoulders to be a heavy weight boxer, and devoid of hair. He was of African decent, wore black leathers with a red tank top underneath a black leather vest. His right arm was chrome and sparkled with the reflected lights of the overhead display, and his eyes were a fiery red. His bottom lip was pierced three times, his ears gauged and pierced as well. There were black lines about his visible skin: indications of tattoos, and he wore gold chains as though the weight of them were necessary to keep his feet firmly planted on the ground. Atop his head was a black beret, and he leaned against the bar as though he owned the place, looking out at the masses with a critical eye and an expression filled with hate.
The other had his back turned to the nomads, though he was a full head and shoulders shorter than his friend, and of Hispanic decent. His hair was long and loose beneath his beret, and he wore a black leather jacket studded with small, chrome plated spikes, chains, and mesh patterns.
Bull’s Eye started forward—best not to delay the inevitable—conscious of Croaker’s presence to his right and the weight of his handguns where they remained about his body. There was a little pushing necessary, and by the time they’d gone half-way through the crowd, they’d jostled, been jostled, pushed, elbowed, and Croaker had even received a slightly stinging shot to the kidney, all in the name of fun. It was apparent to Bull’s Eye and Croaker both that the large black man had spotted their approach when he shoved the shoulder of his compatriot and gave a nod in their direction.
The Hispanic man turned and looked into the crowd with a scowl, his left eye was milky white, a jagged scar running down his face and turning the corner of his mouth down. Taking some mirrorshades from his front breast pocket, the ganger slipped them over his eyes, leaned back against the bar, and allowed his jacket to fall open revealing the butt of an Automag with a flashing red light on the back end where the smartlink is installed.
“I’m lookin’ for Crusader,” Bull’s Eye barks as they draw near, holding his hands up so that they can see he isn’t threatening.
“What fer?” the Hispanic snarls. The conversation was drawing some attention from those nearby.
“I’m a friend of his. Knew him Inside. Name’s Bull’s Eye.”
“So.”
“So, he said to look him up when I got out. I’m out, and I’m lookin’ him up. You gonna tell me where he is, or am I gonna have t’ tell him that you and Black Mamba here were less than friendly to a friend of the Brawlers?” It was a gamble, but Colton didn’t like the attention they were getting and time was running out.
“Crusader’s dead, Choomba,” the black fellow growled. “An’ he never mentioned you.”
Bull’s Eye frowned. That was bad news. He’d liked Crusader, despite the man’s disillusioned views on public service. “He’ll be missed. What about Cleansweep? Chevy? Toronto Jim? Melbourne? Jury Duty? Pigeon—?”
“All right, Choombatta,” the Hispanic pushed away from the bar. “So you know some of my brothers; what of it?”
Colton stepped forward too, holding up a hand to keep Croaker back. Untucking his t-shirt, Bull’s Eye lifted it up to reveal his tattooed torso. The Hispanic and black fellow both studied the skinart with narrowed eyes before the Hispanic gave a nod and flashed a couple of hand signals. Colton replied with similar signals, dropping his shirt back around his waist.
“Name’s Scarface,” the Hispanic said, pointing at his ugly scar as though he were using a barrel of a handgun with his two fingers. “This here is Hightower, but he ain’t no funny man, comprenda?”
“Si,” Colton said. “This here’s Croaker. He’s a brother of mine from the Family. Look, Scarface, I ain’t gonna beat around the bush no more. We’re in a fix and could use some help.”
“What kinda help?” Scarface wasn’t letting loose of his suspicions just yet.
“My brother can explain it a bit better.” Bull’s Eye motioned Croaker forward.
Meanwhile, time had passed for the two in the van while cars sped by splashing the flooding in the streets up onto the parked vehicles and curbsides without reservation. Firewind had been rather uncomfortable with the silence, and as he finished with the straps that completed his armor he tried to strike up conversation.
“You don’t seem the type to be reliant on anyone, Peacekeeper.” Looking up towards the ceiling so he could strap his helmet on, Firewind continued. “I’m not meaning this rudely, but what keeps you and Croaker together? You’re like polar opposites…”
(OOC: reply, if any.)
