Breaking A Whitebone

GM: Vulcan
Players: Mafen
Synopsis: Mafen is sent in to kill Clara Whitebone.
Date: 1-15-2070

PRIORITY OVERRIDE: Unit is to stand by for mission download.

Mafen is sipping a beer at the bar, the rest of the patrons, as always, giving him a wide berth, when he suddenly stops mid-bottle-lift, eyes going a bit glassy.

DOWNLOAD COMMENCING
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DOWNLOAD COMPLETE: Stand by for encryption protocols.

Carver stares a second, buffing a glass with his prosthesis as he walks in front of Mafen, looking around the huge elf slowly. Humperdink waves his fingers in front of his face. "You still there? Anybody home…?" Quieter, he intones, "Fragging huge keeb…" The bartender pokes Mafen in the forehead, shrugging at a group of nearby cowboy-hatted hooligans. Mafen seems motionless.

The ringleader, typical alpha (or maybe beta) male of the group of cowboy's by the pool table seem very amused by this. He walks up with a pool queue, and pokes with the long side into Mafen's side. "Hah! What's the matter, you need an oil change you sick fragger?"

The Cowboy's laugh heartily at the audacity of their representative. The elf doesn't move from the jab with the stick, and still seems out of touch with reality — though you'd guess he's still paying attention somewhat. If history is anything to go by.

Carver stares at the cow boy a bit incredulously, chewing on a toothpick. "I'd reckon you should lay off." The former big-game hunter may be one tough son of a bitch, but he's seen the elf in enough bar brawls to know he's no slouch in a fight…

The Cowboy is unrepetenant. He whaps Mafen across the back with the pool cue. Once twice.

- Impact Predicted, Force 13 KG Anterior Spinal Plating. Effect: Negligible. -
He's still motionless. Maybe the Cowboy thinks if Mafen's shut off for good he could make good money ghouling the cyborg.

TARGET: CLARENCE 'CLARA' WHITEBONE
NATIONALITY: Ute
DOB: Feb 5, 1996
PRIORITY: ALPHA-OMEGA
EVENT HORIZON: IMMEDIATE

Notes: Last known point of contact: Robert and Charlotte Anderson, 629 Lake Street, Salt Lake City AZ, Ute Nation.
Magical Capability: Undetermined. NAN Citizen. Extensive network of personal contacts in Denver.
Relations of Note: Councilor William Huhuseca (Nephew)

As the strikes increase in severity, Cowboy just starts laughing like a novacokehead in the middle of a head rush. Carver stops chewing on the toothpick, just staring with the tiny piece of wood hanging on his lip. "Haha! Frakker's totally shut down! Guess he didn't pay his bills, boys!" The insane Cowboy drops the pool cue to the ground and reaches into his jacket, drawing a switchblade. "Let'see what he's got inside." He switches the handgrip and moves to make an incision on the elf's face.

- Warning: Impact predicted, sufficient force to breach synthetic facial tissue. <*scroll of data*> -

Mafen tilts his head and drops the beer in his left hand, fist darting out to grab the hand — switchblade and all — of the attacker. With eyes never seeming to actually focus on the attacker, he twists the wrist of the opponent. Three-hundred and sixty degrees. There's an utterly sickening sound of ruined bones and a drip of blood to the floor as Cowboy drops to his knees. Mafen still seems to be staring at something 'off screen'.

The cyborg elf turns in his seat, grabbing the Cowboy's collar in one hand, bunching tissue and cloth up as he lifts the miscreant off the ground. He releases the practically ruined hand as the cowboy near-weeps in agony. With a heavy shove, he throws the damaged man back toward the group of Cowboy-hat hooligans. He glances at the blood on his leather glove, kicks the ruined switchblade toward the man and picks up his briefcase, calmly paying for his drink and heading for the door.
Carver starts chewing on his toothpick again and shrugs. "Saw that one coming…"

+ Some OOC

"Look, I don't like it either. But when the Minister of Self Determination calls."

"No, the actual FUCKING MINISTER calls.. and says that this man is to be let through… well… fuck man. I got a family to feed. He could have a Thunderbird shoved up his ass but I still have a pension to worry about."

You pass through the Ute sector of Denver, and then in to the Ute Nation, without much problem, reasonably secure in the fact that you are not being followed.

Good enough for me. For now, at least. Will make a straight run to Denver, only stopping to top off the, erm, fuel cell.
DRIVING SCENE! DRIVE DRIVE MONTAGE DRIVE SIGNS BLOWING BY DRIVE FUELING SCENE DRIVE DRIVE DRIVE ROAD BUTT RUBBING SCENE DRIVE DRIVE MONTAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGE.

Desert sand in the air. Sunsets. Low camera shots with the bike soaring by.
That kinda montage!

And a stirring techno techno soundtrack that is a cross of 'Terminator 2' and 'Top Gun'.

The SLC-AZ is a semi-autonomous nation inside the Ute Nation. It issues its own SINs, maintains its own police force and other civil services.

You've just ridden through 900 miles of pure broke ass poverty. If you could cry a rusty tear for all the hungry indian children who took polaroids and told you they would be beaten if you did not buy it, you would. Not that you bought the pictures mind, because fuck, kids are lying little sons of bitches.

Why is the above paragraph important? BEcause the SLC-AZ… is -very- wealthy. It's very educated. It's an industrial and financial center on par with San Francisco or Chicago. Regionally speaking.

+ Border Inspection - Visual


Mafen stares at the backup guy. "Can I help you?" Friendly smile.

The nice man in the SLC-AZ police uniform with the Sgt's Stripes smiles genially. "Absolutely! I'm glad you asked. Would you mind stepping this way, Mr. Brixtius? We just need to answer a few questions."

Mafen nods, stepping off the bike and locking it. He pauses, "Do you need the bike with the alarm off?". If yes, he turns the alarm off and if no he doesn't. He follows along — his considerable bulk obvious, but acting as if nothing is wrong.

"Oh, your bikes just fine. GO ahead and leave its alarm off, I'll be sure it's taken care of." Says Sgt. Johnson. "Whats your business in the SLC-AZ?" he asks, pleasently enough. "Want something to drink?"

Mafen smiles genially at the man. "Oh, sure. What do you have?" He's dimly aware there's some culturally inappropriate beverages in the region, but can't remember if it's coffee, tea, or just alcohol. Or all of the above. "I'm a security consultant — You can check my degree from MIT&T on there. I hope to set up an office here — it seems to be a prosperous region. This is kind of ah… chance to scout out the location. Visit, see the sights, try the food." He shrugs. "Not setting up a business here yet obviously or I would have gotten some paperwork, but I guess I'm a kinda tourist-with-prospects." Maybe a little long-winded, but it's common for consultant types to be like this.

+ Cops arnt stupid

The officer smiles again. "Of course. Some sprites good. We don't much go for caffinated beverages, but otherwise, the skies the limit!" He says, leading Mafen down a hallway.

Your walking down a massive MAG scanner.

Mafen glances to the left and the right as he steps forward. "Ah, very nice. Nicely done." He moves forward, shrugging. Even if a few pieces of 'ware trigger, the more heavily buried stuff probably won't. And it's not against the law to have hulking cyberarms.

He moves through the scanner. Come on, mag-shield, don't be useless.

Actually, it can be. But thats another question entirely. "What?" Asks Johnson, then looks back with a grin. "Oh, you know how it is. We just like to be secure around here. The SLC-AZ thrives on stability, security and courtasy. We like to ensure our people are well protected. And that we have a handle on who's coming in with things that might be dangerous." A pause as the system scans, almost silently. "Sprite?"

Mafen smiles, hearing a faint tinge of noise through the cyberears as the powerful radiation and magnetic fields sift through his body. "Certainly, thank you."

+ QCSec System

The Cop smiles for a moment as the scan completes. "Now ain't that a doozie." He says with a grin. "See. I can -see- the cyberware on you. I know you're wired like a 45 Chevy Fireball. You can't fool the eye." A pause. "but this here machine says you have some headware… a little bit of ears and eyes… but that your body.. is just normal meat." HE shakes his head. "Ain't that a doozie?"

"What do you make of that, Mr. Brixtius?

A normal man would sweat walking through something like this carrying what Mafen is. But he doesn't. Hell, sweating is something he has to particularly trigger. He seems as calm as ever, full of his pre-programmed faces and expressions. As the Cop speaks, Mafen raises an eyebrow. "Bioware, Sargeant. And a hell of a lot of steroids. Which I kind of regret." He looks down a moment, sighing. "You never seen a modern bodybuilder competition? Or don't you trust your very fine scanning system here?" He shrugs. It's not outside of the realm of possibility… bone replacement… ossiogenemods…

Mafen rolls his eyes and rubs his temples. "Alright, Sgt. Johnson. You do that. I'll be in the waiting room." He turns and goes to sit to wait for the SIN check to go through. And cracks open his sprite. The Thirst Mutilator(tm).

