"We got the trap, now we just need to lure the mouse," Cruz said as he worked to finish up.  The work had been a good way to focus his mind on the task at hand, not not think about weaponized addictive media.  I mean, shit, of course some C-suite Corpo type would dream up some shit like that.  Bad enough the Madison Avenue types had all those jingles and other mindworms that would derail your focus.  Cruz didn't buy into any of that shit.  He was his own man, with his own brain, doing his own thing.  Fuck the man and what he was trying to sell.

"Alright, here we go.  Last screw," he said, drilling it in with his cyberhand as the Makita-DeWalt^(tm) logos on each finger twinkled in the neon light.
This message was last edited by the player at 23:11, Mon 05 July 2021.

Roused from his nap by the Pavlovian sound of someone snorting a bump not five feet away, Kenji wakes quickly, grumpily. As Karma wraps up her story, Kenji wonders briefly whether his new teammate doesn't know, or simply doesn't care, that that he's a recovering addict. Either way, his septum starts to itch, and he respects moonlighting corporat a little less.

Kenji takes a sip of water, asks, "Are you suggesting that the Listeners are using this Kannerack? I mean, if that's the case, how do you suppose a buncha Maelstrom rejects got their cyberhands on it?"

Once Karma's had a chance to reply, the Medtech turns his attention to Cruz Control's just-completed project.

"Nice work, choom," he says, admiring the scratch-built personal faraday cage."Looks kinda cozy."

Kenji shifts uncomfortably on his makeshift palette, tries to massage some feeling back into his left leg.

"I probably sound like a broken record," he begins, using a quaint idiomatic expression that, like its subject, stubbornly refuses to die, "...but we're going to need a netrunner- here, on site- to get the most out of that thing. I'm not real confident we can make these borg-monks talk. Hell, I'm not even sure they can talk. If they're using Wifi or radio or something like that to communicate..." he shrugs, letting the others put two and two together for themselves.

-
This message was last edited by the player at 18:50, Fri 09 July 2021.

“Man, I don’t even know,” MDR says to Kenji’s question.  “Entire research divisions have been looking for the Kannerack method and some cyberpuke cracks the code?”  The corp takes a second to wipe some sweat from her brow, the movement required to install a faraday cage bringing up the ambient temp inside the van.  “I do intend to find out.”

Sometime around sunup the activity around The Molt grounds to a halt.  Maelstrom/Listener wannabes come staggering out under the influence of who knows what pharmaceutical/sexual/musical influence.  Groups partner off and disappear into the distance, swallowed by daylight and the sidewalk or summoned autonomous cabs.  Only the fortunate are driving their own vehicles.  And those paid handsomely for security to find their rides unmolested through the morning hours.

The smell of fatigue fills the can, sour with sweat, cooling Caff, and unanswered questions.  Lube peels out, using a summoned cab for his meeting with Viceroy.  Monica chews out an excuse about needing to hit the office and check some more research before vacating shortly after.

That leaves Whisper and Kentucky to follow the van when in departs the club somewhere around 8 am.  The duo watches as a standard issue Listener huscle steps out into the occluded glowing orb of the sun, squints up and down the street, then opens the back of the van.  There’s a flurry of activity that’s kinda hard to spot, but looks suspiciously like a body bag getting carried into the back of the van before the dude gets in the driver’s seat.  There’s a bit more motion in the back, the doors pulled shut from the inside, and van pulls out into the California smog-shine.  There’s enough traffic that Kentucky is able to follow without looking like they’re following (I don’t know…drive casual).  That and the fact that panel vans are ridiculously common around NC when the “legitimate” half of the population starts moving around.

The van heads north, moving with the flow of traffic into the University Zone, and heading east towards the Old Corp Center.  The area  is nice, not where anyone would expect to find Maelstrom building a fort, but there, just at the edge of The Glen, the University District, and the Old Corp Zone, the van pulls into a subterranean parking garage below a nondescript former light industrial center that is currently under redevelopment.  Kentucky stops, pulling the van over a block or so away.  He and Martin are considering their next actions when Kentucky’s agent pings.