Keahi accepted the answer with a brief raising of his eyebrows and a nod of his head, feeling the familiar weight of his helmet roll a bit on his scalp. “Well, it’s almost time, isn’t it?”
Lifting the back of the van, Firewind dropped off the bumper to the watery street below. He felt the water soak up into his Ruf Treads almost immediately and soured his tattooed face at the sensation. Slinging his bag across his shoulder, the medtech began to jog across the street just as a group of three chromers burst from the club door, laughing and pushing each other. They were obviously drunk, and immediately turned to the left, staggering off down the street. Firewind didn’t pause, eager to get out of the rain, and achieved the door, noise, and heat in no time with Peacekeeper right alongside him. Stepping inside, he received the reaction he was expecting.
Those who were seated at tables enjoying their drinks to the left of the door paused to stare, some laughing and pointing, others raising questioning brows and making unheard comments to their companions. Keahi didn’t care. To them, he’d appear to be a Trauma Team Tech, one of those who arrived in an AV-4 at the scene of battle where some lucky sod had broken his Trauma Team Card to collect on the five hundred a month expense in order to have the cavalry arrive and save their skin. Keahi was hoping they’d think he’d just gotten off work, or that his crew was taking a break. When no one really made a move to interfere, he felt the tension in his shoulders lessen a bit.
Following Peacekeeper to a table she selected, he scanned the loud room, his eyes aching at the flashing lights and laser show, until he located Bull’s Eye and Croaker. Then, he passed his gaze right over them and continued to look about the room as he sat himself down, setting his bag on the floor under his feet. They only had to wait a couple of seconds before a girl wearing a hot pink micro-mini and a white halter top approached carrying a tray tucked under one arm. Her green hair was wild and looked like it had been cut by a three year old. She had tattoo sleeves and more tattoos around her visible belly button as well as a pierced navel. Her nose was pierced as well as her ears with a chain running between the two.
“What’s your poison?” She drawled, eyeballing Peacekeeper with an appraising look. “And what’s your sign, sugar?”
The Metalstrom – Upper East Side – Night City – March, Friday 13th, 2020, 3:25am
Crisis Medical Center – Medical Center – Night City – March, Friday 13th, 2020, 3:45am
Preacher nodded to Spiff by way of thanks. His head still throbbed, but he felt better. The nurse gave them all a once over gaze before turning and walking from the room, calling out. “Settle that before you leave, boys, or you’ll not be receiving our attentions ever again.”
“You heard the lady,” Scribe yawned. “Let’s get out of here. I’m game for a hotel and some rest.”
That said, the group made their exit, walking through the brightly lit halls, feeling out of place amongst all of the clean, until they reached the nurse’s station. At that point, Spiff asked directions to the accounts receivable station, slightly disappointed that Rhianna was no where to be seen.
“Do you know where she is?” he asked as the others started to walk away. It was, after all, only polite to leave indication that he’d at least tried to find her before leaving.
“She’s checking on a patient right now.”
“Tell her that I’m more than a little disappointed I missed her,” he replied while leaning down in a conspiratorial manner. “Let her know I was dragged out of here by that big, black fellow cause they were in a hurry, will ya?”
The older nurse behind the station was not amused. With a winning smile, Spiff turned and made his way after the others. Once everything was settled at the accounting desk, the group made for the exterior with Guardian leading the way and Preacher hanging slightly behind. Scribe hit the button on his Cab Hailer once again and they stepped out under the awning.
“OK,” Scribe began casually as he eyed the dark street. “Let’s iron some things out, shall we?”
“Yeah,” Preacher interrupted. “Let’s. You said you had an offer for me, Spiff?”
Crisis Medical Center – Medical Center – Night City – March, Friday 13th, 2020, 4:00am
The Mean Streets – Night City – March, Friday 13th, 2020, 3:45am
“He’s in.” The voice said over the phone, just as Jack suspected it would when it called back.
“Good. Tell ‘im t’ meet us at the Red Lantern tomorrow at noon, an’ t’ bring whatever ‘elp he thinks’ll work fer the same pay as ‘e’s getting’.” Jack heard The Piper chuckle as he hung up the phone.
“’Tis war, Lad.” Jack explained. “You donna get paid t’ fight fer the Cause.”