Sgt. Johnson holds up a hand. "Wait just a moment son, Waiting room is this way."

+ More Sec Rolls 

Then the machine goes PING! Sgt. Johnson smiles then. "Oh… Thats problematic, Mr. Brixitus." He says. "But it's no real issue. Just come stand back in the middle of the room." A pause. "Technician, call Captain Raynor for authorization for Cybenetics Scan based on Probable Cause as determined by warning alarm on the Quad?"

Mafen raises his eyebrows. "I request another scan before that authorization goes through. It was probably a fluke." He shrugs, but stays stationary. For now, at least. "I do have cyberware, but it's a very advanced system. I'm not surprised your scanner is having trouble."

"Oh, lookitthatttt." Says Sargent Johnson, sipping his drink. "The story changes when the Machine goes PING!" He chuckles then. "The authorization won't take but a moment, then the Cyber Scanner will handle all the formalities. Don't worry, you've got nothing to hide, you big body builder you!"

"You already acknowledged you picked up some cyberware." He shrugs. "Story hasn't changed. I just think it's having difficulty with it."

Sgt. Johnson smiles then as the screen pings. "Well, Mr. Braxius… Last chance. Anything you want to say before we scan you?" He asks, finishing off the Sprite and setting the can to the side. "May go easier if you're forthright. The Judges like forthright people."

Mafen shrugs, thinking about his prospects. He sends out a text message, encrypted, to his contact in the MFID noting the difficulty that might hold him up, but their penetration is not likely to go very far here. "I've been extremely forthright for you. I don't appreciate all the hangups. And the name is Brixius." He sighs, and awaits the cyberscanner.

+ More Sec Rolls

THe Cyberscanner engages, four sensors inter linking in a network to create a full image of Mafen. The recent prevalence of beta and cyberware has forced the Police and security forces to adapt. Harder to detect ware requires more strenuous searches. The panel near Sgt. Johnson lights up, and he looks it over. He glances back to Mafen. "Well, Mr. Brixius. You've got some clear shielding.. which is more than enough reason to get a search warrant." he smiles then. "But we don't want to go through that hassle." A pause. "We're a good, god fearing, lovign community here. We just don't want you in it. So heres what I'm going to say." He says, hitting something on the screen. "I'm going to void this this scan. You're going to remove the weapons from your legs…" A pause as he looks back to Mafen. "And you're going to go back the way you came, and never… -ever-… come back to the Slack-Ass."

Mafen sighs deeply. "How about a trade? I keep the guns and leave, and the triple A company sending me here doesn't cause a bit of a hubbub by flipping a switch in my head when I'm not doing what they want me to do?" He holds out his hand, up, flexes the fingers. "Ever heard of psychotropic conditioning, Sargeant?"

"Well." Says the Sargent. "I'm just a country cop, not real convercent in your slick, AAA corp lingo." Now he's clearly being sarcastic. "But if your.. uh… friends… have an objection, they can file it with the President." A pause. "Now. I could also hit this switch here, which will alert our Special Tactics And Response Service. This here, this is the SLC-AZ and we don't kowtow to the so called Megacorps. We are an independent minded people, and we're a fair people. Keep these things in mind before you respond, because you know what?" A pause. "Either way this goes, I go home to spend the night with my family."

Mafen shrugs slowly, holding out his hand — unaggressively, and a long hand blade slips out of it. "Don't panic, Sargeant." He shrugs, and reaches down to slice through the leather & skin, opening a flap. "What do they got, you special teams? HVAR? Tear gas? I miss open combat, kind of. Legality isn't my thing." There's a loud click and a slide, and two Ares Redline's pop out of his legs. "You want to take them, or can I hand them to you?"

The Sargent raises an eyebrow. "Since we're being personable, why don't you take one out with your off hand, keep the palms off the hilts. Eject the clip, then set it to the side. Repeat with the other one. See, I dont' want a fire fight any more than you. They're a lot of damn paperwork."

"I'm ambidextrous, Sargeant." He shrugs, and grabs with his left hand, palm off, and ejects the clip, setting it on the table to the left of them. He repeats. "Those things can burn a ten centimeter hole in solid steel."

"I figured." He says with out much surprise. "A man like you has an answer to everything. I've seen your type." He says, waiting for the other gun to be done. "What I don't understand, is why you came in here. You could have caught a smuggler truck in, tried to run the border or just hiked over a goddamn mountain, son." He shrugs then. "I figure, frankly, you're a diversion for whatever slipped through the checkpoint while I was busy with you."

"You're wiser than you look, Sargeant." Of course, it's Mafen's fuckup; Some place with less than four scanners embedded in their hallways might have missed him, but apparently SLC is tired of fullborgs bringing down building. Mafen points toward the door, toward the non-SLC side exit. "Can I go now?"

Sgt. Johnson offers the man's SINstick back. "Yessir. Don't come back." A pause. "And if you do… dont' do anything that might piss us off. WE're good folk. But we have limits."

Mafen stares at the man a second. There are thirty four ways to mortally wound him in less than a second from where he currently stands. All these resonate in his sensorium as he nods slowly. "I believe it. Goodbye, Sargeant." He steps out of the rear entrance and grabs his bike, heading back into the poverty stricken wasteland. And making some phonecalls.

To be fair, the area around the SLC-AZ is affluent enough. It's just north of Provo, the national capitol, so it benefits from the trade and commute culture to the SLC-AZ.

Mafen zooms down the highway at highspeed. An encrypted comcall, to an anonymous dropbox drops off the very dissappointing status report. He makes that while still heading away. Alpha-Omega cannot go faster than is possible, but he has first hand experience that when something comes down of the highest priority they want it done YESTERDAY.

+ Contacting Contacts!

"You want to get in tot he SlackAss? Oh man. Yeah. I know a guy. His name is Ephram Zebbadiah Jones. He lives in the ruins of a place called Lakeside. It's on the lake's west shore, near the north end. Used to be a resort town, sort of an upscale bedroom community for Ogden, but the Awakening put an end to that. The anglos moved back to SLC and the town had no point for living. It's mostly abandoned now. Cept for Ephram."

«Plot» Mafen says, "I head there. Thanks for making that guy awesome. I need to raise him, he's a major resource."

Mafen's embarrassed. It's rare. He's blushing, somewhere in that pile of cyberware. It's hard for him to accept a loss. But it happens. He cruises across on his bike, turning the autonav off and manualling steering it a bit as he speeds across the edge of the salt lake.

DRIVING MONTAGE!! MONTAGE IT UP!

It's quite beautiful out here. Long, rolling plateaus and vistas. He hits off of I80 and onto the rural sections and roads and the ride gets rough and prettier. Well, off the interstate there won't be any big rigs. He has to head around Aragonite and through the east edge of the Bonneville Flats, which are well known. Actually Mafen has been hit by a mack truck before and did actually get nearly killed by it… But those thoughts are distant as he cruises down a now-gravel road, heading further and further from civilization. Which is just what he needs. Ephram. I hope this guy knows what he's doing.

"Maybe I should quit." Mafen thinks to himself. Regardless of the personafix, nano cutters implanted somewhere in his body — He's never checked where, as he's always curious if a detailed medical scan might set them off. He just knows they are there. No, quitting isn't really an option. Just finishing.

Lakeside is exactly as advertised: On the side of a lake. But, its so salty, nothing grows. Just brine shrimp, which are not very good when fried. Too small for the grill. The homes are all old mcmansions, 2 story behemoths, now with collapsing roofs, long ago looted of any valubles. However, there is one house in town that is immaculately cared for. Its lawn is watered, green. The fence is painted white, a swing set blows in the wind and no less than fourteen kids play in the yard. It's right out of Better Homes and Gardens, circa 1952.

Mafen pulls the bike to a halt; It's almost silent at low speeds, except for the crunch of the gravel shifting underneath the tires. He kicks the stand back and leaves it out front, as he scans the occupancy. Rooms emitting heat, noise on the windows, stuff no person should recognize stand out to him like a signal flare. He moves down the walkway toward the double doors on the front, opening the gate as the kids alternatively run up to meet him or run away. He waves to them, and comments that he is there to meet their father if they ask. He's not very good with kids.

The kids all sort of grind to a halt. They stare at the massive elf. Then, almost in unison… scary… scary… unison… they scream, and run inside.

Mafen shrugs, and heads forward. The worst this guy could pull out is a shotgun. Right? He kind of crosses his fingers. Mormon independence doesn't go up to railguns. Does it?

Deseret Arms Promontory Point Rail Gun! Both Ironic and deadly!

The borg moves up to the door. Knock knock knock. Ephram, be sane. Please be sane.

Ephram looks… Sane. He's got anglo features and is wearing a nice decent button up shirt, flannel, with stripes. "Well hello there traveler! ARe you alright? We don't get many visitors out here." A pause. "Martha! Put out an extra place setting! We have a visitor!"

