- Location
- Canada
[X] Talk to Gahm about the recent upheaval in Japan. You don't know much about it besides what's been playing on the usual news sites, but you've heard that things are pretty crazy over there.
Shadowrun: Imugi
XkaliburRage
Perpetual Procrastinator
[X] Talk to Gahm about the recent upheaval in Japan. You don't know much about it besides what's been playing on the usual news sites, but you've heard that things are pretty crazy over there.
Prologue Part Three: Don't Sweat the Petty Stuff
TenfoldShields
Lounging on a Hoard of Words
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Silence spans between you, dead air on the channel. The uncertain gap between the conclusion of one conversation and the start of the next. You search your brain, desperately dredging through topics.
"So..."
"Yeah?"
"Hear about Japa-" And you don't have to say anything else, you don't get a chance to say anything else, because Gahm's bark of laughter is loud enough to make you wince. Hard, harsh, and right in your ear.
"Of course I have. It's magical isn't it? Enough to make you have faith in things again huh? It's- shit you're a foreigner. Has anyone ever given you the rundown? No of course they haven't. Seven whole months and not a peep eh? People here are so polite about it, they like to pretend, but," he sucks his teeth and exhales through pursed lips, contemplative, "okay, stop me if you've heard this yeah? You have a nation of fucking rats right? Piled up high on their little islands, chit-chit-chittering about oh how pure this one is. How glossy that one's coat is. How many fleas such and such royal shitbag has to wear. And they do as rats do and breed and spread until they've they've choked up trash-lands with festering crotch spawn and have to set sail. Floating on their crap-ships. Landing where they do. Eating what they see. Yeah?"
"Yeah." You answer, somewhat uncertainly as you tap the side of your helmet; trying to shake the ringing out of your ear. Mentally berating your brain for not defaulting to the goddamn weather or whatever it is normal people talk about. You're really not equipped for this.
"Yeah, of course! That's what rats do! And that's what Japan is. It's a tangled pile of rats; scavengers and crop-eating pests. Bad people doing bad things and getting rewarded from on high because, justice? Pft, fuck that. Of course there's no justice. So they keep being ratty shitbags. Preening about how, oh obviously they must be doing something right while the world sucks them off. Right?"
"Right."
"Until it fucking doesn't." His voice drops an octave and suddenly the joking, eager tone is gone. The black mirth is gone. And all that's left is a deep rumble that has all the warmth and affection of frozen rock. "Shimabara? Cinder. Precious doll of an Emperor? Buried under a fucking volcano. Half of Japan on fire, stocks are plummeting nationwide, and their precious tin clad marines are stuck scurrying back to help pick up the pieces. And you know the best part? The absolutely wonderful part?"
"What's that?"
"It's only them. China's fine. I mean, they have a Great Dragon so of course they weathered it. And Korea barely had a ripple, we're fine too obviously. But the entire Imperial half of the Pacific Ocean blew the fuck up. Who says karma's not real?"
"No kidding." You try not to shiver. You bite your cheek and wick away threads of qi but you can't stop your skin from crawling.
"...Heh. You think I'm just being an asshole about this huh?"
"What? N-no." You couldn't even convince yourself with that if you tried. Gahm sighs. He sounds like a mildly exasperated bear.
"Look. Esser. I like you yeah? But there's something you've got to understand living here. When China fell apart it was Japan skittering around the edges, licking their lips and planning, eyeing all of us and waiting to snap us up. And when things were tense here? Japan helped the North because they wanted to buddy up with the reds and get a tap into the leyline net. In Tokyo the Diet and the corps sit and judge and tell everyone else how filthy we are for having metahumans among us, for not subjugating ourselves to the glorious Japanese Empire. So understand yeah? No matter how much proper people might frown and tsk tsk about coarse talk, deep down they're all thinking the same thing: if the last rat crawled from the ashes of the last Imperial city...all of Korea would line up to step on its fucking head."
