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Post by Rabbit on Mar 22, 2013 21:33:47 GMT -5
It is a cold and wet January day in Seattle. Storm clouds have been rolling in from the Pacific all week.
It's noon and your commlink flashes with an incoming call. The number is blocked, but on the screen you see a matrix icon that resembles the traditional smiley face image, only red and cocked to one side, with little jagged lines resembling tusks on the mouth of the icon.
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Post by michael on Mar 25, 2013 15:16:54 GMT -5
"Drek."
The red smiley face flashed angrily, stirring him.
Connor always felt the withdrawl in the mornings, and he always felt it worst in his left hez. Heh. My lower hez is aching too, after last night. He chuckled to himself, then winced as pain hit his tusk again.
Vut, but I need a dentist. He chomped down on a thick cigar. Prob'ly just tell me something stupid, like I need to get off the stick. Acrid smoke, something far more than burning nicotine, filled his mouth. Course I need to get off the stick. Bloody quaalz, pointing out the obvious.
The flashing comm went dark. In Conroy's hands, its functionality was little more than a signal fire. "Hey, so-and-so wants to talk." Actually pick it up, it's as like to play a little video as it is burst into flame. Still, it was enough. Anyone knowing that number knew where to find him after calling it.
He bundled up, and headed off to meet Red Smiley.
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Post by Rabbit on Mar 26, 2013 12:17:07 GMT -5
‘Red Smiley’ is an Ork that goes by MacCallister. Conroy briefly met MacCallister once through a mutual contact. Conroy’s contact said MacCallister is a “resourceful guy” and he can usually be contacted through The Big Rhino.*
Rumor is that MacCallister used to be a Shadowrunner out of Chicago, but retired back in the 50s. He showed up in Seattle a few years ago and started working as a fixer. Friendly, reliable, and deals a straight hand. Any more intel would take some digging on Conroy’s part.
Exiting his apartment Conroy can see the rain hasn’t let up. That didn’t do much to lessen the congestion on the crowded streets of the Seattle Metroplex. Cars creep up the streets and pedestrians fill the sidewalks. Humans, Elves, Dwarves, Orks, Trolls, and even some weirder types go about their business with little time or interest to spend on Conroy.
“Aye! Aye, Conroy. You want the news? I got hard copies,” a human male in his late sixties looks out at Conroy from behind a street vendor stand. He is holding up a newspaper. A real honest to God paper newspaper. The stand itself is covered in a mix of standard bodega goods, but also luck charms and cheap magical fetishes. “I saved you one. So you better buy it.”
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Post by michael on Apr 1, 2013 12:47:11 GMT -5
Conroy tucked the paper inside of his jacket, under his armpit, and let out a guttural sigh. Always when it's raining.
He had a soft spot for Roger, and they certainly had a mutually beneficial relationship, but he couldn't help but be a bit annoyed. The man's been at this long enough. He couldn't get some sorta charm to waterproof his papers? Or, hell, just a plastic sack instead o' the rubber band? Now he had to walk with this thing tucked under his arm.
He was a few steps away from Roger's cart when he stopped. I have this at the Rhino, MacCallister'll think I'm showing up to a meet with a bloody sawed-off tucked in my coat. Conroy always preferred to read these sorts of things in his own place, but Macallister's supposed to be a stand-up sort, no need to make him edgy right off the bat.
"Oi, Rog! I'm needing a dry place to read. Comin' back, yeah?"
Not waiting for a response, he gave Roger a toothy grin before strolling behind the counter and unfurling his paper.
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