Mafen smiles slowly. At least he's not freaking out at my size. "Howdy there. Yeah, I'm alright. Did you give a message about me? Or am I a surprise?"

The man smiles. "The good book says a surprise is just a gift that isn't wrapped! Come on inside, get out of the cold! Susan! Put on some hot chocolate for me and the guest!"

Mafen smiles. Hospitality is always welcome. He heads inside, hanging his greatcoat up on the hook in the foyer, and follows in toward the kitchen or dining room. He'd love a nice warm meal. Hell, he needs six of them a day, plus some paste before he sleeps. He listens carefully and gets a gist for the man and his environment.

The man, Ephram, eyes the holes in Mafen's pants. "Son, you need yourself some new pants. Looks like you got caught on something out there. No matter." He moves in to the closet, pulling out a pair of blue jeans. "These look about your size. "Edna! Get your sewing kit, we have an apparel emergency!"

Mafen nods, thanks the man. "Yeah, unfortunately. I got them cut at the border crossing into SLZ-AZ." He says it in numbers, vs, Slack-Ass. Locals often don't like you using the local terminology.

"Well." Says Ephram as he offers the pants over. "Step in there, get changed and washed up for dinner. We'll get your pants fixed up right. I'll have the boys bring your moh-tor-syke-all in to the garage."

Before long, he expects to be at a dinner table. Which will be nice. But yeah, he changes into the jeans. Mafen does as he's told, changing and handing over the motorcycle pants. Before long, he expects to be at a dinner table. Which will be nice. But yeah, he changes into the jeans.

Yep! Mafen will be brought in to the dinner table. The older children (age 16+) and the parents (A total of 20 people) sit at the main table, while the children sit at tables elsewhere in the house. 2 wives are constantly moving to serve. Maybe they trade off cookign details. "So, stranger!" Asks Ephram as conversation comes to a halt. "You need a bit of a lift in to Salt Lake, do ya?"

Mafen eats enough for two. Or three. He thanks the man, and nods. "Yessir. I learned the hard way how strict they are on crossing. I don't think we should be restricted like that heading in. I'm not aiming to cause problems for the area, just looking for one person in particular. And I can pay."

"Who you looking for?" Asks one of the older boys, Josiah as you heard him called.

"I don't think its so bad." Says Ephram. "I make a living off it, and if they didn't make it hard, well, every shadowrunner from Denver would be in SLC and it would upset the way of life we've worked so hard to get."

Mafen pauses for a second as Joriah says something, but doesn't answer immediately. "Good point, there. So what will it run me to get into town?"
Ephram glances down the table to Josiah, then over to Mafen. "Depends on your business and the risk it poses to me and mine."

Mafen shrugs. "I'm afraid a person has done wrong to my people, and has to be put down. If that's too much for you to risk…" He shrugs. "That's all, though. One person. Localized." He looks around a bit, hoping that that wasn't too much for the kids to hear.

The kids are not paying attention, and the older kids nod. "Well." Says Ephram. "You're going to need a local Guide. I'll send Josiah with you. He'll show you around and give you a hand with the operation."

Mafen raises his eyebrows. "Not to doubt you, sir, but are you sure he's… old enough for that?"

Josiah looks to be about 17. "I'm plenty old enough." He grouses.

"Well, yes. He's a good man. Ready to find himself his own posse. Ain't gonna do that here." eh says with a grin, looking to Sarah, his youngest wife. "This one mine."

Mafen nods slowly. "Much appreciated, Ephram. I appreciate your services and the extra consideration to get me a guide is even more appreciated." He smiles, and takes another bite of wife… 1? 2?'s cooking.

Mafen raises an eyebrow, and nods. He rolls his enormous shoulders and tilts his armored head from left to right. "I just solve problems, Ephram. The sixth world has problems you wouldn't believe." He nods slowly, and waits for a quote.

Ephram offers a nod to the big man. "Alright. Whatever problem you're being sent after, must be big. It got anything to do with them smugglers what broken in to the Depot and killed Major Mort?"

Mafen raises an eyebrow. "I get told go here and solve X problem. What happened there?"

Josiah chimes in now. "Just southa' here is the old Deseret Chemical Weapons depot. Old US stores of like, Mustard and VX and Tyrinite." He shrugs then. "Major Mort ran the whole base, working under at first, STC command, then a few years back, just Ute. HE's been there 20 years. Seems about 2 weeks ago, he got kidnapped and killed, just after Clara Whitebone went missing. The Ministry of Self Determination is making noises like Clara had somethign to do with it, but I saw that chopper land. I was up in the Quirra's, doing some prospecting with my little brother. Found some nice copper, but not much else. Anyway, the Ministry's trying to blame Clara and also, pretty much any anglo. Since that Ministry man got shot in SLC last week, things have gotten hairy."

"Language!" Hisses Jennifer, Wife #5.

"Mom! It's just Hairy!"

"Now Jennifer." Says the Patriarch, Ephram. "He's a man now, and he can speak like a man. It was, infact, Hairy."

Mafen nods slowly, chewing his food and finishing his meal. "You've raised a fine family here, Ephram." He comments, in regards to the people around and the hospitality. He listens to Ephram's tale, and smiles faintly. "I would thnk it definitely has something to do with that. Who is the Ministry Man you speak of? The 'Ministry man' who went hot in SLC?'

Ephram snorts in disgust, about the most negative thing he's said so far. "The Ministry. They used to be modeled after us, you know. A self-help and self-reliance organization for the Ute." He shrugs though. "But they went sort of sideways, forgetting that Self Relinance comes from within and no one can take it from you. They went in to blaming others for taking their power. Anyway… There was a shooting at Trolly Square. A Ministry man had a gun out and didn't identify himself to a PD man. The PD man drew and fired… Killed him. It caused quite a commotion."

Mafen listens carefully. "Interesting. Do you know where Clara Whitebone might be, nowadays? I know they don't have conclusive evidence with her, but I need to speak with her about the incident."

Ephram tilts his head. "Why? Clara didn't have nutten to do with that shooting."

Mafen shrugs. "My organization thinks she knows something about the attack on Mort. It's all about the money involved, you know." Mafen shrugs, like an employee in a massive machine. "We need to know why exactly it happened."

Ephram thinks that over, ripping open a hunk of fresh baked bread. "Well." Says he. "Thats a funny thing." He dunks the bread. "Old Clara… she saw which way the wind was blowing when Mort died, and went to ground. I don't think she's anywhere near SLC anymore. Ain't seen hide nor hair nor smell of her. She's an old NAN warrior you know. Knows the deserts like no one else. She used to live over in Tooele, near the Depot, if you wanna check down that way."

Josiah leans forward then… "I told ja, wern't no smugglers, lessen smugglers come in…" A pause as Ephram stares at Josiah until Josiah stops cold, and picks up his plate. "I'll… uh… be helpin Mother Julie in the kitchen."

"Thats a good man."

Mafen ignores Josiah — as seems to be proper, when he's offending the head of household. "I see. I guess I'll run by there before heading into SLC. It's important. A person's life is at stake, really."

"Well." Says Ephram. "Why? Who do you work for? I know it's impolite to ask such things, but Clara was a good woman."

Mafen takes a moment, leaning backwards in his chair, and rubs a gigantic hand across his artificial hair. "Japanese interests in the last deal, that she rubbed sour, to tell you the truth, Ephram. Can you help me out? I can make sure, if you do, no harm comes to her more than has to. They have the best intel network in the world though, Ephram, and I know… If I end up on your doorstep, there's probably something you did to bring me there." He shrugs again. Hopefully not about to experience the self-reliance of the Mormons first hand w/ railguns.

Ephram looks to Josiah, then back to Mafen. He chews over a hunk of gravy laden bread before swallowing. A sip of water is taken, as he debates his answer. "Chopper my boy saw. It was one of them AkiKaze that the Japanese use. Wasn't a smuggler, or an anglo that killed Mort." Says Ephram then. "It was your employers. So I think we got an issue. Are you a man, Mr. Bricks, who thinks and feels and makes his own decisions… or are you just a soldier, fighting someones war?"

Mafen raises his eyebrows. "I'm flexible, if that's what you mean, Mr. Ephram. But I'm also employed. I make my own decisions, for now at least: Tell me what you want me to weigh in that decision."

He shrugs then, thinking it over. "Hard to say, but if I take you in to Salt Lake… and then you run her down, you're gonna be running through, well, our little slice of paradise. If I brought you in to the city, thats on my and mine. If I take you in, I want your word, as a man, that no one gets hurt. You ask your questions, and you get out. No blood, no shooting, no violence on anyone who helped her. She's a good woman who's worked all her life to better her people, wither they wanted it or not."

