Dress appropriately for a place where people pay ten per cent of the GDP of a former Soviet statelet ending in stan to eat something with a Eurochic name that they can’t pronounce and probably don’t even like the taste of. Tri had been tempted to turn up in a waitress’s outfit. That would have been appropriate. She even has a waitress’s outfit somewhere. Marks tend not to pay attention to waitresses until they draw a pistol and shoot them between the eyes.

Tempting. But probably not practical on this occasion. So something appropriate consists of strips of a black something that might have been latex or PVC that wind around the upper half of her body covering what needs to be covered - more or less - while her lower half is clad in a loose black skirt that falls all the way to her ankles, where it meets black biker boots that rise to just below her knees.

It’s a look that’s meant to draw attention to her upper body while the boots and skirt combined to conceal two blades, one nestled inside her right boot and the other strapped to her left thigh. A katana is probably nekulturny for a place like this.

Oh, and she’s rocking a new hairstyle.

”We are here now.” Bare shoulders wrinkle into a shrug. ”So, what time is table booked for? I haven’t eaten since yesterday.” The Siberian Solo smiles humorlessly. ”Kidding.”

Despite Martin's considerable and hard-earned fashion acumen, which he's always considered part of his professional development, there's only so much he can do with the materials currently at hand.  A suit would be preferable for this meet, and he updates his to-buy list on a monthly basis to ensure that when he has the money, he'll get himself fitted for something that's currently in fashion and that will hopefully age gracefully into "classic" or "vintage."  But this month was not the money for a fitting, and next month's not looking too good, either.  Though a ping from Black Jasper does admittedly raise the probability a notch or two... assuming the imminent gig is survivable.

Lacking the tools for blending in seamlessly, Martin has opted for "corpo about to go slumming."  His Gibson Battlegear Strandhögg armor jacket, freshly repaired and restored, is draped over a burgundy techsilk dress shirt whose fiber-optic embeds are set to emit silver flickers just often enough to make a casual viewer question their perceptions.  His best black slacks and polished combat boots complete the look.

He gives Nyx's new 'do a professionally-appreciative nod before turning his attention to L. Seth and constructing a smile that carries all the warmth of a beachgoer extracting a used hypodermic from his flip-flop.  And speaking of whipping, I took longer to come last night with your mom cycles through his internal monologue.  He mentally edits to something slightly less classically provocative.  "The message said 'now,' but if that was a misspelling of 'sometime after a round of fuck-fuck games with my staff comedian,' we can work that into our schedules, too."

L. Seth lets out a cackle that’s probably fueled with a healthy dose of synth-coke.  “Staff comedian.  I like that, I’ll pitch it in my next round of negotiations.  Maybe get a pay raise.”  The blond mane flips with a twist of the solo’s head.  Another asshole smile. “Come on down, no need to get testy.”

Jasper’s pet muscles leads the Edgerunners through a heavy steel door and down five or six concrete steps.  Lube’s practiced eye picks up the unobtrusive bits of security they pass, micro cameras, heat detection, x-ray.  This place is serious.  They pass through another door, this one a much more beautiful species of ash with inlaid coral in an algorithm designed pattern that is probably supposed to invoke feelings of calm, or sensuality, or some bullshit.  Then they’re in the kitchen.

Unlike the kitchens that came before, this one is quiet.  Everything done on precision and care.  Dishes assembled with tweezers and cyberhands.  Smells delicious.  For performance art.

The help they pass in Seven Doves does an amazing job of ignoring the help that L.Seth and company represent.  Clearly they are not the first mercenaries to pass this way.  It is unlikely they will be the last.  Hell, the shoes the waiters wear in this place probably cost more than the complete wardrobes of the Edgerunners combined.

Instead of tacking towards the main dining room, L. Seth takes a sharp left down a hallway lit with warm light.  Doors sit closed against the right hand wall, each a private suite for those who truly want to impress.  They pass two before a door slides open on soundless hinges and Black Jasper steps out with a chagrined smile and a 5000eb suit.  A female voice chases him.

“You said no fucking work!”

“I’m goddamn trying, Lily!” he tosses back over his shoulder.

“Work faster!”

Jasper throws his arms up in frustration as the door shuts and L. Seth cackles again. “So the bi-monthly apology tour is going well.”

