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Filed under: Game Posts
After a good twenty-minute walk through the bustling city, the three travelers reach the outskirts of The Den. A large wall build from rocks, dirt, debris, and various scraps of old structure barricades the wilds of the outside world from the relatively tame insides of the town. As they follow the wall north, it suddenly drops off at a point where the solid ground meets a steep, rocky cliffside. Past the sudden drop, they can see the remnants of an ancient city far below; skeletal and lifeless. Huge buildings spring up from the cracked, scorched cement - boney silhouettes standing against the backdrop of a barren mountainside. The sun peeks over the tops of the colossal mountain range, offering a surprisingly breath-taking view, despite the rampant destruction.
After taking a moment to enjoy the view, the sun finally disappears on the horizon. They glance around, looking for something that resembles a junk yard. In the distance, farther along the cliffside, they spot a rusty, chain link fence. As they approach closer, they can see piles of old junk stacked high above the ground. After a minute of searching for an entrance, they spot a large gap in the chain link fence. Two scrappy looking guards lean against the buckling fence on either side of the gap, each holding a rifle and smoking a cigarette. When they spot the three onlookers, they straighten up and glance at each other quizzically.
Well, this has got to be it. There’s no sign or anything that indicates “Big Norm’s”, but there’s nothing but abandoned buildings and shanties as far as the eye can see. What do you do?
Not your cup of tea, but…
“You’re a lucky man, Mason.” DeAngelo says as he shifts in his seat and chomps on his cigar. “You need cash, and I need a babysitter. The last Wolf Pack I dealt with got smoked, so now I’m trying to put together a new one. Got a couple of candidates in mind, and they just might have some potential. They’re pretty green, but they look like they can handle themselves.”
DeAngelo grins and lifts himself out of his chair before offering Mr. Meth a grimy glass full cigar ashes and spat-up phlegm. Assuming Mason turns it down, the fixer hobbles his way over to the bar has he continues to speak.
“I don’t like dealing with newbies, Mace. But I don’t have much of a choice. I need you to keep an eye on them. Not that I trust you anymore then I trust them, but I least I’ll have an easier time tracking you down, should they get any bright ideas. Let’s make this simple. You tag along, make yourself useful, and make sure they don’t screw me. If everything turns out, you get a cut of the deal. How’s that sound?”
Babysitting… It sounds like bitch-work, but at the moment, bitch-work is the only thing that’s paying. What do you do?
Filed under: General Posts
All There Is To It
DeAngelo glances at each of the mercenaries and, satisfied that they’ve come to an agreement, nods and plucks the cigar from his mouth.
“Big Norm will be expecting you tomorrow morning, just before sunrise. Be sure you’re on time – if there’s anyone less patient then me, it’s Norman.” DeAngelo grins and stuffs the burning stogie into a make-shift ashtray fashioned from the cranial bone of some unfortunate animal. “You can find his yard on the eastern outskirts of The Den, where the wall meets the cliffside.”
DeAngelo pauses to ensure that everything has sunk in before waving over a rather burly looking man in scrap armor. “Trig, see these fine people to the door. I think we’re all set here. Oh…and get me my telecom. I need to make a phone call.”
With that, the tall man in tattered metal armor escorts the three mercenaries to the door.
You received a job from DeAngelo. The next step is to get some rest, and report to Big Norm’s motor yard the following day before dawn. If anyone has any questions for DeAngelo, now is the time to ask them.
A Change of Heart
Mason looks to his Telecom for answers. As he dials out, the process is interupted by an irritatingly loud, digital tone and a flashing yellow light. An incoming call…
Mason taps on the touch-screen button for ‘Answer’.
“Mr. Meth.” he says simply.
“Mason…I’ve changed my mind. I’ve got some work you might be interested in. It might not be your cup of tea, but at least you might be able to make some money. What do you say?” the gnarled, raspy voice of DeAngelo asks.
After offering DeAngelo some dope, he turned you down. But he’s now calling to see if you’re interested in a bit of work. It might not be a bad idea to diversify your resume.
Filed under: Game Posts
Mason creeps through the dark, concrete hallways until he reaches the main warehouse area – the place that served as the primary dance floor the night before. He shines his flashlight around and calls out in his most friendly tone of voice, hoping to find someone who may be able to help him. No answer.
The pitch black innards of the warehouse make it difficult to see more then a few feet infront of him. A couple straggling beams of sunlight find their way through holes in the roof, but they barely illuminate even the smallest area of the large, cavernous room. The floor is littered with garbage and refuse from the night before.
Mason hears something stir in one of the smaller rooms that branch off from the main warehouse area. As he approaches cautiously, he can hear subdued groans of pain coming from inside. He shines his flashlight into the room. It lands on the writhing body of a junkie, who lays in the fetal position in a pool of blood.
