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Topic: Voyages of the Rocinante - Firefly RPG QnA
Subject: Wyatt'd be...
Cockpit, though he'd be hovering by Sam, not in the seat. Similar to the way that Mal hovered over Wash.
Posted on 2007-03-30 at 01:09:28.
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Topic: Cerebral Paradox - Cyberpunk 2020
Subject: The only characters without players are:
Bullseye.
Raven is out for a bit, but he's still here. Blammm had some work keeping him busy for a while, but as you can see he's back. DA is also intermitten, but she'll be back in full swing as I understand it.
As for the second time he helped you: he hooked you up with the job in the first place!
Posted on 2007-03-28 at 01:21:51.
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Topic: Voyages of the Rocinante - Firefly RPG QnA
Subject: Ya all are warmin' my heart.
What a crew! Now I can see why there was the warm n' bubbly earlier. 
Posted on 2007-03-27 at 00:51:49.
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Topic: Cerebral Paradox - Cyberpunk 2020
Subject: Nope...
Had no idea. I don't assume anything, but instead decide what the character would do.
He's right, you know. DigitalScribe, that is. He's helped you out on two occassions already that day and what have you done for him?
Posted on 2007-03-27 at 00:50:32.
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Topic: Cerebral Paradox - Cyberpunk 2020
Subject: Of course I do...
I wouldn't be a very good GM for Punk if I didn't.
As for Firewind; you can make observations. Human Perception is a valuable skill and doctors have a pretty good one.
The same goes for the rest of you. You are only as limited as you believe your character to be. Feel free to request skill checks, feel free to ask questions, etc.
Posted on 2007-03-25 at 19:46:35.
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Topic: Cerebral Paradox - Mature Content
Subject: Oh yes he did!
The Mean Streets – Upper East Side – Night City – 12:49am
Croaker seemed to think about what Preacher had said for a moment. In the interim, the other man crouched behind the tree and continued to try and make out anything pronounced from the shadows on the rooftop. There still hadn’t been any sign of what’s going on inside.
“Your right Preacher, in that getting across is gonna be a real pain, but as far as them knowing that we were already here, no, I don’t think so. If they did know we were here they’d be all over us by now for sure. We need some kind of distraction to get those guys on the roof to move away long enough for us to get across the street."
Preacher glanced at Croaker as the man produced his cell and began to dial. A distraction sure would be nice, but the solo wasn’t fooling himself; they knew something was brewing. After all, hadn’t that fixer said that the Wild Things already know something’s up? Preacher knew technology pretty well, and these types of street roughs loved to hook up on the latest and greatest, some going alpha, not even waiting for beta versions to pass through testing. As a matter-of-fact, some corporations used them as test markets for new cyberware. No… Croaker was over-confident if he thought they didn’t know the three of them were approaching. Still, Preacher was content to hang out behind the rather non-existent cover that the tree provided while Coyote joined them and Croaker made his phone call.
The Mean Streets – Upper East Side – Night City – 12:52am
The Mean Streets – Upper East Side - Night City/Rooftop next to the Hole – 12:49pm
The two watchers were still trying to formulate a plan on how to get into the thick of it for the detail shot. Rain drizzling down his face and plastering his TecHair™ to his head, Frankie was frustrated. His camera was focused on the rooftop, but he’d stopped the recording a while ago… no sense in wasting the battery just yet, after all. He felt wet clean through to his boxer shorts, the water on the roof pooling about his body where it connected with the gravel. It was cold too. The wind biting at his exposed flesh, but this was the price of glory; this was the price of bringing the stories to the public. Sure, he’d “exposed” some real, bottom-of-the-trashcan stuff to make his bills, but he always sought the good story, the real raw deal. Something deep in his gut told him that this could very well be it: the breaking story that the networks would air. And here they were, sitting on a rooftop meters away from it with no way to see. The aggravation he felt was about to boil over.
Frankie Tordesky was a man who enjoyed the more eclectic sounds of the pre-modern era. The techno-mixed industrial grunge of the modern music scene hadn’t caught his attention yet, so when the soft sounds of Kansas’ Carry On My Wayward Son began to drift through the night air, DigitalScribe found himself momentarily reprieved from his miserable situation… then, he realized that it was his cell and cursed himself as he scrambled to silence the thing before someone from across the way heard it. Cold fingers fumbling the device he finally rolled away from the edge and flipped the phone. The glow of the interface was cupped in the crook of his jacket, hidden from view as the media put the phone to his ear refusing to look at his bodyguard just in case Guardian was giving him one of those reproachful stares that made a person feel like an juve caught red handed tagging an overpass. It was only when he’d put the phone to his ear that he realized the ring tone was Croaker’s.
“Hello Frankie, it’s Richard. Before you hang up, hear me out.” The silence must have clued the nomad in that DigitalScribe was on the phone.
“Hey, brother,” Frankie whispered with as much friendliness as he could muster, though inside he was curled up tight wondering if Croaker had hired a netrunner to run a trace on him. Maybe the deal had gone down already and now the large nomad was gunning for some revenge? As usual though, Frankie played it cool. “I’m not the one stole away into the night with his panties in a bunch. Speak on, Choomba.”
“I am not happy about you wanting a story so bad that you had to try and follow us, and hired that pair of runners to help you. I though you and I were chummers.” There was a pause just long enough for Frankie to open his mouth before Richard continued. ”But be that as it may, and with the trouble you have caused I should just write you off as a chummer, find you, and kill you, but I need your help. I need you to meet me here:”
DigitalScribe heard the address and mentally placed himself in association with the location, then shook his head. He wasn’t leaving the rooftop unless it was to get inside. Croaker probably had an inkling he was near and wanted him out of there.
”How long will it take for you to get there?”
“Sorry, Rich, but I’m not able to make it.” Frankie chuckled into the phone and tumbled some gravel between his fingers. “I don’t have much time to explain my reasons for tailing you tonight beyond stating that I think you’re on to something big. You know I’ve got a duty to the People to report on that, Choomba. As far as the two edgerunners; well, I’m not about to run this gauntlet without some protection. I’m bold, not stupid. Besides, what would you want with me at that address? Peacekeeper probably put you up to this in order to slice ‘n dice me. She’s pretty an’ all, but I’m not into that, savvy? I’m no good to you in a firefight, and you know it, so what’s the also?”
