Globalemits August 2012

August 2072

Tue Aug 28 2072

Lone Star and KE officers are awarded, after much paper work, a few medals for "Operation Eviction". The security companies move on to other cases, other priorities. Many of the refugees that swpet into Denver have been pushed back out to the sea of other nations. Those who haven't assimiliate into the despair of the Warrens or find other methods of staying one step ahead.

Still, a smaller contingent remains faithful to an unknown leader. The group is hardened and compacted like so much coal into the idealogical equivalent of a diamond.

Elsewhere, another surreptious exchange takes place: Guns for money. A fixer plays middleman and counts his percentages. Connor sweats through his cheap suit and counts his blessings.

Wed Aug 29 2072

>>Intercepted Trix Call<<
Two Speakers, Unknown: Male, Possibly Middle Aged. LTG Origin: Bare Knuckle Gym

Male 1> "You're late Connor. Two clocks passed already."

Male 2(Connor?)> "Please don't patronize me, I'm getting enough back channel drek as a race traitor.

Male 1> (Chuckles :08 seconds) "That is an uninitiated perspective, Connor, you know that. I'm paying you, providing you bodies, it's a fair trade."

Male 2 (Connor)>"And I'm getting you the hardware you need, and sticking /my/ neck out. "

Male 1> (Passing Car sounds, :03. Failed triangulation.) "Perhaps you have a point. Perhaps I should stop paying you for the services, and you'll have less nuyen for your own goals. Now-"

Male 2>"Frag you."

Male 1> "Don't be a child, Connor. It doesn't suit you. Now where are we meeting?"

Male 2 (Connor)> (Heavy breathing on phone :03, background noise :10) "- place as always, we need to switch it after this. Dealing with a new fixer, good deal for you, only 9,000 =Y=. "

>>End of phone call<<

Thu August 30 2072

It's a hot hang dog day at the The Rag Doll and the body heat from the rowdy crowd watching the game doesn't help. Caleb, what he's going by these days, polishes off another soybeer and feels the energy in the room coalesce.

He flashbacks to Stockton, to Vallejo. The blood, the gore, the battles. And for what?

Caleb shakes himself out and checks his phone. "Good", he says quietly to himself, "There's movement in the air." He looks at his tattoos, a wave of his hand, an incantation to the Norseman, and they're gone. A chilly wind sweeps his spine and his lips curl in a smile.

Fri August 31 2072

The Burnt Out Building in the Warrens offers a modicum of cleanliness. Clean BTL Disk exchange, blankets, Political pamphlets at the end of the soy food kitchen line, armed orks watching over it all. It's pathetic, but earnest. A warm smoggy breeze blows in through the broken windows.

Mouzone sits among the more militant orks in a collection of donated chairs. Connor watches the flock. Questions rise: When do /we/ get to meet the money man? Why are /we/ sticking our neck out? What's with all the copper piping? Why do we need to pay off every damn gang?

Connor, in his nebbish manner, deflects these questions and pads his answers. "Brothers, if we are to move up, we must make alliances….however temporary. Our benefactor is one of the few humans whom we should thank, in a perfect world, there would be more of him amongst his kind. The revolution is coming." Clapping, a smattering of hoots. Mouzone remains skeptical. He checks his pocket secretary and tries for service out here, where anything can happen.

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