Alex grabbed something that passed for coffee en route to the bodega.  Hot and fresh from a street cart, the beverage contained the necessary caffeine, though it wasn't nearly as good as the real coffee he'd had in the Navy.  The 'Boats' ran on nuclear fission and coffee extraction.

Hell, the first ratio Cruz had been required to remember at his A-School wasn't anything involving reactors - it was the brewing ratio formula where t is the total dissolved solids expressed as a percentage of the mass of the grounds, V is the volume of the water used, and M is the mass of the grounds. In other words, the strength of a beverage is the product of the brew ratio and the extraction percentage.  If you couldn't master that, you weren't going to be make it through Navy Nuclear Power School.



It was that formula now that would power him through the meet at Conrad's Bodega.
This message was last edited by the player at 12:23, Mon 10 May 2021.

The timing could have been better. Actually it was downright inconvenient. Karma had had plans for the evening.

But her curiosity was piqued. And she knew Jasper well enough to know that he wouldn’t haul her to some crappily anonymous spot in the middle of the night without good reason. After all, there were better things to be doing in the middle of the night. Which circled back to the plans that Karma had. Four hours. Still enough time.

She stepped out of the Uber and onto the sidewalk at zero one twenty seven hours. It would have been nice if Jasper thought that she’d planned to arrive more or less on the dot but it was more luck than anything else. It had taken her slightly longer than she’d reckoned on to disentangle herself from her plans. This really had better be worth it.

The dark haired corp takes a moment to look around. Recent events have made her wary. Check. She’s always wary. Recent events have made her warier. She’s clad in black from head to toe. Black leather jacket, that’s honest to God vintage. Leggings that cling like a second skin. Heels that boost her height by several inches. Her hair looks damp, like she’s straight out of the shower - which she was, the damp hair a tell that it had been a rushed one - and there’s the faintest whiff of what a purveyor of fine fragrances might recognize as one of the latest designer scents, one that’s popular with the fashionistas and influencers. Or at least it was popular with the latter this afternoon. Which was probably an eternity ago for them.

Satisfied that there don’t seem to be any obvious threats, she pushes open the front door of the Bodega, a click of heel announcing her arrival.

Martin arrives first, maybe by virtue of planning, maybe just luck of the draw the with Night City Transit Authority.   The bodega is empty except for Wendell who gives Martin a “yeah, we’re brothers in the trade now” wave as he passes.  Lube Job hits the meet next, hopped up on caffeine and a motorcycle ride.  MDR steps out of her Uber, looking great and ready to eat the City alive.  It’s probable she doesn’t quite know what to do with the run down exterior of the convenience store, but Kenji arrives at a hustle and is able to lead her through the shelves of shitty food, into the freezer of frozen kibble (and more!) and down the steps through the heavy oak door.

The decor in the whiskey bar is the same as before.  Heavy wood, the scent of Eddies changing hands and deals being made.  Karma’s never been here, but she’s been in plenty of places like it.  Vernon tends bar, a bottle or two of whisky sitting on the stained, ancient hardwood surface.  At the other end of the small space, Black Jasper sits at one of the circle tables, his back pressed against the wall.  A bottle of whisky sits on this table as well as five or six tumblers pushed to the middle, detritus from the last deal made in the space.  L.Seth vapes some stimulant or another (probably the last thing the guy needs to be dropping into his already hyped system) at the table next to Jasper’s.  A short woman of about twenty-two sits next to Jasper in a NetRunner suit poking out from underneath a long designer coat that matches her shock pink hair.  She’s laughing at something he’s said.  Martin recognizes the throaty voice as belonging to Viceroy.

“Welcome back,” Jasper says, sweeping the other four seats at the table he waits at.  “Or welcome for the first time, Karma,” he tacks on with a nod.  Apparently being a part owner of the bodega agrees with the Fixer, he looks right at home.  There’s a moment of small talk, a brief introduction to Viceroy and then Jasper gets down to business.

