We're kicking off a new adventure, Silver Angel. This is the first published Shadowrun adventure, way back in 1989, written by Tom Dowd.

The setting is Seattle, 2050. The ruleset is 1st edition. I'll be fudging numbers when necessary to update them for 3rd edition and experienced runners. The Matrix is the biggest difference, and I'll be using the SR1 "feel" with the SR3 ruleset, as much as I am able. If you are familiar with any of the Shadowrun video games (the Genesis one or the Shadowrun Returns games) you have a pretty good idea of what I'm aiming for. However, I'd also like to incorporate more 'mobile' matrix so we don't have two months of just the decker posting. Meanwhile, our poor decker is going to be a little put upon, in that I'm going to be hurrying his matrix-only turns along a bit.

I will be playing more serious than the Drop Bear adventure, but I'm not doing Mission Impossible. At this stage in the Shadowrun lore, the corporations are still at each others' throats, and admitting a successful break-in is just heaping a new injury on an old one. Rarely will you need to worry about heavy duty forensics behind you, although if you're noisy, the security response teams will be called and may arrive on site before you've left. So be quiet, but don't feel you need to be paranoid.

With that ...

It's the Ides of March, 2050. The sky is overcast, day or night and the city whipped by a constant drizzle; a grey haze that soaks in under coats and burns the eyes.

It's a Saturday night. The clubs are hopping, the late evening vehicle traffic is light, and drugs are selling cheap. But you've got rent to pay, and the checks aren't coming in as reliably as you'd like.


Go! Post a little bit about what you're up to, where you are, etc. You don't need to be together, just able to be contacted by potential employers.

Anders looked at his watch again as he wondered what was going on.  It had been a two weeks since Rayna had left any message on their website.  He checked the site again.

Nothing.

Maybe she's swamped with work.  She did say she was brokering a new deal between two other families.....or she could be injured somewhere.....or worse....shit...I better call her.... thought Anders.

He recalled that she said not to call her unless it was an emergency or pertaining to a job.  Maybe this qualifies as an emergency? suggested Anders to himself.  He ground his teeth unsure whether or not to proceed.  DAMMIT ANDERS!  Get a hold of yourself.  You knew something like this could come up when you let her go...

"I could say I'm looking for a job...that ought to work." said Anders as he assured himself of that excuse.

Smiling meekly, he picked up his other burner phone and dialed her number.

Toombs struts off stage with her electric guitar in a meaty fist, the screams of thousands of fanatic followers echoing across the stadium and thundering through the microphone like feedback cannons. The stage is draped in undergarments, like beaded sweat across the plasticrete stage, glistening in the lights of twinkling zippo starlight held aloft in swaying constellations.
"Good evening, Ms. Trixie Toombs, I am mr. Moneybags from BastardCorp LLC. We would like you to sell out for a boatload of cash. Imagine it: beer, pizza and hookers as far as the eye can see. All you have to do is sell out"
Sell out
Sell out
Sell out his voice echoes in the back hallways.
"Fuck you, you corporate twat!" She punts him so hard his testicles shoot out his nostrils. "Those are MY people out there. Not your corporate gits. Get ready to meet 'em!" She grabs a fistful of the J's expensive suit and throws him bodily through the stage lights into the mosh pits.
In half a hearbeat, she's back at the mic, screaming vocally and across her guitar as the assembled masses bound to their angry feet. Rage is all she needs, all she wants and that's all she is. A rage elemental, screaming to strange stars that dance at her feet.

Toombs awakes with a 'snirk', snuggled close to a pile of beer cans and empty pizza 'spress boxes. He's hungover (again) and fell asleep in his clothes on top of an oversized guitar. He rolls off the mattress onto the floor and passes his hands across his body, tracing the lines of the guitar strings down his face, then patting his hands down his body and rifling through pockets. One hand comes free with a Nyx-Stick soy-cig, the other a trusty ancient Zippo.
click
click
Goddamnit.
Empty.
He grabs two slab of rock-hard pizza from one of the boxes, tosses one on the floor and yells out "Oi! Calcifer! C'mere, I need a light."
An ember sizzles to life, consumes the pizza, and floats over the carpet. "Boss, this shit's demeaning, and you know it."
"Pizza. Burnt offering. You took it, you owe me a Service. Light it."
"May all your bacon burn"
"Light it... please?"
"Asshole."
The cig ignites, a deep drag follows.
He can barely make out the muffled screaming of Puddle of Snot's epic hit "Bleeding Out Your Eyeballs" coming from The Pile - his all in one dresser, filing cabinet and garbage can. Call coming in. If these aren't his Yesterday Pants, then whose are they?
Passing aside the thought for later, he rearranges The Pile into two smaller The Piles, digging sullenly with pizza and cig in hand.