”Also, if you can get a hold of one or two extra runners, we could use the firepower. Do this for me, Frankie, and you’ll get your story, I will get the girl, and then we will go our separate ways without having to look over our shoulder wondering which one of us kills the other first.” Another pause before Croaker finished. ”So, we got a deal?”
Frankie thought about it a second more before deciding that Croaker really did want their friendship to end no matter the results of this conversation. He also knew that Croaker and his group were right there—right at the same location, and that some of them had gone inside, so meeting a few miles away just seemed strange to the media. And what was this about getting a girl? Peacekeeper and Croaker were as tight as any input/output DigitalScribe had ever seen so to whom was he referring? Was he trying to find a girl? Was that the gig? Now, beyond his original assumption that they were onto something big, Frankie’s curiosity was piqued.
“I got another deal for you, Croaker.” DigitalScribe decided to get even bolder. “Whatever you’re up to, you’ve already let on that you need more guns. I’ve got some help with me now—“ Frankie glanced over to where Guardian lay prone, the rain dancing off his leather. “—some real good help. You lay your cards on the table and I’ll see if it really is worth me providing the cavalry.
“As far as our friendship’s concerned; well, you knew me, and knew what I do before you ever called me for help initially. So, if you want to go ahead and hold a grudge, that’s your business. I’m just being me, and I got no hard feelings so far. That’s not to say if you threaten me again that won’t change, but right now, we’re still solid as far as I’m concerned. I helped you in a bind twice today already and the only thing I get for it is some big Zero threatening to put me on ice. Makes a guy want to turn his back on a friend, ya know?
“So, the ball is in your court now. You decide how it’s going to go down. You can either tell me what kinda mess you’re in and see if I can help you a third time, or we can continue to do things on our own and see who comes out on top.”
The Mean Streets – Upper East Side - Night City/Rooftop next to The Hole – 12:52am
Posted on 2007-03-24 at 19:59:07.
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Topic: Voyages of the Rocinante - Firefly RPG QnA
Subject: Money and Maintenance
I'd love to eventually take my family to Toronto... unfortunately, not any time soon.
As far as the goods are concerned, the math looks good, but I'm an artist (never trust math to an artist). With Wyatt's set of mind he isn't about to leave port without doing as much to prepare for the inevitable as possible. That means that if we have 600cr left after port fees and fuel, Wyatt would want to make what repairs could be made and restock the medbay. So, the suggestion would be 120cr for the medical supplies (he has this bad feeling they are all going to need it) and a minimum of 160cr to maintenance. Sorry Kora, but you'll have to make do with that for now. Total, that leaves 320cr split six ways = roughly 53.333cr apiece.
I also suggest that all shares are split up after the expenses of running a ship are met. Of course, since we've such a capable mechanic on board Wyatt isn't always prone to go full ante on the repairs...
If you're all good with this consider that Wyatt gets the repairs needed (if Al is going to allow it and it doesn't take too much time), has Willow restock the medical supplies, and then divies out the remainder of the cash to the crew as appropriate before taking off.
Posted on 2007-03-24 at 18:54:47.
Edited on 2007-03-24 at 18:57:01 by Bromern Sal
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Topic: Voyages of Rocinante - Serenity/Firefly RPG
Subject: Let Fly!
The heat in the room couldn’t have registered on a regular thermometer; at least that’s the way Wyatt felt when Dodger low-balled them. He was ruttin’ fuming inside—boiling over at the thought that his was being challenged… again. It took all sorts of control just to maintain that their good ol’ pal Dodger wasn’t nothing but a victim as well, and that nearly clouded his judgment enough that Sung felt the deal going south almost moments after they’d started. He just wasn’t altogether there—that is to say that he was having a hard time focusing his brainpan on what was matterin’ that moment. His mind’s eye was seeing a faceless suit strung up from a tree on the very plains that he’d ridden before Summer and Eden had left him, though there was no way that’d happen. He could never go back, and when he found whoever was threatening them, he’d put enough holes in them that they’d be too light to properly hang themselves. It was a real good thing Willow was there, or the whole thing’d have been humped before too long.
After a time he found himself shaking Dodger’s hand, settling on a fair deal, all things considered. He hoped that he’d made a good enough show of it and that those with him hadn’t seen him go all hazy like that. That’d be plum embarrassing. Strapping iron once again, he peered back at Willow settlin’ in with Dodger and raised his eyebrows. Her response wasn’t what he’d expected, not when there was planning to do, but he didn’t say anything, turning about and walking casually out the door with Dash while his mind immediately moved on. If Willow had relations with Dodger, it’d just mean a better negotiating stance when they next met. She knew what she was doin’, and Wyatt only allowed the thought that Dodger might present a danger for the ex-companion for a brief moment before completely moving on to other things.
“Sorry about all that, Cap,” Dash said, falling into step beside Wyatt as they moseyed back towards the docks, “I din’t mean ta toss a monkey inna wrench in there… but, gorram it, who inna hump goes ‘round fraggin’ folk fer a shipment o’ ruttin’ bolts?! I don’ ruttin’ like it, not one little ruttin’ bit, puhn yoh. Makes me think there’s somethin’ real damn off about ever’thin’ we’ve been into lately… people watchin’ as shouldn’t even know where we’re at, get me?”
Wyatt was quiet for a few more steps while his gears continued to turn. When he responded, it was in a dangerously low tone. “I get ya, Sam. It ain’t right from the get go—all should-uh been easy-like. Ruttin’ gig. Pick up some minin’ equipment an’ take it t’ a drop. Standard-like. We get paid, everythin’s shiny.”
Wyatt glanced at Sam out of the corner of his eye. “Only it ain’t. I think I just conjured up the third in our Luck o’ Three.”
The captain let Sam chew on that for the remainder of their trip back to Rocinante. Making the short climb to the cargo bay.
“Wyatt! Sam!”
Sung resisted the immediate urge to frown and allowed his lips to curl in a half smile. He didn’t jump like Dash, but his shoulders went tense.