Your comm pings, the icon reforms and another name unfolds. Merciful rescue in the form of Ngai.
"Meeting's ending. Cut the chatter." She says, more mildly annoyed than actually angry. You obediently do as bid. The doors to the conference room hiss open and the executives within start filing out. Here one pauses in front of a guard to pick up their detail. Here another doing the same, barely slowing. A second and then Bojing is there for you too.
You principal is short and lithe. Body corded with the kind of musculature you can only get from gene therapy and a personal trainer. His delicate features are framed by an almost fragile looking beard. His skin is fashionably tan and he's dressed in a charcoal suit worth more than your diploma. He looks Ngai up and down. Leaning ever so slightly to the side to run a critical eye over you and Gahm.
He jerks his head and continues walking. The three of you automatically fall in around him: Ngai on his left, you on his right, Gahm bringing up the rear; thumbs in his belt and looking for all the world like an armored bear.
The rest of the morning passes in a blur of color, a smear of sensation. Raindrops beading on your mask, trickling past your eyes. The crowds of Togko parting before you, greys and blues and blacks marred by the odd flash of green or gold. To the heliport to pick up Ms. Chegal: the transport descending, broad rotors whipping up a fine mist off the pad. Bojing gallantly helps her off, one hand clasped tight around hers. You watch the perimeter; one hand on your hilt. Moving back towards the public concourses. The lower and less important give way before you; their faces either curious or carefully neutral. You watch them. They watch you. It's hard to say who's warier. A bright peal of laughter. Or maybe they're really just watching Ms. Chegal behind you and honestly you can't really blame them for that.
She's beautiful. Her laugh is warm and loud. Her dress is so colorful it almost hurts to look at, robust reds and pale, pastel pinks that seem to shine against the gloom and grey. You steal a glance back at her. Bojing's gaze slides towards you. You focus forward. You see a teen in the crowd with a scarlet birthmark splashed across his face. Black eyes wide. He watches longer than others and you take note of his jeans and jacket.
They go shopping. He buys her lingerie, she giggles. Ngai, Gahm, and you, the three of you follow like shadows. Interposing yourselves here and there when needed. Politely but firmly moving along a particularly eager vendor, your palm digging into his chest as you stop him five paces away from your uncaring principal. Less politely breaking up a line so that Bojing can sweep to the front, practically basking in the angry grumbling and caustic muttering.
Time passes. Togko is like an aquarium; a fishbowl. Five, multistoried, corporate headquarters, each one the size of a city block in their own right. Internal rail running to all points on the vast, five sided star. A private heliport and ultramodern shopping complex in the center. You look to the clouds, to the fence of monolithic slabs that rings you in; the residential towers that scrape the rainy sky. Your breath echoes in your own ears. There's little talking now, just a few snippets here and there. Ngai takes the thankless task of gently shepherding Bojing along.
A romantic rendezvous. The suites are discrete and there isn't much room inside, not that he'd countenance a guard at so vulnerable a time anyway. You wait in the hall and try not to picture the face that matches the faint noises you hear.
A man rolls a cart by, cap pulled low and eyes on the ground. Your head turns to follow him, tilting. He glances back over his shoulder. He sees you maybe-looking in his direction and hunches down again. Scarlet runs across his nose, his coveralls hang loose on his body.
You ping Ngai and Gahm with the description.
"Fan of Shek or fan of Chegal y'think?" Gahm muses aloud.
"Don't be an ass." Ngai says, unamused. "Obviously Chegal."
The three of you talk about the weather as you wait for Bojing to finish up. When he and Ms. Chegal finally emerge, flushed and beaming, you escort the two of them down to the lobby. The dapper dressed attendants of the Cinnamon Collar Circle know better than to meet your principal's eyes. He and Chegal murmur playfully to each other, teasing and joking all the way to the restaurant. It's not a long trip, you arrive with time to spare.