Hi, it’s Teagan.  Can you come see me?  I need help.  Please.

————-

Viceroy picks Lube up out in New Westbrook, her hair changed to a lovely shade of electric green to match both her car and her jacket.  She grins at the site of the tech/nomad and waves him inside the car from the other side of the windshield with a massive cup in her hand.  Debbie Hostess sugar products, or at least their wrappers, decorate the floor and backseat of the four door calling into question the amount of cyber ware that would be required to filter out a level of blood sugar that could give a brachiosaurus diabetes.  Several black cases of gear sit on the floor, covered with various stickers of all kinds of fun princesses with guns.  Maybe a band named Elisa was Framed?

“Rainbow sprinkles coffee?” she asks Lube, pointing to another sugar bomb sitting in a cup holder. “I don’t know what you drink, but…”

She steers the car south east, picking her way to the freeways that lead to the old interstate and following Alexander’s instructions, out towards the Nomad encampment.

“Anything specific I should expect?” She asks Lube as the city gives way to desert waste.

The NetRunner drives casually, not aggressively,

August 31, 2045
1015 Hrs


24 hours after discovering the self-immolation of Lonny Cantu, and spending the intervening time half sick to her stomach, Samantha Fletcher considers her new found cash and whether or not it’s worth the personal cost.  Looking out a nice view is kinda ruined when it comes with the psychosomatic smell of burning flesh.

Her agent pings, bringing forth a number that causes a slew of emotions to bang through Sam’s head: Deacon Gerald.

You have proven able.
I have a contract for you.
Where we met last time.  1300 hrs.
This message was last edited by the GM at 16:05, Sat 10 July 2021.

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<intermission>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
August 27th, 2045
2200 Hrs
Night City
Kepler Park

”The Trinity recognizes Teagan Brock,” the Father says with all the gravitas his seventy year old body can muster.  It is a lot.  A lifetime of whisky and cigarettes before a second lifetime of war for the soul of humanity.  ”Let her step forward.

Teagan shuffles carefully forward, her ears trying to build a soundscape of the room that she’s in.  In her five years as part of the New Inquisition, she’s never been here.  Of that she’s sure. She doesn’t have to see to know that.  A lifetime of blindness has built a sense of space.  The echoes seem oddly distorted, like maybe the room is insulated or the voices she’s hearing are amplified to seem more imposing.  If that’s the case, the effect works.

”Name yourself, Child.

Teagan clears her throat.  ”I am Teagan Brock, your holiness.  Supplicant to the Blessed.” Just saying the words sends a thrill down her spine.  A surge of shame follows, telling her that it is prideful to feel this and pride leads souls astray.

“As you say,” a new voice says, this one the Son she knows.  She has heard this voice for years in the educational casts she has downloaded and listened to over and over, each time filling her world with purpose.  “Your service is recognized.  Many souls you have saved.  Many times have your demonstrated your love of our Lord.  To join the Blessed is to join our highest calling.  Even higher than the Trinity that you stand before.  Do you take on this charge.”

”I do, your holiness.  With an open heart.”

A third voice, this one low and quiet.  Menacing with judgment.  The Holy Spirit, protector of the New Inquisition’s soul.  “The Holy Spirit has examined this one, found her soul to be pure.”

The Father speaks again.  “The Father has examined this one, found her body to be pure.”  Teagan shudders at the memory of the examination, shamed at the process, but glad that she has held herself above the temptation of flesh for all these years.

“The Son has examined this one, found her mind to be pure in thought.” Those questions had been easy, routine for a mind that was used to building memories and systems to navigate the world.  And the righteous ideas had carved themselves into her core.

Foot steps come across the space, reaching her in a deceptively short time.  A hand places itself on top of her head.  “Then take your place among the Blessed, Teagan Brock,” the Holy Spirit says.  “Take on the mantle of the the High Work, rise above and apart from the blasphemous world of the flesh and stand ready to answer the call of the Trinity.”

Tears begin to stream down Teagan’s face, a half choked sob stuck in her throat.  Finally, she has a home.