Mafen stands at the table, shrugging. "I can't guarantee that, Ephram. You know that what happens depends on what she says. The world doesn't have time for too many mistakes and justice died a long time ago." The cybog killer shrugs. "Take me to where she is. I'll ask my questions and report back and we'll see what's needed. Nothing has to trace back to you. You'll be off better than you are now and'll be owed a favor from at least one megacorp. And if you need to know, I can get to the bottom of what it's all about." Mafen stares forward — his ridiculously expensive cybernetic eyes looking more or less natural versus Ephram.

When Mr. Bricks stands, so does every other man at the table, that being Ephram and his two eldest sons, Josiah and Marcus.

"I don't know where she is. If I did, I probably wouldn't tell you. A mans got to work for a living, and it seems wrong for me to take yours away from you by making it easy. I'll take you in to Salt Lake in the morning, on the early light. Sit back down, enjoy your meal, and smile at my daughters."

Mr. Bricks pauses a second, as if he is going to leave — It was never a violent gesture, he would never dream of acting out in violence against such a welcoming family, no matter how varied they are… — and then he sits back down. "I understand, Mr. Ephram. I apologize if I have slighted you in anyway. You… I hope you understand where I'm coming from. I look forward to our trip." He doesn't notice that the fee hasn't been discussed. All this… can't be cheap.

Mafen nods slowly. "Fine by me, Ephram. You want to make my job easier, I have no complaint, but if you want to not, no complaint either. As long as I get across the river." The elf decker (and a few other things) smiles and nods.

"It's a lake." He says with a grin. "A salt water lake. Don't drink it." Ephram smiles then. "I think Jennie had a bunch of pies baked up. Isn't that right Jennie?"

'Fine by me, Ephram. You want to make my job easier, I have no complaint, but if don't want to, no complaint either. As long as I get across the river.'

"From the kitchen. "Yes dear! I got apple, peach and strawberry rhubarb. I know you like peach, so I already got a slice whipped up for you. What does Mr. Bricks want?"

Mafen smiles, a memory from the distant past coming back to rush for him. "I would love a slice of strawberry rhubarb pie, Mrs. Ephram." He smiles and nods.

629 lake Street. Thats… 2 blocks from the trolly square where there was the shooting. The day after the chick went missing.

Ms. Jennie comes out of the Kitchen, with several slices of pie on her arms, waitress style. "Don't call me Ms. Ephram…" She says with a smile. "That would get confusing! I'm Jennie, or Momma Jennie if you must." Says the girl who's probably half Mafen's age.

"Alright, Jennie." He smiles — despite the earnestness, his facial expressions just don't seem very realistic; Odd caricatures or pre-programmed subroutines mimicking a smile. That's what you get for having four inches of ceramic-bonded non-reactive nano-titanium tungsten alloy in your skull. Mafen takes a slice of pie, and eats heartily.

Efram takes his pie, and slowly everyone gets served. For all its non-standard familiy arrangement, there is a system, a way of working, that is clearly evident. A way of being that feels comfortable for the people, but probably utterly alien to Mafen. "WEll." Says Ephram after a long minute. "We'll shove off in the morning. Oh-dark-thirty if I reckon. And I do reckon, cause its my boat. The girls will take care of the dishes." He gestures then to the kids. "The boys will get to studies… and we can retire out back with a beer and talk as men."

He then clarifies. "Out back cause Martha don't allow now devil juice in the house proper." He rolls his eyes, clearly amused; but a good man does what he must to ensure domestic bliss.

Family is tough when you're a sack of organs in a metal endoskeleton. But he's enjoyed this, even as weird as the multiple-partner arrangement is, it's not so much unlike some of the arrangements between long-lived elves. "Sounds good, Ephram. I thought alcohol was strictly forbidden around these parts, happy to hear I can get a beer." He smiles again.

Leading Mafen on to the back porch, an enclosed affair with screened windows that is outside enough to not be inside, but inside enough to not be freezing. A barbique grill is there, a wood fired stove, a bucket with beers in them, no need for ice in the Utah Winter. "Well. Lets not beat around the bush. I -am- a smuggler." He says after the doors closed. "I sort of deal in rules breaking."

Mafen nods, quickly scanning over the seating to make sure there's a bench or something that won't break under his weight before sitting down. "I understand. My contact says you are very good at what you do." He takes a beer when proferred, twisting the (non-twist off) cap off and taking a sip. A list of compounds scroll, half transparent, across his field of view as the chemical analyzer automatically kicks in.

He pauses, holding the bottle opener out for Mafen as the top comes off. With a shrug he turns to his own bottle, opening it. There are several chairs, barstools and other such things. It's an entertaining area, a man-cave if you will. Judging by the pinup on the wall, hung with her rack even with the gun rack that holds a selection of weapons, mostly all illegal, the girls and the boys never come in here. Out the window, down on the water, you can see two of the younger men approach the sailboat with a bucket of Boatwash.

"Thank you kindly for the compliment. I do a job. You belive in god?" He asks curiously, then clarifies. "Not gonna evangelize or convert you, just curious your position in the grand cosmic fubar that is the universe."

Mafen leans back against the wall of the house, the yellow incandescence casting a silhouette on the wooden boards, and the din of clinking dishes and running water audible somewhere within. "Not really, Ephram. Billions of people in the world and they can't even come to a consensus on it. Each just as convinced that what he's been taught is the particular unique truth of the world.

Mafen sips his beer. "I would think if any of them were right — and they all seem to think they are obviously so — most people would be with the right one. As it is, I see no real reinforcement for any position. I think it's more likely that no religion out of a million is correct than any single one. And just look at the world today. We're more segmented and violent than ever. It's like the end times in the prophecies got cancelled due to rain, and the world just kept rolling without supervision."

"Religion." Gesturing as such to indicate he thinks the word is hogwash. "We've invented some lousy things, Humanity. We've invented slavery, murder, child molestation, nuclear weapons. But the one thing we've invented that has killed the most, hurt the most, wounded the most…" he shakes his head. "Religion. I didn't ask if you were a religious man. I asked if you believed in -god-."

Mafen raises an eyebrow and looks up, tower the fenced-in ceiling. He shrugs. "I don't really know, Ephram. I don't feel a prescensce or anything. I don't think one would be needed for life to form. But I couldn't say for sure he doesn't." The cyborg shrugs. "Seems an awful odd thing to exist, though."

«Plot» Mafen says, "Mafen in his greatest challenge yet… Mafen vs Existential Ennui!"

Efram laughs loudly then. He laughs in such a way as to fill the room with its sound. Not an aggressive sound, but one of those deep belly laughs. "You're standing in front of me, loaded to the gills with all kinds of cyberware, so much that you can't even smile right, in a world where dragons, spirits and -elves- exist, and you find -god- to be an odd thing to think may be real? Now thats the pot and kettle right there." he says with a grin, then taking a sip of his beer. "SEriously though. People can believe in a dragon, or spirits, and magic, but they still have a hard time believing in a creator. People are weird."

Mafen chuckles, shrugging. "I've seen spirits, magic… dragons, on the trid at least. Never seen a God, though…" He shrugs. "Maybe I'm too skeptical for my own good." He fans out the fingers on his right hand as he takes another sip of beer. He could drink these things all night without getting a buzz, but he still enjoys the process.

The trip is often the worthier part. Ephram shrugs then, turning back to look down at the boat, where one of the boys sneaks up behind the other, slapping his brother with a boat rag upside the head. "I dunno. I see god right fragging there. But then… I got a family." He shrugs then, looking back to Mafen. "So you're here to track down Clara. That much is clear. You on a termination mission?" He asks bluntly.

Mafen watches the kids playing. He shrugs after a long pause. "That's all I do, Ephram. I'm not exactly built for much else." He sips his beer, glancing over toward Ephram. "I understand that's a bit of a conflict of interest with you. There are other ways it can end with her… but that's the most likely."

He seems to think that over for a moment. He sips his drink, looking at the kids, mentally figuring out if he can take Mafen. He decides that he probably cannot.

"She's not in SLC anymore, you know." He says at long last. "She was evacuated to Denver some time ago by runners working for her Nephew."

Mafen nods slowly, watching his eyes carefully. "Even if you could, killing me won't solve the proble. They got tons more like me, and most of them aren't… as nice as me." He shrugs. "Do you know who the runners were?" A direct question.

"No. I don't." he says, a direct answer. "And, no offense, I'm not interested in helping you kill her. She's spent 50 years doing right by everyone around her." He says with no rancor in his voice. "Want to know what I think, Mr. Bricks?"

Mafen shrugs. "Sure, but it doesn't change what my employers have sent me to do. " Another dead end. If she's gone to ground in Denver, could be a long time before any clue surfaces… Already, he's thinking about what he has to do.

"I think your going to find her." He says sipping his beer, but not while he talks, cause that would be messy. "I think you're supposed to find her. Everyones got a path, Mr. Bricks. A road they have to walk. You've spent a long time refuting your humanity. Divorcing yourself from everything thats human. It's clear in everything you do, the way you move and the way you breath. Did you know you breath exactly 17 times a minute?" He grins then.