“Last mission went to the client’s satisfaction,” Jasper says.  “Same client has approached with a follow up.  Since you are already familiar with the mission profile, it makes the most sense to hand it to you.  Your extraction is still suffering under the effects of something the Listeners did to her.  Some sort of colossal brain fuckup from what I’m told that mom and dad need squared away.  The doc’s have told the client that without shutting down whatever source she’s trying to tune into, she’s not going to improve.  The long and short of it is that you are being contracted to identify, trace, and neutralize the electronic source that Daphne is trying to stay plugged into.”

An empty tumbler gets pushed back and forth between Jasper’s hands on the table. “The client offered two thousand.  I bargained on your behalf for twenty five hundred given the opposition faced on the extraction.  Karma, you’re  included on the payroll, but I’m assuming you want some payback on the dipshits that thought grabbing you was a reasonable idea.”

“What have you got for me?”

Martin arrives early, wins a couple hundred Euro from the usual losers at poker, then turns around and invest it into learning Black Jasper's tells.  To the undiscerning eye, it probably looks like losing slowly until he reaches the point of breaking even.  Martin is fairly sure that Black Jasper's eye is more discerning and the fixer finds the process mildly amusing.

He drops out of the game when Cruz arrives, standing to greet the other man and engaging in small talk at the bar until the rest of the meet filters in.

When the initial pitch is done, he nods to the NetRunner.  "Viceroy, I assume you're going to handle the locate.  You gonna go on site with us to trash the hardware or will you be giving us remote instruction?"  Unspoken, but again, he's fairly sure at least Black Jasper will get the subtext: can you handle yourself in the inevitable gunfight or will I need to treat you as a protectee?

He returns his attention to the fixer.  "Daphne was the contract but she wasn't the only one we pulled out of there.  Are the others having the same connection issues?"  His gaze flicks momentarily to Cruz and he raises an interrogative eyebrow.

Kenji orders a Mexican Cola. Vernon pops the top, slides the tall, sweat-beaded bottle across the bar. Kenji takes a seat at Jasper's table, enjoys a sip of the cold, sweet beverage, hopes the caffeine kicks in soon.

The Medtech hasn't brought much fresh intel to the table- just the knowledge than neither Daphne Copeland's doctors, nor TTI, have any idea what's causing the lingering aftereffects of her jacked-in captivity. Based on Jasper's preliminary briefing, however, that information seems more or less self-evident. Anyway, he doesn't want to interrupt Whisper's line of questioning, so he keeps his mouth shut for now and listens.

-
This message was last edited by the player at 16:53, Thu 13 May 2021.

In reply to M. Lowell (msg # 8):

Cruz did his own listening, mostly to what Jasper was proposing.  He was content to mull it over and hear out the others, but when Martin mentioned the connection issue, he felt the need to chime in.

"Uh, yeah.  I don't want to talk out of school - the family is doesn't, well, you know.  Anyway, Emil..." Cruz stopped shrugged, then continued.

"..got problems.  Word is, won't take the hardware out and spends every waking hour surfing the net." Alexander paused and signed.  A thought entered his mind:

If you save someone by pulling them off a machine and they spend the rest of their life trying to get hooked back up, did you really save their life?

Cruz dismissed it to move on.

"I asked the family if they could get connection logs and whatnot.  That will take time though.  If we've got a better lead, we could probably help at least two people by stopping that signal."
This message had punctuation tweaked by the player at 01:38, Fri 14 May 2021.

“Think of me as tech support,” Viceroy grins.  “I’m just a phone call away.”  The subtext being Maelstrom gunfights aren’t really my line of cocaine, but thanks for asking.  “I can work the locate, evaluate the tech, and if you need an on the ground ‘Runner, I can pass on a few names.”

“Cost on my end,” Jasper tacks on. “I’m hiring you, not passing on expenses.”  It is a fairly frank admission for a fixer.  Maybe this guy plays the long game.