<<<<<<<<<<<<<intermission end>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
This message was last edited by the GM at 18:02, Mon 12 July 2021.

"Shit," Kenji mutters to himself. He answers Whisper's quizzical look, "That blind girl, Teagan, recruiter for the New Inquisition- just texted she needs help."

This complicates things. The team's van is parked right outside a new lead, and Teagan isn't part of the job, so it's not really biz. Is it personal? Yeah, she's cute, but he hardly knows anything about the girl, except that she's in a cult- kind of a big red flag. But she did put the team on to the Listeners, so maybe it's a little bit of both- business and personal.

Waiting for Whisper's take on recent developments, Kenji thumbs dance across the face of his agent.

"What's up?"

-
This message was last edited by the player at 16:28, Mon 12 July 2021.

Sam stares at the message on her agent, queasiness returning full force. What does that psycho "Deacon" Gerald want with her now? Her first guess is that he wants to kill her. She's a witness- as far as she knows the last person not in the cult to have seen Lonnie Cantu alive.

She tosses her agent on the bed, walks to the floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the bay, takes a few deep breaths, trying and failing to enjoy the view. She has to check out in a little over an hour.

She'd been looking forward to this, getting out of her apartment, taking advantage of the amenities a reputable hotel can offer, but the news about that poor gonk Cantu had ruined her stay. Gerald, had ruined it.

Fucking asshole.

She walks back to the bed, picks up her agent.

"Pulpo, you fancy a little drone work? Today, Kepler park, 1250 hours. Yeah? Cool. I'm going to meet a cult leader there at 1300. Yeah, seriously. Long story. Thing is, he might try to murder me- betting he won't, once he knows someone's watching. 'Why' is that he says he's got a gig for me; I worked for him before, kind of. You know me, Pulpy, I'm curious. I know, I know... this is pretty fucked up. I'll explain everything later, but I need to get ready, do a little recon before the meeting. You still in? Thanks, choom. Talk to ya later."

She unzips her overnight bag, carefully removes a folded towel- one of the hotel's own- sets it down on the bed. Lifting one corner reveals a Militech Adjudicator VHP. Sam nearly smiles.

-
This message was last edited by the player at 23:30, Sat 10 July 2021.

Martin perks up.  "Personal help or recruiting help or ambush help?"  He glances over at Kenji, then returns his gaze to the garage with occasional flickers of peripheral attention directed toward their own vehicle's mirrors.  "I mean, nice girl and all, but you are tainted by the CyberSatan.  Me, too," he adds meditatively.  "I know you know this, but we've got no way of knowing that she's actually the one sending from that number."

He pulls out his own agent and snaps a couple of images of the parking garage, both zoomed-in and wide-angle.  He fires the pictures off to the team's group chat thread along with the GPS and street-address coordinates.  Our friends rolled out of the club at 0803.  Possible body bag on board.  These guys must appreciate the industrial aesthetic.  Or maybe they need the infrastructure.

"There's coffee in here right?" Cruz said, eyeing the top layer of the cup suspiciously.  He was a black coffee kind of guy.  He cautiously took a sip and after recovering answered the question asked.

"Emil, the Aldecaldo we pulled out, sounds pretty fucked up.  He's jacked in all the time from what I've heard.  The old man you'll meet is Federico 'Poncho' Salerno - call him Señor Salerno until he says otherwise.  He's the HMFIC as far as we are concerned - Emil is family and Poncho knows he needs help.  I suggested this cockamamy scheme so if it's fucked, stay diplomatic and focus on other ways we might be able to help Emil."

Cruz kept a lookout as they made their way to the encampment.  While he suspected the most dangerous thing he'd encounter on this run would be what Viceroy claimed was coffee, he knew better than to let his guard down.

"What else might be good to know?," he asked out loud, half to himself, half to the netrunner.
This message was last edited by the GM at 18:02, Mon 12 July 2021.

Teagan’s response isn’t immediate, but it’s not what Kentucky would called delayed either.  Voice to text has probably been a godsend to the blind, but then again, most people who are blind in 2045 have had their optic nerves replaced and/or repaired.