Anya perched on a worn bar-stool, hunched over a dark cup of soycaf.  She idly studied the the ripples and eddies that formed as a pair of go-gangers rumbled past on the street outside.  Likely Hellions. Others would have had to move faster.

In a fancier place, the multi-colored sheen swirling on top of her drink might have been some flavor enhancing additive.  Here, it was probably just a sign of poorly washed dishes.  She took a sip anyhow.  The heated water should have taken care of any pathogens by now.  Probably.

She grimaced slightly as a large bulk slid onto an adjacent stool, but kept her gaze on the steam rising from her cup.  Three empty stools on either side meant whoever it was was looking to chat.  She brought her cup to her lips, pointedly ignoring the newcomer.  Though the smell of sweat and faint odor of stale urine made it a bit more challenging than she'd hoped.

"Fraggin' wet out."

Obviously not a local.  Commenting on rain in what passed for spring in Seattle was as insightful as noting that the sky was blue.  Or was supposed to be blue.  She slurped loudly in the faint hope of discouraging further conversation.

It worked.  For the 60 seconds or so it took him to order and receive a synth-beer.

"Ya doin' anything tonight?"

Frag it

"No plans, but I could be talked into having some fun.  What'd ya have in mind?"

"Ace.  Well, I thought maybe . . ."

She put down the cup and turned on her stool to face him fully.

"Oh...  I mean.  Uh, actually I already got plans.  Uh, yeah."

He grabbed his can and bolted for the door.  The bartender looked up at the ork's departing back and then at her.  She sighed.  Drip-wad hadn't paid and it'd likely end up on her tab.

She turned the stool back to her cup, the steam already starting to fade, and gazed at her reflection.  The right side was pretty enough.  Not stunning-gorgeous like that Mercurial chicka, but nice.  Nice enough to get a pick-up line or two, even from those who weren't desperate.  At least until they saw the other half - the scars, the malformed ear, the skin that looked like a partially melted candle.  Melting wasn't far off, really - though it seemed a rather soft word for such agony.

Anthony had told her she should get some plastic surgery.  He knew a guy who knew a guy.  But that was when she'd had more nuyen.  Besides, this was her now.  She had earned it.  Deserved it, maybe.  And anyone who didn't like her face could frag themselves with an ice pick.

She quaffed down the remainder of her cup and signaled for her bill.  The troll wandered over and actually smiled over his single tusk.  Just the soycaf.  She attempted a smile back and slotted a couple of extra nuyen as a tip.  She wasn't flush with cash, but it was important to reward those few in the service industry who weren't total dreck-heads.  She did need to score soon though.

She resisted the urge to pull out her comm and ping her fixer.  Frequent calls meant desperate.  And desperate meant jobs that were cheap or deadly or both.  She headed out the door, studiously ignoring a chip-head huddled under the entrance overhang and turned up the collar on her long-coat.

Her stained combat boots splashed through the rapidly growing puddles of acid rain and worse as she made her way to the alley where she'd parked the Buffalo.  She had to admit that the trog from the bar was right.  It was indeed fraggin' wet out.
This message was last edited by the player at 19:27, Fri 20 Feb 2015.

The rain falling against the hood of his coat was like a barrier.  A shield that blocked out the hustle and bustle of the outside world as he stood alone, leaning against a rail at the end of a dock at Lake Union.  The steady barrage of raindrops helped him to think.

Not that there were a lot of thoughts going through Saint Velveteen's head at the moment.  Mostly that he didn't want to buy a sub from Eddie Fingers Sandwich Shop again.  The one he had now somehow managed to be soggy and rock-hard stale at the same time.

He ripped off a chunk with one of his tusks and spat it in the direction of a nearby seagull.  Even the bird pecked at it hesitantly before finally deciding to fly away with it to choke it down elsewhere.  He watched it disappear into the raindrops, its infrared signature fading from view slightly slower than its normal colors.

"Pretty," he mused before ripping a loud one into the wind.

"If you don't want me to approach, just say so.  No need for chemical warfare!"

St. V started and turned to see a familiar dwarven face waving a hand in front of her crinkled nose.  He couldn't help but crack a smile.  "Why does someone always show up the moment after?  Never before?"

Rose returned his smile but ignored his question.  "C'mon ya oversized lug.  Gonzo's starting up a game of Saints and Sinners in the bar, and I need a genuine Saint on my team.  Ya game?"

St. V looked down at the second half of his sandwich then back up at her.  He pushed himself up from his resting spot against the rail of the dock and chucked the other half of his sandwich out into the lake as far as it would go.  He watched it plop and sink like a stone before replying.  "'Kay, but you're buying me a drink when we win.  Something strong."