You find out when you arrive that there's been an error; they just installed new software, perhaps it was a bug or improper entry, the host explains. The sweat trickling from his brow belying the smoothness of his words. But in either case, Bojing's reservation has been booked over by a luncheon party from SarIndex; however for such a valued customer they would be more than willing to issue a full refund and comp his next meal. Boking doesn't even slow as he brushes past the wilting host, his detail in tow. You approach the room, the host protesting, ever weaker. A particularly burly troll in waiter stress sets and tray down and steps forward cautiously before being waved to the side.
Boking snaps his fingers. Ngai opens the door. You catch a glimpse of the people inside. You hear them laughing, joking; they're young, not much older than you. They fall silent as you and Gahm step into the sumptuous room. The table before them covered in delicate dishes, a gourmet spread. Your hand drifts to your hip. Chegal is behind you; hanging off of Boking's arm, her eyes alive with interest. Darting between the players.
"Leave." Your voice is flat, even. An elf stands up, her ears lined with precious metals. Corner of her mouth curved into a wicked smirk. Her eyes drift over your shoulder to Bojing as her friend, an ork, rises behind her. Muscles rippling beneath tailored sleeves. The elf's eyes drift back to you.
"Make me."
Smoke is still curling up from her suit as Gahm dumps her in the alleyway. Shock stick freshly returned to his holster, yours still warm at your hip. You unsling the ork from your shoulder with a grunt of effort, leaving him in a rain puddle next to his friend. The concrete is slick, all but dancing with raindrops. A light flickers wanly up above. You halfheartedly nudge the ork under the cover of the awning with your foot. Ignoring him as he twitches.
The elf groans, bringing a manicured hand to her face. Her eyes bloodshot and glassy. Gahm snorts behind you. "Stupid motherfucker."
The pair of you return inside. Business within August Park continues as if nothing's untoward has happened. The rest of the trendy SarIndex-types are long gone, apparently content to abandon their companions. In the private room serving staff demurely clean off the table and make ready to take your principal's orders. Ngai remains with him and Ms. Chegal. Gahm sees to the kitchen with a promise to return with dumplings; you know he will. He's nice like that.
You stand in the doorway at attention, doing your best to ignore the dull ache in your feet and your legs. You focus on your breathing instead, calming your heart, letting the qi suffuse your lungs.
In and out.
The click of chopsticks and the low babble of polite conversation drifts up around you. The serving staff walk past you. Arms laden with trays, pushing small silver carts. They don't look at you but you watch them. Idly sizing them up for suspicious lumps beneath their jackets. Straps along their thighs. One breaks off from the stream and angles towards you. His eyes politely lowered, a broad tray in his left hand with a teapot and cups atop. His face blotchy as if coated in foundation that didn't quite match.
In and out.
...Makeup.
He approaches the doorway, deliberately and with measured stride. There's a paunch at his belly that doesn't match with his frame. He's hunching down trying to cover it. You realize suddenly that you can't see his right hand.
And then he's right in front of you.
"For Mr. Shek and company," he says confidently, "compliments of the establishment."
In and out.
[ ] Unsheathe your monomol sword. Prepare to use lethal force.
[ ] Unsheathe your shock baton. Prepare to use nonlethal force.
[ ] Verbally refuse and attempt to passively detain him. Quietly call for backup.
"So..."
"Yeah?"
"Hear about Japa-" And you don't have to say anything else, you don't get a chance to say anything else, because Gahm's bark of laughter is loud enough to make you wince. Hard, harsh, and right in your ear.
"Of course I have. It's magical isn't it? Enough to make you have faith in things again huh? It's- shit you're a foreigner. Has anyone ever given you the rundown? No of course they haven't. Seven whole months and not a peep eh? People here are so polite about it, they like to pretend, but," he sucks his teeth and exhales through pursed lips, contemplative, "okay, stop me if you've heard this yeah? You have a nation of fucking rats right? Piled up high on their little islands, chit-chit-chittering about oh how pure this one is. How glossy that one's coat is. How many fleas such and such royal shitbag has to wear. And they do as rats do and breed and spread until they've they've choked up trash-lands with festering crotch spawn and have to set sail. Floating on their crap-ships. Landing where they do. Eating what they see. Yeah?"