I need protection.  Someone I can trust. You said you helped your friend with the Arch-Demons.  Will you help me?

——————

The Aldecaldo camp announces itself with a marked up-tick in custom hot rods and violence-mobiles modded out for warfare on the open road.  Outriders on motorcycles start showing up a couple miles out.  A few war wagons sit on hill tops overlooking the main approach.  At Cruz’s instruction, Viceroy turns the car off an old off ramp, takes the right hand turn away from the ruin that used to the overpass crossing the highway and follows the remains of an asphalt road that was last repaved in 1621.  The potholes could swallow an eighteen wheeler with room for an SUV on the side.  Viceroy maneuvers around them, following the well worn ruts of other vehicles who have picked their way though this obstacle course.  With her other hand, she eats a pink SnoBall that drops bits off its edge every time she takes a bite.  The sugar coated flakes of coconut fail to find attachment on the static charged coat covering her frame, instead taking up residence on the car’s floor, perhaps giving an early Pink Christmas to the colony of fairies that must live under the driver seat gorging themselves on the waste.

A few of the security minded Nomads wait near the top of a low rise, a couple of assault rifles visible, a couple of cars with who knows what under the hood sitting on either side of the road.  The checkpoint doesn’t scream aggression, the Nomads are used to customers coming out to try their wares, but they don’t want tourists.  A turn around has been carved into the desert sand revealing the progression of those who were turned away politely.  A few conspicuous burned out hulks of cars and vans litter the approach, evidence of those who couldn’t take a hint.

A rough and tumble Nomad by the name of Herman looks to be leading this particular operation.  He stands in the road, automatic shotgun cradled across his body in his left hand, waving Viceroy to stop with his right.  The NetRunner duly complies and hits the down button on her power window allowing the hot and dusty Mojave air to crash into the car.  Herman leans down, his five o’clock shadow half concealing the burn scars decorating the left side of his face.  A cybernetic eye glows behind his cheap sunglasses.

“Morning, miss.” He’s polite, not friendly.  “What brings you to Aldecaldo territory?”

Inside the tiny glass cube that CloudKill like to pretend is an office, Monica holds court over her minions.  The ones loyal to her first, CloudKill second.  Or so everyone likes to pretend.  She’d eat her shoes after walking through the old corp zone before she would swear that none of them were reporting to Avery.  Everyone has a price.  She knows this well having played both the snitch and the source on various occasions.

“Jeremy,” MDR says to her new pet NetRunner, the one corporate swears is more capable than the last three..

“It’s Ja-“

“No one cares, Jeremy.  Get this done for me and I’ll call you whatever you want.” She doesn’t ask if he understands or accepts.  He does.  He will.  Or he won’t get paid.  Or promoted.  Which basically amounts to the same thing.   He doesn’t flinch, either, which speaks well.  MDR reminds herself to give him the once over later.  When she’s got time.

“So way down in the bowels of our data files is a folder labeled Kannerack.  I’m giving you access now.”  She waves her hands across an invisible datascape that only she can see, projected as it is directly into her retinas from lasers all through the ceiling tracking her every move.  “It’s been a joke for a while, only now it’s not.  But pay attention to this part: It’s heavily monitored.  Not sure if it’s ICE or whatever, but every time someone takes a peek, the corporate chain takes notice.  At the moment, we don’t need their notice.  Which is why I need you.”

“Yes ma’am,” “Jeremy” follows along easily.

“I need to know where the fuck Kannerack went.  I’ve read the research.  You need to find me Kannerack the man.  Or the corpse.  But preferably the man.  At the absolute bare-fucking-minimum I want to know what happened to his lab.”

“I’ll get-“

“I know you will.  You will leave now.”

As “Jeremy” heads for the door, head still up despite the morale beating just administered via modern methods of management, Monica turns her eyes to Ringo.  One of her staff who’s been around long enough to rate a handle.  That it’s the name of the least important member of the Beatles probably doesn’t matter.  Probably.