"The point is, Mr. Bricks… The great spirit, Wakan Tanka, god, jesus, the flying spaghetti monster… whatever you want to call the karmic force that motivates and ambulates the universe.. is giving you a final chance. A choice. Choices are what make us human. Choices are random. Computers… they make selections. Each seemingly complex decision they make is really just a billion smaller yes/no selections. No choice ever entered in to the situation. Can you still make choices, Mr. bricks?"

Mafen watches the man carefully. "I can choose as much as you can. Even if our brain is just a pile of atoms bouncing around in patterns, we are still intentional agents that make choices within our own systems. My choices are to kill Clara, or to be killed — or at least at war — with the people who put me together. I would need a really good reason to do that."

Nodding his head understandingly, Efram smiles then, reaching for another beer. "So." He asks then, offering another to Mafen. "Whats a good reason? You don't seem like you'd be motivated by her love of small furry creatures or by anything like that. So what is a good reason to Mr. Bricks?"

Mafen grabs another beer, too. "I don't know, Ephram. Maybe if I could prove that the person who sent the order was acting against Shiawase interests in doing so. Or if this particular woman is more important than my life, somehow."

Efram nods as the beer is taken. "Shiawase." He blinks at that. "So you're not working for the Ute." He says with one of those 'huh' expressions. "So… if the… Japanese Imperial Marines land at Tooele, She sees em, the Ute Nation covers up the killing of Mort.. and then… Shiawase sends… you… to kill her to keep her from spreading what she knows.." He tries to work it through. "That means that Shiawase is backing Saito, which is a smart enough play, if they didnt' know what Saito had planned with what he stole…"

amish654.jpg

Mafen sits and listens to his analysis. It seems reasonable. "Do you know what he's planning?"

He exhales, looking back to the boat. "No. But I know someone who does." He says quietly. "She's an old woman. She can't run forever. And by now, it's probable that what she knows is beyond her lips anyway. You want to protect your corporation?" He asks, looking at Mafen with an earnest eye. "Then you need to… forgive the pun… go off the reservation."

Mafen closes his eyes for a second, thinking. "What exactly do you have in mind?" He has to scrutinize this situation. If any old dude off the street could circumvent Mafen's orders and change his targets, there would be… major problems. He opens his eyes and looks at Ephram carefully.

Ephram Zebbadiah Jones. He looks like any other grizzeled old man who's spent a lifetime on the water, working with his hands and smuggling illegal hootch in to the SLC. He leans back, setting his beer to the side. "You need to find Samuel Anders. He's the son of John Anders, who was the man who ran the town of Blanding. You ever hear of blanding?"

Mafen's eyes widen slightly. "Yes… It was the town that was destroyed in that freak eruption of Abajo Peak." He raises his eyebrows. And here he is chasing down one of the Great Ghost Dancers… He listens to Ephram carefully.

He mmmhmmms quietly, in that way that old men with large beards and a fist full of beer do. He reaches one hand up, tugging at the bottom of the beard. "I can tell you where to find him. But you… need to give me your word as a -man-… that nothing you learn about where he is, or who's sheltering him, gets back to the Japanese or the Ute. That means Shiawase as well, cause lord knows two can keep a secret if three are dead."

Mafen nods at Ephram. "I rarely report back details or intelligence during my missions. It reduces liability — they have other agents for recon. I can assure you I will not share any detail as far as I am able. You have my word."

"Samuel Anders… well. He's hurt bad. He's in care of some friends down in Austin." A pause. "Austin Nevada. You're gonna need to hurry though." He shakes his head. "Doc's doing all they can for him, but what the gas didn't do, the flames nearly did."

"Do I need to charter a flight or could I get there fast enough on my bike?" Mafen questions, finishing up his beer and setting down the empty in the recycling or container or whatever passes for a disposal can in this room.

"Austin Airport will do you fine… but I'll arrange it. You need to be off-grid to do this, Mr. Bricks. None of your usual support can be allowed. I think you've got the capacity to make choices still… and I owe Clara too much to not try and get you to make the choice I think is right."

Mafen shrugs again. "If you are right, then it's the right choice overall, sentiment aside. I appreciate the flight arrangement. How much will it run me?" How much do you tip in these scenarios, anyway? Seems a prudent gesture…

"Consider it an investment in karma." he says, standing up then, grunting as he does so. "Knees. They ain't my friends anymore." he says shaking his head. "Jennie!"

Jennie, like a fucking NINJA just warps out of the door way. "Yes, Dear?"

"Fly Mr. Bricks to Austin."

She blinks once. Then twice. "Alright." She says queitly. "If you think thats best."

"I do."

She wipes her hands on her apron now… "When do you want us to leave?"

"Now. Doc Rivera says Sammys not gonna get much more mileage out of his chassy."

Mafen stands, brushing off his coat. "Thank you, Ephram, for inviting me in and the food and everything." He nods. "One last favor; I got some concealed weapons confiscated in a botched legal border crossing." He shrugs. "It was fishy; Something was going on. If you hear anything about them hitting the black market in the area, I'd like to get them back. Just if you happen to hear anything, don't go out of your way." He looks over at Jennie, waiting to be shown the way to the plane.

"Oh." Says Efram. "Sargent Johnson won't be selling them on the black market." He says with a chuckle. "I'm sure you'll see them back when your road brings you back to them."

Mafen nods slowly, and shrugs. "Thanks again, Ephram."

Jennie grabs her coat. "Right this way, Mr. Bricks. The plane's not far. It's just a little 2 engine Cessna, but it's perfect for canyon flying. Low and slow, big tanks and a comfortable enough pilots seat." She smiles and holds up a pair of keys. "I'll even let you drive me to the strip."

Ephram nods to Mafen, smiling then. "Enjoy your trip. She'll bring you back when you're done."

Mafen takes the keys and smiles, grabbing the keys and heading back out through the house for the vehicle. "How long have you been flying?" Not questioning her competency, of course, just a curiousity; She's rather young, at least by Mafen's standards.

Jennie grabs her coat on the way out. "About 10 years now. My father is a Scrub Pilot over in Carson City." She leads Mafen to the garage, where a black SUV is parked with snow tires and forward deer-catchers.

Mafen climbs into the car, clicking the garage door opener and starting it up. He accesses his orientation system and internal gps, and plots a route to the airport. He makes sure he unlocks the other door, but doesn't do the whole walking around to open the door thing. "Is there any special consideration for the trip to the airport beyond the typical shortest route GPS information would suggest?" A kind of convuluted way of asking if she knows a shorter way or of any hazards in the road.

She glances at Mafen, raising an eyebrow. "Yes… actually. We need to skirt the radar positions of the Ute. This flight is going to be NOE the entire way. And trust me, the earth gets VERY napppy at points. Oh… and… how much do you weigh?"

The heavy drag on the left side of the vehicle is somewhat telling on that. "Ah… a little over six hundred pounds. Is that a problem?" Mafen's such a fatass.

She eyes Mafen for a moment, then shakes her head. "No. I'll just adjust the fuel load to compensate." She says, while giving orders as to how to get to the air strip. "Ever fly on a prop job?"

Mafen nods. "Many times. I am also trained in operating a parachute, but I haven't done it since the last armor upgrade." After he starts of the vehicle and wheels it out of the garage, he heads down the road at a fast pace, still driving extremely safely though — Ephram probably doesn't want him risking Jennie's life, and it wouldn't be prudent to risk her life when his life is going to be up for grabs to her safe flying.

the Airstrip is sort of suddenly there. After a turn, a twist, a slight elevation, and then a small garage and a strip of seemingly abandoned road. "Pull in there. The O-A2 is in there. She's old, but she does the job. Sort of like Martha."

02bskymasterdisie8.jpg

Mafen parks the SUV close to the building, steps out with a heavy lurch of stressed shocks, and he scans the periphery carefully. He waits for Jennie to proceed, just incase the entrance is trapped for security. Or just alarmed, even.

She reaches her hand inside a hole in the building, pusing aside a bit of cloth to do so. Whatever she does while inside with the hand, does the job as there's a click from the door. "Roll the garage door up." She instructs as she pulls her hand back out of the hole. "We'll be in the air in side 5 minutes. Just need to add some extra fuel.."

Mafen heads to the front, hefting the huge door up and revealing the hangar. He helps Jennie out if she requests it or if he can without getting in her way.
The plane is exactly as stated: Ancient. The central fusillage and twin boom design is older than Mafen, by twice again. But it's a solid design, and low and slow enough to get around most sensor nets out there today. There's something to be said for flying under the sensor setting thresholds.

Mafen nods slowly, understanding. There are some metabirds this size, after all… He climbs in once the plane is ready, and looks forward to the hopefully uneventful trip. "Thank you and your family again for this. I owe you all."

"Efram has more faith in you than I do." She admits as she disconnects the block-warmers that keep the plane ready to fly at a moments notice. She climbs in to the cockpit then. "Then again, thats why we make a good team. He's the idealist, the true beliver. I'm just the cynical new girl."