“I know that,” The Piper was lighting up another cinnamon smoke. “Doesn’t make it any less funny.”
Jack shook his head and smiled. No matter the situation, The Piper had always seemed so relaxed. He remembered a time back in Scotland when they’d been jumped by a Razor Gang. Jack had been terrified, but The Piper had held up his hand and told them to stop, no if, ands, or buts about it. His tone had been so final that the gang members had actually stopped. Then, calm as could be, The Piper had rolled up his sleeves, put his smoke behind his ear, and rolled his shoulders, neck, and knuckles before giving them permission to continue. He’d beat the members of that gang so soundly that they gave him honorary admission and started calling him King Piper. That’s the way the man worked.
“Night’s fleetin’. Best be settin’ a few more things in motion ‘fore we catch some shut eye.” Jack went back to his phone.
Meanwhile, MDK’s phone chirped again, the message this time contained directions:
Meet at the Red Lantern, Dockside, Noon. Bring any extra hands.
The Mean Streets – Night City – March, Friday 13th, 2020, 3:50am
Posted on 2008-01-19 at 19:38:49.
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Topic: Cerebral Paradox - Cyberpunk 2020
Subject: Enjoy!
And no biting the heads off of doves.
Posted on 2008-01-19 at 16:45:18.
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Topic: Cerebral Paradox - Cyberpunk 2020
Subject: Yoo hoo
Logan, friend, you'd said you could manage Colton even with everything else going on right now, but that was close to a couple of weeks ago without a post. I hope that things get less...whatever they are for you in the future, but unfortunately cannot keep the game in limbo any longer. I'm afraid as of right now Bull's Eye is officially an NPC.
Posted on 2008-01-17 at 00:49:59.
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Topic: Cerebral Paradox - Cyberpunk 2020
Subject: An oversight on my part.
My apologies to the both of you.
Flirt, Matthew Wilson isn't a contact per se, but was a person who taught Peacekeeper how to shoot better. He owes her nothing, and she owes him nothing. It isn't even likely that she'd have his number on her phone. Think of it as the relationship between a professor and their student. Even though she's gone to him twice there is nothing more than a basic relationship there, if that. If you want to press that course, I can write it in, but it would be a brief conversation, and any help that might come from him would have a price tag attached to it.
Tann, Bull's Eye's response to the question about their relationship has been added.
Posted on 2008-01-16 at 02:50:56.
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Topic: Cerebral Paradox - Mature Content
Subject: And, more...
The Mean Streets – Downtown – Night City – March, Friday 13th, 2020, 2:58am
“Ok,” the nomad began after the team had offered their input. “Seems you have the most Euro’s—“ he indicated Firewind, who gave a nod of understanding. “—So hold on to that for now. Lets see if Bulls Eye's contacts can help without spending that, it could come in handy if we really needed it.”
Then moving slightly to the front Croaker spoke to Bull’s Eye but made sure all could hear.
"Ok, first thing we need is a place to rest and regroup. Bulls Eye you said you had a connection to a booster club: which one and how good is your connect? You think we could crash at one of their safe houses? As I see it anyone looking for us hopefully will not be looking for us in among a boostergang. Find out what their relationship to the Wild Things is and where their control zone is in relation to them we may be able to use that to our, and their, advantage. Also, there’s a good chance they could get rid of this van with no trouble, so convince them if ya can.”
Handing his Tribe brother the phone he took hold of the hand reaching back. “Thanks for not bailing on us. It’s been a long time with no family for me other then Peacekeeper, maybe after this is over we can see if we can find more of us.”
Letting Bulls Eye’s hand go he returned to sit at the back of the van and await the results of the phone calls in progress.
The driver gave Croaker a simple nod. He’d had family in the joint. All of the survivors of that fateful raid (at least he’d thought at the time) had been in there, so he hadn’t experienced a lack of fellowship. A little bit of guilt crept up inside his usually cold interior. He’d left their family behind in prison to taste fresh air. He knew where the rest were, and he’d abandoned them, after all of the speeches about sticking together, blood is thicker than water, being true blue, etc., and here he was on the Outside while they rotted Inside. Bull’s Eye mentally shook off the depressing thoughts. Now that he and Croaker had teamed up, they’d figure out a way to get the rest of the tribe out, and then there’d be Hell to pay.
