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Post by Pelch Gobwit on Mar 2, 2012 8:16:29 GMT -5
-- Apparently, not only will there be fewer overall resources for disabled people in Seattle (due to government austerity), but the resources will be spread over a larger number of recipients. The Labor Board in January expanded the category of eligible "disabled" (with reduced-amount payments) to include pyromaniacs, compulsive gamblers, fetishists, sadomasochists, pedophiles, exhibitionists and kleptomaniacs. The National Confederation of Disabled People said the changes would inevitably reduce funds available for the blind and the crippled and other traditional categories of need.
-- Even at a time of schoolteacher layoffs nationally, the Seattle, school system continues to cover all costs for cosmetic surgery for teachers. The benefit was established in the calmer 1970s, and no one, it seems, anticipated the facelift and liposuction crazes that subsequently developed. The annual expense in recent years, for about 500 benefit-takers a year, has been from $5 million to $9 million (equivalent to the average salaries of at least 100 teachers). The teachers' union said it is willing to give up the benefit in a new collective bargaining agreement, but a quirk in UCAS law lessens the incentive of teachers to negotiate such a contract (in that the current, highly lucrative contract remains in force until replaced).
-- In February, Kenneth Gunn, of the UCAS Council, decried the budget cutbacks that closed down local offices that had previously posted marriage notices. By making it more difficult for the public to be aware of specific marriages, Gunn feared an inevitable increase in incest. "I am aware in my own ward of brothers sitting beside sisters they do not know in primary school." (The problem is more serious in Iceland, whose 300,000 people are far more self-contained. However, a new website containing genealogical data back 1,200 years is expected to help reduce the risk of incest.)
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Post by Pelch Gobwit on Mar 2, 2012 8:51:08 GMT -5
Time to throw a little chill on this party.
I've been working my hoop off being the Quartermaster for this bunch.
What each of them failed to mention is that they are not carrying all the load themselves. Each of them has scores of workers in their various departments. They fragging manage.
Take Gobwit for instance.
Please.
Lawyers, accountants, salesmen, ex government officials, detectives and specialists. All running happily around promoting his services. He sits his now very large fat dwarf hoop in his office and the only thing fatter is his head. The only pleasure I get is he has to sign the big fragging checks to keep it all going.
Over the years the Doc and I have been slowly modifying and refining the chip in his skull to keep him on the track we want him on. Is this and improvement? Why don't you decide. We have essentially Farked up his free will and turned him into a monster. He's our monster but does that make it right?
Do you realize we sent him to business school? Gobwit was a petty thief and now he's a thief that can rob anyone at any level. If you call that improvement you have a head problem. I put a picture of his face on the back of all his business trucks with a slogan underneath that says; Does this ass make my truck look big? He actually liked it. He says it associates the word big with his face.
The Doc's is probably the smallest department but it is the most expensive. Mages, researchers, scientists, detectives, squeals, yaps, narc's, doctor's, ex spies, and a high powered think tank. All needing state of the art equipment.
Izzy? She's got hoards of programmers, operators, communication specialists, researchers deckers, and riggers constantly working in her department. If you got the impression all our people are doing a one man/woman show these days you're a bigger hoophole than even I took you for.
Fall was away for a while, which was good for me. She made up for the vacation when she got back with all her lamebrain ideas. Now I have to deal with her and that stupid mutt. She was off fighting the Desert Wars. When she came back she set up some kind of fragging military base at the old Seattle Fusion plant. She also has to background and keep an eye on all these fragging people. When we went Corp we had to go in a big way. Military intelligence my hoop.
I never saw the actual price tag on any of this stuff but set-up and maintaining it alone has to be costing a fortune and who gets to deal with Gobwit on all this every time I need to supply new equipment for some moron's pet projects?
Right, yours truly.
The upshot? It's my department to keep them all supplied and happy. Of course even with computers and a drek load of people, screening items, checking, purchasing, recording, repairing and modifying it's like a choice slice of Hell just to accomplish everything on time and on target.
I really hate this fragging job. It's got to be worse for the people that have to work under me.
Sure, we got a lot done while we been quiet. If you like big business, you're probably like a Gobwit in Drek.
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Post by Pelch Gobwit on Mar 3, 2012 9:52:55 GMT -5
Today's news on the pirate station KLAM,
-- Fritz Gall, a self-described failed inventor, opened the Museum of Nonsense in the Old Eager Beaver, in downtown Seattle recently to pay homage, apparently, to even greater failures than his own. Among the exhibits are the "portable anonymizer" (a stick holding a black bar that one holds over his eyes to obscure identity), a transportable hat rack, a bristleless toothbrush (for people with no teeth), and a "portable hole" (similar to those that appear in the ground whenever the Road Runner needs something for Wile E. Coyote to fall into).
-- Take a Wild Guess: An unidentified man was taken into custody in Pullyup Barrens, in October after he rushed into the Regional Medical Center with a machete and a can of gasoline and demanded to know the "test results."