The fixer just sighs, turning to his troops. “Ignore that.  Ignore him.  I need you to make a problem go away.  Right the hell now.” He stops, making sure he has everyone’s attention.  “One door down is a famous man.  He has been coming at me for two weeks with a crazy ass story about his wife and -“ he cuts himself off.  “Never mind.  Look, I thought he was bonker-balls, but your know what? What the fuck do I know?  He pulled a fast one on me tonight, treated me to a private room, and then interrupted my life.  I need this to go away.  Go solve his problem.  Or just make like you did and make him happy. You guys have a habit of fixing the bizarre so here you go. I put this in your capable laps.  3000 eb a piece. It runs higher, we’ll take care of it.”

Jasper turns back to the door, evidently satisfied with his pre-mission “negotiation.”  He takes a deep breath and gets ready to open the door.  L. Seth waits till his hand is just hovering above the panel.

“Tell my sister I said ‘hi.’”

“God I hate you.” Jasper disappears through the door.

L. Seth turns back to the group and smiles.  “See? Whipped.” He takes a few loping strides down the hall and stops at another door.  “Speaking of whipped…” The door slides open and he offers a gentlemanly “after you.”

Inside the space reveals how the elite can live.  Fine sculptured chairs with the comfort of clouds.  Thousands of eddies of fine wine and even finer food spread out on several tables.  A flawless vid-screen shows a live footage feed of glaciers collapsing in Alaska, each impacting sending up a splash and the cost of the Night City sea wall.

Pacing in front of all of this is Joshua Stokes, starting pitcher for the Night City Slammers.  He’s wringing his hands when the door opens, but he stops, turns his head and nearly sags in relief. “Oh.  Oh, he really did it.  Thank you, thank you for coming.  Please, please come in and sit.  Is the food okay?  The wine?  I’m not really sure how this works.”
This message was last edited by the GM at 19:54, Wed 17 Aug 2022.

A lifelong Slammers fan, Kenji immediately recognizes Stokes, tries not to act star-struck. The Japanese-Korean-American medtech takes a seat, feeling conspicuously underdressed in Chinos and a sportscoat. He only owns one suit, and he hasn't put it back on since Maria's funeral- hadn't even taken it the dry cleaners yet. He'd probably throw it away, if it didn't represent at least a couple of month's rent. He'd pour himself a glass of if-you-have-to-ask-you-can't-afford-it-red, but he he knows that if he starts drinking, he probably won't be able to stop.

-
This message was last edited by the player at 20:14, Wed 17 Aug 2022.

So this is how the other half lives...  Muy bonito... Cruz thought to himself.

Alex didn't know what to make of the Seth and Jasper show, so he kept his trap shut and his eyes up.  He thought for a moment about stealing some shit, but after spotting the various camera and security details, Lube decided that jacking one of the waiters for their shoes was best left for another time.

"Joshua Stokes.  Shit, he wasn't kidding about being famous," Alexander said to no one in particular.

"Yo, I'm LJ, here to make your problems go away," Cruz said trying to sound slick, but coming off tasteless and tacky.  Still, A. Cruz went all in, as he offered up a fist bump to the famous pitcher.  It was the kind of shitty street meet and greet that had likely never been attempted before in this kind of restaurant.
This message was last edited by the player at 21:45, Sat 13 Aug 2022.

Lily The name is filed away. Nyx hasn’t really decided what she intends to do about Kyrill’s…it could hardly be called a request, could it? Nyet, it was instruction. So, she has not decided what to do about Kyrill’s instruction to report back on Jasper. For now largely nothing. Take notes, remember things, record them when she has a chance. She does know that Kyril is not a good man to cross. And he knows where she is. SovOil would probably pay well for her whereabouts, pay better still for her head, whether attached to her body or not. So Kyrill - or, more accurately his associates - were not good people to be on the wrong side of.

That is another problem though, for another day. Problems, always with the fucking problems. But then again, if people did not have problems Ksenia Orlova might really have to make her living as a waitress. And then she would not get to dance with lunatics with whips.

And so she simply nods when the American that she does not recognise thanks her for coming. ”You’re welcome.” It’s said with only a little irony. When Cruz puts a name to the face that doesn’t really help. Joshua Stokes. Apparently he is famous. Tri doesn’t watch American sports, except sometimes the different kinds of fighting, the real kind, where two or more fighters beat each other to a pulp, not the wrestling shit that is clearly fake. But this man is not from any of those Worlds so Nyx has no clue who he is and it would not be cultured to ask in front of him.

”Do you have any Vodka?” The Solo with a taste for Stolichnaya asks as she slithers into a seat, crosses one long dancer’s leg across the other, offering anyone that cares to glance a glimpse of the blade strapped to her left thigh while she waits for the questions that people that know more about dealing with this sort of thing than she does - and actually know who this man is - are bound to ask.