"Yeah." You answer, somewhat uncertainly as you tap the side of your helmet; trying to shake the ringing out of your ear. Mentally berating your brain for not defaulting to the goddamn weather or whatever it is normal people talk about. You're really not equipped for this.
"Yeah, of course! That's what rats do! And that's what Japan is. It's a tangled pile of rats; scavengers and crop-eating pests. Bad people doing bad things and getting rewarded from on high because, justice? Pft, fuck that. Of course there's no justice. So they keep being ratty shitbags. Preening about how, oh obviously they must be doing something right while the world sucks them off. Right?"
"Right."
"Until it fucking doesn't." His voice drops an octave and suddenly the joking, eager tone is gone. The black mirth is gone. And all that's left is a deep rumble that has all the warmth and affection of frozen rock. "Shimabara? Cinder. Precious doll of an Emperor? Buried under a fucking volcano. Half of Japan on fire, stocks are plummeting nationwide, and their precious tin clad marines are stuck scurrying back to help pick up the pieces. And you know the best part? The absolutely wonderful part?"
"What's that?"
"It's only them. China's fine. I mean, they have a Great Dragon so of course they weathered it. And Korea barely had a ripple, we're fine too obviously. But the entire Imperial half of the Pacific Ocean blew the fuck up. Who says karma's not real?"
"No kidding." You try not to shiver. You bite your cheek and wick away threads of qi but you can't stop your skin from crawling.
"...Heh. You think I'm just being an asshole about this huh?"
"What? N-no." You couldn't even convince yourself with that if you tried. Gahm sighs. He sounds like a mildly exasperated bear.
"Look. Esser. I like you yeah? But there's something you've got to understand living here. When China fell apart it was Japan skittering around the edges, licking their lips and planning, eyeing all of us and waiting to snap us up. And when things were tense here? Japan helped the North because they wanted to buddy up with the reds and get a tap into the leyline net. In Tokyo the Diet and the corps sit and judge and tell everyone else how filthy we are for having metahumans among us, for not subjugating ourselves to the glorious Japanese Empire. So understand yeah? No matter how much proper people might frown and tsk tsk about coarse talk, deep down they're all thinking the same thing: if the last rat crawled from the ashes of the last Imperial city...all of Korea would line up to step on its fucking head."
Your comm pings, the icon reforms and another name unfolds. Merciful rescue in the form of Ngai.
"Meeting's ending. Cut the chatter." She says, more mildly annoyed than actually angry. You obediently do as bid. The doors to the conference room hiss open and the executives within start filing out. Here one pauses in front of a guard to pick up their detail. Here another doing the same, barely slowing. A second and then Bojing is there for you too.
You principal is short and lithe. Body corded with the kind of musculature you can only get from gene therapy and a personal trainer. His delicate features are framed by an almost fragile looking beard. His skin is fashionably tan and he's dressed in a charcoal suit worth more than your diploma. He looks Ngai up and down. Leaning ever so slightly to the side to run a critical eye over you and Gahm.
He jerks his head and continues walking. The three of you automatically fall in around him: Ngai on his left, you on his right, Gahm bringing up the rear; thumbs in his belt and looking for all the world like an armored bear.
The rest of the morning passes in a blur of color, a smear of sensation. Raindrops beading on your mask, trickling past your eyes. The crowds of Togko parting before you, greys and blues and blacks marred by the odd flash of green or gold. To the heliport to pick up Ms. Chegal: the transport descending, broad rotors whipping up a fine mist off the pad. Bojing gallantly helps her off, one hand clasped tight around hers. You watch the perimeter; one hand on your hilt. Moving back towards the public concourses. The lower and less important give way before you; their faces either curious or carefully neutral. You watch them. They watch you. It's hard to say who's warier. A bright peal of laughter. Or maybe they're really just watching Ms. Chegal behind you and honestly you can't really blame them for that.