“Ringo,” Monica croons with venom, “dearest.”

RIngo cringes, a hint of a blush crawling up her freckled cheeks.  It would be cute in another light.   “We both know there was a bit of trouble a couple weeks ago, yes?  Something to do with a bit of a security slip up?” 

“Yes ma’am,” she manages.

“Let’s not have that again.  In fact, it would tickle me pink if you would put a little shit stain of a club called The Molt under some surveillance, just to make sure we don’t have that particular issue crop up a second time.”

“The Molt,” Ringo repeats, some measure of composure returning since MDR hasn’t fully eviscerated her.  Without being told, she starts heading for the door, hoping to beat the punch.  She fails.

“Should there be a next time, Ringo, I’ll be sure to pass along the experience.”

Kenji holds up his agent, screen facing out, so that Whisper can read Teagan's text. Maybe it's the power of suggestion at work, but the message does strike the MedTech as having somewhat of a catfishing vibe to it.

For the benefit of his teammate, he narrates his response as this thumbs type it out.

"What about Brother Leo and your other friends? Don't you trust them?"

-
This message was last edited by the player at 17:08, Tue 13 July 2021.

Martin nods.  "This is where she gives you a little hint of exclusive trust and need.  'They can't find out about this.  Help me, Obi-Wan Kenjinobi, you're my only hope!'  Something like that.  Unless... in the thirty seconds you talked to her before, did you get any hint she was looking for extraction?  Not fully programmed into cult dependency yet?"

There’s a longer pause this time.

Kenji’s Agent vibrates after a full three minutes with a response.

Of course I trust them!  It’s just that they can’t help.  I’m supposed to carry a message to the Followers of the Chrome Lie and I’m scared I won’t be able to do it alone.

The agent is still for maybe six seconds.

Because I’m blind.  Are you happy you made me say it?  I hoped you’d help me.  I hoped that you would understand the risk I would take for peace.  I guess not.  I’m sorry I bothered you.

Kenji's about to type a reply to Teagan's first message when the second appears. He reads them both out loud, shakes his head and chuckles ruefully.

"Curious where this was going," he says. Again, Kenji narrates as he types,

"Wait a second, Teagan. Didn't mean to upset you. On a job right now. Want to help, but I need more information first."

He look up at Whisper, gives his teammate a chance to suggest edits before pressing SEND.

-
This message was last edited by the player at 17:32, Tue 13 July 2021.

"She's with me.  We are here to see Poncho," Cruz said as he leaned over to make eye contact.  Slowly, Alex moved his cyberhand over to unzip the sleeve zipper that run up his leather armorjack's right side, his meat side, which let the bottom of his Aldecaldo burning rubber light tattoo shine through.

"You guys had any trouble out here tonight?" Cruz asked, wondering if any of the derelict vehicles they had passed were recent additions.

The reply from Teagan comes in quickly.

I’m not supposed to say.  It’s important. 

There’s another short delay, presumably as she decides whether or not to share whatever it is she wants from Kenji.

The Holy Church has received revelation that a ceasefire is necessary with the Maelstrom.  I’m blessed to carry the message.  Father Leo can’t protect me there.

With Kentucky running comms, Whisper continues to watch and survey the building the Listeners disappeared into.  As he watches, a familiar looking woman comes out of the front of the building.  The last time Martin saw the woman they were exchanging gunfire in the bowels of a pagoda.  Without looking in their direction, the target of interest hooks a left and starts walking south into higher property values.

———-

“Yeah, I’m with the band,” Viceroy smiles up at Herman.

The guard gives her an indulgent smile a polite “excuse me,” and reaches in the car to exchange a quick handshake with Cruz directly in front of the driver’s face.  She tolerates the invasion of personal space with aplomb, sipping her coffee around the interacting limbs.

“Trouble?” Herman scoffs, “Nah, those are old.  Just a reminder that we can throw down, push comes to shove.  I’ll let Poncho know you’re coming.”