“Look,” Viceroy continues with a nod to Lube, “you get me access to the Aldecaldos and I’ll take a little look see. I’d love to tap into whatever it is Emil has found, take a peek, and drop a Snooper into the line.  See what goes where.  Can go public with a handshake or go dark with a hack job.  Your call.”

Well, this is a surprise. Fancy bumping into the Three Amigos again. And look at that. Everyone knows Jasper. Coincidence. Not.

When Whisper asks about the others having the same connection issues she raises the glass of Scotch that she’s holding to her lips, tosses back what remains of the amber liquor then immediately reaches for the bottle, refills her glass with a generous measure. The others. The other victims. The other abductees. The other whatever the fuck you wanted to call them. And unlike the other people here, she had almost been one of them. The others that is.

Maybe she would have bene one of the lucky ones, would have been rescued. Yeah, if Jasper was involved he’d have probably told them to swipe right. Hopefully. But even if they had got her out she might have still been plugged in, dancing to whatever tune someone was playing in her head. And if they had swiped left, well, that really wasn't something that she wanted to think too much about.

”You bet your fucking ass I want payback.” She murmurs softly. For the other three this is business. But for MDR it’s personal. Way too personal.

Kenji weighs his words carefully. He doesn't want anyone at the table, especially the boss, thinking that he's criticizing them for how the extraction gig went down, because he's not. In fairness, nobody knew then quite what they were getting into. They'd all done the best they could with the resources at hand.

"We didn't have a netrunner on the ground during the last job..." and look where we are now. "I'm not a computers guy, so I can't say for sure, but I think it would have helped. Daphne Copeland's doctors have no idea what's wrong with her. Neither does TTI. That means her issues are technological rather than medical. And since the Listeners, or whoever's still fucking with her brainwaves, are using some sort of tech no one's really seen before- otherwise, our expert," Kenji nods towards Viceroy, "would know what we're up against already- telephone tech support probably ain't gonna cut it."

-
This message was last edited by the player at 18:29, Sat 15 May 2021.

"I can make a call to Emil's folks in the morning and see if they are open to some help on this," Cruz said with a shrug.  He wasn't going to pull out his agent at 01:fuckall to call Poncho though.
This message was last edited by the player at 01:01, Sun 16 May 2021.

Martin nods at Viceroy's response, both spoken and unspoken.  "'kay.  We'll see where your initial trace goes.  May take you up on that contact list later."

He turns to Karma.  "So.  These are improved circumstances over the last time we met.  And you're on the payroll with us."  He nods to Black Jasper, acknowledging the fixer's earlier statement - as well as the caveat about personal investment.  "Kentucky makes holes and plugs holes, Lube Job is a machine-whisperer, I do a little bit of executive protection work.  What are you bringing to the party?"  He keeps his tone conversational: assessing, not challenging.

Karma tosses back another slug of Scotch while she considers how to answer the question that Whisper’s just asked. It’s a fair one. None of them know her other than as someone that had needed to br rescued. That thought makes her wince internally. Needed to be rescued. It’s a sign of weakness. She’s on the back foot already. In the circles that she usually moves in the sharks would already have scented the blood and started to circle.

So, what does she bring to the party? Apart from being easy on the eye of course? She leans across the table, looks at Whisper. ”I’m the Executive that you’re normally protecting.” There’s a hint of a smile. The intricately designed tattoo on her left arm ripples, changes, the nanobots forming themselves into a different pattern, the color changing from light green to a dark red. ”I open doors that you can’t. I get people that wouldn’t give you the time of day to talk to me. I work rooms, Whisper, I read people.” She’s matching his demeanour. It’s not a challenge, just a statement of fact.

MDR sits back in her chair, brings her fingers together in a steeple in front of her chin. ”And sometimes I beat ten shades of shit out of people. Purely for recreational purposes. I mean, everyone has to have a way of relaxing.”