A corner of Martin's mind records the layout of the back-of-house spaces, just in case he ever has to hustle a client out of this place.  That subprocess is quickly sidelined by if Jasper is this worked up about it, we are fucked, shortly followed by ah, domestic trouble: yes, we are indeed fucked at a very high level.

Still, as client-involved scenes requiring impassivity go, this isn't nearly the worst one in which Martin's found himself.  Stokes is clearly off-balance, which is not going to help anyone.  But this is at least somewhat familiar ground, albeit the first time Martin has been more than a junior expendable meatshield on some VIP's detail (assuming Jasper hasn't quietly placed some or all of this team in the "expendable" column).  So, first task: re-center the poor guy.

"Well, sir, if it helps, think of us as... subcontractors."  Martin engages his corporate-English dictionary and flashes a slight, neutral smile as he crosses the room.  "You've engaged Jasper to help you solve a problem.  Jasper has a stable of talent which he taps as appropriate to the job.  For your current issue, he's selected us."  He gives Stokes a moment to process that and focus on him, then extends a hand when he judges the moment is right for Stokes to feel like the handshake is his own idea.  "I'm Martin Lowell.  I work personal security."  Which raises the very interesting question of what a multi-million-eurobuck athlete is doing in the wild without his own watchdog.  "My colleagues: Mister Takanori, medical services; Mister Cruz, mobility and technical services; Miss Orlova, also personal security," he manages without smirking, "and Miss Fletcher, confidential investigations."

He glances at the liquor selection and regretfully bypasses the Buffalo Trace.  If Stokes is offering wine first, then wine it is, at least for him.  He pours himself a glass, silently offers the same for Cipher and Lube, checks Stokes' own conversational lubricant level, fixes Nyx's vodka, and only then sits.

"So, Mister Stokes, we're the working group that your prime contractor has put together.  You can think of this as the initial project meeting.  To answer your question: how this usually works is that the client tells us his concern and his desired end state.  We'll probably have some questions for you to elicit further details and to clarify your goals.  But, please, let's start with what you're comfortable sharing with us."

“Yeah, uh.  Okay.  Sub-contractors.” This version of Stokes has but a passing resemblance to the confident, if not downright cocky, pitcher who’s image has been blasted across Night City in poster, hologram, BD, and (if rumors are to be believed) AI generated deep-fake porn.  This is the guy who just signed a five year 170 million eb deal with the Slammers.  At the ripe old age of twenty-seven.  Maybe this will be the Slammers’ year.

The pitcher flexes his arm in what Kenji recognizes as his warm up tic.  “So, like, what I say is confidential?”

“Completely, sir,” Whisper reassures him.

“And you won’t think I’m crazy.” This last is more of a hopeful statement than question.

“The shit we have seen?” Lube shoots back with a fairly unprofessional chuckle..

Stokes closes his eyes.  Runs his pregame. “Yeah.  Okay.  So…um…I pretty sure my wife isn’t my wife anymore.” He lets the statement sit there.  The Edgerunners let it sit there. “I mean, I’m still married, and she’s still there.  But, like, I don’t think it’s actually her anymore. You know what I mean?”

Cipher pulls data, dumps it into visual feeds.  Joshua Stokes is married to a fit blond corp woman of thirty five years of age.  The wedding picture that comes up has all the charm of a shark chomping into a lovely meal of sea lion, the perfect smile of a perfectly sculpted corporate overlord who landed her trophy whale who just happened to come along with a few hundred million of his own.  For her to “invest.”  Sadie Moore is perfectly pretty.  And perfectly predatory.

For his part, Stokes stands in the picture with a look of stunned disbelief.  Like he can’t believe he won the lottery and got to stand next to her.  Let alone marry her.

Sadie Moore: Senior VP of Acquisitions, Mechatronix.

“I’m not crazy.  I’m not.” Maybe he’s trying to convince himself more than the others. “But I can’t exactly go tell the team my wife has been replaced by an imposter, can I?  I mean, I hear the words coming out of my mouth and I think its gibberish.”

Stokes' story isn't that crazy. It certainly wouldn't be the first time a grifter with extensive body-sculpting work had attempted to insinuate themself into the life of a rich and famous mark.

"And what led you to this conclusion, Mister Stokes? Asking as a medical professional, have you noticed any... physical differences?"

-

"Or behavioral?" Sam adds, inviting Stokes to elaborate. "Let's start with what tipped you off."

-

Nyx sits back, takes the occasional sip of her vodka, says nothing. One thing has piqued her curiosity, namely that if the person sharing Mr Stokes' bed is not, in fact, his wife, then what, exactly, has happened to his wife?  Is she complicit in what is taking place? Or not? For now thoughs he keeps her thoughts to herself, just watches and listens.