She's beautiful. Her laugh is warm and loud. Her dress is so colorful it almost hurts to look at, robust reds and pale, pastel pinks that seem to shine against the gloom and grey. You steal a glance back at her. Bojing's gaze slides towards you. You focus forward. You see a teen in the crowd with a scarlet birthmark splashed across his face. Black eyes wide. He watches longer than others and you take note of his jeans and jacket.
They go shopping. He buys her lingerie, she giggles. Ngai, Gahm, and you, the three of you follow like shadows. Interposing yourselves here and there when needed. Politely but firmly moving along a particularly eager vendor, your palm digging into his chest as you stop him five paces away from your uncaring principal. Less politely breaking up a line so that Bojing can sweep to the front, practically basking in the angry grumbling and caustic muttering.
Time passes. Togko is like an aquarium; a fishbowl. Five, multistoried, corporate headquarters, each one the size of a city block in their own right. Internal rail running to all points on the vast, five sided star. A private heliport and ultramodern shopping complex in the center. You look to the clouds, to the fence of monolithic slabs that rings you in; the residential towers that scrape the rainy sky. Your breath echoes in your own ears. There's little talking now, just a few snippets here and there. Ngai takes the thankless task of gently shepherding Bojing along.
A romantic rendezvous. The suites are discrete and there isn't much room inside, not that he'd countenance a guard at so vulnerable a time anyway. You wait in the hall and try not to picture the face that matches the faint noises you hear.
A man rolls a cart by, cap pulled low and eyes on the ground. Your head turns to follow him, tilting. He glances back over his shoulder. He sees you maybe-looking in his direction and hunches down again. Scarlet runs across his nose, his coveralls hang loose on his body.
You ping Ngai and Gahm with the description.
"Fan of Shek or fan of Chegal y'think?" Gahm muses aloud.
"Don't be an ass." Ngai says, unamused. "Obviously Chegal."
The three of you talk about the weather as you wait for Bojing to finish up. When he and Ms. Chegal finally emerge, flushed and beaming, you escort the two of them down to the lobby. The dapper dressed attendants of the Cinnamon Collar Circle know better than to meet your principal's eyes. He and Chegal murmur playfully to each other, teasing and joking all the way to the restaurant. It's not a long trip, you arrive with time to spare.
You find out when you arrive that there's been an error; they just installed new software, perhaps it was a bug or improper entry, the host explains. The sweat trickling from his brow belying the smoothness of his words. But in either case, Bojing's reservation has been booked over by a luncheon party from SarIndex; however for such a valued customer they would be more than willing to issue a full refund and comp his next meal. Boking doesn't even slow as he brushes past the wilting host, his detail in tow. You approach the room, the host protesting, ever weaker. A particularly burly troll in waiter stress sets and tray down and steps forward cautiously before being waved to the side.
Boking snaps his fingers. Ngai opens the door. You catch a glimpse of the people inside. You hear them laughing, joking; they're young, not much older than you. They fall silent as you and Gahm step into the sumptuous room. The table before them covered in delicate dishes, a gourmet spread. Your hand drifts to your hip. Chegal is behind you; hanging off of Boking's arm, her eyes alive with interest. Darting between the players.
"Leave." Your voice is flat, even. An elf stands up, her ears lined with precious metals. Corner of her mouth curved into a wicked smirk. Her eyes drift over your shoulder to Bojing as her friend, an ork, rises behind her. Muscles rippling beneath tailored sleeves. The elf's eyes drift back to you.
"Make me."
Smoke is still curling up from her suit as Gahm dumps her in the alleyway. Shock stick freshly returned to his holster, yours still warm at your hip. You unsling the ork from your shoulder with a grunt of effort, leaving him in a rain puddle next to his friend. The concrete is slick, all but dancing with raindrops. A light flickers wanly up above. You halfheartedly nudge the ork under the cover of the awning with your foot. Ignoring him as he twitches.