“Won’t do no good, Croaker,” Bull’s Eye said, returning the phone to his brother while keeping his eyes on the slippery road. The wind picked up just then and the van rocked back and forth as the nomad made the necessary corrections to keep from bowling into the compact sedan next to them. “I’ve got no cell number for the boosters. I know their stomping grounds though, so I’ll steer us that way, only…it takes us back into the same area—roughly—as the Wild Things’ turf. Not the safest place to be right now I’d wager. What’s left of the Wild Things are likely in a real pissy mood. As far as the two gangs getting along or not, I haven't got a clue. Wasn't many Wild Things in the joint. The Brawlers didn't have much interaction with them there.”
Having spoken his piece, Colton shifted in his seat and returned his attention wholly to the drive. His eyes remained peeled for any sign of the police, any shadows, or other trouble. It was a very dark night despite the city lights, which appeared, even to the uncreative mind of the driver, to be swallowed up by the thick black of the storm. As he drove silence reigned supreme in the van. Firewind was lost in his own thoughts, staring at the dark stain of the blood on the floor, some of it mixing and diluting with the rainwater that escaped the folds of their armored leather. Croaker and Peacekeeper seemed content to rest upon each other’s shoulders.
Making a bold decision, Bull’s Eye turned towards the business center of downtown Night City, where the skyscrapers rose up far beyond the six to ten story buildings they were currently meandering through. He had been considering their course and had come to the conclusion that the corporate security in that area would mean there’d be less cops, and certainly less gangs. It was a quick cut through the center of town, and might offer some relief to an otherwise tense night. The only downside was that it was sure to register the van as being in the vicinity at this exact time, and show a progression of direction since the area was riddled with security cameras.
It apparently paid off, however, as they emerged from that towering edifice to corporate strength and rolled into the Medical Center, and on to the Upper East Side without incident. By then, there was no turning back. They’d missed the meet by some time, and they were locked into a course of action that led to more bloodshed no matter how it unfolded.
As Keahi tore his gaze away from the pooled blood to peer out the front window at the passing, blurred lights, he wondered just who was going to make it through the night. Apparently, a number of edgerunners who’d began the night had already had theirs cut short due to this gig. There was no cohesion, no strength in their party, and they were pitted against a major corporation where synergy was the go word. The odds were grim—no, dismal was more like it. With a sigh, he watched as Crisis Medical Center passed by, holy looking blue-white lights illuminating the high-rise inviting him to leave this hardship behind and go do something normal with his life. Closing his eyes, he envisioned the tattoos across his face and recommitted himself to his mission. There was no normalcy for him. They’d seen to that, and he’d vowed never to let them forget.
“We’re here,” Colton said, his voice nearly a growl from the tension he felt.
The van slowed to a meager thirty miles an hour as it prowled the streets of the Upper East Side. A couple of turns later and Bull’s Eye pulled up to a curb with no markings, placed the vehicle in park and settled back in his seat.
“That’s the Metalstrom,” he said, pointing across the street just as an old Buick chopped to look like something out of Mad Max rolled by. The building to which he was referring was a large, brick ensemble with a gaudy neon sign that flashed the name of the place. The structure swept the whole of the block and rose up a menacing five stories. There were windows, but no glass. Metal sheets covered the windows, dented and scarred, slick with rainwater, and very uninviting.
“The Brawlers own this block,” Colton continued. “They’re they law here from what I was told in the slammer. The Metalstrom is their hangout, but it ain’t for the weak of heart. The Joe that I met Inside told me that it is a chromer hangout; loud music, violence, the works, but it’s here that we’re going to find the Back Alley Brawlers.” Bull’s Eye turned to Croaker and raised his eyebrows. “If you want to continue this course, that is.”