"Deal."

Rose and St. Velveteen return to Gonzo's. The place is quiet, considering the time of night. Suspicious eyes keep flickering over to a trio of gangers in red with spatterings of gold on their jackets, hair, and glasses. They seem content to sip their brews, but their presence puts a damper on the game.

Fortunately, Rose is true to her word, and St. V scores a few drinks to help put him in a better, if no less smelly mood. And forty minutes later, the drinks work their magic, and St. V needs to hit the little trolls' room.

One of the gangers leaves the table and follows him in.

Once the two of them are alone, the ganger pulls off the shades and approaches. "St. Velveteen. Pretty hard to miss. I hear you're in the business. You still taking contracts?"




Toombs' phone rings fifteen times, then shuts off, leaving Toombs to continue digging through the pile.

Somewhere on the far side of the room, Toombs' pager buzzes. The sound seems to be buried under the equipment boxes, heaped haphazardly against the wall. After a few more plaintive buzzes, it stops.

Toombs has an opportunity to dig through either pile for a few minutes before there's a banging at the door. Outside is a punk. She's wearing an oversized surplus Desert Wars jacket and looking around nervously. Just behind her parked on the sidewalk is a bike, painted red and gold. Likely gang colors, although not a local one.




Copperhead makes her soggy way towards a (hopefully) dry van. A pair of bikes roar up behind her and stop, the motors still idling. She can hear them chatting to one another before one shouts her way.

"Oi! You. Trog. Come'ere." Their tone isn't threatening, but they do sound like gangers plenty confident in their place in the world.




As Noruas puts his hand on the receiver, the phone rings.

"Hello? Is this Noruas? We are looking to employ an individual with your... specialized skillset. If you are interested, we will be meeting at Matchsticks in two hours. The password is 'Steward'."

With that, the line goes dead.

3 meters to the alley, 5 seconds to pop the door and get in.  Not a neighborhood to help a damsel in distress, let alone, one that looks like me . . . Frag.

She slowed to a stop, taking the time to memorize as much as she can of her surroundings - cover, hazards, sources of noise.  She turned slowly to her right, taking advantage of the opportunity to slip her left hand in and out of her pocket, relying on the rain and the distraction from the sight of her face to conceal the thermal smoke mini grenade in her palm.

"If you're lookin' for a trog, maybe you boys've got the wrong girl."  Her voice was even, matching theirs in confidence.

Her right hand reached obviously into her right pocket and gripped the bag of ULTRA-SOY-Bits in what she hoped to be a non-aggressive manner, while her left toggled the delay on the grenade to zero and released the safety.  Her gaze took in the bikers as well as the surrounding area, looking for anything she could use to her advantage.  Overwatch was unlikely for a crew like this, but you never knew.  More likely was someone waiting for her in the alley - which was why she had no plans to go anywhere near it.

quote:

11:38, Today: Copperhead rolled 4 successes using 6d6 with the Shadowrun system with a target of 4 with rolls of 2,(6+4)10,2,5,(6+2)8,(6+4)10. Stealth - palm and arm grenade.

Even allowing for off-hand use, that should have been enough even without the rain and distraction.

quote:

11:45, Today: Copperhead rolled 4 successes using 6d6 with the Shadowrun system with a target of 4 with rolls of 5,4,2,(6+5)11,(6+3)9,3. Observe in detail.

She's going to hold action until she gets a better sense of whether she's actually in danger.  If she decides she is, she'll drop the grenade, attempt a distraction (nod of recognition to a stranger across the street or something), make like she's running for the alley and, as soon as the smoke is thick enough, roll under a nearby car so she can grab her sim-rig cable out of her pack and jack in.

Did I mention that it's kind of fun to be paranoid? :>

Hey, paranoid is how you stay breathing!

The two keep on their bikes, waiting for Copperhead to reach them. "We got a friend looking to talk to you. There's some money in it. Matchsticks, two hours. You in?"

Toombs, torso deep in The Pile(s), straightens up with a crack as his head strikes wall. "PERKELE!" He pops open the door, letting the chain lock crack against the reinforced door. "Men's is down the hall, third on your right. And if you're the little shit who keeps stealing my guitar picks, I'll put the next one through yer knees!"

He will then listen to what the gutterpunk says. "Ah, right. k. Uh. One sec. You're not here to kill me, right? 'cause I'm a GREAT AND POWERFUL MAGICIAN, and I can... I donno, boil your guts out your nose or some shit." He shrugs halfheartedly, pops the lock open, and "Since I assume you aren't gonna drag me behind that bike, help me find my stuff first. Beeper's over there, prolly attacked to another pack of cigs. Or pants. Whatever. Behind those boxes over there."

