The capital city of the planet Core is a sprawling gem.  Its rulers have promoted artistic flair in the architecture and have fought hard against decline.  The artificial limitations on technology that the Star God has imposed have provided a challenge, motivation for innovation within those limits for faster ground transportation capable of moving large numbers of people.  Fusion powered mag-lev trains zoom about while ground cars hum on the streets.

Corporations have built majestic towers in the center of town, spiraling out in six major hubs.  Everywhere there is the bustle of a thriving economy, culture, and relative freedom.

Just below it all, though, the air is tinged with a palpable tension.

Django's hover cycle comes to a stop. He manages to find a parking garage of sorts. It's more of a revolving elevator than anything. He steps off of his bike, and punches in a key code used by law enforcement, 2187. A small buzzer sounds off, and a gate creeps across the opening to the parking spot. A slight hum starts are the hover bike is swallowed down below the streets. A display window above the keypad illuminates with [B2-1984], a location marker for when he goes to retrieve the bike. He isn't quite sure yet though if he'll actually be able to come back for it. His mind races from thought to thought, plot to plot, scheme to scheme. "I could lead a whole battalion a' troopers to em'. They'd haul em in, I'd collect my bounty, and then I could call it a day fer a while. But fer what end? What if Kerr's right? Son of a banshee sure pretties up a story an' makes it believable. He coulda kilt me though. There is that. I coulda been a blood an' grease spot on th' bottom a' that hole, and he coulda gone on about his business. Instead he saves people. Feeds em. Arms em, and sends em on their way. That don't add up to my end a' the narrative. That ain't in character with any fugitive I ever saw. Thems the actions of a man who ain't got no reason to feel like he's done no wrong. An' truth be told, I can't prove nothin' on em. Hell, if anythang, he deserves a medal.

Django picks up his pack from the ground. He realizes he's been standing in the same spot staring off into space. He steps over the side of the walkway where he's been standing, and pulls out his datapad. He pulls up a map of the city streets, and after a moment finds the building he's looking for. It sits five blocks way. The city blocks are massive, but even on foot it wont take him very long to get there. He starts walking, still lost in his thoughts. "I can't just walk through the front door. Cameras'll pick me up an' ID me too quick. Still though, it'll take em' a while to figure out why I'm here. I wonder if there's a ventilation shaft somewhere".

Django presses on towards the data warehouse, nervously. "I ain't never seen no harm in bein able t' fly. An it ain't like if Vexember is removed from th' picture, thangs'll just go ta' poodoo. Sure th' government boys'll be upside down, but that don't change who's good and who's bad I reckon. The law'll be preserved one way or another, folks'll always find a way to have some sorta order. Despite folks like me reluctantly wreckin' it temporarily I guess".

Clouds all but obscure the low hanging sun. Thunder rolls in the distance.

Django decides to look for any sort of ventilation ducts he can. He's certain there will be some form of security at the entrances at the very least. If he can find one, he plans to lay low in a cantina until the sun sets further and he's under cover of darkness.
This message was last edited by the player at 02:36, Wed 25 Jan 2017.

Django finds several vents leading into the vast complex in question.  Security is all mechanical, no humans.  Place cased, Django finds a spot to relax and plan.  Just after the waitress leaves his drink, Django's com cirrus with a message from Reiner.

Django checks hit datapad and reads the message sent to him by Virgil. "Oh dang" he thinks to himself. "Well if that don't put a nail in the coffin I don't know what will. I guess that settles it for me then. Kerr, Guri, Star Demons... it's all true. The brass' reaction alone would make me raise an eyebrow. Put it in context, and it sounds like bureaucratic c.y.a. business". Django swirls his drink around in his glass before taking a long sip. He writes a reply to Virgil and sends it. After an hour and a bit more liquid refreshment, he pays his tab and heads back out into the street. He goes over to get a better look at the first duct he spotted. Now that it's darker, he can steal closer to inspect it.

The vent has a simple security screen with a keypad.  No biometrics or other complicated systems are evident.  It's likely that this is so that maintenance crews can access it for inspection and cleaning that robots can't do.  Whether it leads to sections of the building useful to Django's mission is impossible to tell from here.

Django decides to venture close to the main entrance of the warehouse and continue his sizing up of the area.

The building is a lot more complicated than the word 'warehouse' would imply.  It is a complex building filled with office spaces in front and government storage lockdown in the rear.  The offices house various government agencies, mostly those that would be attached to storing sensitive material and information.

The front door is guarded by two government Protectors, men in heavy armored vests with what is essentially military-grade weaponry, though officially there is no military since there is no other nation to fight.  The door itself is a huge double affair made of armored transparent metal.  It is big enough to fit a large armored hover transport through.  Inside, a vaulted ceiling allows light to shine down on about ten stories worth of railed walkways.  It's an austere, but pretty architecture.  There are windows on the outside, but none on the first floor.  They are also made of the transparent metal.

Django rubs the stubble on his chin. "Well, that settles that route then", he thinks. He heads back to the vent duct he found, and starts collecting dust from the ground. He takes it in his hand and gently blows the dust on the keypad, to see if any sticks to finger prints on the keypad.

It seems fortune favors Django.  The shaft must have received recent service as the dust reveals 3 keys with dust clinging to them in very clear fingerprint patterns.  The numbers are 6, 4, and 9.

Django punches in "4996" and waits.

The unit chirrups, beeps, then gives a raspberry bleet.  A red light flashes and then nothing.
This message was last updated by the GM at 03:44, Wed 01 Feb 2017.

Django shrugs and punches in the numbers in the order he saw them. "6. 4. 9."

The unit waits for almost ten seconds, then chirrups, beeps, and gives a raspberry bleet.  A red light flashes and then nothing.

Django continues to try, punching in 4, 6, and then 9.

The keypad delays again before giving the same sounds.  This time, however, the red flashing is faster and doesn't go off.

Django high tails it from the air duct, assuming there's been some sort of security alert. He puts himself in a vantage point to watch the front door where the human gaurds are, to see if they'll respond.

The guards at the front of the building don't move at all.

Seeing the guards remain stationary, Django decides to creep back to the vent's access and try a different approach. He approaches the area slowly, scanning for anyone around.

He thinks for a moment, and a face pops in to his mind. "Darym Jarko. I bet that scoundrels still skulking around this city somewhere. Might not even be a scoundrel anymore, if he was being honest with me about going straight" thinks Django.

He pulls out his datapad and starts going through a list of contacts. "There you are".

He selects the contact and follows a link to a personal messenger application.

• Long time no speak..............._{sent 2 minutes ago}
  
  
• You still alive?...................._{sent 2 minutes ago}
  
  
• I need a favor......................._{sent 1 minute ago}
  
  
• It's Django. I
  know you're seeing
  this.................................... _{sent just now}

Django taps his foot impatiently, waiting for a response.
This message was last edited by the player at 00:56, Fri 03 Feb 2017.

HEY BLINT.  SORRY.  WAS IN THE REFRESHER.  WHAT CAN I DO FOR YOU?

HOW FAR ARE YOU FROM THE DATA DISTRICT? I HAVE SOMETHING HERE THAT REQUIRES YOUR SKILLSET.

20 MINS.  SEND ME YOUR COORDINATES AND I'LL BRT.