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Post by Pelch Gobwit on Mar 4, 2012 9:15:40 GMT -5
-- Newspapers in Seattle reported in January that two of the UCAS's most heinous murderers apparently fell in love with each other behind the locked doors of their psychiatric institution and, following a 26-day Matrix-chat "courtship," have decided to marry. Mr. Isakin Jonsson ("the Seattle Ghoul") was convicted of killing, decapitating and eating his girlfriend, and Michelle Gustafsson ("the Vampire Woman") was convicted of killing a father of four and drinking his blood. Said the love-struck Jonsson (certainly truthfully), to the newspaper Expressen, "I have never met anyone like (Michelle)." The pair will almost certainly remain locked up forever, but Gustafsson, on the Matrix Facebook, wrote that she hopes they will be released, to live together and "have dogs, pursue our hobbies, piercing and tattoos." It's the hobby part that has me worried.
-- In December, music teacher Kevin Gausepohl, 37, was charged in Tacoma, Wash., Municipal Court with communicating with a minor for immoral purposes, allegedly convincing a 17-year-old female student that she could sing better if she tried it naked. Gausepohl later told an investigator of his excitement about experimenting at the "human participant level" to determine how sexual arousal affects vocal range. The girl complied with "some of" Gausepohl's requests, but finally balked and turned him in.
-- Thinking Outside the Box: Rock Dagenais, 26, pleaded guilty recently to weapons charges after creating a siege by bringing a knife, a sawed-off rifle and 100 rounds of ammunition to a Seattle elementary school. He eventually surrendered peacefully and said he was only trying to send the kids a message not to disrespect each other by bullying.
-- Daniel Whitaker has been hospitalized in Seattle ever since, in November, he drove up the steps of the Pelch Gobwit Memorial Bldg with a gun, gasoline and an American flag, and set the steps on fire. In an interview in December, he told KOMA that he was only trying to get everyone's attention so they would think of Jesus Christ and "love each other."
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Post by Pelch Gobwit on Mar 5, 2012 8:26:11 GMT -5
Back around to me already?
As usual we have the whiners. I didn't write enough. I wrote the wrong things. I'm cheap. I'm Fat. I'm stupid. I'm a criminal. A cheat. A liar. I didn't bend over far enough, fast enough.
How about a shot of the real?
The bottom line is I'm the one paying for all this. I make the GOLD. It's me that gives them the means to do all those things they think makes them major players in the Seattle landscape.
Instead of treating me like a valued member of the team, they steal my dog. Eat my food. Live in housing I provide. Drive fancy cars. Wear expensive clothes and party on with whatever brain dead hobby they have going at the current time.
Without me where would they be?
Let's explore that idea a moment. Dockery would be up to his elf ears in debt. Who do you think covers his gambling debts and life style? As for his pay? He has borrowed so much in advance of his salary that I probably have a lien on his soul. That's not counting all the research and such that he does. Who keeps his books straight? Who takes all that worry off his big brain?
Good old Pelch, that's who.
Izzy bringing in all that hard NuYen doing Matrix runs. Keeping the cash flow in the green? Protecting the old assets against the electrified electron criminals. Sure, when she farking 'feels' like it.
I pay for her expensive toys. I pay for the large support staff that make it all possible. So what happens when I need something done pronto? Right, I have to follow some computerized procedure, talk to some recorded nonsense, or deal with an out country help desk. Then like as not, I'm considered a low priority and it might get done, a month or year later than I needed it.
I won't even go into her smoking the wacky tobacco and weed, boozing, with long nights out on the town where she has probably serviced more customers than the local McBeasts. I even pay for her contraceptives.
As for the little General? Fall seems to think that a couple of stints in the Desert Wars qualifies her as a leader of whatever. I make a little money off that group but nowhere near what I have to spend to keep it in operation. All for what? They admit it themselves, they can't win against any of the big boys. All they can do is lay down and bleed to death.
So why bother and waste resources on this so called military asset? The only asset that is being the fact it crawls up your hoop and diddles you for the rest of your life. She also stole my dog. How low do you have to be to steal a guys dog?
That makes me the crook? After all, I don't need a bodyguard do I, with Spiked Trolls looking to dust my dork. I'm just the guy that lets her put on her boots and march through Poland.
Then we have ice age girl Winter. Complaining about all the toys she gets to work on. Something that she would be doing anyway if she was on her own, but with a lot less NuYen to buy said items. It isn't even like I'm the one giving her the work but I sure as frag get the blame. Her fragging sister is mostly the one getting that support, then Izzy, then the Doc.
As for the guy that holds it all together and makes their dreams possible. You guessed it, dead last on the consideration and respect list.
If a dwarf speaks in the wilderness without a woman or elf to hear him is he still wrong?
To fragging right according to this bunch of ingrates. If it wasn't for kind hearted Pelch they would still be struggling to pay their back rent in some two bit sleazy dive if they weren't out on the street in the gutter.
