July 2072
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Sat July 7 2072
Big Moe, a low life and Warrens fixer/fixture has been making a killing in cred, what with the CalFree War seemingly unending. His contacts in multiple Governments ensures he knows just who to hire- and when- to serve as coyotes across the patchwork of borders in the former Western US of A.
Refugees, mostly poor working class folk, from California pay inflated and exorbitant ''process fees'' to make it into the perceived safety of Denver. Droves are pouring in and Moe makes keeps making money. But theres little jobs to be found for those who arrive, and with no real paper work prospects, the Warrens becomes engorged with the downtrodden and the criminal alike.
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Sat July 7 2072
Little Chiba: It was bound to happen. And it does. Refugees from Sacramento, China Lake, Southern California, close to 50, drive into the district with homemade weapons: Zipguns, bats, chains, molotov cocktails, brass knuckles. A massage parlor gets torched and a cluster of Chinese tourists are killed in the brief chaos that follows.
"Killem!" "You raped my wife you fraggers!" "NO NO NO NO NO!" Endless shouts.
Shining Mountain Security and Yakuza soldiers arrive on scene and make short work of the refugees turned angry mob. The few that are not shot to death and arrested, never to be seen again.
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Sun July 8 2072
Denvers Dog Days Of Summer. The heat goes up and up and up and everyones getting on edge. Over the past three months over 100,000 pour into Denver. Services in The Warrens were always hard enough to come by, now it's stretched thin.
News reports gloss over the Little Chiba "Flashmob". Whats 50 dead CalFree refugees? Whats 7 dead innocent tourists? Local TalkTrideo DJs use the numbers to incite more anger. "Your Money Being Sapped By Animals" "Your Job To Protest That Dictator" etc etc.
Talk builds in Denver among political factions. Someone's got to do something. Which side are you on?
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Sun July 8 2072
Somewhere in the Ute Desert, 60 miles out from Denver, a stealth modified GMC Bulldog with a full suite of detection gear barrels Eastward through the desert heat under cover of electronics. A T-Bird heading West pulls a 180 and lands by the van. The van pulls to a stop. The driver, unseen, hits a button and the backdoors unlock.
Fifteen bleary, thirsty, and sunbaked refugees tumble out. They are tired, hurt, and scared. Is this how everyone got out? Worst coyote ever.
A group of men in urban street clothes walk from the T-Bird. They are armed with silenced pistols and magic. They make the fifteen line up for inspection. Men, women, children. In a flurry of silenced pistol shots the men and children fall. Screams are silenced by an area effect spell. The women are injected with narcotics and led, shackled, back up the ramp. ''Nyet'', states the leader and shakes his large square head, pointing to a female ork. Down she goes in a hail of bullets. A fire, magical in nature, erupts around the bodies turning them to ash and scatters in the desert wind.
The GMC van guns the engine and hauls ass to CFS. The T-Bird soars into the air before Ute pilots bother checking this sector. The T-Bird glints in the sun, its Hammer and Sickle decal peeling in the wind as the traffickers fly towards Denver.
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Mon July 9
A brown dusted T-Bird downshifts over a back corner of the Warrens, casting shadows over the ramshackle urban hodgepodge. The bird pops ECCM signals, landing gear, and home made tin foil bombs to frag with nearby Sat-Links easing down onto a makeshift landing pad. Big Moes on the outer end of the pad waiting with a trio of men in slick street apparel. They look nervous. Big Moe especially. Fat greasy dollops of water coat the inside of his armored jacket.
The women, bad back alley surgery jobs made look Japanese and Korean are drug blitzed and led off the platform of the Bird and into waiting cars like shy foals. The trio of men smack their gums and speak in hushed accented voices. The kind of voices that belong to men who carry out violence with grim ease. They pay Big Moe and leave in a hurry. Big Moe pays the T-Bird driver who in turn pays a percentage to the supplier who then uploads credit into a bank account for someone CFS side. One big circle of trafficking refugees to be used as husks for men wholl pay good money for cheap, awful thrills. It doesnt stop.
