You wake up on a sagging, stained mattress in what you faintly recall being a two-bit, S&M midget brothel when your personal secretary rings. Locating your pants, you secure the device, and it reports an incoming call from your fixer. Flicking on voice only, he begins to talk, "hoi chummer, I've got a job for you and your pals. Keep your pants on, it's a real winner."
This message was lightly edited by the GM at 20:42, Tue 21 Jan 2014.

A real winner was unlikely coming from Rock.  She suspected the nickname came more from the contents between his ears than any physical prowess.  Most of the mass that had once belonged in the orc's arms and legs had long ago migrated to his beer-stained middle.  But work was work.  And Alfred had been hard to replace.

Slipping the ear clip into place, she returned her secretary to the pocket of her skin-tight leather pants, then winced.  The lithe elf carefully placed her hands on her hips, and arched backwards, eliciting a few cracks and a small amount of relief.  The bed had been one grade short of atrocious.  The floor would probably have been wiser, but at least there had been semi-clean sheets on the bed.

Sometimes one had to suffer a bit to avoid attention.  The advantages of good external security and a passion for elimination of nearby surveillance made The Fun Place (she couldn't pronounce the Japanese) a decent squat when she needed to lay low.  And it was certainly the last place anyone who knew her would expect to find her.

"Talk to me"

Stepping lightly along the hall and down the stairs, she ignored the grunts and odd shrieks coming from behind the wooden doors.  Better sound insulation than many places too, she supposed.    If her comm was active, she wanted to be on the move.

Smiling, the auburn mage slipped a small credstick to the kimono'd dwarf behind the front desk and nodded to the distinctly non-midget doorman before stepping out the solid front door.  She was greeted by the dour dour smell (and slightly acidic sting) of the drizzle that had constituted weather in Seattle for the better part of two months.

Splashing through puddles of rain and other things, she half listened to the fixer ramble on about his prowess in finding her work, devoting her primary focus to her pistol - ejecting the clip, glancing to check it was full before reloading and returning the weapon to her long-coat.  She'd known it was full from the weight, but the orc leering at her from across the street hadn't.  She kept her face passive as his single-horned head returned to inspecting the cracks on the sidewalk.

"You said something about a job?"

Carver, having finally found one of the best looking Troll hookers in the city, rolls out of bed feeling satisfied, though heavily bruised. His pocket comm chirps a chipper tune from some two-bit Russian band that has been heavily synthesized and sped up until the words are a blur of hypercaffeinated chipmunk squeals. Though he easily tracks the chittering phone next to the (one) night stand, he is alarmed to find his pants lodged on the ceiling fan.
"Too late, pants off. What's the gig, Singh?"
Carver jumped twice, ineffectually stretching for his pants before looking at the troll doxie with a help me expression. Sometimes, being a dwarf of his preferences really had its frustrations. He eyed the flimsy chairs in the dive, but the troll soon rolled to the other side of the bed and, with one far-reaching paw, batted the trousers down before snuggling back into a comfortable position on the bed. He mouthed a "thank you" before returning to his phone call.
Fortunately, Singh had just rolled up the self-congratulatory drivel he always preceded his useful information with. Something about talking to his favorite hooker's ex-boyfriend's cousin who was playing Go with his sister's illegitimate nephew or something. Having finally moved past each and every minor item of "content", Singh was left only with the actual cause of the call.

+1 karma to Carver for the laugh.

Your fixer (both of them. They speak identically, with the same accent. I'm not doing two accents because you guys can't settle on the same prostitute) say(s):

"I have a job. For money. So you can buy more cheap synthahol. Go to Ears. It's a restaurant. Ears. 10pm. You'll meet a guy there named Mr. Johnson. It's not his real name. He'll give you a job to do and you do it for money.

"Ears. 10pm. Try to wear pants. Don't bring any big guns."

He hangs up.

Ten minutes later your pocket secretary rings. It's your fixer again.

"Ears. 10pm! Don't forget. Write it down or something."

"Yeah, yeah. Big Johnson picks Noses at Six. No pants, bring guns." he peers over his shoulder and mumbles "your brother says 'hi'" to the Troll. Her response is a muted "ngrlf". He turns back and gruffs "So when am I gonna get that fifty nuyen you owe me back?" but Singh had already hung up. Damn cheap sumbitch..
His retinal clock beeps 1300 in the top of his field of vision. Great. Not quite breakfast. All this time and nothing to do. He sighs, looks at the expensive lady-of-the-night, and smirks. Plenty to do. Hell with pants

Carver manages to successfully navigate the pants obstacle, should he choose to do so, and will even make it to the restaurant, Nose. Unfortunately, this is a troll grunge bar, so Carver has to try again in order to find Ears.

Meanwhile, as Firefox is walking down the sidewalk, a crappy nissan jackrabbit pulls up beside her. The window rolls down and she recognizes Rock crammed in the front seat.

"EARS! Restaurant! EARS!"

He zooms ahead and jumps the curb in front of Firefox, opens the door, and stuffs her in, then drives her to Nose ... frag! Ears, just about approximately on a time according to someone's watch somewhere.

1 karma for everyone, including the new people. Because drop bears don't know what it means to be stingy.

+eleventy billion karma to the GM because he's cool and to hell with the players.