For another dose of the obvious? The UCAS has been off my back for three years. Nestle's thinks I've gone away. I could even cut a deal with said groups that keeps them away from me for a frag of a lot less than I'm paying now to cover the lifestyles of these leeches. If I wasn't such a nice guy I would have done that long ago.
So how about a little respect for the founder of the feast?
Ice-holes.
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Post by Pelch Gobwit on Mar 7, 2012 8:10:09 GMT -5
It got bad.
Seems Izzy was looking over the logs and spotted what Gobwit had written. Not that he was specific about calling her a drug crazed slut with the morals of an ally cat in heat, but he certainly implied it.
In the old days she probably would have picked up a tonfa and introduced said object to Gobwits head. This is Izzy we are talking about. She has a temper.
The first warning all of us got was when we heard the gunshots and the alarms suddenly going off all over the building. It didn't take us long to locate the source of the disturbance. The firefight was in Gobwit's office.
The first question that crossed our minds was how had the Spiked Trolls gotten this far? Before it was over, we would be wishing it had been Spiked Trolls. It would have been easier to deal with.
Fall and Wanker were the first ones on the scene. She reported that the guards had been gassed with the knockout stuff from the buildings computerized defenses! The floor was sealed off by the heavy doors and the system was active, luckily non-lethal but we weren't going to get in right away.
It appeared that we had a rogue decker in the building. We were half right with that assumption. This definitely elevated the threat from Spiked Trolls to UCAS or possibly Nestles. As for my magical assets? I didn't have any in Gobwit's office where it appeared all the action was. Of course the area was sealed in several ways from magical penetration. I was as blind as the others.
The cameras in there were not working. We could hear the gunshots. One of them was that fancy pistol that Gobwit bought a couple of years ago so we knew he was at least well enough to fire back occasionally. The other sounded like some kind of assault rifle.
So there we were. We couldn't get to the top floor where Gobwits office was because of the decker. The area was sealed and the automated defenses were working. Our Security overrides weren't working. It was about then that we discovered that Izzy was no where to be found and the Security computer that normally traces all of us wasn't responding to any of our codes or overrides. Even Izzy's security team wasn't responding.
Looked to us like Gobwit was going to be dead meat before we could find a way to get to him.
Winter and her team of techs started bypassing the computers to try to find a way in.
This was going to take a while.
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Post by Pelch Gobwit on Mar 8, 2012 9:00:00 GMT -5
I was in my office working this sweet deal of taking over the local ice industry. I can you hear you hoopheads snickering.
Do any of you realize how much ice gets used in this burg every fragging day? Especially in the summer months? Even in the winter the use is truly amazing.
What you think that stuff in your Krass Cola was farking FREE? In the case of a Krass Cola it's the only thing in their that might allow you a reasonable chance of survival as you drink that drek.
The best part is that ice is an easily renewable resource that I can get locally at very little cost. Once I corner the market, everyone's drinks are going to be a couple of NuYen more expensive and I'm going to add about two percentage points to my bottom line.
I'll be laughing on the way to the bank.
Izzy walked through the door. The first thing I noticed was the rifle. Strangely it was my chip that seemed to be supplying the information. I guess when you have class it pays to know a little useless information about the people who want to kill you for having said class. Just before they assassinate you.
An assault rifle is a rifle used for combat where exchange of fire takes place over short distances (i.e. <300m) and is capable of selective fire, which is the ability to switch from single fire to semi automatic or automatic fire. An assault rifle has the following characteristics: a) It must have a butt-stock for firing from the shoulder
Izzy's did. b) Must be capable of selective fire.
Izzy's was. c) Must use a cartridge stronger than that of a pistol but less than one of a battle rifle.
I didn't know it then but I was to find out that it did fulfill that qualification. d) Must have a detachable magazine
I just so happened to notice that it did since she was carrying plenty of spares.
The F1, which was the type she was using, has been the French Army service rifle since the late 1970s, although the updated G2 can be found in the arsenals of the Fusilers Marins and Commandos de la Marine since the mid-1990s. The Philippines, Djibouti, Senegal and the United Arab Emirates (UAE) have bought this assault rifle in limited numbers.
Unfortunately, so had Izzy. Figures she would chose a light weight and high-strung killing machine with a huge fragging rate of fire power. It was a bit ironic that I was about to be shot up and perhaps permanently killed by a weapon, ammunition and an employee all purchased with my own money.
The Gods of the Rime must really have it out for me today.
The FAMAS is a delayed blow-back, select-fire assault rifle that is chambered for the ubiquitous 5.56mm NATO round. The FAMAS F1 and G2 have an overall length of 29.8 inches with a 19-inch (and change) barrel. With an empty magazine, the F1 weighs slightly less than eight pounds (i.e., 7.96 pounds). The F1 uses a FAMAS 25-round magazine.