Mafen nods. "I see. He seems to be of a good sort. I kind of by default sort everyone I meet into a list of who I think is most likely to stab me in the back. Figuratively, of course." An average knife would just go *tink*. "Ephram seems like the kind of guy who if he was going to go after me, would do so directly."

She eyes Mafen for a moment. "He'll shoot your house, run over your wife and burn down your dog, but you'll deserve every moment of it. He's not a man given to anger, but when it comes, it's the tide and you better just get to higher ground." She says as she taxies the plane out on to the road. "He's a good man. When he needs someone stabbed in the back… no. Thats why he has me."

"And no. I'm not going to stab a 600 pound man."

Mafen raises an eyebrow and nods. "Well, here's hoping you never have to." He watches the plane gain speed on the short roadway. Seems a little short — is she going to get off the ground in time?

With 10 feet to spare, the plane lifts off, the front tire snagging a bit of winter scrub. The plane doesn't rise higher than 50 feet at any time as she navigates by landmark and compass bearing. "Problem with flying NOE is it's so goddamn exhausting. CAn't ever really take your eye off the horizon."

Mafen nods quietly, watching the woman at work. He quietly removes a 25,000 =Y= certified from his briefcase, setting it in a stowage pocket on the seat.

The woman gets her bearings and settles in to her rythm. She's clearly flown this route before. "So. I wanna ask you." She glances over at him, raising a blond eyebrow. "Why?"

Mafen shrugs. "There is no why. I didn't intend to get into the business and by the time I was informed I had a cortex bomb." He raises a hand if she tenses, and shakes. "It's gone now. Something with less collateral in there, I think. Not that I'm allowed to take a look really." He shrugs. "Things just went from there. Dangerous mission after dangerous mission, I kept coming back with more things that needed to be replaced. Eventually they offered a… full package, giving me a lot of lost capability back and some improvements they hadn't even tried out yet. High cost." He shrugs again, watching the canyon walls slip by. "It's weird, but it kind of creeps up on you."

She shrugs. "Ephram likes to talk about the silence of good men alot. He says its a lot like that. You hold your tongue once, and it becomes easier the next time, until you've held your tongue so much, theres no one left to hear you when you decide to speak."

Mafen shrugs, glancing out of the window. "I'm not a good man." He stays quiet a while after that. "I like to think overall I reduce suffering rather than increase it, though. Efficiency. I don't hurt anybody but who I am after. Generally, they are very bad people. When they aren't, well, they did something to get me after them. Some people like to say there's no price you can put on life, but that's just not true. We pay the cost everyday, with nearly every appliance and service we use. I just put right the deviations in it." He shrugs. "But I don't spend a lot of time thinking about the justification."

"You know why you try to put so little thought in to the justification?" She asks almost rhetorically before she wings the plane now to the south west, flying about 5 feet above the glittering salt flats, perfectly smooth to within a few millimeters of the earths surface. "It's because you -are- a good man, and you know to think about the justifications would bother you. I've met bad men. They think about the justifications, but they just don't care."

Mafen listens to the young woman silently, motionlessly. "Maybe. We'll see, I guess." He watches the yawn and whirl of the landscape as they manuever around the nape of the earth.

"Guessings for suckers." She says with a grin. "ANyway. I'll let you rest and get some sleep. IT's a five hour flight and there's no inflight movie."

Mafen nods slowly, but doesn't sleep. It's a long flight but he just sits and thinks, and watches the rolling scenery. After a long while, he asks, "Are your eyes organic?"

"No." She answers honestly.

Mafen nods slowly. "Regardless, you are one hell of a pilot. There are people who couldn't manage this close in a helicopter with twice your age in the cockpit."

"Well." She says with a chuckle. "It's just flying. I'm no Savant. Just long hours of practice from an early age. Some kids can dance. Soem kids can play the piano. I learned how to unstuck a piston in a Pratt and Whitney Radial."

Mafen nods again, slowly. Silent again for a long while. He checks his dead reckoning system and tries to place roughly where they are, then compares it versus the GPS. (GPS reception is a passive signal reception, so nothing has to be sent.) Just making sure the DRS is still working right…

All systems are online and functioning properly.

Mafen watches the flight continue. He glances over at the woman, ultrasound fuzzing for a second, range finder scanning as he takes basic facial characteristics and records them:

Ectocanthus Breadth: 0.62 cm
Glabella Infraorbital Length: 0.193 cm
Glabella Pronasale Length: 0.298 cm…

The calculations scroll down through the nasal root to the minimum frontal breadth to the subnasale sellion length. In a half second he has an excellent fingerprint for recognizing her in the future. He files that away, along with a sample of her voice pattern he records.

After a long moment of flying, she speaks up. Somewhere over Nevada, judging by the Topography, and directly over Ruby Lake judging by your GPS.
"YOu're weird."

Mafen raises his eyebrows, eyes tracing down his legs to his gigantic leather boots. "I suppose I am a little strange. Sorry. Why did you say that?"

"By now." She says, bringing the plane to a new heading. "Most men have asked my why I'm with creepy old Ephram, why don't I run away with them and fly planes for them all over the country or be a Shadowrunner or all kinds of things."

Mafen tilts his neck. "The thought hadn't occured to me. I didn't even think Ephram was… 'creepy', though I'm not exactly an expert on what's creepy or not." The cyborg examines the glass in the cockpit, attempting to determine the refraction index, relative purity. Just stuff to pass the time, and give him a little better idea about the craft's structural limits. "Do you want to talk about that or something? Why are you settled down so relatively young? I mean, other than being a shadowrunner or flying strange men across the country, you could make some good nuyen just flying small planes legitimately, food and supplies for remote areas, etc."

"Well, its not that I want to, I just… usually get asked about it." She admits, now self-conscious. Not that Mafen would understand that. "I do something more important than money. I help maintain a dream in a troubled time, Mr. Bricks. A tenuous dream."

Mafen listens quietly a second. He comments, "As far as I am aware people still reproduce fairly regularly. Are you talking about a degradation in family values? Or something more abstract like general 'independence' from outside influence?"

She chuckles then, threading the needle between two steep canyon walls. "I'm not a religious woman. Nor am I overly fond of reproduction, save for the practice leading to it. But I am fond of a homeland for my people. For 200 years of repression, harrassment and abuse, the Mormons have stoicly born it. The SLC-AZ is as close to a homeland as we've had since the US government forced us from power in the 1800s, after it forced us from our homes in the midwest. It may seem silly, but I like that my effort makes a better life for others."
great suffering in others. But it might be unavoidable."

Mafen nods slowly. "It likely does. The SLZ-AZ region seems to have a rather high standard of living. However, the insular nature of the group sometimes draws critiscism for the selection of who and who they won't support. The draw of a tribe, an affiliation or small group of loyal, emotionally devoted people along the same line of values as you has been a powerful motivating force throughout history, but also one that causes the gadjustments in rationality necessary to violate human rights against another similarly insular group. Some people believe… Dunbar, some other sociologists, that it's that very same motivator that essentially underlies most major conflicts over power and resources." Mafen's voice is fairly monotone but pleasant to listen to. Almost like a non-fiction audiobook or something. "In short, working to promote the well-being of a few may lead to great suffering in others. But it might be unavoidable."

"Yeah, that and a buck fifty will buy you a cup of soycaff." She says with a chuckle. "I'm not horribly offended if someone else is poorer so my people can be more wealthy. I avoid slavery and direct harm, but I see no harm, nor will I see harm, in bettering my people an it harms none with my hand."
Mafen nods slowly. "I don't see any harm in it either. It's just part of the order of things."

In short order, the plane slides in to a broad desert valley. It looks like water hasn't flowed here in eons, everything monotone and flat. "Hold on to your ass." She says, reaching out and yanking back the flaps while throttling down the engine. The plane lurches in the air, suddenly gaining lift before the decelleration brings her back down… and then a WHUMP as the wheels touch down on what is otherwise pristine desert hardpack.

Mafen is bounced around pretty heavily in the rough landing. NAE flying isn't known for its super smooth landings. He waits for the plane to come to a stop silently.

It does so after a few moments, the girl killing the engines and letting the plane coast the last 200 or so feet without any power. SHe's brought you down at a remote ranch house that looks to be abandoned. No vehicles to be seen, the barn is leaning half over, about to collapse…

+ Noticing things

The Barn looks neat. The way the supports are set, it won't fall over, but it sure -looks- like it will. Carefully painted and dirties to look natural, even though its a recent construction.

Mafen is jostled around as the plane comes to a halt. "How do I get to Anders?", he questions, as soon as the parking is done.

"Anders is not where your going." She says as she slides the plane in to the old leaning barn… "I'm not giving you any names. My husband may trust you, but I've seen your type before. I'll take you there myself."