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Mon July 9 2072
For most runners there's seems to have been a slight downturn in work. Call it the economy. Call it too many dead Johnson's. Call it too many runners sipping Mai Tai's at the same time. CFS has it's share of desperate people willing to get things done for some quick cash. Sure, they're not professionals, mostly just hard up ex-militia men, but they're cheap and deniable! Shadowrunners in The Life might even feel the need to blame these "illegals" pulling short shrift. Or maybe look upon them with empathy. The news back west is an unending litany of war crimes, who'd want to stay and fight?
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Tue July 9 2072
Red Rock Diner: The bespectacled and intellectual looking ork takes a drag on his cigarette. A plate of uneaten soy-bacon and eggs before him. He speaks in elliptical terms with a blonde and darkly tanned breeder in a Cal-State College T-shirt. A credstick is discreetly exchanged.
"Connor, I'm surprised you're willing to lend financial support to us, all things considered."
"The Community feels that this is a political win-win for us. Orks and trolls are being- and have been I might add- forced into racial genocide by the likes of Saito, not to mention Gill. In our opinion."
The man shrugs. "If you say so. I've never met an ork that didn't prefer to be with his own people. But yes, I fought with a few good tusk-, er, men before we had to bivouac out of China Lake. They…..didn't make it." Connor sneers, "Your people have only begun to understand Our Struggle. Perhaps this is good for-"
" - Watch your tone Connor."
A tense moment passes. The breeder speaks, "Let me know when you've secured the permits for our unified protest. I'll make sure my people reach out to the refugees, no more funny business."
"Yes, I have a good man working on that. We'll also need to hire for security."
"Very good Connor, you're very smart for an ork. And, I have to ask- how are you getting all this money for us when you're own organization is in dire financial straits?"
The ork stands up and brushes at an egg stain on his tie. "Breeder, you don't want to know these secrets of idealists." A substantial tip is left on the table.
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Tue July 11 2072
A Stuffer shack somewhere in the CAS District:
Two men, one human and one ork, speak across from an aisle; Each one pretending to be enraptured with trinkets on their respective aisle.
"Connor, your donation was appreciated."
"Not a problem, a friend of the cause a decker- Max, helped out and delivered on time."
"Really? I didn't realize you had a decker dedicated for creating funds."
"I didn't say that."
They move down as another ork enters the establishment. The human eyes him.
"One of yours?"
"Brother Mouzone, yes. He's our figurehead and my friend."
"Alright….you get the tickets to the "show"?"
The ork shakes his head. "Not yet and- I know what you're going to say. Your people are getting rowdy. I'll find something for them to do soon."
"I need more money."
"I'm working on that soon."
The man pays for a tridporn with CAS cash and leaves.
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Tue July 11 2072
So no shit, there I was. Just sort of walking along in the Rail Slums when what do I see? But a pair of my own eyes, staring back at me. It's always awkward when cloned bodyparts show up on the black market. It's more so when you realize it's your own bodyparts. Tenpenny Jimmy, a local street sam, was so taken aback by his cloned parts for sale, that he shot the man selling them. Now, the only question no one could answer is: Why would anyone -buy- cloned meat?
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Tue July 17 2072
Why indeed, would someone clone someone else? Rumors circulate and swirl though the bone yard, and a conclusion is come to rather quickly by the citizenry who call that mini-warrens home. Latino and Native american alike fear the Ghoul more than most, given it's spiritual connotations. Ghouls. Bonecrakers and soulstealers… they eat flesh. Need.. flesh. That's surely why Petro Dobrinik was shot down by Tenpenny Jimmy. For his part, Tenpenny is hailed as a hero… but some are asking… who were Petro's customers?