Mechatronix... damn Cruz thought to himself.  At one point in his life, the idea of working for a high end firm like that was appealing.  But in talking to others, Alex learned that the corp life, wasn't anything to be envious about.  The execs were ruthless and even a fellow engineer might shiv you on a project just to get a head.  And now evidently, there was some bodysnatcher shit being done as well.

No - Alex reflected for a moment that he was was far better off with his Aldecaldo pack and his freedom as an edgerunner.

“Honestly?” Stokes responds, refilling his glass of wine.  “My curve.  She could never hit my curve.  Now she can.”  The room is silent, processing systems running again.  Waiting for the explanation.  “Yeah, I know that doesn’t make total sense.  Sadie used to come home from work wrapped around the axel, always ready to fight, always ready to blow up at the smallest thing.” Which would make her like about every other corp exec on the planet.  “I finally got her to go out and hit some balls with me.  Swing the bat, crush some balls, and help me keep my arm limber.  We could talk while we played.” Stokes shrugs, half lost in the memory. “It seemed to help.  Anyway, one night about a year ago she needed a pick me up, so I let her think she could hit my curve.  I mean, I wasn’t throwing that hard anyway, but I let her think she was hitting my curve.  Man, she wasn’t coming close.  But she thought she was…”

There’s a pause in the story while the pitcher downs his wine in one long pull.

“So like, three weeks ago she heads out on a business trip?  Comes back after a week away, happy as can be.  Or happy as she can be.  A couple nights later, we’re playing ball like normal, chatting away, and she, like, hits my curve.  I didn’t even mean to throw it,  lost in the moment, thinking maybe kids were on the horizon.  And she hit it.  Crushed it.”  The wine glass goes down to the table.  “I didn’t really even think about it, so I threw two more.  Boom.  Boom.  Then I started paying attention.  Moved my fastball up a few notches.  Missed.  Missed.  Knuckleball.  Missed.  Curve.  Boom.  Medium speed.  Boom.  She was hitting everything she normally did, plus the curve.” That sweet million eb curve.

“Maybe she upped her chip game?” Kenji asks.

“No,” Stokes says. “No way.  I know what chipped hitting looks like.  That ain’t it.  Why would she miss everything else but pick up the curve?  Who programs that?”

Nyx sweeps her hand. “Perhaps she is… better?  Put in the work?”

“What, like all of the sudden?  No way.  Uh, ma’am.” Stokes looks around helplessly.  “I’m crazy aren’t I?  But I can’t shake it… I mean once I saw that curve head for the fences, I’m like, what other surprises are hiding in the shadows?”

Martin sits back, sips, listens, processes.  He can see why Jasper is losing his shit.  On the surface, Stokes' story is crazy.  And yet...

He offers Stokes a slight smile. "You're not crazy.  This is your professional judgement talking.  This is what you do.  You're still at the top of your game.  The coaching staff isn't giving you side-eye after practice, right?  So it's not you.  Eliminate that factor.  You aren't crazy.  The situation is, but you aren't.  What does that leave us?"

A nod to Kenji.  "The same professional judgement indicates that your wife didn't get a chipware upgrade."  Another nod to Nyx.  "And you would have seen performance metrics tracking upward over time if she'd been putting in extra practice."

He frowns in thought.  "Did she comment on it?  Did she notice she was suddenly hitting your curve?  Did she celebrate?  Did she treat it like it was expected and normal performance?  And did anything other than that last business happen between your previous sessions and this one?"

“That’s the weird thing,” Stokes says.  “That’s what popped my red flag.  Sadie didn’t say anything.  She looked at me like she expected to hit that ball.  Like she always hit that pitch.  Like it was Tuesday.  Look, there is no possible way she could have hit that ball.  No one hits my curve that doesn’t make millions.  That’s why I make millions.”

The pitcher shrugs helplessly again.  “There’s nothing unusual that sticks out in my head, but she travels a lot.  And of course I’m traveling all the time.  I’ve got to head out tomorrow morning for St. Louis and she’s out of town for the next three days.  That’s why I’m here now.  When Sadie, or whoever it is, can’t notice.”

"Your wife's business trip- before the change- where did she go? And where is she now, on this current trip?"

-

"And your business, Mr. Stokes- any new developments in that area? Contract negotiations, trade rumors- anything like that going on recently?"

-
This message was last edited by the player at 19:45, Mon 22 Aug 2022.