The Metalstrom – Upper East Side – Night City – March, Friday 13th, 2020, 3:20am
The Mean Streets – Night City – March, Friday 13th, 2020, 3:10am
Scribe brushed off Spiff’s confusion with a wave of the hand and a barely recognizable nod towards the driver of the cab. After that, the ride fell quiet as the cab passed the City Center and entered the Medical Center. When the cab turned into the admittance lane and rolled to a stop in front of the wide sweep of automatic doors bathed in a soft blue light, Scribe was the one who footed the cab fare. Entering the clean, white tiled interior, the group was struck by the smell of antiseptic, cleaner, and sweat. There were people sitting about in various states of duress within the lobby, obviously having received enough attention from the medical staff to put them on hold while those in more critical condition were taken care of. There were more than a few cleaning drones about as well, sweeping, mopping, and otherwise cleaning the messes made by the infirm. A large, touch screen display hung on the wall next to the doors with a series of instructions that led the group to seats just inside and to the left of a large, square-shaped pillar with a blue base and a white trunk.
“State your name,” a young woman swept in front of them with a digital pad and a stylus. She wore her blue hair up in a bun behind her nurse’s hat. Her uniform consisted of light blue scrubs, a security identification card that was attached to her blouse by a strong-looking cord, and white, latex gloves.
“Preacher,” the solo said in a slow drawl.
“Injuries?”
“Gunshot wounds, here, and here.”
The nurse stepped forward and placed her hand on his chin, tilting his head back. “Remove the hat please.” After Preacher had done so, she settled back and tapped a couple of statements into her pad. Then, she pushed his shirt aside to see the injuries to his body, registered those and stepped over to Scribe. “Name?”
“Oh, I’m just the ride, darling. That’s the other pincushion.” Scribe’s smile was pure seduction and the young woman returned it a little playfully as she moved on to where Spiff sat.
“Name?”
(OOC: I’m going to write you through this to get things moving…)
“Spiff, beautiful, and yours?” The player in the fixer couldn’t help but surface in the face of her sexy expression despite the pain in his leg.
“Nurse Rhianna,” she gave him a sultry smile. “What’s your injury, Spiff?”
“Well, I saw that you were going to be on duty tonight and asked him,” Spiff motioned towards Preacher. “To shoot me in the leg so I could get in here and meet you.” The lie was sufficient enough to relay what had caused him damage.
“There are easier ways,” she replied coyly.
“Oh, but this way I get your attention, you see how dedicated I am, and if you hurry us through the process a little I might be free to take you out for breakfast by the time your shift ends.” Spiff’s shine nearly dimmed the lights of the hospital’s interior.
“I get off in an hour,” Rhianna said, smiling while she tapped away at her recorder.
“All the more reason to hurry us through, don’t you think?”
Her smile broadened to show even white teeth. “I’ll see what I can do. Do either of you have insurance?”
“I’m afraid not, sweetheart,” Spiff answered after a brief glance at Preacher to make sure he wasn’t jumping to conclusions. “It’s going to be cash money tonight.”
“Smooth,” Scribe leaned forward to watch her hips sway as she made her way to her station. “Too bad Croaker wasn’t a dame, Spiff. You’d have had him eating out of your hand.”
Preacher chuckled and then winced as the pain in his head amplified. It was barely five minutes later when Rhianna returned, asking them to follow her and delivering Spiff a coy smile as she did so. Leading the way through an automatic door, she took them down a long, immaculately clean hall with calm, serene prints framed and hung at eye level. Entering a room with a steel table approximately three and a half feet wide and seven feet long in the center surrounded by rolling trays fixed with various medical tools, she motioned at a series of chairs against the wall closest to the door. “The doctor will be with you momentarily.”
“Thanks, sweetheart,” Spiff briefly touched her hand as he smiled his appreciation. She blushed a bit and ducked out of the room.
Moments later a tall, black man with a shaved head, a mustached lip, and a goatee entered. His white smock made him out to be a doctor, his badge confirmed it. Moving towards the table he motioned for Preacher to follow with a flick of his hand.
The man was definitely a professional, who’d likely seen his fair share of combat wounds. He made short work of the repairs to Preacher’s scalp and flesh, working with a precision and a lack of emotion. When he was finished he gave Preacher specific instructions on use of Aspirin, Ibuprofen, or other pain medication, and advised him to avoid bullets in the future…all with a deadpan expression. Then, he was on to Spiff’s leg. He worked through that injury with the exact same attitude and skill, and to Spiff, the pain of his rough handling was nearly unbearable as the doctor hadn’t even offered him anything to numb the area. When all was said and done, Preacher and Spiff had nice, white (and red) bandages covering their injuries.