The pulls back and waves Cruz and his driver through the invisible checkpoint.  When the small sedan clears the hill, Cruz can see the Nomad encampment in all its hodgepodge wheeled glory.  A dozen or so military surplus tents sit in a rough circle with multiple fire pits for social gathering.  A few repurposed semi-trailers are unfolded into clinics, shops, tool sheds, or bars.  Sprinkled liberally through out the whole space is a multitude of custom vehicles, drivers off doing various tasks.  A couple rough looking mobile homes have been towed into the camp, the most permanent members of the zone, but probably the least comfortable.

Walking out of the circle of tents, Cruz can see Poncho waving casually in their direction, garbed in his boots, hemp pants, and rough wool shirt.  A cigarette dangles loosely from his lips.

As has just recently become de facto SOP, Kenji reads Teagan's latest messages aloud, pauses a moment, then adds, "Could be helpful to sit in on a face to face with a Listener delegation, see how they communicate with the rest of the world, maybe get a sense of their agenda... 'Cept she's not clear whether its them or just garden-variety Maelstrom. Man, I hate text coms."

Kenji activates his agent's talk-to-text function, since he's reading his messages out loud anyway.

"Maelstrom or their splinter faction- the Listeners? Do you have a meet set up already? If not, I may be able to help."

-
This message was last edited by the player at 22:22, Thu 15 July 2021.

"Oh, shit."  Martin blinks hard.  "There's not a lot I can think of that would persuade the Inquisitors to go that far.  Either this is the hardest-sell catfishing job I've ever seen or they are seriously concerned about the Listeners."

He glances back at the building just in time to see the front door swing open.  "Oh, shit," he repeats with a slightly different inflection.  "Check it.  Speaking of Listener recruiters, there's our friend who's a hot hand with a taser."  He watches for a moment.  "On foot, with no cover," he adds contemplatively.  "You got anything in your little black bag that could put her out?  Since Lube went to all that trouble to weld up a cage and all..."

"Yeah, I got a little somethin'-somethin' for that." Kenji answers from over Whisper's shoulder.

He retreats from the window, opens his combat medpack, removes the airhypo and a vial of strong sedative.

"Trick is gonna be dosing it right. Wanna knock her out fast, not kill her."

-
This message was last edited by the player at 17:38, Sat 17 July 2021.

Maelstrom, Teagan’s text returns. Not the Arch-Demons.  I don’t have a meeting, just the name of a bar.  Six Bullet Sally.

Kenji's agent reads Teagan's reply out loud. Whisper responds with, "Let's bite,"

Kenji nods, dictates, "I can help. In the middle of something now. Get back to you soon as I can."

Message sent, Kenji asks, "What about our stroller?"

"We might not get another chance like this..." Whisper answers. Kenji's quiet for a second or two, while he gives a quick and dirty plan that had been percolating in his head a second run-through.

"Okay. I'm gonna have to tranq her, so you're gonna have to drive. Once she gets a bit further down the street, roll up on her- speed limit- then slow down just enough for me to unass right behind her. If I get the dose right, she gets sleepy fast, I toss her in the van, and you drive us someplace out of the way where we can park- I'll probably need a hand getting her into the cage. If I can't subdue her, we delta the fuck outta here. Not much of a plan, but it's all I got. Whattaya think?"

OOC: After we attempt the prisoner snatch, Kenji will send Cruz (and Karma?) the chat log.

-
This message was last edited by the player at 00:29, Wed 21 July 2021.

The nice thing about NC is nobody gives a shit when you do something unexpected.

Taking advantage of the van’s autonomous assist software, Whisper steers the vehicle down the street at a sedate 25mph, slowly gaining on their Listener prey as she strolls unconcerned down the same side of the street.  In the back of the van, Kentucky flips through medikit, selectsthe sedative vial he wants and screws the plastic vial into his air-hypo gun.  With the ambient noise of travel, he feels rather than hears the satisfying hiss as the air-hypo breaks the seal on the sedative vial and prepares itself for delivery.  Weapon prep complete, Kentucky puts a hand on the handle of the sliding door and cracks it open, just a bit.  Not enough to get attention, but enough to speed up the abduction about to take place.  Up front, Martin gets a couple of angry electronic bells and whistles that  let him know that something unsafe is occurring in the vehicle.  Unfortunately for the van’s operating system, the occupants don’t really care.