Well, you found somebody, but it’s doubtful that he’ll be of any help to you. The more likely story is the other way around. He looks severely wounded, and from the way the blood continuously pours from his stomach, you’d guess it was recently. What do you do?
Cut and Dry
“As you know, the Megacorporate dipshits of the Megaplex maintain dozens of mining operations and mineral farming facilities here in the Barrens,” DeAngelo continues, “Three days ago, one such mining installation ceased transmitting data to the corporate communications relay station outside the of Den. The mostly likely story is a malfunction in the transmission array that sends communications and data to the relay station, which in turn sends it to the administrative facility inside the ‘plex. Needless to say, the techs over at the relay station outside of town are getting anxious, and so they’ve turned to me. With all the bandit activity in the area, and the way the tribals have been acting up lately, they’re looking for a crew that can escort one their engineers to the mining facility, so that he can hopefully restore the communications between the installation and the relay station. It’s a baby-sitting gig.”
He pauses to chomp on his cigar and inspect the reactions of the three mercenaries sitting across from him.
“I estimate it’s a three day job. One day to the mining facility, one day there, and one day to get back. No more, no less. The pay is a flat 8,000 creds.” he shoots a glare to the three, “And don’t even start with that haggling bullshit. You should be happy I’m considering you for the job at all. I’ll give you 1k now, to get you off your feet. Upon completion of the job, you’ll get the other 7k.” He grins slightly, his pale white eyes glistening in the neon light of the bar. “And just to show you I’m not a bad guy, I’ll let you take one of my rides.”
“So, what do you say ladies? We got a deal, or what?”
Here’s the lowdown. You’ve got to escort a corporate engineer to a mining installation that’s recently stopped transmitting data to a nearby communications relay station. The engineer will then restore the transmittion array. Once that’s done, escort the engineer back to the Den and collect your pay. Sounds simple enough…right?
Filed under: Game Posts
Cold Hard Steel
“The stims’ all locked up in a container in my bag, no way to cut it open without breaking everything. Gotta be careful too.” Mason says, trying to lead the mutie to believe he’s about to score some dope.
Bluff Check: 5+5=10. Failure!
“Bullshit! Just give me your bag, asshole!” specks of yellow-ish saliva fly out of the sputtering mouth of the mutant thug and land on Mason’s shoulder. He struggles not to shudder.
“Yeah, sure, it’s all yours boss.” Mason says with a friendly smile as removes the pack from his shoulder.
The man grabs the bag and backs up slowly. He keeps the blade pointed at Mason, a paranoid yet slightly excited look on his face.
“Like I said, the shit’s all locked up,” Mason tries to pass his bluff through determination, “the key though…”
The mutie quirks a brow and peeks into the bag as curiosity gets the best of him.
“…is right here.”
The mutie hits the ground in a heap.
Opportunity is Knockin’
Gunshots echo from outside the bar, nearly blending in with the loud music that floods Vector’s.
“A private room?” DeAngelo questions Kaphred’s comment before taking a few puffs off of the pungent cigar. “I don’t think that will be necessary. We’re among family. Just have a seat.” he grins slightly.
The crew reluctantly slides into the booth with the strange man. By now the booth has filled up with thick cigar smoke, prompting Kaphred to attempt to hold his breath. All three squint slightly in reaction to the stinging smoke coming in contact with their eyes.
“As you’ve probably guessed, I am DeAngelo. They call me a “Fixer.” I’m the middleman. I find the work, hire the crew, and make sure both parties fulfill their end of the bargain.” the scarred figure in the shadows continues, “You are the crew. Well, not yet. But you will be. We’ll make sure of that.”
Kaphred attempts to casually cover his nose, the waves of smoke emanating from the nostrils of DeAngelo becoming more and more voluminous as the conversation goes on. Tank and Ako continue to swig their drinks, trying to ignore the toxic gas and instead focus on what’s being said.
“Here’s how it works. An employer comes to me looking for a Wolf Pack. You’ll never see the employer, you’ll never speak to the employer, you’ll never even know the employers name. If you have questions or need to talk to someone in regards to a job, you’ll talk to me. Need some equipment or gear, talk to me. Bottom line is, I’m your contact so keep your bloody noses out of the business of the man who’s writing your pay check. Any questions before we continue?”
Filed under: Game Posts
Mason slips through the gaping hole in the rusted chainlink fense and makes his way around the back of the large building. Its ancient brick walls have been scorched by hundreds of years of viscious sand. Parts of it crumble in on themselves and some of the walls have completely erroded away, but the majority of the hardy building remains standing. In the rear of the factory is what used to be some sort of supply yard. All that remains now are the skeletal remnants of various types of twisted, metal structuring. A heap of junk sits in the middle of the small field, presumedly once a piece of heavy machinery.