The muzzle velocity of the F1 is 3,150 feet per second. The F1 is capable of cycling up to 1,000 rounds per minute with an effective range of 984 feet (300 meters). The FAMAS is manufactured In France by the MAS located in Saint Etienne It was designed by Paul Tellie It has an effective range of 300m and a rate of fire of 1000 rounds per minute.
Did I mention twice what it's range and rate of fire was? Probably, because chummer I wasn't no 300 meters away and a thousand rounds a minute at the range I was at, namely thirty feet or less doesn't allow you to miss much no matter how poor a shot you are.
Izzy didn't look like no novice. She had the fragging thing held just right. She smiled a really nasty smile. "Let's not ruin the moment with talk. She stated seductively, "We'll talk later." The all hell broke lose.
I did two things quickly.
I drekked my shorts which is why I have shirt tails.
I ducked behind my armored desk.
Luckily being chipped and she wasn't I was much faster. I made it
The lead rain started instantly sounding like a hailstorm dropping on parked cars.
The drek storm had begun.
I yanked my fancy pistol and fired a shot not even in her direction. Just to hopefully make her cautious. No doubt about it I was outgunned. Maybe I could get a shot when she was changing mags.
Meanwhile, my furniture and office drastically dropped in value.
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Post by Pelch Gobwit on Mar 8, 2012 9:17:38 GMT -5
Gay Petrabok, then 58, was knocked down by the flying corpse of Julio Corpus, 18, during a rainstorm in Seattle , and in December filed a lawsuit against Corpus's estate for compensation for the various injuries he suffered that day (broken leg, broken wrist, shoulder pain). Julio's corpse was "flying" because he had just been fatally struck by a fast-moving train as he dashed through the storm across several tracks -- while Gay was waiting on a nearby station platform. A judge initially ruled that Gay's injuries were not a "foreseeable" result of Julio's crossing the tracks, but in December, a state appeals court reinstated the lawsuit.
PayPal confirmed to a Toronto Star reporter in January that its refund policy required the shattering of a violin that may well have been a pre-World War II classic easily worth the $2,500 the seller was asking. The buyer had balked after paying, claiming the violin was counterfeit and produced one expert's opinion to that effect, demanding that PayPal refund the money, which it did, provided that the buyer first "destroy" the property.
(According to PayPal, the laws of many countries, including the U.S., prohibit mailing, knowingly, counterfeit goods, and hence, PayPal's could not simply order the violin returned to the sender. The seller, certain that the violin was authentic, was left with neither it nor the money.)
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Post by Pelch Gobwit on Mar 9, 2012 8:33:45 GMT -5
Well she wasn't completely insane or stupid.
While she was unloading said clip into my desk she had moved over to the bar. The first clip had been full auto. The next would be three round bursts of selective fire. This way she also had access to my booze.
How did I find all that out. When it looked like the clip had emptied I popped up with chip speed and let go a three round burst where she had been. Fat lot of good that did. She wasn't there. The three rounds she sent in return almost got me. I ducked again having seen enough. It was time to leave.
One of the things I had done during the office renovation was to put in a bolt hole. It was a drop hatch that lead to a fast tunnel, dwarf sized that would let me escape. It was under my desk, which was where I normally am so I was in the right place and this was definitely the time.
While the slut was practicing her three round marksmanship. I was hitting the release button under the desk. I was chuckling to myself about the look on her face when she figured out I was pulling my vanishing act. Bugs Bunny had nothing on me.
The fragging thing was jammed. It wouldn't open!
By the way, I found your filed plans for the escape tunnel in the emergency files you sent to Lone Star for security purposes. I hired a dwarf to go in and weld the door shut."
It was like the slut could read my mind.
I was trapped.
She had superior firepower. She had more ammo. She had obviously set things up so I wasn't going to get a rescue anytime soon. She had a serious mad on. The most important point was she had the booze.
I popped out the side and fired a shot. I knew it would do little good. The bar was armored as well. I couldn't put the shield down. I couldn't release the Requiter mini-gun in the ceiling. I couldn't gas the room. In short she had pretty much deactivated all my defenses. I did try them though just in case.
I low crawled from the desk which had taken a pounding and moved to my executive bathroom. Luckily she couldn't see me and I made it easily. I slipped in the door and silently closed and locked it. A least I had a chance to get cleaned up.
She was too busy trying to bounce bullets off the floor in single shot mode so they would go under the desk and rattle around where I was supposed to be. She didn't notice my door closing.
At least I could change into a spare suit and clean the drek out of my pants.
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Post by Pelch Gobwit on Mar 12, 2012 7:08:45 GMT -5
It took her a while to realize that I was not under the desk. I had plenty of time to become springtime fresh. Then I took another look at the old situation.
I was going to die in the bathroom.
Kind of dreky but no worse than some of the other places I could have died in. I had no bolt holes out of this room. Not that it would have done me any good if I had. The wicked slitch of the North would have already sealed it. Besides who wants anyone suddenly popping into your drekker? Right, I didn't have windows either. It was a good sized place with a bed and shower, etc. No minibar though. She'd have to do some work to get in here.