There isn’t much vehicle traffic to speak of.  The foot traffic is next to non-existent except for a few bums/scavs that have better things to pay attention to (like their chemical highs).

Martin steers the van close, doing his best to keep the speed steady, drifting up next to the curb.  “Ready,” he intones to Kentucky.  The door slides back.  “Go.”

Hitting the sidewalk with momentum isn’t easy.  Kenji hits hard, his legs bunching up underneath him, but he manages to keep his footing.  With his eyes on the prize, he lets the motion from the exit carry him forward, air-hypo rising in attack.  The Listener doesn’t see him coming.  Maybe she’s too tuned in to the signal.  Maybe the Edgerunners are just that good.  It doesn’t matter.  Kenji lunges, driving the drug delivery system against the woman’s neck, and pulls the trigger.  This time he can hear the hiss of the payload.

The sudden arrival of an attack and pain drives the Listener into motion.  She spins, sending a wild punch careening towards her unseen attacker that somehow manages to connect solidly with the medic.  A reinforced gloved hand cracks into his ribs from the haymaker.  If it wasn’t for the armor the medic sports as protection, her fist might have actually hurt.  As it is, he coughs slightly from the minimal compression of his lungs.  Kenji scampers back from the blow, ready to dodge the follow up that he figures is coming.

Featureless metallic eyes focus on her attacker.  Kenji can see his reflection in them, strangely distorted by the rounded surface.  The Listener is starting forward, weight shifting to launch another attack when her left leg buckles sending her into a cascades of negative outcomes. She staggers froward in a series of uncoordinated stutter steps that are about to culminate into a crash to the ground, but which Kenji interrupts, smoothly sliding underneath the Listener’s trajectory and taking her weight before she can complete the face-plant.   A faint sound escapes her lips, perhaps the final thought coursing through her mind as the sedative takes hold.

Inside the van, Whisper is already in motion, sliding through the cargo area and throwing open the cargo doors.  He forgets to set the parking brake, but the van takes care of that itself as soon as his weight exits the driver’s seat.  The solo has a much easier exit than his partner, what with the vehicle being stopped and all, and the two of them manage to wrestle their prize into the faraday cage.  Whisper severs whatever tie the Listener to the electronic world with a slap to the cage’s power supply then leaves Kenji to his patient, heading for the driver’s seat..  The doors bang closed and the van pulls away.

Estimated time of operation: 24 seconds.
This message was last edited by the GM at 17:06, Sun 25 July 2021.

Martin cackles with released tension as he pulls away from the curb.  The nav screen already has his primary exfil route queued up: the nearest expressway on-ramp, then a course that takes them a few miles in the not-quite-opposite direction from their intended destination, just in case there's immediate pursuit.

He catches Kentucky's eye, makes an earpiece and boom mic of his thumb and forefinger, and waits for the medtech to go on comms.  "Hey, you got any recording gear?" he subvocalizes.  "Might be useful to catch her responses when she wakes up and finds herself offline.  And, uh, reciprocally, let's not say anything around her that we don't want her headware recording, until we're sure she doesn't have any."

"Roger that last," Kenji replies, quietly but out loud. He doesn't have the chrome* to transmit subvocally. It takes him a second to work out a way to answer Whisper's question without violating the addended comsec protocol.

"Medscanner, that's it," he says, trusting that Whisper can piece together the slightly disordered conversation.

He takes a deep breath, exhales slowly. Adrenaline comedown can be a real bitch. He repeats the process, but the second exhalation is jumped by an involuntary guffaw, as the full realization of just how impromptu their abduction plan had been hits him square in the diaphragm . Quickly regaining his composure, he asks, "What now?"

OOC: Kentucky's coms set up consists of a discrete earpiece receiver, and a throat mic concealed beneath a small strip of RealSkin.

-
This message was last edited by the player at 00:27, Thu 22 July 2021.