After Monica finishes her resume, Jasper leans back with a look that says something between “ferocious, isn’t she,” and “yeah, I know.”  That the Fixer and the Corp share a history hangs in the air unspoken, but it doesn’t seem like it’s the kind of history that entails the exchange of body fluids from either voluntary or involuntary emissions.

“Prefer cars, myself,” the fixer says quietly with a shrug.

“I’m down with some ultraviolence,” L.Seth adds with a nod and a wink that speaks volumes.

“Yeah...” Jasper raps his knuckles against the table bringing everyone back to the point. “Payment.  Same as the last time through.  Twenty five points up front, seventy five on the back end.  Reasonable expenses reimbursed.  You need some gear fronted on the payday, let me know.  Didn’t fuck me last time, I figure we can extend some courtesy here.”

The slide of Jasper’s jaw leaves the fact that fronted gear is probably another test unspoken.  The kind that speaks to the trustworthiness of the people that work with him.

Kenji raises an eyebrow as Karma wraps up her curriculum vitae. Like many working-class denizens of Night City, he has an inherent distrust of corpos- even total smoke shows who like to scrap for kicks. It matters little that his own biological father was an Arisaka exec missing, presumed dead, after the 2023 bombing. If Black Jasper trusts the new girl, though, Kenji will give her the benefit of the doubt.

"Any leads on where this signal is originating from?" Kenji asks the table.

If not, Kenji follows up with, "Maybe we should pay the pagoda another visit." The building itself looks like it could act as an oversized aerial.

-
This message was last edited by the player at 21:25, Wed 19 May 2021.

“Not yet,” Viceroy chips in. “My understanding,” her eyes flick to Jasper for confirmation, “is that the Copeland family and TTI have determined it is in Daphne’s best interest not to access the Net.  Not after the first time.”

With a slight cough, Jasper picks up the story. “A couple days out from pickup, Doc and Dad decide that Daphne just needs to get her life back together.  Gave her access back.  They came back six hours later to find her tearing at the comp in the room trying to get it to interface with her new ‘ware.  The site was a gibberish address.  Online for not much more than eight hours based on logs before disappearing back into the electronic ether. Became a bit distressed when her access was taken away.  Started a nasty habit of cutting to kill the time.”

“My theory,” Viceroy cuts in, “is that the bad guys are building new sites every few hours and using them for brief periods before wiping them clean and moving on in an attempt to throw off pursuit.  I need an active signal, one actively calling home to hone in on anything.”

So the pagoda is probably out. Kenji is momentarily crestfallen. A moving target is always harder to hit. But the team might not have to start back at square one...

"If they're staying mobile, chances are good they're using the same vans." Kenji flashes a sly smile, turns to Lube Job and asks, "Those trackers you rigged up still active?"

-
This message was last edited by the player at 19:40, Thu 20 May 2021.

"Might be," Cruz said.  "Much will depend on how well it was secured and how shitty the streets that van has been driving over in the past two weeks," Alexander added.  It wasn't like the ad-hoc tracker he'd kludged together had been bolted and torqued down.  Still, it was worth a try.

"You still got that number and IMEI," he asked Viceroy, who had triangulated the signal last time.  Cruz could provide it again if needed.

“I”ve got’em,” Viceroy says pushing away the implication that she would lose data with a toss of her hair..  Her left arm comes up on the table and the NetRunner slides back the sleeve of her pink jacket to reveal a chromatic cyber arm.  It’s a nice piece, bedazzled with unicorns and a some “fuck the world” stickers.  It’s also packing a custom cyberdeck.  With her right hand working the controls, Viceroy’s eyes go distant, tapping into the net via Conrad’s data flow.  If the crew is worth a damn, they’ve been upgrading the system since the friendly take over a couple weeks ago.

Across town, two cobbled together  cell phone/tracking beacons receive a ping from the nearest tower.  One fails to acknowledge the request, either dislodged and destroyed or dead.  The other, through the miracles of modern lithium blends or maybe random placement inside the van’s electrical induction charging field, pings back.  Viceroy acknowledges the signal and locks onto the signal, running a quick patch so that the phone sends texts every fifteen minutes as updates to save whatever juice is left in the system.