“Gorramit, Griffith,” Sam growled, forcing his hand to fall away from the butt of his pistol, “Don’ do that! Yer like ta get yerself kilt…”
Griff chuckled and moved to give the pilot a pat on the shoulder as Kora spoke up.
“Welcome home" she said. “The Captain was just deliverin’ the fuel cells and telling me about his ship being searched today” she said as she continued on to the engine room. With a sarcastic edge, she added over her shoulder “Don’t you find that “interesting”?”
Wyatt allowed the frown then. “Trouble?”
“Just a pain in th’ass,” Griff sighed and Wyatt glanced towards Sam with a raised eyebrow. “Like I told, Kora,” Griff said nodding in the mechanic’s direction as she hauled the cart full of fuel cells towards the engine room, “The gorram Feds was climbin’ all over Royale. Liftin’ things up, openin’ anythin’ as could be opened. At first I thought they were looking for contraband or an escapee, but they were looking in all them small spots and on the ground. Wouldn’t tell me what they were looking for but I could tell they were sick and tired of searching.”
“Prob’ly lookin’ fer some member o’ Parliament’s pet gerbil er somethin’,” Sam smirked, “Fuzzy li’l bastard like got plumb tired o’ bein’ run up ‘is giggy an’ made a break for it.”
Wyatt allowed himself a self-satisfying smirk. “Well, we told you there was feds about, Griff.”
“I’m gonna go see if Mei mei needs any help wit’ them cells, Cap,” Dash said suddenly, clapping Wyatt on the shoulder before stalking off in search of Kora, “Grif. I’ll catch ya later.”
This left the captains alone and after a time of friendly chit chat that Wyatt would have just as soon done without due to his mood, Sung politely excused himself… a lot of preflight planning to attend. When the ice arrived, Wyatt made sure everything was in tact before finalizing the deal with the two bodyguards. He was on his way back through the kitchens when he paused at the crates of rum and closed his eye. He could practically smell the alcohol despite their enclosed cases. His right hand hovered over the bottles; perhaps he could gain the numbing benefit through osmosis. His fingertips brushed the smooth caps: one, two, three, four… four… where’s four? Opening his eyes Wyatt was met with the vision of an empty slot in the crate. Glancing over his shoulder he quickly surmised that the rum hadn’t been approached with the intent to stow it just yet. Had Dodger lightened the load? No, Wyatt had counted them all—ever the careful man. Someone had snaked one and Wyatt was pretty sure who. He just couldn’t blame the man, though he knew in all fairness he’d have to find some way for Dash to make it up to the others.
The Luck o’ Three came back to mind, having been pushed aside with the events of the evening, as he made his way to his quarters empty handed. That alone took a huge amount of willpower. The danger that they now faced wasn’t unlike anything they’d face before. The result could be the same: they’d end up dead. But the difference was that it seemed now like someone was setting them up.
Luck o’ Three.
One: they land a gig that takes them to the stolen sten-bolts where the crew’s been wiped out… the second of such crews.
Wyatt dropped his hat on his bed and unbuckled the gunbelt.
Two: Royale runs afoul o’ some bad luck droppin’ a cargo load and fuel in their laps, but for what? More mining deliveries… and what are those feds looking for exactly?
Kicking off his boots, Wyatt dropped onto the bed and stared at the gray bulkhead across from him. What were they looking for? Was it in their cargo?
Three: They find that the stolen cargo, that which was the cause of two crew’s deaths, belonged to the one man they had connections to on Beaumonde.
Wyatt fell asleep with a disturbing thought rippling through his brainpan like a dry, hot wind across a bleak desert: he was scraping bottom searching for that number three. Luck o’ Three hadn’t come about yet.
The captain’s dreams were disturbing and when he woke, Wyatt found his bed sheets pulled up and twisted about his legs, the pillow on the floor, his hat across the room, and himself half off the bed. He was in a cold sweat and the ration of water for a sponge bath was barely enough to pull that stench from his skin. Splashing his face, Wyatt ran his hair back and peered at his sunken eyes in the mirror. He couldn’t afford to be jonesin’ this morning. There, in the mirror, he could almost see her standing lookin’ back at him, their baby girl in her arms.
“You got work t’ do, Wyatt Sung,” she’d say. “Now cowboy up an’ go show that sun that you got it beat.”
Only, the sun on Beaumonde was hardly a difficult thing to beat, weak as it was. Wyatt closed his eyes on the vision and took a deep breath. Dressed, he snatched his hat off the floor and pulled it down low over his eyes. His mood was foul as he gave the pictures of elephants hanging in his room a pat before he climbed the ladder to the hall and made his way to the kitchen. They’d meet there, that was the custom before a job was underway. They’d meet in the kitchen and Trish would have something special to set them off right. Wyatt would give the usual pep talk and then they’d be off; at least, that’s what the usual ticket was.
Entering the kitchen, Sung pulled the chair out with his foot and dropped into the seat, keeping his hat low across his forehead to hide the hollow of his eyes.
“Mornin’ Trish,” he drawled, trying to keep the edge from his tone. Wyatt didn’t see her response. Trish was usually pretty good about reading him and would likely warn the others as they came in as to his countenance, so Wyatt sat quiet and still, his hands folded across his chest, his hat down low as though he was napping until every one of the crew was present. Then, before the table was dished, he began, never changing his stance, never looking up.
“The sun’s up, folks. Time t’ pour the coffee an’ saddle Rocinante. We done this time an’ time again over the past while, puttin’ our burn t’ earth an’ reachin’ for the Black. We’re pretty much experts at this. Only way I figure this is that this ain’t like those other times. See, those other times we had a foresight that was pretty vague. We knew that there was likely trouble on the horizon only we didn’t know much what t’ look for. We just kept our eyes open and our weapons loaded. We sailed pretty clean thus far; little problems aside.
“I ain’t gonna lie. As I figure it, someone’s gunnin’ for one ‘er all o’ us. These past days are just too fulled up of Ma Fuhn. So we gotta be extra careful this run. That’s all I got this time. You all know what t’ do, so enjoy yer breakfast an’ let’s get the Roc eatin’ up the Black. We got a comet t’ catch.”