I could hear her moving around outside the door looking to see where I got to. She didn't have to look long. She kicked the door.
I snickered at her yelp of pain. That door was built to withstand a full sized troll. She let go with a full burst. No luck for her there either. She stopped at that point, probably in frustration, at the ricochets. Time was still on my side. The longer I could hold her off the more chance that someone would be able to rescue me.
Then I heard a heavy 'clunk' on the door. I dived into the sunken bathtub. The magnetic explosive she used on the door was certainly effective. All reds and yellows and gray smoke. The door went spinning across the room and wedged itself into the far wall. I put three rounds through the doorway.
The slitch tossed an empty bottle of booze in the room. It was my good stuff. She laughed. "In the tub? You should have climbed into the drekker and flushed."
She sent a grenade sailing towards the tub. Cornered rats think the same way. I sent my grenade back out through the door at the same time. Then I curled up and prayed my dermal armor would hold.
The explosion made everything surreal.
Then I passed out.
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Post by Braddoc on Aug 2, 2013 20:32:55 GMT -5
First Brown, then Linnia, and while looking into her murder, the Shivs get wiped out to almost a chromed-up man in what was classified as a gas leak. Switches wasn’t too happy being the new gang leader and sole member, with reason. The problem is it was happening too close to soon, too fast for my tastes. He went up into Snohomish to live with an uncle or cousin or something. I got my face splattered ‘round town for a couple of attempted murders, specifically my own drug pushers and Mr. Brown, government employee. ‘Rather turned off by the little cash reward offered. My gun running business then suffered a surprise raid by Lone Star thanks to an anonymous tip. “Fortunately”, I was behind bars since it seems that walking with a machete and some fuel into a hospital is considered a crime now. “Sorry for hurting some old hag’s feelings officer, but see here, the Barrens are not Downtown or Bellevue, got to be careful” was not accepted. Hey, at least the results were negative, that’s something...
Meg pushed the bail money upfront and managed to have the charges dropped, at least my fake ID managed to work solid with the Star’s database. Too bad my real name’s now connected to a few serious crimes (or only one, the pushers weren’t even SINners), but it’s not like it was going anywhere anyways. However, I couldn’t stick around much. Whatever what happening was coming for her little corp school (or school corp) and I wasn’t going to be responsible for the loss of something I help build in good part. So I had to move out of town, disappear for a while. Made a few calls, packed my stuff, took my worked-up Americar, drove around town for half a day trying to lose the tail I surely had, then slot and run for the Cascades.
Captain Bridges had a job, even allowed me to crash into a tourist shack until I managed to get my own cabin. That took a few months. At least being cut from the Sprawl had some good; I stopped smoking and taking dope, got a good mix of paste to get my nerves and senses relaxed from the quicken spells, managed to make a decent sideline betting with trick shooting for the tourists. People just love throwing things in the air and having it shot up lightning fast by some ‘Breeder without chrome using a revolver. They think I’m some sort of cowboy, just that I didn’t bring myself around to wearing a Stetson; can’t shoot up while wearing one. Chopping wood’s bringing me money too. Hundred Nuyen a cord, everyone needs it for the winter. Granted, I almost killed myself a few times when the tree fell and I stood in its 30-degree angle, but I learned from my mistake. Bridges got me making patrols, nothing too far or deep of, since anything that happens to got a touch of weird, I get called in.
-Toad shaman turning part of the woods into his own personal swamp lodge; relocalizing him was easy. -Earth spirit prowling around Ballastor’s mine; ‘Costed me a few nice gems, had to change a few mining procedures but he left the place-I even got a story for Illiya for that one. -Abominable Snowman terrorising trappers in and around their territory; turns out it was some sort of water elemental, but snow based-that was new. I got to test my Magnesium grenade, play with a flamethrower and got a nice pay courteousy of the Fortean Times, so it worth the frost bites and sloppy cough. -Wolves becoming overly violent, stalking and killing hunters; now this one had no real conclusion; they simply stopped after people were barred from going into part of the forest. Must have been that too-deep-into-it wolf shaman, but apart from sightings, nothing solid...I’m pretty sure it must be a canine thing, even Dog and his dogs were acting up; for an Ork he is getting hairier than the average, he must be turning feral as well.
I saw Meg and the others as well. The students looked like real saps, but that was nothing surprising. She was rather inquisitive as well, blame it on Snake, but I played it well enough with a few tease of info to hitch a ride with them for the duration of their trip. Too bad it was a dull old time. Even Shade was decent enough; Meg also vouched for him that he was not the one playing me a patsy. I wasn’t too sure about that, but she has no reason to lie to me.
Another thing I started having is dreams, before it was every once in a while, but now it is almost every night. Not having your mind numbed by drugs must play in it.
