Globalemits September 2012

September 2072

Sat Sep 8 2072

The Warrens, back room of the Bare Knuckle.

Mouzone wants to meet 'The Money Man', Connor refuses. "You're old, making truces. I know you're no longer teaching at Denver Comm-College. /I'm/ the face of the TLF, /no one/ cares about you."

Mouzone's pet gorilla in an ork costume throws Connor around the place. Mouzone beats Connor with a homemade sap. Shotgun pellets slick with blood roll from a rubber hose.

Connor gasps. Connor whimpers and welps. He does the tusk triage tango. Connor relinquishes, "Okay, you're TLF Top Bananna, I piss in a bag for the rest of my life. Here's Derek's number."

Mouzone smiles. He dials. He gets no answer.

Sat Sep 15 2072

Meanwhile, in the FDC…

"I have eyes." Says Mr. Blacke. Seated in his truck parked down the street, Mr. Blacke is awash in the glow of amber monitors and datafeeds, not jacked into his drones, but instead using captains chair mode.

"Very good." Says Mr. White into his commlink. Clad in a ruthenium poncho over his corporate security armor, Mr. White is across the street from the Party Headquarters for the New American Era Party. The security is impressive, with Knight Errant providing the on-site. "I've tagged four locations. Scan them for hidden security… they all seem likely points. Mr. Blue - do a sweep at high speed, do a roof run. We don't want to linger, but shake the tree for me."

Mr. Blue, the Adept, smiles just slightly as she starts her run. She hits the edge of her building, sailing across the gap of the alley without effort. She takes the other side in a combat roll, then comes up to her feet - fast and fleet - to dodge between car-sized air conditioning units and ducting. "Pressure sensors on the roof - laser trip wires near the doors." She calls out while running, sub-vocalizing for all the strenuousness of her. "Not top grade - it can be spoofed." And then she hits the other side, and is gone in a whisper of cloth, landing across the next small side street, atop another building.

Sun Sep 16 2072

The next night, Blue, White and Blacke settle down at a table in the Fairfax sprawl. The dim bulb overhead flickers, but the rolling blackouts won't be hitting this cluster in the sprawl tonight. A cigarette dangles from Blacke's lips as he explains the layout. "Security is positioned here. Patrols are supposed to be random, at least four an hour… but these guys are overtime patrol cops, so they're doing it once every half or so. Going through the motions and relying on the buildings security…"

Sun Sep 16 2072

A little while later, Mr. Blue explains… "The building security is pretty good. Not the most impressive I've seen, but it's not bad. It's going to require an onsite datatap. It's not in my capability to do it that way."

"Thats why I'm going with you." Says Mr. White. "You will go in once I disarm the building's security through a rooftop jackpoint you're going to open up for me in the operational security."

Sun Sep 16 2072

Night falls on Washington FDC. Mr. White and Mr. Blue huddle in the shadows of the alley behind the New American Era building. Down the street Mr. Blacke is in his truck, examining the area through the eyes of his drone high over head.

"Guards are on the far side of the building. I'm sending the distraction… now." Says Mr. Blacke. A cellphone call is made with a mental impulse and down the street, a joygirl feels the phone vibrate. She saunters over to the two Knight Errant patrol men, and what follows is not pretty, but it is distracting and effective. The two cops slip into the alley with the joygirl.

"Distraction Deployed."

Sun Sep 16 2072

The security force is distracted in the most base of ways - the ways people forget still work depending on the situation. Had these been professionally dedicated cops who were not pulling OT to make ends meet… this might not have worked.

Mr. Blue, she makes her run, vaulting over the side of the building and then climbing the drain pipe. So fast and lithe, this physical adept. After a few moments, she comms back… 'All clear. Jackpoint open.'

Mon Sep 17 2072


The New American Era Party has confirmed that during a breakin at their Washington DC headquarters, 'significant' documents relating to the Vice President and her service have been stolen. Though no casualties were reported, Knight Errant has confirmed that their security was bypassed and the breach is being assessed. When the WhiteHouse was questioned on the severity of the breach, Press Secretary Marlon Winston had no comment, citing an on-going investigation.

Mon Sep 17 2072

Meanwhile… over Aurora… clouds gather. Ominous roiling clouds, boiling out of almost nothing. The UCAS Federal Weather Service is baffled, and flights to DIA and Buckley AFB are being diverted. Lightning flashes start slow, but start to build up. Internal airbursts, the lightning does not fork down to touch the ground yet.

Mon Sep 17 2072

"Buckly Tower, this is Boxcar Four-Zero-Niner on approach vector. We need the strip and we need it now."

"Negative Boxcar, you must divert to Colorado Springs. You must divert."

"Ahhh… thats a negative, Buckly Tower. That's just not happening. We'll land somewhere on top of Castle Rock. We took a bird strike to one engine and she's shut down but leaking hydrolic. We're landing here, or we're landing whereever we damn well please. Copy."

A moments silence.

"Boxcar, this Buckly Tower. We copy."

Mon Sep 17 2072

"Boxcar Four-Zero-Niner, you will need to drop altitude to come in under that anomaly."

"Ahh.. no. Don't think we're gonna do that, Tower. We're flying dead stick as it is and if we drop RPMs we're going to stall, fall and then a fireball."