(Conversation as necessary – Al, if you’ll let me know what kind of cash we have left after the dock fees, refueling, etc. is taken care of, I’d appreciate it – Wyatt will get things prepped, be in the cockpit when Dash takes them away, and that’s as far as I’ll take it for now.)
Posted on 2007-03-24 at 07:07:15.
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Topic: Cerebral Paradox - Cyberpunk 2020
Subject: I will...
Don't fret. I'll get to it as soon as I can scrape up some time.
Posted on 2007-03-24 at 01:11:44.
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Topic: Voyages of the Rocinante - Firefly RPG QnA
Subject: Oh boy...
I haven't read the posts in the game yet. I just dropped in to see what I missed and there's this long thread that I have to catch up on which, from the looks of things, will lead to an interesting read in game when I can find the time to get around to it.
I apologize for the delays folks. I've been asked to head up a company expansion project and it has basically eaten up every evening this past week. Now, like the true fool I am, I picked up another art contract. I'm hoping to have it finished in a couple of days straight up though (black and white being quicker for me than color), but this doesn't mean I won't post before Al does... I hope.
I'm looking to post tonight, or tomorrow. Though somethin's funny 'bout my crew... I step to the loo for a bit an' come back to a bunch of huggin' and weepin' over how sweet an' capable everyone is. Near t' gave me the jitters... 
Posted on 2007-03-24 at 01:11:00.
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Topic: Cerebral Paradox - Cyberpunk 2020
Subject: There's always that possibility...
After all, this is Punk.
Posted on 2007-03-22 at 00:21:14.
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Topic: Cerebral Paradox - Cyberpunk 2020
Subject: Naw...
Hold off a bit. Let's see what mess the others make (did I write that out loud?)...
Posted on 2007-03-21 at 02:16:48.
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Topic: Cerebral Paradox - Cyberpunk 2020
Subject: Answers
Frankie Tordesky.
The building on which DigitalScream and Guardian have taken post is the same height as the Hole... roughly. It is maybe a couple of feet higher, but only in architectural decoration. It is also roughly five to five and a half meters away. Guardian has already placed sentries at each of the building corners; DigitalScribe and he had taken up position in the middle. The map is found here:
http://www.the-crazed.com/CyberPunk/images/TheHoleExterior.jpg
Posted on 2007-03-18 at 17:32:19.
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Topic: Continuing Where We Last Left Off
Subject: Uh-uh!
Having just turned his gaze from Arien Char catches the knight swaying out of the corner of his eye. Kilgim is just as quick to respond as the two move to aid the armored man. The ranger places a hand on Arien's chestplate and another on his shoulder.
"Wha's wrong der, Arien?" he asks while glancing over his shoulder and about the hall to see if there's some unseen attacker. "Be on da guard!" This was said to the others in the room and then he was focused on the knight once again. Despite Char's and Kilgim's offered aid, Arien backs away, his face a mask of confusion.
“I don’t know…my head…feels …” he mumbles as he takes off his helm, lets his sword fall out of his hands and slumps down to the ground, rubbing his eyes as if in pain. “Alloryn … so dark…”
Char's brow furrows and he looks to the dwarf for some explanation. He certainly isn't adept at deciphering this sort of thing and the cleric's experience with healing magics is likely more in tune with the knight's needs, so he hopes...
Then suddenly Arien stands up, looking about as surprised by his whereabouts, “What is this?” He says but his voice sounds odd - higher pitched, “Two places? How odd. Twins? Oh, this is delicious!” He steps forward in an odd exaggeratedly feminine walking pattern (picture the knight walking like Jessica Rabbit) looking over each of the party members as if seeing them for the first time. “Men! Oh, it has been so long since I have had men!”
Char is dumbfounded. He stands with his mouth open slightly, tense, like a rabbit ready to jump, but unsure of what he's to do.
Arien staggers again, clutching his head with both hands, “What is …” his voice sounds strained but normal again. (DetMag – light fades)
His face curls up into a savage mask of rage, (DetMag – light returns) his eyes fall upon Dapple, “An elf!” he spits with fury (and that strange voice again) launching himself at Dapple with arms extended like claws.
Sunset hisses and draws her wing back as if to strike and that's when Char knows what he has to do. He's a big man, maybe not like Maximus, but he's definitely born of strength. Taking Arien to the ground ought to be a task he was up for and seeing the knight as he was told Char that he was Arien no more. Leaping from the balls of his feet, the ranger wraps himself around the knight and uses all of his weight and might to pull him to the ground, wrapping him up in a bear hug.
"Kilgim! Da lad's gone a bi' off, no?" Char's words are growled through clenched teeth as he attempts this manuever, hoping that the dwarf has something to counter whatever it is that is effecting the knight.
Char will have to process the whole "elf" thing later. For now, his greatest concerns are that they have been discovered, Arien has been removed from the equation, and Jal is no where to be seen.
Posted on 2007-03-18 at 17:27:01.
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Topic: Continuing Where We Last Left Off
Subject: Good to know
Char watched as Valentine went to work, but saw nothing of the spell effects. It raised questions of doubt in his mind until he reminded himself that not all magic was accompanied by the pop and bang of that which is shown at carnivals. Then, it was Jal's turn.
The ranger felt strange around the shattered man, but he had made the decision to put that feeling aside in the interest of getting Alloryn back to her brother and friends as well as completing the mission. So he found it a little odd that he felt a might sorry for the strange sorcerer. Those feelings were quickly abated when Jal transformed himself into a wraith... the man could speak with the dead and become one of the undead!?
"If ye think it'll be needed, ol' friend, me can brin' back the silence a few more times. Still it does drain me strength n' limit the use o' other prayers. But me should 'ave no problems in 'ealin' anyone even if me did cast a couple o' more such spells."
Kilgim's words broke Char from his unease and he nodded, thankful for the dwarf's suggestion. It was good to know what you had at your disposal when it came down to decision-making time, and he'd been afraid that the more Kilgim prayed for help, the less likely they'd all be to receive magical healing.
"Dat be a goo' ting, frien'. Cause I tink we be needin' da 'ealin' a fair amoun' dis day."