Odd things, like talking with Damien Knight waiting for the bus like we’re best chums or just hanging with Asians into a parking lot trying to get out of the there, but never getting around to actually do it. Then it’s having a large fancy dinner with a bunch of people I know, having a good time. Another time it’s having my trigger so damn hard to pull I ended up punching anyone in my way out of frustration or some sort of crazed moment, blowing their head clean off in an overly exaggerated explosion of brains, blood and bones. Then it’s flashbacks, from my youth tp Linnia to mom to Red, then I run off and jump all the way to Transylvania, to wrestle with that werewolf in the Church basement with that Louis idiot watching me from his car seat and not helping at all, if only to give me bad pointers.
Decent enough, but it ain’t home, my home. Clean air’s good but it’s not the pollution-filled atmosphere I grew up in. So here I am, an expat at 25, just a few hundred clicks from home, but no way of getting there without stirring the drek storm. ‘Least I got some peace and quiet I suppose.
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Post by Braddoc on Aug 4, 2013 20:08:52 GMT -5
It hit my nostrils about 3 hours ago, a mix of city smog, tobacco and that spicy Thai flavoured soy noodles they got one every street corner back in Seattle. Sorta surprised I could pick up the smells so precisely from a couple of klicks away. Not to mention managing to differentiate three separate odours. I should have stopped smoking years ago. Or not started. Whatever.
The thing is, goofball's been hiding right on the edge of the forest for the last hour, real close, like a couple of hundred meters away staying outta sight, but having a nice, clear view from him over there to me on my property. My money’s on sniper. It’s always a sniper. They like to do the whole sneak up and hide routine then brag about how good and brave they are. My grandma got more guts than them, and she’s been dead for decades now I think. It’s not like I know her or anything.
He can see I’m working on a cord, loaded shoulder rig’s on the logs, I might only have an armoured shirt for protection...might. So what’s he waiting for? It’s not like there’s witnesses or anything, maybe a truck or a rig every 30 or 60 minutes and even then they’re buzzing down the dirt road. So I’m thinking, ok, gunner there’s only keeping an eye on me, learning my routine before striking at the worst possible moment. Or he’s just the scout of a large group bent on killing me for yet unknown reasons. Snipers just love to arrive early and set up like shooting an unsuspecting target from a distance requires some sort of big preparation.
I could be wrong and he’s just some gumshoe hired to track me down, and he’s just waiting to see if I really sleep in that cabin or I’m just here to chop wood. I should just walk over there and get it over with, but let’s not push our luck here. He doesn’t know that I know yet. I’ll just act like nothing’s weird, just go in to take a piss, then put on my jacket and take my AR, keep my house between me and the visitor so he doesn’t know where I am, then flank him all nice and silent. Worse case AV ammo will pass right through those trees, so he won’t run far. Except if he’s got a bigger gun than a scoped rifle, then I’ll be in trouble.
Then it pulled my way. BMW Exeter 960 C-class, more compact that the standard model for those who like to flash just in a more conservative way. White coloured. CAS license plates. A perfect match for the classically dressed Ork driver, but he’s just another tool of the real owner. Short and burly, old but looking able, brand new looking boater hat, perfectly ironed white suit with black string tie, polished black walking cane. He’s a hand fan and a cotton plantation away from being an image from the past. This explains the lingering tourist.
The Ork stays with the car, trying to wipe the dirt from it. The old man advanced like he owned the place, his cane obviously just an accessory than a real walking aid. “I do say, Mister Four-Eyes..” still got the fancy southern accent as well. "...I can rightly say that when it comes to disappearing you are quite the astute character.”
Just what I needed. The Org.
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Post by Braddoc on Aug 6, 2013 21:01:24 GMT -5
It started simply enough; a bunch of French runners decided to expand into the more profitable mercenary world (thanks to the Russians starting the first Eurowar) by creating “l’Organisation des Runners Globe-trotteurs” or the globetrotting runner organisation for those lacking competence in Voltaire’s tongue. The outfit worked well across France, Germany, Eastern Europe and part of North Africa, mixing the professionalism and talents of a merc outfit with the flexibility, deniability and disposability of shadowrunners. They were an-ever expanding team until the earthquakes of 2043 that saw their main hub, Marseilles (aka Dragonville), reduced to a nice pile of rubble.
They saw it as good occasion to expand beyond continental Europe, ‘opening’ branches and recruiting in the UK, Middle East and Asia in the 40s. That’s when they cut the crap and went with the simple moniker of O.R.G., later changed to The Org as they reorganised into a more “official” worldwide organisation. Hitting America in the 50s, they arrived and expanded with full force; safe houses, resources, mages, contacts, gunners, riggers, lawyers, techies, deckers, papers, doctors, credentials, facemen , vehicles, the works really. In most, if not all, major cities in North America by the end of the decade had an Org office. Sounds almost like a corp just that it is full of runners rather than suits and there’s no nice glass tower Downtown in Anytown, UCAS with “The Org” written on it. Say Four-Eyes, I hear you asking, if the Org is all that and a bag of soychips, why did we never heard about them until now? Well to that I answer shut up, I ain’t done.