“You’re looking at a few days recovery before the muscle will feel alright, and the skin will likely stay tight around the wound for some time after that. Do yourselves a favor in the future and avoid bullets.” With that said, the doctor made his exit, being replaced by a new nurse who was considerably less attractive than the young Rhianna, and a few tens of pounds heavier. Of Hispanic heritage, her accent was heavy and nearly impossible to understand.
“How are you settling the bill?” she asked as she stood blocking the door.
“As the man said,” Scribe stood and tugged at his jacket to get it settled correctly, then bent and picked up his bag. “Cash money.”
“For you,” the woman turned to Preacher. “It will be three hundred, and for you,” she looked at Spiff, “One fifty.”
Preacher sighed, stood up, and fished all of the cash from his pocket. Sorting through it he frowned and smiled sheepishly as he offered the wrinkled, colorful bills towards the nurse. “I only got one fifty.”
“Well, that just don’t cover it, Cowboy.”
Crisis Medical Center – Medical Center – Night City – March, Friday 13th, 2020, 3:45am
The Mean Streets – Night City – March, Friday 13th, 2020, 3:45am
Jack took a deep breath and shook his head. He’d been reviewing the encounter they’d just had inside the college lab and he had to swallow his anger. He hadn’t been treated with that much disrespect in ages, and the last bloke to do so died a horrible, painful death. There was, after all, the matter of maintaining respect across the board, and if he let one person walk over him, others would view that as an open invitation. That was something he couldn’t have, but in this case there was an even bigger slight to his position than one lone nomad and his input, no matter how valuable Peacekeeper had been in the past. It was obvious to him that she’d attached her future to Croaker’s no matter how bleak that might be, so he knew he couldn’t trust her like he’d used to. She had a master now, something that Springed-Heel Jack never thought he’d see. It was obvious to him that she wasn’t the tough, independent he’d thought her to be. She was a baby cow suckling on that man’s every word and whim. Such a waste of talent…
This wasn’t the only thing he’d been thinking on, however. Jack had been mulling over the situation, their chances, their assets, and their deficits. He knew that despite his organization, they were in for a real challenge. He’d managed to play people off of each other up until this point: the cops against the mob, the yakuza against the cops, the mafia against the gangs, etc. making himself untouchable, a figure of mutual benefit to all parties. He didn’t consider himself equal to a godfather, but he was pretty close no matter how loose his organization appeared. Even with all of this power, he was well aware that the corporation held the trump card. Where his funds were limited, where his manpower was limited, theirs was unlimited. This is why the edgerunners were needed. This was why Croaker still lived.
They’d have to do the work that sane people wouldn’t, but they couldn’t do it alone. This is when Jack had come to the conclusion that he’d have to pull more meat into the stew, and with that in mind, he set about getting his outfit on the phone, waking them from their rest, and putting them to work. It was what he paid them for, it was what they were good at.
That’s the reason a text message appeared on MDK’s phone. It was simple and to the point: Megacorp needs a lesson taught. You game to be the teacher? Whoever sent it knew MDK’s pension for doing anything he could to hurt megacorps, and they were pulling strings in a very obvious manner. The message meant that there was likely no pay in it—this was an opportunity to do some damage in the name of the Movement.
The Mean Streets – Night City – March, Friday 13th, 2020, 3:45am
Posted on 2008-01-13 at 20:54:27.
Edited on 2008-01-16 at 02:54:01 by Bromern Sal
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Topic: Voyages of the Rocinante - Firefly RPG QnA
Subject: I found it!
So, I've been looking for a new hat ever since my last one was crushed under a rampaging bull (no, I was not wearing it at the time; my brother-in-law [who rode bulls at rodeos for some time] borrowed it and that's when it happened). I'm rather particular about my hats. I have to have a certain style that I feel compliments my build. None of those tall crowns, none of those wide, sweeping brims, everything has to be perfect. So, it has taken me...oh, about six years now, to find a new hat. Mission accomplished, and of all places for the hat to reside: Disneyland, CA.