Placing a hand on Kilgim's shoulder, Char glanced over at the silent knight and watched his grim study of door. Arien was certainly preoccupied with Alloryn's unknown predicament and the ranger suddenly realized just how responsible Arien had been by dumping the role of leader on his shoulders for the time. With a slight shake of his head, Char glanced over at Dapple and repeated the action. This was not looking good.
Posted on 2007-03-17 at 17:39:14.
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Topic: Cerebral Paradox - Cyberpunk 2020
Subject: Storyline moved forward.
All right, Choombattas! I've moved the thread on and we're getting nitty-gritty.
Congrats Spiff! You've earned two IP. One in Human Perception and one in Persuasion & Fast Talk. There were some very nice rolls at just the right time. Probably saved the sorry hides of Firewind and Peacekeeper with all that fancy talk.
Posted on 2007-03-17 at 03:23:53.
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Topic: Cerebral Paradox - Mature Content
Subject: Moving on With or Without You.
The Mean Streets – Upper East Side – Night City – 12:49am
“Seems t’ me that the street’s pretty well covered,” the solo drawled in answer to Croaker’s question. Behind his shades, Preacher scanned the rooftop, hoping for some sign of what Coyote had seen; some way to place their possible shooters, but it was gray and black, sheets of rain impeding their vision. “It’s likely as a dust bowl havin’ dust that they placed a couple o’ shades such as ourselves doggin’ their corner. Hell, Coyote spotted the gunmen on their roof from here an’ he’s wearin’ their skin more’n we are, so we best be figurin’ that they got at least what he’s got.
“So, like I said, I figure they know where we are, an’ they know we’re comin’. I don’t think we’re getting’ closer without getting’ plugged.”
The Mean Streets – Upper East Side – Night City – 12:49am
The Mean Streets – Upper East Side – Night City – 12:49am
"You're right, chico, but I can tell you what he's gonna say. He's gonna want to meet the man who just set him up for the gangers that are probably not far behind us. Then he's gonna yell at you for leaving your post because there will probably already be gunfire. Think about it, hombre, he's gonna send you right back here to make sure that we don't have any info he needs. In other words, chico, why the FRACK do you think I came down here? I don't want to get shot! I ain't no fighter!"
There were a lot of glances exchanged. If there were a going rate that the edgerunners could have collected on, they’d have raked in the dough. As it was, Spiff knew almost immediately that his gamble had paid off. The stares that these gangers were sharing were filled with concern, but to the observant fixer the anxiety wasn’t directed at the three of them. There was something knowing in these gazes; these people have been waiting for something to go down, and Spiff figured it was likely not their arrival. What he’d said spurred a wave of doubt. Just what he needed to make his ruse work.
Firewind felt his shoulders relax a little as well, for he saw it in these Wild Things’ eyes. The medic had trained himself to read people. He watched for the dilation of their pupils, the widening of their eye, the way their shoulders hung from their frame, and he knew that they’d bought into Spiff’s bull.
Only Peacekeeper remained coiled like a flying squirrel ready to spring from a python. Since these looks of sudden apprehension by so many people carrying military-grade weapons could lead off in any direction at any second, she wasn’t about to let her guard down. She’d seen it often enough before; the careless, or foolish, believing that the situation was well within hand, and then it explodes. She’d been in on a couple of undercover busts where everything was going so smooth and then someone had done something stupid to blow their cover. So much lead… so much blood… this was not what she wanted, but she was ready.
“All right,” the bald guard growled, pulling his submachine gun off Spiff and resting it against his shoulder. “But you got it all wrong, Gato. We ain’t low-techin’ no more, so I don’t have t’ go stompin’ up all these stairs to let Stallion know you’re on your way.”
Before Spiff could respond, the ganger had pulled a comlink from his pocket and had activated it.
“Stallion, yo.”
“What?”
“Got some balls-out glory hounds here t’ meet’cha. Should I let ‘em up?” He wagged his eyebrows at the three as he waited for the delayed response.
“Who are they?”
“They’re those that let Elizabeth know about the trouble brewin’ tonight.” Baldy gave Spiff a smile that said, “Gotcha.” Then continued through the grin, “I think they’re after some sort o’ reward.”
There was more silence during which the three stood cautiously in their place. Finally, the comlink cracked and Stallion’s voice came back over it. “Send them up.”
Mr. Bald and Pierced looked surprised for a moment before nodding into the comlink and placing it back in his pocket. “Top floor, room six-thirty-three.”
There wasn’t much time to savor the victory. Living on the Edge you learn to take what small gifts are presented you and run with them. They’re few and far between as it is, so when a little bit of grifting lands you in the sweet spot; ya just keep tickling until you’ve had your fun. With a nod and a confident smile, Spiff turned and began to trot up the stairs, Firewind and Peacekeeper following close behind. There was likely an elevator, but the three hadn’t been directed to one, and didn’t see one off-hand, so the stairs it was.
After a time the thighs start to burn, but there’s no reduction in pace. Stalling too long could end poorly and they were riding a wave of luck. Two floors gone they still hadn’t seen a single drunk Wild Thing. Three floors and they were passing men and women armed to the teeth with a serious, deadly look about them, none of the usual high, none of the usual inebriation. Four and five went by with more of the same: deadpan expressions, serious stares, and a whole lot of military-grade weaponry. Then they were at the sixth floor, stepping out into a carpeted hall from the stairwell.
The hall wasn’t very long. Spiff knew from his past that this was the floor where the penthouse suite was located, so the majority of the whole level would be dedicated to that spacious quarter, if not the whole thing. The truncated hall was no surprise to him. Firewind had been in a similar local once before during his medical internship. It had been filled with superficial interns waiting hand and foot on a few residents and full-fledged doctors. The experience hadn’t been pleasant, but Sohe had thought it quaint… of course, she’d dumped a whole buttload of escargot on the chief resident when the conversation had turned to politics, but that was a different story. Peacekeeper didn’t have the opportunity to visit these places as much. Most of her clientele were located in dives, piss-filled holes-in-the-wall. Still, there was no real difference in the results a firefight incurred were stains on the carpet instead of the bare cement.
Peacekeeper scanned the hall, running her eyes along the whole length of it, looking for anything that might indicate trouble. Some dealers set the hall outside their safe room with automatic, AI controlled, machine guns, but she didn’t see any of that here. No cameras, nothing but a group of four very large gangers at the end of the hall standing around the double doors leading into the penthouse suite.