"sonof… Copy that Boxcar. Pick your course and punch through it."

"Remarkable plan, Buckly Tower. We're going to try it."

With that the Boeing 827 Stratolifter powers up its remaining engines - thrust pouring out as they try to make it through the storm as quickly as possible.

Tues Sep 18 2072

"Boxcar, tower. We're showing increased electrical activity in the anomaly. Be advised."

"What the hell are they saying?" Asks Commander Mark Leifield of his co-pilot. "I can't make it out through the static."

"Neither can I. I'm going to try switching to—" The co-pilot never gets to finish his thought, as a bolt of energy lances out from the storm. It arcs along the aircrafts ion trail, slamming into the wingtip. Now, most aircraft are built with safety mechanisms, and this one is no exception. The problem is when you build to withstand a force of 10, and a force of 20 comes. A further problem when it's an exponential scale, not linear.

Boxcar's wing shears off at the joint with the fuselage. In the movies, this might be done in slow motion, with drama added and an amazing soundtrack. Heroic efforts will be made to pull up, pull up! Get to the chutes and the plane will plummet into some desolate corner of nowhere, a comical little mushroom cloud coming up.

But that's not here. Thats not Shadowrun.

Tues Sep 18 2072

What is Shadowrun, is what happens. No mage saves the day, no dragon swoops in. The wing shears off and the plane falls. IT does not glide, it does not carry forward. It just falls out of the sky. The broken wing goes spinning off, to slam into the Horus Man Primary School Building, located in South Central.

The building has long been used as a base of operations for the Crimson Smoke - and today they are hunkered back at base for the storm. The wing to the massive aircraft slices through the roof, slamming, still fuel laden, into the main gymnasium before it erupts into flames.

Tues Sep 18 2072

The rest of Boxcar 470 (For Real World Reference: Antonov An-225 'Mria') plunges downward gracelessly. There is no elegance, no final requiem for a doomed aircraft. No glory. There is only the long drop and the sudden stop that ends in a fireball. The main impact is in Seven Hills, a debris field about a half mile wide and about a mile long.

While the fireball was massive, it becomes clear that the aircraft ripped itself apart while it fell, scattering it's cargo across this area. What was in the cargo? It's hard to say… but they are all non-descript unmarked Universal Military Transport casings. Some large. Some small. Destined for a combat zone somewhere, and ready for paradrop deployment.

And now they rain down on the Warrens…

Tues Sep 18 2072

In the Warrens, South Central. The Crimson Smoke are - at least for the moment, entirely neutralized. The chaos that breaks out would be devastating if not for the draw of nearly every mobile person to Seven Hills. As such, those who fight the scattered, disorganized Smokers are other gangers, seeking to expand their territory.

Fri Sep 28 2072

The Warrens, Orktown. As gangs duke it out, the Tusk Liberation Front continue to stay under the radar: The occasional liquor store hold up, low level hit jobs, scab work in sweat shops, gun running through the Nevada desert, mass snitching to Lone Star on competing and more authentic Ork activists. Local Street Samurai Hek gets into a firefight outside Krom's Stuffer Shack. Two Dead, One Escaped.
Word is that the "political action group" is nothing more than a violent gang with some serious firepower behind them and expensive backers.
Three weeks ago during a TLF meeting in The Bare Knuckle "Brother" Mouzone steps forward and announces he's the new President 'elect'. Their public protest is postponed, again, but somehow they manage a new one through Denver Parks & Rec. Flyers for Ork Rights. Flyers for a "Day Of Protest". Flyers chastising Faloon: Come join them.

Fri Sep 28 2072

The Warrens, Orktown.

Brother Mouzone and a few members of the TLF cleans pistols at a backroom table in The Big House. Metal Dave and the Horsemen at another table testify to the Horsemen way of life. The two groups ignore each other. Mouzone checks his silver wrist watch.

Ka-BOOM. A car bomb goes off outside! Glass shatters all around the bar, one Horsemen is gravely injured. The TLF and Horsemen run outside to look at the carnage. The perpetrators: Two Anglo-humans in good runner gear. One of the runners gives Mouzone a funny look before his face explodes. Mouzone blows smoke out from his barrel, "My Brothers, the human scum doesn't care about your borders. I offer you my political alignment." Metal Dave grunts. Mouzone counters, "And free drugs!" Novacoke and Cram spill from duffel bags.

The TLF make new friends.

Sat Sep 29 2072

The Rez, Warrens: A large mixed group of Horsemen and TLF make their way on foot through the Rez. Drugs, booze, and general rowdiness despite the persistent rain.

The TLF chant "Ork Rights" while the Horsemen provide security. Placards are waved: /=Y= 4 WARRENS/ /NEXT PREZ IS WATCHING/ /FUCK FALOON/.

Elsewhere in an abandoned building, The Warrens: The rotund fixer known locally as The Other Big Jake breathes his last breath, the last thing he sees is a troll-sized ork of synthetic muscle and steroids. Brother Mouzone hits a button on a blood soaked cell phone. A man's voice answers, Mouzone gives notification: "We won't be using middle men like the last chapter President. You'll need to meet me." Mouzone hangs up.

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