Mason steps through the threshold of the large factor door and into the dark inards of the building. Rays of bright light cascade from the portal behind him, illuminating the dusty loading bay. His memory tells him to make his way through the hallway to the right towards the large warehouse area. If there is anyone here who might be able to help him out, the best place to look would be the makeshift dancefloor.
As he rounds the corner and into the hallway, he feels a body slam up against him and throw him against the wall. A filthy smelling thug in a tattered long coat presses Mason into the brick wall and slips a sharply jagged, rusty blade to his throat, apply just the slightest amount of pressure. The mutated man grips tightly to Mason’s shirt, staring at him with his one good eye. The bad eye, which is simply repulsive to look at, appears as a bulbous sack of puslating flesh. It is swollen beyond belief and buldging ever so close to Mason’s face.
“The Deck, your money, and your drugs. Quick, if you know what’s good for ya!” the man’s breath wreaks of cheap synthetic liqour, and the sores on his lips quiver when he speaks.
Mason, you’re being accosted by some mutie freak. He wants all your stuff, and he looks like he means business. You’d bet he’s got some kind of hellish disease. What do you do?
Ako and Tank step up to bar as they watch Kaphred head over to talk to the techie near the back. Tank holds up two fingers as the two slide onto a few old stools. The bartender nods and, a moment later, he returns with two glass mugs that actually appear clean. Both mug is filled to the brim with some kind of thick, nearly black ale. Despite its ridiculously bitter taste and the slight tingly feeling you get in your cheeks after a gulp, it’s cold and therefore good.
Ako and Tank each purchase a drink. Two credits apiece.
“I…uhh…” the nerdy kid stammers for a moment, taken aback by Kaphred’s comment. “I was just about to change that!” he yelps in a whiney, defensive tone.
“Oh, I don’t believe he meant much harm.” says a deep voice from the shadowy booth in the very back corner, just a few feet away from where Kaphred stands.
The nerd glances over his shoulder towards the origin of the sound, before spinning back to glare at Kaphred. The young, pimply blonde kid with the overly thick glasses huffs for a moment, then violently stands up out of his chair, sending it tumbling backwards as he storms out of the bar.
“Kaphred, is it?” the voice says, just before a cigarette lighter sparks up, revealing the scarred face of DeAngelo. His eyes, pale white orbs covered in thick webs of tiny red veins, glitter in the flickering fire that ignites a stubby cigar.
“Have a seat. Ako, and Johnathan too.”
Your best assumption is that this is DeAngelo. It would appear that his face is severly scarred by dozens of lacerations across his face. His eyes are a pale white, ghostly and stern. It would seem he’s been waiting for you. He even knows your names. What do you do?
Filed under: Game Posts
The mid-day sun beats down upon their backs as the crew stands outside of the rickety building that sports the letters “VE - - ORS.” Imprints on the sun bleached, concrete walls imply that the signage once read “VECTORS”. A lanky fellow with dirty, scraggly hair emerges from the wooden door that barely remains on its hinges. He glares at the group with a paranoid snarl and clutches his grimy LinkDeck to his chest tightly, pushing past them as quickly as he can. Subdued thumps from within the structure suggest music.
Upon entering the dimly lit bar, the crew struggles to let their vision adjust to the sudden change of lighting. Loud, grungy, down-tempo techno music blares from blownout speakers just above the doorway. Moments later, they survey the place, both to get a feel for their surroundings, as well as looking for someone who might DeAngelo. The bartender, a portly man with screwed-up jowl and a greasy smock, nods his head to the group as they walk in. A few pathetic souls sitting at the bar glance over their shoulder before rolling their eyes and resuming their all-too-practiced activity of drinking themselves silly.
Lining the walls of the large room are an assortment of desks and tables with various ancient-looking computers on them. Wires and circuitry lay sprawled out over a couple of tables, clearly works-in-progress. A particularly nerdy looking kid sits hunched over some dusty computer cases, going to town on them with some makeshift tools. His overly thick glasses, caked with grime, make his eyes appear to bulge even-more so then they do naturally. He looks up at them only briefly before wiping a sinewy stream of drool from his chin and getting back to work.
Your crew has entered Vector’s Cyberbar. It’s a dingy hole-in-the-wall pub with a penchant for salvaging old technology. In addition to the standard cantina furniture – a bar, some booths, some dirty tables and chairs – the place is filled with all types of elderly electronics, dusty computers, dirt-caked monitors, crusty piles of wire, and a plethora of other strange items. Nobody but the bartender seems to be paying your group much attention.