Firewind felt the calming sensation from his stress chip activate and thanked whatever divine being had invented them for the adrenaline detection release module. His eyes were darting about as well, jumping from the walls to the ceiling, ceiling to the floor, to the door, to the goons—at least down there they could have made a break for the door. Here? There was no where to go.
Spiff didn’t see anything out of the ordinary in the hall either. His was a quick scan, more used to the grunts such as Peacekeeper doing that sort of work than having to work through the details himself. Instead, he did what he did best and focused on the guards, trying to get a read on them.
The first of the guards stood leaning against the wall. He was about six foot, long black hair that draped his shoulders, a thick face with some Chinese in it, and thin, black sunglasses. He wore a black vest over a bare chest and his right arm was chromed to a beautiful, reflective sheen. His body bulged with muscle and the scowl on his face said he didn’t like that he was letting anyone into the room, let alone these three. Held in his hands was an impressive-looking shotgun.
The guard across from him stood two inches taller, wore his hair in a Mohawk, pulled back into a long ponytail. It was obviously TechHair™ and the whole length of it kept changing shades of green in waves. He had enough earrings in each ear and piercings in his face to be brutal in appearance, and the whole length of his neck had the skin pierced in regular intervals with thin slivers of metal on each side. He was bare-chested as well, ripped, and carrying a large submachine gun.
The two in the back were twins, standing on either side of the door like huge, Viking statues. They each had long, pale blonde hair worn nearly to their waists. They were broad in the shoulders and large than either of the men in front of them. Their mirrorshades covered their eyes, they wore Gibson armored jackets and carried some more of those submachine guns. The one on the left had a defining scar on his chin, but that was really the only way they could be told apart.
As the party approached, Spiff could see that they weren’t going to impede their progress and sure enough, the three of them were admitted without difficulty. The room beyond was luxurious and wide. The floors were marble, the walls were white wood with rails and runners. There were trestle tables with vases and flowers to either side of the door and a large, polished table in the center of the room forced the woman who walked purposefully towards them to round out to the right side some ways before righting herself again. Beyond her, the room ran to a wall of windows that would have overlooked the northern factory across the street, but its blinds were tightly drawn.
“I’m Dawn,” the woman said as she drew up in front of them. She was shorter than Peacekeeper by about two inches. Her hair was blue, cropped really short in the back, but for a long tail, and angling down to her chin up front. It was parted in the middle. She had two eyebrow rings over her left eye, a diamond nose stud, and a pierced bottom lip. As she spoke, the three could easily see that her tongue bore three silver balls down the length of it. She wore a lacy black bra visible beneath a fishnet tank top that revealed two Asian-relief coy fish tattoo sleeves. She had two handguns tucked into her baggy black pants at the waist enough that they road the pants down a bit revealing that she wore striped white and blue men’s boxers underneath.
“He ain’t gonna wait long.” She was sizing them up, had already passed over Spiff, dismissed Firewind with a cursory glance, and now was concentrating on Peacekeeper like a matron wolf who’d just been challenged. “So you better come this way.”
She turned and began to retrace her steps with the gait of a man filled with temper. “Don’t think on drawing steel here, boys and girls. One shot fired and this place lights up faster than the Mid-east, if you know what I’m saying.”
As she spoke they were led around the table, to the wall, on to the left and down another short hall with equally impressive decorations to another elaborately crafted door. Through the door they found themselves in a sitting room. There were three couches of soft brown microfiber material, a polished brown coffee table between them, and an electric fireplace to the open space. The rest of the room was amply decorated, but the whole of the focus was on this area. Against the far wall were some windows whose blinds were also drawn. Their position, though, would place them facing to the east.
On the couch facing the entrance were two people. One was a well-muscled (likely enhanced) male with a mane of brown hair that drifted about his shoulders as though it had a life of its own. His low eyebrows were furrowed, though not in what appeared to be anger, but more likely out of habit. There were shadows under his eyes, a sign that Firewind registered as drug withdrawal, though enough time had passed that he was definitely on the upswing of it. He wore a black tank top, dark blue jeans, and had a heavy handgun sitting on the couch next to him. His chest bore a blocky, first generation light tattoo depicting a horse’s head in brilliant whites and reds.
Next to him, sitting seductively, but looking pale and a little piqued. She wore a white tank top over a red bra. Her face was nearly perfectly symmetrical, her eyes slightly slanted and alluring. Her lips were full and shaped with that full upper lip and slightly smaller lip that was made popular by fashion models of the early decade. Her bone structure provided her with smooth features and the shape of her face was not to angular while retaining nice lines. She wore her blond hair up though it could easily be below the shoulders. It was cut in a shag style, with jutting shocks of hair sticking out of large clips. It was obvious that the hair was technologically advanced; the tips held a pinpoint starlight glow of red and the sheen that kept playing over the hair made it appear as though she were walking down a long hallway with intermittent lighting. Her body was tone—a very sexy shape. Piercings in both ears; an ink tattoo of the goddess Isis on her left calf, visible below her capris. Both eyebrows were pierced, though the left had a stud and the right a ring. Her tank top was wrinkled up near her rib cage revealing a belly button piercing with a dangling silver rose. She carried no weapons.
“So,” Stallion drew the word out in a gravel-filled voice as the three approached the couches, Dawn stepping off to their right side and folding her arms across her small chest. “You’re the heroes that let Liz know ‘bout our trouble brewin’?”
The Mean Streets – Upper East Side – Night City – 12:53am
Meat Location: The Farris Family Inn – Night City – 10:15pm; The Net: Night City Grid – Night City University Net Campus/Administration Building.
“Can I help you?” the voice asked him. He turned an about face and stared into the eyes of the seductive AI program. Her voice was like a symphonic orchestra, beautiful, melodic and sweet. Whoever designed this program definitely knew what they were doing. Her bent over form revealed the cleavage that he had so noticed earlier, making his heart race slightly faster. Jazzer was always better able to associate with net entities more so than women in real life.