See, the Org, while being an oversized runner team, still operates like a merc outfit that thinks, and knows, they’re the best. To stay the best you need the best and just putting up some hiring signs across town or a few messages in some Matrix board will either bring every back stabbing selfish scum from out of the gutter and/or any youngblood that doesn’t know any better and just want to prove how hotdrek they are at any cost. Putting either in touch with what the Org has in terms of connection and resources equals clusterfrag, damaging rep and relations so fast heads will spin. “Don’t call us, we’ll call you and let you know we exist” approach was the word.
I got the call right after we took care of the spirit of Jack the Ripper slicing Dom’s girls down at the Eager Beaver. Never heard of that one? Yeah that got silenced pretty quick, since the British government and the Lord Protector’s office were involved. It seems they were quite satisfied with my shooting and “potential”, so they set-up a meet at the Docks. Me, some Dwarf decker, a Philipino Ork, and a pair of Elves, one mage who could only manage to make fake IDs (I never saw a more incompetent mage in my life) and that dandelion frag cokehead mick Evans. Now contrary to what you think, I’m not being mean or even racist; Evans actually made a point of honour to be called a mick rather than an Elf as he hated how O’Connor double-crossed everyone and turned his beautiful Ireland into Tir na nOg. ‘Pretty sure he’s Knight of the Red Branch too. I can only support his decision, being all open to inter-racial hate and all in that case. He also was the most level headed of the bunch, 'mostly why I bothered remembering his name. The southern gentleman known as The Colonel had a little test run to put us under, sadly, we were to be under the “leadership” and supervision of Louis, cybered-up ex-Desert War vet with no idea on how to do properly things.
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Post by Braddoc on Aug 7, 2013 17:49:36 GMT -5
Get in some old castle somewhere in Romania, get some package and back to Seattle. We were under the clock too, 72 hours to pull the job and the doors to The Org would be open to us. We should have asked more questions. We went in with what we were carrying. That’s when I, we, should have bailed, but we were promised ammo, guns and armour at a local safehouse, not to mention the Org membership, so we went with it. Boring trip followed by a bumpy landing in some unknown, barren field right before dawn, then we get shoved into a small van and ends up in a farmhouse right outside some unknown poor-as-frag village.
First thing we do, we check the gear; The guns were rusted, the ammo was all Warsaw Pact; incompatible with the guns we were carrying. I think Evans had the most ammo, 45 rounds for his fancy silver-plated Predator. Don’t get me started on that armour. Most of them were well used, still had the holes and dried blood of the previous owner. The only one decent enough was troll sized. Things were looking grim until Louis’ idea for legwork was to sneak in with a local tour bus making runs for tourists, then dodge that and recon a cave system that supposedly connected to the castle. ‘Course, for that, we had to leave anything that’ll make us stand out; long coats, armoured jackets, heavy pistols, as to not bring attention to us. Can’t say I was pleased by that. Evans shared my concerns, just with more swearin’. The Ork and the Mage were ok, what with them wearing little to no armour and packing light pistols to begin with. We went along anyways we were already here. The Dwarf stayed back, working on the castle’s security; turns out the place was rigged tight. So with only my back-up Taurus and my vest, I went.
At the caven, since Louis was cybered up, he had night vision. We had two Zippos, and since our brave soldier was evaluating us, he closed the march rather than opening it. Forget about using my pocket flare gun for momentary lighting as that will “bring attention to us”. We advanced slowly as hell, crossed a cold as drek underground river without being taken by the current, only to end up, and here’s the fun part, into a nest of humanoid Vampire bat. The Philipino got half his head removed; his adept powers kicked in to put him in some sort of coma, good for him. The Mage managed to drag him away. Louis, as it turns out, had shotguns in his cyberarms and started popping ‘em left and right. I was with Evans in the middle, when one of those things dropped from on high right on the keeb. He was gettin’ sliced bad until I fired off a few shots right in the monster’s head. I dragged him out of there, with the usual panache I reserve for Elves I just happen to save. By the time we reached the river, I learned two things: 1-The Mage didn’t even know a single healing or combat spell, and 2-A flare was useful to blind those things and distract them for a moment.
Everyone crossed the river with me closing the march, since I wasn’t bleeding everywhere; One vamp-thing dropped in my face super fast but I dodged his claws and blow his head off with a hollow point, muzzle to the forehead. Back at the farmhouse, I ended up playing the nurse since the Ork, quite the competent medic I’ve been told, was busy not dying. I can’t say I helped much, but I stopped the bleeding. Louis finally informed us we were located in Transylvania, Romania. As in Dracula's hometurf. Vampires and drek. We weren’t happy about that. And we all agree, short of doing the effective “point blank hollow point shot to the head” on all of them, it ain’t gonna work out. We needed Silver rounds.