After much excavation into the exciting world of smells, he pulls his jacket out of a family sized bag of soy-chipz. He pockets all the street gear he can find, and mutters "You mind giving me a lift? Scoot got repo'd again."

Copperhead made no move to approach the bikers, but she didn't move away either.  She remained alert, but moved her thumb into position to flick the safety back on.

They were professional enough not to comment on her face, so that was a good sign.  Provided they weren't here to kill her.  "Nuyen's always welcome.  Your friend got a name?"

She didn't bother asking how they knew where to find her, though the fact that they had made her far more nervous than the obvious hardware the two were packing.  She'd have to review her precautions.  Again.

The call came through just as he was dialing Rayna's number.  He listened carefully to the message that came through and paused as the other side hung up.  Anders was still concerned with Rayna's lack of communication.  There was no other way to put it, this was a job offer, and she did say call at a time of emergency or relating to a job.  His fingers gently touched the dial pad on his burner unsure whether or not to call.

He decided against it....for now.

A new job meant some cash, and he could always call her after hearing out the details of this job.

The dwarf got off the sofa and headed for the secret room in the basement of his house.  He placed his palm on the smooth wall and three seconds later, a section of the wall slid back revealing a smaller room the size of a walk-in closet.  The room was lined with equipment needed for his side jobs.  He headed for the very back where there was a large mirror on a makeup desk.  Anders slid open a desk drawer and pulled out a latex mask kit.

Now....who am I today? said the dwarf to himself.

Ten minutes later, he looked like the twin brother of Ares Corporation's CEO....with dwarfism.  Anders smiled at himself and strapped on his personal Predator to his hip.  Time to go for an interview...  Grabbing his coat and shades, he exited the room, stopping only to close the door behind him.

Bus or car? thought Anders as he peeked outside his front door.  There was a lot of rain. Car it is.

The dwarf opened his garage and got into his sleek black Honda, slowing down to make sure the garage door had slid back into place.

Noruas arrives at Matchsticks with half an hour to spare.

As Toombs opens his door, the ganger starts her spiel. "I heard you run ... what? No, I don't need the crapper. I said I hear you run the shadows. "

Toombs' poor ganger is... a little confused. She shuffles on into the room. "I'm just here to offer you a.... Yeah, yeah sure, I can look." She gets down on her hands and knees and digs through the pile, fortunately wearing synth-leather gloves while she does so. "There's a job over at Matchsticks and they're looking for someone like you. Ask for Steward." She finds the beeper and pulls it out, handing it over to Toombs.

"A RIDE?" She glowers at Toombs for a moment. "I'm not a taxi service! Fine. Fine! Don't know what she sees in you." And with that, she leads the way down to her bike.





The two punks facing Copperhead nod. "Ask for Steward. She's expecting you." With that they rev their engines and roll out.

St. V zips up his fly and heads to the sink.  Without even looking directly at the ganger he says, "Depends on who's askin."  He was trying to act cool, but in fact he was just frustrated.  The faucet on the sink was too close to the drain for him to properly fit his hands under.  #JustTrollProblems.  Finally he gives up and examines his teeth in the mirror instead after wiping away a layer of grime.  He glances at the ganger's reflection in the mirror and tries to place which group he is from.  "Eh, you look like you prolly know your drek.  Whatchya got?"

10:48, Today: St. Velveteen failed (no successes) using 4d6 with the Shadowrun system with a target of 4 with rolls of 1,1,3,1. Street Rumors.  Red and Gold gang

His colors don't seem too familiar. He's certainly outside of his normal turf, and it's gotta be a smaller gang (or it's not from the metroplex). "A job. That's all we're sharing here. Matchsticks in two hours. Ask for Steward. It'll be worth your time."

Anya flicked on the safety and returned the grenade to her pocket.  A job would be good.  Maybe fortune had decided to smile on her for a while.  Time would tell whether the smile was due to a kick-me sign she'd decided to pat squarely onto the rigger's hoop.

She glanced at her wrist.  Still enough time to ditch the wet clothes and shower before making her appearance.

She scoped out the alley carefully before making her way to the vehicle and backed out onto the street.  It was tempting to go to the meet with just a drone, but she didn't really have time to un-mount the weapons and who knew the timelines once the clock started ticking.  She settled for the Doberman in the "trunk" and the Strato-9 on a nearby roof.  If the dreck hit the fan, then at least she'd have some cavalry nearby.

Copperhead will arrive about 20 minutes early and, after surveying the area with the Strato-9, she'll park it somewhere it's not likely to be disturbed - with instructions to take evasive action and alert her if anyone approached.  She'll then get a stool at the bar with as good a view of the room as she can manage and keep an eye on those going to the back rooms.  She'll ask for Steward a couple of minutes prior to the specified time.