A few more hand gestures and Viceroy smiles wide, eyes returning to the present moment.

“One of your little toys is still active,” she tells Lube. “Conveniently parked outside The Molt.”

Soundtrack: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4MAP3yVRVJ8


“Just don’t break, huh?  Kinda shit kills profit margins.” Jasper says, handing a set of keys over to Lube.  The van is black, electric, and small.  The perfect size for moving small pieces of contraband throughout NC blending in as just another delivery schmuck.  On the key ring hang an electrical fob, the standard key of the modern age, and an actual mechanical key, a bit of backup should the battery in the fob fail.  Or get wiped in an EMP blast.  You never know.

“He used to have one with a wizard on it.  Painted me riding a unicorn into battle with all kinds of topless babes cheering me on.” L.Seth kicks in.  “True story.”

“Not a true story,” Jasper counters without turning around.

“Should be a true story,” the solo mutters, walking away in momentary boredom.

“I’ll pick you up when you hear from the Nomads,  Let me know.” Viceroy says to Lube.  “I”m gonna go blackout for are few hours.”

At about 0215, the van holding four edgerunners heads out into the NC streets, headed for The Molt.  The streets are quiet in the “good” areas, the action picking up as the real estate value goes down.  Nearing the Molt, the streets take on a familiar scape.  Nothing much has changed in the last couple weeks.  The containment strategy from Maelstrom proper is still in place, though in slightly smaller numbers, most of the Boosters showing a little worse for wear.  At Janissary and Stein, the Molt rots slowly in all its urban decay glory.  People file in and out of the club, the ones going in brimming with energy and violence.  The ones coming out staggering a bit at the end of their night.  Just like before, the club is silent except for the subsonic rumble of the speakers that shake the ground.

Lube puts the van over on Janissary, looking down the block in a spot across the street from where the team launched their prior bugging mission.  A few homeless lean on the wall, high or asleep, not giving a shit about the delivery van whose ass end points at the club.  At the service entrance, a single white van sits still under the protection of a Listener with a fire axe and cyberware.  It’s gotta be the one that’s spiked.  The roll up door hangs partially closed, just enough room to pass underneath it without whacking one’s armored skull on it.

It’s 0320.  It’s dark.  And you’ve all got giant ass Caf’s in various flavors to stay awake.

Who’s doing what?

In the army, Kenji developed the ability to fall asleep quickly just about anywhere, yet wake at the first sign of danger. He'd lost it when he was using- his circadian rhythms had gotten so fucked up that he had to take a handful of downers just to nod off- but it was coming back. The medtech naps until the edgerunners on duty wake him for his shift.

-
This message was last edited by the player at 23:19, Thu 27 May 2021.

With most of his gig work occurring after dark, Martin's sleep cycle is set for a crepuscular, if not wholly nocturnal, existence.  His low-light optics are new enough that he's still marveling at the nighttime world they reveal, too, and he's kicking himself for not making this investment years ago.  Accordingly, he's more than happy to sprawl in the front passenger seat with one earbud dribbling a club mix playlist into his ear and the other ear tuned to whatever quiet conversation his surveillance partner wants to pass the time with.

Lacking any sort of training in driving, and having precious little experience, he's also more than happy to leave that to someone more qualified.

"You know, a guy told me once about the black van of Saigon.  They'd pick up anyone suspected of being VC, then ride around for 3 or 4 hours.  Dump the guy out with a few bruises at the end.  If he was VC, he'd wind up dead a day later.  They assumed he'd talked.  If he wasn't, no one gave a shit.  Took a few months before they caught on.  Something to try if we get bored I guess," Cruz said with a shrug as he navigated the small black van through the streets.

Cruz was quiet again until 3:20, an hour off a really cool time.