The elf groans, bringing a manicured hand to her face. Her eyes bloodshot and glassy. Gahm snorts behind you. "Stupid motherfucker."
The pair of you return inside. Business within August Park continues as if nothing's untoward has happened. The rest of the trendy SarIndex-types are long gone, apparently content to abandon their companions. In the private room serving staff demurely clean off the table and make ready to take your principal's orders. Ngai remains with him and Ms. Chegal. Gahm sees to the kitchen with a promise to return with dumplings; you know he will. He's nice like that.
You stand in the doorway at attention, doing your best to ignore the dull ache in your feet and your legs. You focus on your breathing instead, calming your heart, letting the qi suffuse your lungs.
In and out.
The click of chopsticks and the low babble of polite conversation drifts up around you. The serving staff walk past you. Arms laden with trays, pushing small silver carts. They don't look at you but you watch them. Idly sizing them up for suspicious lumps beneath their jackets. Straps along their thighs. One breaks off from the stream and angles towards you. His eyes politely lowered, a broad tray in his left hand with a teapot and cups atop. His face blotchy as if coated in foundation that didn't quite match.
In and out.
...Makeup.
He approaches the doorway, deliberately and with measured stride. There's a paunch at his belly that doesn't match with his frame. He's hunching down trying to cover it. You realize suddenly that you can't see his right hand.
And then he's right in front of you.
"For Mr. Shek and company," he says confidently, "compliments of the establishment."
In and out.
[ ] Unsheathe your monomol sword. Prepare to use lethal force.
[ ] Unsheathe your shock baton. Prepare to use nonlethal force.
[ ] Verbally refuse and attempt to passively detain him. Quietly call for backup.
Last edited:
ZerbanDaGreat
Daemon Noble of D E M O G R A P H I C S
- Pronouns
- They/them
TIME TO SHOW THIS GUY THE RULES OF NATURE AAAAAAAAAAAAUGH
Is what I'd say if Mr. Esser were a psychopath, but I'm not really getting that sense from the chap. Besides, if this guy really is a suicide bomber, better to shock his asshole than cut him in half. WHARESTHATRIGGARMAN and all that. Soooo.
[X] Unsheathe your shock baton. Prepare to use nonlethal force.
Giiiiitum, giiiiiitum
The time to Zandatsu will come, I know it will.
Is what I'd say if Mr. Esser were a psychopath, but I'm not really getting that sense from the chap. Besides, if this guy really is a suicide bomber, better to shock his asshole than cut him in half. WHARESTHATRIGGARMAN and all that. Soooo.
[X] Unsheathe your shock baton. Prepare to use nonlethal force.
Giiiiitum, giiiiiitum
The time to Zandatsu will come, I know it will.
LupineVolt
Now with 200% more Puns
- Location
- Michigan
[X] Unsheathe your shock baton. Prepare to use nonlethal force.
Nonsense, making a scene is fun! Mr. Shek will have a thrilling tale to tell at the next business luncheon. I mean, we're just stunning him.
Nonsense, making a scene is fun! Mr. Shek will have a thrilling tale to tell at the next business luncheon. I mean, we're just stunning him.
[X] Unsheathe your shock baton. Prepare to use nonlethal force.
Look. Making sushi in the middle of the restaurant is like, probably some sort of health code violation. On the other hand, someone who seems to be carrying who knows what and is acting all furtive is not someone we want to take chances with.
This is Shadowrun. I am getting the feeling that this guy, whoever he might be, is probably a Runner, which means he has backup, which means if we let him talk to us we're wasting time while his backup sneaks around us and puts a bullet into the VIP's head.
Generally, "I used to be a bodyguard, then my VIP took a bullet to the face" is not something you want on your resume.
Look. Making sushi in the middle of the restaurant is like, probably some sort of health code violation. On the other hand, someone who seems to be carrying who knows what and is acting all furtive is not someone we want to take chances with.