“Umm....uhhh....yeah,” he replied as he raised his gaze to the green dots that were supposed to be her pupils. He had not expected for his invisiblity to be pierced by the AI, it having had worked all night. “Is there any way that I could perhaps check the mail of one Merideth Ackerman. Her father has hired to help in the case of her disappearance. I am a private investigator and not a cop, so I have no credentials to show you.”
He tried to keep his voice steady and attempted to persuade the AI that he was for real here.
Artificial intelligence was a different challenge to persuade than a real person. Though they were programmed to mimic various personalities they were, in fact, algorithms and logic guided their processes. But Jazzer knew this. He was an experienced programmer, one of the best on the market as a matter of fact, and he knew the proper ploy he needed to play. The role of a private investigator would most likely make sense, and since logic was the driving factor within the AI, Jazzer was gambling on the fact that if this Merideth had been missing for long enough the AI would likely conclude that an investigation made sense… His gamble paid off.
“Certainly, sir. Right this way.” The AI turned about and led the way to the wall of boxes, then waved her hand similarly to the way a gameshow hostess presents prizes. The box that was Merideth’s lit up, outlined by a blue glow. Imagery of letters began to flow from within the box though the door hadn’t opened. They were carried by dove wings and flew out to hover in front of Jazzer. The AI swiveled about again and walked her sexy walk to behind the counter once more where she busied herself with pretend post office work.
There weren’t many emails. Especially for a beautiful college girl. Jazzer filtered through the emails quickly, looking at subject lines and trying to determine whether something was interesting enough to copy. After a couple of seconds he quickly copied everything, releasing the emails back to the box and closing it down. This left the netrunner alone in the post office with the inattentive AI.
Meat Location: The Farris Family Inn – Night City – 10:15pm; The Net: Night City Grid – Night City University Net Campus/Student Union/Bookstore.
The Mean Streets – Upper East Side - Night City/Rooftop next to the Hole – 12:48pm
Guardian scanned the building and finally resolved himself to a blank. They’d been staring at the brick monstrosity for some time now and he’d been playing entry options over in his head, knowing that DigitalScribe’d likely want to get a peak inside. Still, nothing short of jumping the buildings and opening up on the gangers stood out as an option… and that jump would be trying.
“We could jump over there,” DigitalScribe offered. “You could take out the opposition and… ah, hell! Who’m I kidding? That won’t work. Besides, we’re impartial observers. Impartial observers can’t go around shooting the subjects… with guns that is. Frack!
Frack!
Frack!”
Here they were, on the outskirts of what Frankie thought would be a high-paying gig, and they were sitting atop a roof, in the rain, with no options.
“You don’t wanna take out those guys on the roof and we jump across, do you Guardian?” DigitalScribe sighed at the ridiculous nature of the question and went back to watching.
The Mean Streets – Upper East Side - Night City/Rooftop next to The Hole – 12:49am
Posted on 2007-03-17 at 03:20:33.
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Topic: Cerebral Paradox - Cyberpunk 2020
Subject: Bad news
Looks like Eol isn't going to be taking over Preacher so we're open for two players. I'll move us along then shortly.
Posted on 2007-03-16 at 00:32:34.
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Topic: Cerebral Paradox - Cyberpunk 2020
Subject: It seems like...
What's the dealio? We're having difficulty getting this rolling again. Is there still interest?
Posted on 2007-03-15 at 00:52:02.
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Topic: Voyages of the Rocinante - Firefly RPG QnA
Subject: Hooray!
Boo-rah!
Posted on 2007-03-15 at 00:51:23.
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Topic: Continuing Where We Last Left Off Q&A
Subject: Congratulations!
Awesome! I'm pleased for you, Roger. You and Cathy both... now if we could just find a job for Cathy that pays as well, but requires zero travel!
Posted on 2007-03-15 at 00:50:54.
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Topic: Continuing Where We Last Left Off
Subject: Through the looking glass
Char watched Dapple carefully as she held her ear a small breadth from the door. He looked for any sort of ripple in her calm, anything that would indicate something waiting for them on the other side. He'd come to know some of the patterns in that calm water--like reading the movement of fish below the surface of a lake--over the time they'd been travelling together and he relied on that little insight now that the situation necessitated silence. Her shadowy gaze met his blazing blue eyes for a moment and he knew things were clear... for the time being. Glancing back at the rest, he swore to himself as he nearly put his forehead in the gladiator's chest. Casting a baleful glance at the big man he arched just enough to see the others and indicated that they should come forward. In that time, Dapple had made motion for Maximus to help her with the door. There was a moment of tense realization as to what Dapple had discovered when she slipped the dagger through in one quick, smooth motion before tugging backward. Char felt his breath catch in his throat as the rickety old thing fell inward only to be caught by Maximus with naught a sound.
Glancing at Arian, Char received the man's distracted nod and took it to mean that they should continue forward without hesitation. Dapple had already taken a peak around the nearly cord-thin doorframe by the time the ranger had reached her and the two of them quickly surmised that the path ahead was void of visible danger. Following the little rogue, Char glanced back at the waiting party, wondering how long Arien would remain with them before splitting off to try and free Alloryn on his own. It didn't make sense taking that route when their strength lay in their numbers, but Char had never had much luck talking sense to the knight. It had mostly ended with Arien looking over at Alloryn confused and momentarily dismayed by the ranger's deep backwoods accent. At least, that's how it was previously. What had made him chose Char to lead should he decide to rush off after family? If Char had been forced to make that decision he'd have gone with Kilgim.
Char hadn't been daydreaming while he was considering their situation. He'd been watching Dapple at work and making his own assumption of what would happen with those hinges and bolt. When they moved back to the rest of the party he nodded his agreement and was about to remain quiet when a thought occurred to him.
What seemed like ages past he'd joined Eftari and three other men on a scouting expedition into a rather dense arm of the Gnarley Forest. They'd been on the hunt for some guerilla fighters working a supply line and after a time Eftari had said that they could go no further due to a rather impenatrable wall made from natural undergrowth. Char had determined that the tracks of those they sought led right through this wall, but they'd been unable to penetrate it and after hours of searching, discovered that the wall continued in both directions for a seemingly endless time. It just so happened that one of the men who had accompanied them--Wha' was 'is name? Sho' Niri, er somet'in' o' da sor'--was a spellcaster and had used a spell through which he could see over the wall and to what lay beyond. It had been a most useful spell, showing the location of the troop. The memory was fading, as were most of what he still held close having to do with his old mentor. Time was a very good thief.