"I bet neither of you could sneak past that sentry into the club under that roll up door," Alex said, throwing out a fun and dangerous option that was almost not the most optimal thing, but hey, people get punchy and do stupid shit at three-twenty.

"Heh."  Martin glances at the sentry in question.  "Probably not.  Remember, we're pretty sure they're running headware comms.  What he freaks out about, they all freak out about."  He taps his temple for emphasis.

He's quiet for a minute, then: "I wonder what they'd think if one of them dropped off their net for a while and then came back online.  Could you build a Faraday cage in a black van?"

In the back of the van, MDR is fucking bored.

She taps her calloused knuckles a few times against the side of the metal van, sends a few emails to her pet NetRunner about some various questions she has regarding The Molt, Listeners, and all this other crap.  A few idle moments are spent wondering about the enhanced bulge in Lube Job’s pants.  Finally, she reaches into her blouse, removes a small vial, does a line of synth-coke off her calloused knuckles (just enough to feel the edge, not enough for damage) and breathes a little easier.

“I’m bored,” she announces. “Who wants to hear a story?”

There’s a general lack of enthusiasm that she tunes out immediately or chalks up to it being 0400.

“Once upon a time there was a bag of dicks named Dr. Ryder Kannerack who thought it would be an interesting thought exercise to create a system where people could be physically addicted to electronic media.  Kannerack was a bit of ahead of his time, this being 2017 and all, but the advertising world seized upon his theory.  What C-Suite exec wouldn’t want to have customers who craved what they were selling.  Not only the physical product, but the very story being sold to them through a sophisticated advertising campaign.”  Karma wipes her nose and sniffs heavily. “See what I’m saying here?  The message could be addictive.  Does this sound like any particular shitheads we have come across?”

MDR waits for the appreciative grunt that emanates from somewhere in the front of the van before continuing.

“Unfortunately for Kannerack, or at least for those who tried to use his theories for practical applications in the marketplace, the research proved to be somewhat less than useless.  Again, for Ryder, this shit was theoretical.  For the apex predators in the boardrooms, several hundred million eddies went fucking ‘poof.’”  There’s a shrug that says more about Monica’s acceptance of the costs of doing business than is strictly comfortable for those used to fighting corporate overlords.  For the current listens of the tale, their individual mileage may vary.

“So for the last umpteen years, the Kannerack file has been sitting in the files of various advertising corps as a sort of tripwire for the desperate.  If you were all out of ideas, you would sift through the old shit hoping to find something that hadn’t worked before and come up with re-pitching his ideas with new technology.   A running joke, the Hail Mary of those on the chopping block.

“What does this have to do with the price of snuff-films in the corp zone?  I’m looking at these Listener fucks and seeing weaponized Kannerack.  And the file says fuck-all about reprogramming.”

At 0416, Desmond’s Drone Delivery service pings Lube Job’s Agent and let’s him know he’s got a package arriving a hundred feet behind and ten feet to the side of the van he’s currently occupying.  The GPS on the drone isn’t wrong, it’s just dropping off his order (in twenty two minutes or less, based on the address and time of day) at the specified coordinates outside the sight lines of The Molt.  The tech scampers out, collects the box after shooing away a few unarmed Scav’s with a slight threat of Adjudication and returns to the van with his prize: about a50 square  meters of fine copper mesh, a few nice bits of control module, and a couple rechargeable batteries.  With copper prices being what they are (what, there’s plenty to scavenge from large towers of waiting to be scrap standing nearby), it costs about a hundred Eddies.

A bit of furious activity from those a bit tech savvy led by the tech master and an improvised Faraday Cage takes shape over the next hour or so.  A few screws, a bunch of duct tape, a smidge of elbow grease, and a small chamber is cobbled together that should be able to hold an unconscious Listener should one be procured.

At 0530, the crowds are starting to thin, the sun will be coming up in about an hour, and Lube Job will be due to meet with Viceroy to head out to the Nomad Encampment for data tracing in a couple hours.

What’s the play?