Mafen raises an eyebrow and shrugs. He clicks the canopy door on the plane open and hops out, suspension listing slightly as he scans for the vehicle they'll be taking out.

She moves over to chock the wheels, looking around the ramshackle seeming barn. She moves over to a horse stall, one hand reaching up to touch a spot on the wall atop her. There is a buzzing sound as an electro servo kicks in. The floor of the stall splits up, revealing an old style Civil Defence Elevator.
"Fascinating." He moves over toward the old elevator, taking a look. If she gets on it, so will he.

"Not really. Nevada's riddled with this sort of old thing. A lot of it was lost in the Crash, but the Brotherhood had extensive hardcopy files in our repositories." She does get on the elevator.

Stepping on the old elevator, he nods slowly and looks around, as if checking out the structure. Seems… relatively well-maintained. Hrm.

The desert is harsh and dry, and with moderate maintainance or even occasional refurbishment, this could last for centuries. "Going down." She says, hitting the big green pushbutton. No fancy electronics here!

Mafen's buckled up and ready for the ride! Well, not literally. But he rides the elevator down.

It goes down about 60 feet, the shaft lined with sheet metal and heavy bolts sunk in to the rock. After a moment, the elevator ride is over and she opens the cage. Inside is a room about 20 feet long. There is an older man there, clean shaven but weather-worn. "Ephram said yall was comen, didn't think yall 'd make it here so fast. Good thing too, Jacob ain't long for this coil."

Mafen motions for Jennie to proceed. Ladies first, after all. He follows along, curious to hear what it is he needs to hear.

And in you proceed to a Civil Defense bunker, circa 1960. It's been lovingly restored, with the nice neutral green paint. The lighting and air conditioning have obviously been replaced, with low-power LED's and cool, dry air in the building. They lead you through the complex, probably able to support 200 odd people for an unknown amount of time. The infirmery is marked with a big red +.

Mafen follows Jennie to the infirmary. He's careful observe the location, and keeps a record of the exit in his dead reckoning system, ultrasound keeping an idea of the dimensions as he goes.

The man leads Mafen in to the infirmary. It's probably 20 years out of date, as to its equipment… but its still quite capable. Theres an oxygen tent set up in one corner of the room. Another man, an older indian man, is sitting next to the tent, reading quietly to him from a book.

"Be breif. Ask him what you need to.. then get out."

Mafen watches a moment, nodding slowly. He heads into the oxygen tent, looking inside — sniffing at the air a moment before heading in just to confirm there's nothing toxic in it, gas spectrometer scrolling data.

Higher than normal rates of Oxygen, likely leakage from the tent. It's a burn unit tent, clearly. Inside is a young humanoid, but what metatype and what gender are impossible to say. The old Indian man watches Mafen carefully as he approaches. Eyes open in the form in the tent, turning to Mafen. "The hollow man." Says the form, its voice a ragged whisper.

Mafen watches a moment. What medical knowledge he has, he accesses and is pretty surprised the genderless body is holding on at all. A full clone, at maturity… Maybe two or three and you could scrap something together out of all this. They didn't seem to have one nearby. "I'm… sorry to disturb you. I need to know what Saito took, and why. Clara Whitebone's life is at stake."

The creature in the tent leans back, eyes closing for a moment. The monitors report a steady, if somewhat weak pulse. It's quiet for a long moment, then speaks again. "Death. To kill. Words… exhaust. Unc.. uncle…"

he old man stands up then, impressive in his demenour if not his stature. "I am here Jacob. Rest easy. I will show him what you have seen. Rest yourself. Soon, you will be with your father."

The old man turns golden eyes on Mafen. He's dressed in a pair of bluejeans with a sort of Navajo poncho on, a hat that obscures his features but the eyes… still stand out. "ARe you ready to see, hollow man?"

Mafen tilts his head. "Some sort of simsense recording?"

The old man shakes his head. "Hollow man has hollow eyes, thinks with a hollow brain. No." He says moving to put his hand in to the oxygen tent. "Give me your hand. Open your soul."

Mafen eyes the door a moment… Hopefully if anything goes wrong, he'll… wake up, or whatever. He grasps the old man's hand.

Taking the mans hand, there is a sound of a Coyote, mournfully singing its ballad in the distance. The touch is like electricity arcing through you. You can't let go. It courses along your skin, skin that is real once again. The wind presses gently, blowing hair that is real again. Eyes that are made of meat see again… and you stand on a mountain, looking down over a valley in the desert. "Welcome to Abejo Peak, Hollow Man." Says the ancient indian. "It was a peaceful enough place, sheltered under Deeprock."

The elf cyborg shudders slightly under the sudden brutal return of the sensation of real skin, the sight through real eyes. He feels suddenly very… fragile. "Abejo Peak… before the recent eruption." He eyes the ground, and listens to the old man.

THe old man looks down on the valley, with its wisps of smoke rising in the darkness. "We, the native, have done what the anglo did. We, the native, have become what we fought so long to overcome. This place here, was a reservation. Poor, but hardy. Family run. The Ute Nation did everything it could to break its spirt,, but failed. In the protection of Deeprock, they thrived."

Mafen watches carefully, looking out over the reservation. "Why did they want to destroy you?"

"Me? They did not wish to destroy me." he says with a chuckle. "They wanted to destroy the white man, to hit him as they felt they had been hit. The children today, they are fed hate. We were fed freedom. They are different meals. Deeprock knew that. Deeprock sheltered them.":'.

Mafen nods again, slowly. "What happened next? Why was it destroyed?" He hopes he doesn't sound too anxious.

In the distance, four blinking lights sweep in low over the horizon. They are flying nearly NOE, massive Aki-Kaze combat transports. Sort of like Chinooks only much more agressive, heavier armed and capable of carrying a full platoon each. They are currently only in use by the Japanese Imperial Marines.

"They came from across the sea. It is always the way with destroyers…"

Perspective warps, shifting now. You stand on the roof of the second story of a large town home near the center of the town of Blanding. The Sheriffs station is across the road, a diner next to it. A small town, like any in middle America. One of the helicopters swings in to place over the station, side doors opening and Marines making combat drops to the ground. The sheriff stumbles out of the station, one hand pulling on his hat to hold it steady, the other reaching for his revolver.

The Sheriff never makes clear of the holster before he's cut down by three rounds from a Japanese Assault Rifle.

Radio calls indicate that Team Two has secured the settlement of Indian Village, while Team Three reports the roads have been closed by the Ute nation. Team Four is collecting trucks and other vehicles, moving to secure outlaying ranch houses to bring the people in to the main town.

"They always come from the sea, the vast unknowable. They strike without warning. Deeprock could not protect them from this. It was not his way. It was too fast. Deeprock is slow. So slow."

Mafen watches carefully, still feeling uncomfortable and fragile in his 'real' body. Seeing an assault rifle fire makes him shudder slightly — rounds tearing through delicate flesh that he can suddenly empathize with again. "Deeprock… is a spirit? A spirit in the mountain?"
The elf watches the military teams proceed through the streets. Rounding up the people? What for?…

The old man turns his eyes to Abajo Peak. "He slumbered for so long." He seems to be referring to the mountain itself. "A kind being, he sheltered many in his shadow through the ages."

Mafen raises his eyebrows, lifting his chin up and looking over at the mountain. He has a hard time with the abstraction stuff sometimes. He nods slowly, though, listening.

The soldiers below move through the town, rounding people up. Town leaders, business owners, heads of households, gun owners. A few resist, and are quickly shot to death, bludgened or their families threatened. There is no mercy in this exceedingly quick and violent invasion. 75 soldiers take part, rousing the town in to a few select buildings. The City Auditorium, the school gym, the super market. When all is said and done, the sun rises on a city that has been brutally subjugated.

The choppers keep flying all night, shuttling in supplies to a landing zone to the east.

Mafen watches this all take place. "Why were they here? What possible interest does the Imperial Army have in Blanding?"

"Impatient one." He says with a sad smile. "All stories must be told, and the winds only come once. A breeze starts on your skin, moves through your hair and is gone. It must start, and it must end."

The position shifts again, and you stand inside the Gym. The sun has come up, light streaming in through the skylights. A group of soldiers watch over the people who sleep on cots, family groups gathered together. A man enters, dressed in a black trench coat, his uniform a Class-A Imperial Marine uniform, but black with grey piping and the emblem of the Internment division on the shoulder patches.

"The death bringer." Murmurs the old man.

A quick series of japanese commands are given, and a group of teenagers are gathered together. About fifty of them. Male and female, ages 14 to early twenties. They are lead out at gun point. The officer raises his voice in english: "They are being relocated to Indian Springs, then released. THe outbreak is being contained, and we will see you home. Do not worry."