No, the hat does not have Mickey ears.
Yes, I know what you're going to say (those of you who've met me). "Aren't you a biker? You know, black leather jacket, tattoos..." Yes, I'm a biker, but I'm a cowboy too. Not that my current situation has allowed me on a horse's back for some time, but I'll change that in the future. There's a thin line between cowboy and biker...I just meshed the two. Anyway; got my hat. It kinda looks a bit like Wyatt's in the picture I drew. It is an Australian Cowboy hat. Real smooth.
So, now that I got my hat, what d'ya say we giddy-up!?
Posted on 2008-01-12 at 06:11:40.
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Topic: Star Trek: Operation:Persephone - Q&A
Subject: I'm a little nervous.
Seems we're all alone with the Romulans, Jon.
I can see that, Kel, and I can't say that I like it.
I heard you were the type that remains cool under fire, Jon.
Yeah, so.
Well, set your phaser to maximum power. We may have a fight on our hands if other personnel don't start showing up.
You sure you weren't a jarhead in another life, Captain?
No. I just love to spill the blood of Federation enemies. There's a...peace about it.
Psycho.
Posted on 2008-01-12 at 06:06:07.
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Topic: Continuing Where We Last Left Off Q&A
Subject: Good to see!
I'll post this weekend...I just realized I'd already posted. POST PEOPLE! Arien is all alone in this big, bad world and we have to get to him! Not to mention we have invisible wizards throwing magic at us.
Posted on 2008-01-12 at 06:03:13.
Edited on 2008-01-12 at 19:29:21 by Bromern Sal
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Topic: Cerebral Paradox - Cyberpunk 2020
Subject: I'm ba-aack.
Made it home safely after a grueling week at Disneyland. *Whew!* I'll try and get some posts in Saturday or Sunday to my various gaming commitments, so watch for it, and thanks for your patience.
Posted on 2008-01-12 at 06:01:54.
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Topic: A Cold Day in Hell Q&A
Subject: Unless
Unless we start posting again, you've nothing to worry about.
Posted on 2008-01-12 at 05:29:52.
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Topic: Continuing Where We Last Left Off Q&A
Subject: I sure hope...
I sure hope that everything is all right with our illustrious DM and his family...haven't heard anything in a bit.
Posted on 2008-01-11 at 05:50:56.
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Topic: Star Trek: Operation:Persephone - Q&A
Subject: A whole week?
A whole week and still no updates? This isn't going to go the way of the Discovery game is it?
Posted on 2008-01-11 at 05:49:27.
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Topic: Cerebral Paradox - Cyberpunk 2020
Subject: Not home yet.
But I sent the character sheet none-the-less. Pays to have a laptop (even if I did forget to bring the connector between my digital camera and the laptop).
YeOlde, I liked the intro. Don't worry about the combat, as it is likely that this is how it would have gone down anyway. Are you sure you haven't played 'Punk before? That was a pretty educated post. If not: bravo on the research.
Posted on 2008-01-11 at 05:48:17.
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Topic: Cerebral Paradox - Cyberpunk 2020
Subject: We're in CA
Well, we've arrived in California, and I've got Internet once again. The drive from Vegas to Anaheim wasn't bad at all. And though it is raining, things are looking up.
Posted on 2008-01-07 at 01:36:50.
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Topic: Cerebral Paradox - Cyberpunk 2020
Subject: Thanks Tann
Sorry I forgot to make that possible, but glad Tann is around to cover for me.
So, here's the skinny: a major stormfront was scheduled to hit the area and would've dumped enough snow on us that it would have locked us in. So, we left two days early. I'm in Vegas now typing this on my phone and will be leaving for Disneyland tomorrow morning in what was supposed to be a magical first time experience for my children, but is looking like it is going to be a disastrous trip as a lot of people are experiencing floods, heavy winds, and inclemental weather.
Supposedly my next hotel has free Internet access (this one charges $60/day so I opted not to get it).
Here's to hoping we're safe, and Disneyland really isn't flooded out (sadly in the Punk timeline it was, so they moved it to Night City). And sorry about not getting a post in before I left...
Posted on 2008-01-06 at 06:22:49.
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