"'Fore we go knockin' down da doors, makin' a rucko', need t' ask da tree o' yous if'n ya 'ave any scryin' magic t' see beyon' da door." Char paused, blinked, and then said, "Well, do ya?"
Posted on 2007-03-14 at 03:46:09.
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Topic: Voyages of Rocinante - Serenity/Firefly RPG
Subject: Well played.
And there it was: The Luck o’ Three.
Wyatt sat quietly stone-faced through Dodger’s discourse. His natural expression was one of hard sternness that some automatically assumed meant he was angry. It was something that he used to his advantage both often and well, and in this case it portrayed the cold rage that built inside more than adequately. As the captain saw it there could be only one answer, and that was that they were being set up. How far it went, he couldn’t immediately conjure, so he was uncertain as to whether Dodger was at risk, but he was absolutely positive that his crew was. That’s the way he looked at it too: his crew was at risk. It didn’t matter that he might be commanding Rocinante and by proximity that meant that he, too, was at risk. As far as Wyatt Sung was concerned, his crew and his boat were all that mattered now, and this revelation was threatening to blow them all outta the Black.
He’d found it more than a little odd that the delivery boys’d been slaughtered, but the sten-bolts were left. He’d voiced his concern to the crew at dinner that night as they burned for Bellerophon and what they’d hoped was a safe dispatch of the goods that sat in their cargo bay. Don’t make no sense slaughterin’ and shootin’ holes in them all, but leavin’ the wares. Jus’ ain’t proper pirating’s all. Still, there was nothin’ for it then and there weren’t nothing for it now. They brought the sten-bolts to Dodger in good faith that he’d be able to step ‘em off for a fair price; judging from the look in his eye, Wyatt was fairly certain that the man didn’t think they’d gone all a-piratin’ and humped those that got his stolen cargo. Of course, what it did mean was that those that got dead at the swap point were likely those that humped Nina Harley. There’s some justice after all. So the big question was what to do ‘bout the circumstances they found themselves in now?
“Captain san, I may be stating the obvious, but we’re caught in a classic standoff, and with an unknown slinger, not Dodger, here. The question is; were we being set up, or was Dodger,” Wyatt met Willow’s gaze with an unreadable expression on his own, “Or are all of us being played?” The doctor finished ominously.
“Juh guh jee hua juhn kuh pah, either way,” Sam grumbled, “Fer the whole ruttin’ buncha us! I mean, if I’m hearin’ correct what Dodger’s sayin’, we’re humped on this deal, right? Plus, even if’n we’s ta manage salvagin’ anythin’ from it, us an’ Smokey McPot, here, get on the bad side o’ some big ruttin’ Joo Bah Jeh who’s like ta come a-gunnin’ fer us jus’ cuz we mighta once seen this mi tian gohn cargo… Mother-humpin’-son-of….” Dash’s voice trailed off into under-his-breath mumblings.
“Finished?” Wyatt said evenly, raising a brow at his friend and waiting for the affirmation with gargoyle-like patience.
(OOC: assuming he is… or if he ain’t then Wyatt’ll let him rant a bit more.)
Turning back to Dodger, Wyatt tilted his head a bit to the left and settled back into his chair once more. “Ways I see it, Puhn Yoh, is that Sam an’ Willow ain’t that far off. ‘Course this don’t mean Da Shiong La Se La Ch’wohn Tian as far as I’m concerned ‘cause the good of it is that it forces our hand rather than allowin’ us t’ sit on our shiny little asses an’ wait fer something to poke us.
“Now, I know—an’ I’m sure you’re thinkin’ the same—that we came by this cargo clean an’ lawful. Fact of it was that the Ching Soh that dealt the crew o’ Nina Hartley their ace o’ spades was dead when we got there, so it ain’t likely that they had no stories t’ tell despite the sayin’ from Earth That Was t’ the contrary.
“You say—an’ I’m likely t’ believe you—that this here cargo’s a bunch that you lost, but that the Lao Buhn that hired you t’ ride it ‘cross the Black washed his hands of it like it was petty cash.” Here, the right side of Wyatt’s mouth curved into a wry half-smile. “Seems as though a Jing Chai business-type’d be a bit outta character t’ act so ruttin’ foolish where his money’s concerned. The types I know’d be poundin’ on yer door ready to take yer boys here and show ‘em a new dance even for a couple of credits on the head. It’s bad business t’ go all Hur Bao Duhn with an’ audience an’ such.”
Wyatt paused for just a moment—not long enough to indicate he was finished, but enough to let Dodger chew on his muddling a little.
“Like I said,” Sung continued nonchalantly. “Seems likely that someone’s got a burr under their saddle and is aimin’ t’ Da Kai Sa Jeh the lot o’ us. So, here’s the rough side up: you take this cargo off our hands for a fair price—nothin’ fancy, just enough t’ make up fer our costs an’ such. We got ourselves a run lined up that’d put us in a fair shiny spot fer a spell that’s gotta be carted off by tomorrow if’n we’re to meet the deadline. After’s all said an’ done, we’ll burn back to this rock an’ put our brainpans together t’ see if’n we can’t conjure up a fair picture o’ the why’s and how’s.”
Wyatt’s face went deadpan again as he finished his line of thought. “Some Ung Jeong Jia Ching Jien Soh put mine in a fix, Puhn Yoh. As far as I’m concerned they’ve already been sized fer a shiny, little pine box.”
Posted on 2007-03-13 at 03:09:49.
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Topic: Continuing Where We Last Left Off Q&A
Subject: If it makes you feel better.
I've never received a written offer for any job I've ever held. It generally (in my experience) happens for really high-paying, salaried or commissioned, type jobs where you have some serious rank in the company.
Good on ya!
Posted on 2007-03-13 at 00:22:59.
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Topic: Continuing Where We Last Left Off Q&A
Subject: Congrats!
Here's to the hope that everything comes through. Does a verbal offer mean that they've pretty much given you the job, there's just the official paperwork to take care of?
Posted on 2007-03-10 at 21:44:46.
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