This is Shadowrun. I am getting the feeling that this guy, whoever he might be, is probably a Runner, which means he has backup, which means if we let him talk to us we're wasting time while his backup sneaks around us and puts a bullet into the VIP's head.
Generally, "I used to be a bodyguard, then my VIP took a bullet to the face" is not something you want on your resume.
ZerbanDaGreat
Daemon Noble of D E M O G R A P H I C S
- Pronouns
- They/them
Plus shocking any rando who so much as looks at us funny will only improve our quarterly performance review so I'd say it's time for Tesla to LET 'ER RIP
Let me ask you, how many Shadowrun corpsec types are not gigantic assholes with no sense of humor?
Clearly their job selects for that type.
ZerbanDaGreat
Daemon Noble of D E M O G R A P H I C S
- Pronouns
- They/them
I'm more meaning that, in this specific case with this specific client, rampant less-than-lethal brutality at the drop of a hat is more likely than not to warrant bonus pay.
LupineVolt
Now with 200% more Puns
- Location
- Michigan
I mean, we're not psychopaths, but worst case scenario, its an overzealous server, nobody is gonna bat an eye at us. Best case scenario, we detain a potential threat and we almost certainly won't be having an important GMPC in custody for when our life gets flip turned upside down.
Cause I mean why on earth would that happen? Everything is great. We've got a pet fox and everything.
Cause I mean why on earth would that happen? Everything is great. We've got a pet fox and everything.
Well yeah, that too, but there's a fuck of a lot of stuff here that concerns me.
Someone's been watching for longer than normal. If I was a shady black ops commando unit for hire, I'd pay locals, especially kids, money to do my recon work for me. They're cheap and generally most people won't just shoot kids out of the blue, even corpsec assholes. Comms are cheap, and easily hidden.
There's a lot of people. It'd be easy to fade into the crowd if you're running covert gear, and it'd be easy enough to have a tracker or agent marking them once your kid network has picked up your target and given you a vague direction. It'll also make an extraction harder with all these people mucking things up.
Someone else who seems to be trying to be hidden. Poorly fitted clothing. Acting suspicious. Possibly hostile. Possibly an observer. Either way, suspicious.
This. This is the money shot. Reservations of important megacorp bigwigs don't fucking disappear. It's theoretically possible, but it's also very likely enemy action, what with these coincidences around. If this is an expensive restaurant, probably a good decker was involved. You set up a confrontation, distract people, then you make your move. Standard diversionary tactics. Either Bojing is the unluckiest megacorp exec to ever live, or we've got ourselves enemy action going around.
SirLagginton
Shadow Cabal Caerbannog Bun-Bun
- Location
- Arrrghhh
[X] Unsheathe your shock baton. Prepare to use nonlethal force.
I like my fish cooked.
I like my fish cooked.
- Pronouns
- He/Him
[X] Unsheathe your shock baton. Prepare to use nonlethal force.
Police Brutality Powers Activate!
Police Brutality Powers Activate!
I don't think this qualifies as police brutality in Shadowrun. I mean we're competing with Lone Star, who are
1. Privatized
2. American
3. Corrupt
4. Incredibly macho
Like, "security guy tases server in front of witnesses" is probably what we call "admirable restraint and kindness"
SirLagginton
Shadow Cabal Caerbannog Bun-Bun
- Location
- Arrrghhh
Wait, there's a difference?!
notthepenguins
Neither Spherical Nor Frictionless
- Pronouns
- He/She/They
[X] Unsheathe your shock baton. Prepare to use nonlethal force.
[X] Unsheathe your monomolsword. Prepare to use lethal force.
- Location
- Chicago
[X] Unsheathe your shock baton. Prepare to use nonlethal force.
Time for a good old beating.
Time for a good old beating.
- Location
- Austrlia
...... Gives us an excuse to go into running, though! (Also, our protectee is a dick. We should kill him ourselves, if this guy misses.)