With everyone having to stay at the farmhouse, Louis and me left to find a bullet smith who lived a couple of hours away. He agreed to help, but he was short of silver. So again, bright Louis decided that we (read, I) should break into churches to steal silver chalices and other relics. I wasn’t too keen on that, but it’s not like it was for personal gain, The holiness should help against the vamps and they were Orthodox; it didn’t make it better, but at least they weren’t Catholic. I did three break-ins with Louis keeping watch outside until I came face to face with a werewolf of all things, busy eating the local Padre. I didn’t bother to stick around and I ran. We had a respectable amount of silver items by then, and I was done doing all the work and taking all the risks; I know it was my job and all, but keep in mind that was BEFORE I started to get deep with the Fortean Times, Meg, reading about paranormal creatures and having Micro quicken his spells on me. Just meat and skills.
Pure luck happened in the cave, anyone of those freaks could have ripped me in half in an instant. We dropped the goods and came back to the safehouse to wait it off. It took two, maybe three hours before the Dwarf started convulsing from whatever was happening in the ‘trix and had his brains fired in his cranium. Last straw. I was too slow, the mage was dead weight, the Ork was in a coma, Evans wasn’t in any condition to fight, the decker was dead and none of us trusted Louis at that point. Extraction was as shady as the arrival. The Colonel wasn’t too pleased, we didn’t care, but he was with a dozen heavily armed and armoured guards, so we kept our guns holstered and we all left our separate way without bothering looking back. They contacted me a few times after that, but I didn’t even bother picking up or responding. And now, here was the Colonel again, 4 feet away from me. All that trouble for me means that he wants to see my die or he needs something done that only I can somehow do. Or both, suicide missions seems to be The Org’s M.O. for potential members.
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Post by Braddoc on Aug 18, 2013 14:40:23 GMT -5
"..my property." I didn’t even bothered to stop my work, merely glancing his way, just to strengthen my point. The old man let loose a fast, fading smile before settling his left foot on the partial cord. “Now now Mister Four-Eyes, or would you prefer Delacroix- I have not travelled here bearing any grudges from our previous encounter. I found it saddening that bad blood still runs between us.” He takes off his hat, fanning it to fight off the heat, despite having no sweat running down. Part of the character I suppose. “Yeah well, what can I say, I got a good memory, sorta happens when you get shoved into a vampire nest without any form of warning. If you come to apologize, I accept your excuses. You can buzz now.”
“I am not here for that, but while we are on the subject, do know that Louis will no longer be in any leadership position.” I wondered if that means he’s down to a grunt or if he was killed. “The reason for my visit today is purely professional. You see, we have learned that you have been quite active in the field of, shall we say, the paranormal. Parazoological animals, magical entities, parahumanity, this sort of things. A rather curious field of expertise if I may say so, but it has brought you considerable financial gain have it not?” “Your point being?”
“As you may well know, a portion of the Seattle metroplex has been under, shall we say, forced occupation by a large proportion of parahumans; zombies, ghouls, all under the authority of a vampire, vampire with a sustainable bounty on its head, if I may say so. LoneStar has stopped patrolling the area, citizens moved away with haste and what they can carry, quite a terrible affair this is.” “I know all of this already Colonel, if you want me to collect that bounty on your behalf, forget it, I’m not interested.”
“Ha ha, no m’boy. You see, The Org has, or had, a safehouse within this zone, one that was used to store rather sensitive information. Information quite secure into a vault yes, but still on site and outside of our reach. We would require of you to go in, secure our property and bring it back to us.”
“Wait wait wait..So you’re telling me that you people ran when the sector was being taken over, left sensitive what, documents, chips, whatever, there and you spend maybe a year tracking me down just to get’em back so I can do it out of the kindness of my heart? Even a blind man can see this is bulldrek. I won’t mingle with another one of your mission. Get a better story next time, now leave and don’t bother me again.” I waved him off and began picking up the wood, when the Colonel put his cane on a log with his pissed off look on his face, the same he had on our return from Romania.
“Do not think yourself so valuable to us. You are not. Illiya, which you know quite well I am certain, referred you to us after four, and I did say FOUR of your own teams were lost trying to reach the safehouse. The original custodians were, as were two teams, overtaken by the undead. One ended butchered in the sewers by ghouls trying to circumvent the zombies in the streets. Another fell victims to the ever growing amount of cutthroat bounty hunters who now plague the area, making a living off of killing those despicable beasts. Furthermore, we would allow you to join The Org were you to succeed, alongside a rather substantial pay for your services.”
I still wasn’t interested in being his lapdog again, but before I can say that, almost like he sensed it, he voiced the ever-interesting last tidbit “And information concerning the person who pushed you into this little exile with a rather diminutive price on your head, but a price there is. Hardly a task you would do ‘out of the kindness of your heart’ wouldn’t you say Mister Delacroix?”
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