“It’s uh,” Stokes dithers a little uncomfortably.  “It’s a little hard to keep track.  She travels a lot and I’m on the road constantly this time of year.” The sport star’s eyes flick up and to the left in the telltale sign of accessing an internal agent.  “It looks like she was in, uh, Taipei?  That’s what the calendar says.  We don’t usually talk when she’s on the road.  The time zones thing messes with my recovery schedule, you know?  Right now…Coronado.  She’s in SoCal.”

To Kenji’s question, Stokes just smiles wide.  “Man, I just re-signed with Night City.  Have you seen me plastered all over this city?”  He mimics the hunter eyes he’s known for throwing over the edge of his glove. “I mean, I guess they could trade me, but they’re covering my salary wherever I go. My agent made sure of it.”

"The sex.  The sex don't lie.  Does she do the things she use to do?" Cruz blurted out, apropos of nothing.  The Puerto Rican locked eyes with Stokes and transmitted what the kids called, Big Dick Energy.

Inwardly, Martin cringes.  "Intimate behaviors would be some of the most difficult for an impostor to mimic," he states/guesses/covers.

Stokes blinks at the brazen blast Cruz levels in his direction.  Then years of locker room talk and being a superstar kick in.  His gaze levels.  Goes introspective.  Analyzes some plays maybe.

“You know…” he starts.  “Yeah.  I mean, it’s what she likes and what I like, but the passion hasn’t really been there.  I thought maybe she was tired, but its kinda like she’s running a skills drill.  Like the motions are there but it’s not game time?”

"Hm.  Any other kinesthetic indicators?  Does she walk differently?  Different posture when standing or sitting?  Have trouble navigating your home in the dark?"

Kenji suppresses a frown. As a lifelong Slammer's fan, he's got a decent grasp of the business side of the ball club.  "I mean behind the scenes, anything that hasn't made the screamsheets yet." The answer's probably "no", or else Stokes would have mentioned it, but Kenji doesn't want Stokes to think he's a poseur.

Whisper's question prompts another line of thinking. "Is the missus into Brain-dancing?"

-
This message was last edited by the player at 19:04, Sun 28 Aug 2022.

Warming to the idea that these Edgerunners don’t consider him crazy, Stokes continues to relax.  Maybe it’s years of having his performance analyzed in public, but he doesn’t seem to be in any distress talking about the minutia of his suspicions.

“Maybe,” he says to Martin.  “Now that you’re making me think about it, it’s like there’s a hitch.  Like a microsecond delay before she does the things she always likes to do?  Sadie would kill me for saying it, but she likes to dance through the bathroom in the morning while I’m shaving.  I mean Mrs Bad-Ass Corporate Overlord belting out show tunes?  Come on!” He smiles at the memory, then straightens.  “She still does it, but there’s this tiny hesitation at the door.”

To Kenji: “Man, I hope not, but it’s baseball.  Never say never and our GM has pulled fast ones before.” Kenji can safely assume that Stokes is referring to the midnight trade of superstar center fielder Tito Flores for three first round draft picks, six seconds, and a handy dodge around the salary cap with another team guaranteeing the contract.  The fans howled till Flores blew out his achilles two months later.

“We’ve dabbled with brain-dance, sure,” Stokes adds, “but Sadie is more a physical person.  Like a sim is a sim for her, even when your brain thinks it’s real.”

With relief stemming from the fact that his new friends/employees/troubleshooters don’t think he’s crazy (or at least are willing to entertain the position for a stack of eddies), Stokes leaves them to finish the meal he paid for in peace.  He leaves behind an agent ID in the event that the team needs to get in touch with him and a pass card for the condo he shares with Sadie.  If DNA information is to be had, it’s probably there.

The condo, naturally, is deep in the corporate zone.  Behind several roadblocks and at least one corporate security force.  It sits on the 60th floor of an imposing glass, steel, titanium, and chrome tower, possesses an outdoor living space, and probably cost north of 15 million eb.  The tower itself continues for some 46 more stories, scraping the sky as it tapers down to a single seven story penthouse that if rumor is to be believed serves as the western hemisphere home of the Arasaka family.  Every fifteen floors the building shrinks leaving the units occupying that floor with their own walled gardens high above the ground and overlooking Night City.  On days that aren’t shit, they can probably even see the ocean.

Downstairs, security will be tight but cleaning crews go in and out, as do private contractors. And of course, the elite that make their living preying off the rest of the world.  Stokes has offered to arrange a cover for the team to enter as a group of designers interested in using their place as a art piece, but that plan has a few drawbacks.  Mainly a paper trail, should anybody be looking.  Though everything electronic can be swept aside with some planning and effort.

Sadie is out for the next few days.  So is Stokes.  The team has an op to plan.