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Wed July 18 2072
The Boneyard has become an armed camp almost overnight - the Ghost Riders are having a hard time keeping a lid on it. There's a hysteria running through the people who live and work in the bone yard, and it's name is Ghoul. Calavera (The idea, not the runner) and zombies. When something goes wrong, it's ghouls who did it now, or skinsinners, those who support ghouls and collaborate with them. More than few people have been beaten, and several shootings have sprung up. The problem is the deeply superstitious nature of the poor, coupled with a high mexican population that lends itself to overt catholic spiritualism.
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Wed July 18 2072
The Boneyard, a smaller, more brutal warrens-like area in the Ute Sector, is primed for violence. Formerly the largest railhead in North America, responsible for bringing the central Colorado Valley (Colorado Springs, Pueblo, Denver, Boulder) the majority of its goods from across the United States, it's a gritty industrial dumping ground of vehicles, old rail stock and people. Walled in and forgotten about, it's where the Latino and Native American poor go to be forgotten.
The Boneyard is distinct from the Aurora Warrens in its ethnic makeup. AmerInds find no love from the highly agressive, racist population of the Warrens… given most of those people in the warrens are descended from or -are- people displaced from the Western United States.
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Wed July 18 2072
Big Moe pays off the "crossing poll" in Heather Gardens and heads for tonight's meet at Chrome. The slovenly fixer street clothes and armor lack the sheen and polish of any respectable club goer looking to get laid. In tow: two particularly well made up women and one angry looking man named Yuri.
Big Moe meets the slumming corp exec in a back room. The women, two humans, are blitzed on a potent cocktail of narcotics. Yuri stands guard and flexes his muscular bulk under his suit. Moe talks, "Ya see Yuri, I told ya this guy is kosher- we can branch out." Yuri answers, "Da, we shall see."
The exec licks his lips, "So whatever I want for 50 large a piece, right?" Big Moe's in the black tonight. "They're all yours."
Cred and flesh is exchanged. Moe makes his finders fee. Yuri looks worried. This is too good to be true. And that brings the attention of the big boys in the playground. Maybe Yuri pockets this deal and never mentions it again.
Elsewhere in the club a strung out ork in tweed and armored civilian clothes snorts a solid line off the breast of a troll. His glasses crack and he squints at the group that leaves. He's too wasted to care and it's too much fun at Chrome tonight.
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Thu July 19 2072
Oh snap. Over in the Bone Yard, someone had a little bit of a freakout. Consuela Vargas, the long time seller (and maker) of Rat-on-a-stick just got her chest blown out by two shotgun rounds to the chest, when someone freaked out and started shouting that her rat-on-a-stick was really small-child-on-a-stick. No one is sure if she was targeted, but in the chaos of the micro-riot that broke out between hysterical patrons and equally hysterical friends of Consuela, someone put a round through each of Consuela's favorite lungs.
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Thu July 19 2072
Meanwhile, out in California - Bakersfield is quiet. The refineries in Stockton are on line, but producing poorly. Still, the money from the Bakersfield oil wells floods into Japanese coffers, doing a great deal to alleviate the sudden lack of some of it's megacorporate funding. Jace Gill has ruled now for two months, an iron fist wielded as he forces disparate units together into a somewhat cohesive fighting force. The Akuma ring Bakersfield now, entrenched and occasionally shelling the city.
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Fri July 20 2072
Training officers form a cordon near the UCAS / Warrens border. They wear face shields and packed shotguns filled with rock salt. CalFree exiles seeking asylum slam fences/concrete walls/jury rigged barriers. Jeremy Faloon watches the scene escalate on trid monitors on a tight beam feed. His staff tells him this is merely a minor raid, and they'll hit ten more before the day is through. The fences teeter.
Twenty Lone Star and KE officers on a mixed task force bark Get Back! A refugee climbs a fence and totters the chain link over. A training man blows him down - one salt round de-snagged him and lacerated his chest. The exile group picks up rocks and wave ferrocrete blocks. Tear gas and rock salt pepper the crowd. Exiles turn tail. Some charge and are arrested or worse killed. The stragglers from the exile camp are herded into wagons and bussed off to Denver's borders. Someone else's problems. Faloon sweats bullets, "This has got to stop." He shuts the feed down.
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