+ OOC discussions

They don't LOOK sick… Just worried and tired.
+ Recognizing the Man in Black

Noburo Tanaka. Colonel. Formerly a Captain in the Japanese Marines. Promoted to Colonel by now General Saito, and head of the Internment Division of the JPC. He's the one who handles internal security and the internment camps.
Mafen watches the scene unfold, already chided for his impatience twice. It's a puzzle. They don't appear to be infected, but who knows what they might have been accidentally exposed too? Everything from astral bacteria to gamma-anthrax could have been accidentally dusted across the small town. It's a bit terrifying to think of all the small populations that have been up and moved. Or the large ones. He recognizes Tanaka… why would these people be interred?

So far from California, so far from anything Japanese. The Town of Abejo peak is nearer to the New Mexico border than the Californian. The entire other side of the Ute Nation. Yet… here they are.

Perspective shifts again.

You're riding in the back of the truck now, dressed in the clothing of one of the locals. Jeans and a warm jacket against the winter cold, a hat that threatens to blow off. Looking out the back of the truck, you see another truck behind with a group of soldiers, a truck head, with more peopel in your age group. You're being driven somewhere in mass. A specific group.

You round the bend and see the old Anders Quarry, the source of industry for the rez before it was sabotaged by locals from Montecello, jealous natives. The Ute Nation then forbade the importing of repair parts, citing some environmental law they wrote. It was frustrating, as it all but killed the rez.

Driven down in to the bottom of the Quarry, the high walls of the carved stone cliffs loom overhead. A pre-fabricated building has been helo'd in to place, with 'Medical Command' listed in Japanese and English on the side of it. The people are being herded in to the large structure.

Mafen feels the bumps on the road as the truck zooms toward 'Medical Command'. The realism is amazing; Better Than Better Than Life chips. BTBTL. He watches carefully, feeling something oddly familiar about this scene. He starts to wonder how the old man got this vision out of the head of these youngsters. What is about to happen?

The medical foyer area contains pegs along the wall. An anglo man stands in a doctors outfit, gesturing to them. "Please disrobe for the decontamination showers. Don't worry about your clothing and goods, they will be watched. You'll be back in just a minute. We just need to decontaminate before we can let the other doctors examine you. It's just proceedure." He seems calm, reassured. A smile is on his lips as he addresses the crowed.

Around you, people start to do as the doctor said.

The old man is not currently present, as you seem to have shifted in to a first-person sort of view… no longer outside looking in.

Mafen has an overwhelming compulsion to comply — almost like it's not his decision. Mafen proceeds, a little sheepish at first, but, well, they did bring an awful lot of guns. Decontamination before examination. Why? What happened?

When everyone has disrobed, the doors in to the interior of the building are opened. They hiss with a negative pressure, a casual hint to what awaits, a hint no one here has the ability to appreciate. The crowd files in, observing the clear transpara-plast roof that lets 'doctors' above observe down. There's a little pushing and shoving near the back as the doors are closed behind you.

Mafen looks upwards, glancing at the 'doctors' above. This certainly doesn't seem like… decontamination. He looks around for nozzles, UV lights or anything you might see in one of these chambers.

Nope. None of that. Thats when the air conditioning kicks on. Nobura takes a position along the outside wall, looking down in. You can see him start a stopwatch.

Thats when the pain starts. A spasm that wracks the muscles. It starts in the fingertips, but rapidly spreads across the body. Soon, people are screaming, but that doesn't last long as people lose control of the diaphragm. Faces turn red, skin blisters.. and then you crumple to the ground. The pain is excruciating, the sort thing that is utterly inescapable. You can't move, cant scream, can't claw your way free. Muscles gnarl in to knots of pain, every single system cramping in unison.

It's terrible. And as asphixiation starts to kick in, it just gets worse. Mafen can't think clearly enough to deduce that it's a nerve toxin, but he will later. If he survives. He tries with all his will to slam a fist into the wall or anything, but no muscle responds. Why… why.

An indeterminable amount of time later, consciousness, but not movement, returns. Soldiers in chem-garb drag you out in to the light. Everything is painful, paralysis is complete. Breathing is so slow, its almost imperceptible. You're smart enough to realize if they know you are alive… you will be killed. The only chance to live, is to be dead.

"Four and a half minutes. Complete termination."

"Very good. Lower the ratio for th next batch. We need to find the most efficient mixture for full termination, without over-saturation."

"Hai, Colonel. It will be done. What shall we do with these bodies?"

"Take them to the burn pit. Wait until night, then use the incidiaries." He pauses, lookign over the body truck… "Was the camp placed as per Junjiro's instructions?"

"Yes. The man inspected it himself.. he confirmed it was as he required before the first group went in."

"Very good."

Mafen — or whatever body it is he is in — plays dead. It's not a very hard role, given how he's feeling at the moment. He tries not to move, blisters on his skin and face oozing and aching. How did he survive, anyway? So many questions. Why were they testing this toxin… where did they get it… where are they planning to use it…

Think. Think. Think. It's all you really can do, as you and your friends, the children you spent your life playing with, growing up with, raising hell with, are shoveled in to a stone and earth pit some 10 feet deep. You land near the side of the pit, your back pressed to the cold ground, the bodies around you; twisted rictus grins of agonizing death.

Think.

The boy at Ephrams said Japanese helicopters landed at Tooele.

Whitebone was from Tooele.

The commander of the Deseret Chemical Weapons Depot was killed.

And now these same helicopters are here. In an Anglo Reservation in the Ute Nation.

+ Diliberation

The bodies pile up over Mafen. He waits for the sound and thudding drops to go away — already feeling nearly crushed by the weight. He has to time it right — He can't leave before they are not attending the pile, but if he waits too long, fire. Fire. And then he realizes — He's in Jacob's body. His name is Jacob.

Your name is Jacob. Jacob Anders. Son of John Anders. Born and raised in the White Mesa Anglo Reservation. Twelve years old, a boy scout. A life full of promise. Not a bad kid. By the time you can start move again, the sun has gone down. The soldiers have returned, they stand near the lip, talking in that jibber of Japanese. Such an inelegant tongue. The tongue of demons.

"Mr. Junjiro. I do not understand why we must do things in this very exact fashion."

"Colonel Tanaka, I do not require your understanding. Just… your acceptance."

There is a pause as Junjiro, a slick, yakuza lookign Japanese man of about his mid 20s. Slick backed hair, shades, a long trenchcoat, turns to look in to the pit. His eyes roam, then settle on you. Not Jacob. They seem to see -you-. It takes a moment, and then he smiles. He looks back to Colonel Nobura Tanaka. "All is according to plan. Proceed with the burns tonight. Every hour, a new group through the chambers…"

258329.jpg
+ More diliberation

Mr. Junjiro. A name to remember. Mafen, Jacob, whoever, stares at the man back — blistered eyes aching while trying not to blink. The Ute Nation kill the dissenting Commander of the Deseret Chemical Weapons depot, one way or another; They allow the VX compound to be removed in its weaponized form. And now they test it here, likely on the orders of the Ministry of Self-Determination in an act of heinous revenge. Counter-Genocide. A rationalized atrocity. He waits and watches, hoping to get his chance to crawl out of the pit. It's not looking likely.

It's not very likely as the fuel starts to pour in. Just as your limbs start to gain purchase again, some semblence of real movement. The flames come, loud and hot, roaring over the area. The troops step back, the light blinding them. You scramble from the hole, your skin aflame, your hair melting to your scalp, body fats rendering. It's oddly, only painful for a moment. The pain fades, nerves dying rapidly.

You climb over the lip of the pit, the other soldiers backed away. After all, its not like theres anyone alive in there.

You stumble to your feet and run for the distance. You almost run in to him.

Mr. Junjiro. He does not stop you, does not assist you. He simply watches, smoking his cigarette. "Run along now, Mr. Anders." he murmurs in perfect english.

Perspective shifts again. Back on Abajo Peak, looking down in to the valley. "For three days and three nights… Poison seeping in to the roots of Deeprock. In to the hearts of men."

Mafen is still a little shocked. "Why did Junjiro let Jacob go? And how did he know who he was?" There's plenty more questions to ask, too, but those are some of the interesting ones. "It's terrible what happened here…"

"Mr. Junjiro… is not who he seems." Says the old man then, looking down sadly. "He is a man who speaks for the others."

A helicopter leaves the camp, rising in to the air and heading in the direction of the vantage point you now hold. A vehicle roars down the road, a Chevy Suburban roaring down the gravel road, in the hands of an expert driver. The chopper closes with the truck, machine gun fire trying to lock on the fast moving vehicle in the darkness. Tracer fire lights the night.

A shudder goes through the mountain.

And then it stands up. Have you ever seen a mountain stand up? The term 'great form' simply does not do justice to Deep Rock as he is roused from his slumber. Magma courses across the form of the manifested form of the mountains very soul, like a network of blood vessels providing energy. Standing nearly as half again as tall as the mountain itself, Deeprock's form lumbers for the helicopter. Its feet, where it connects the earth, have gone black. A snaking, malevolent blackness snuffing the brilliant red of the magma in his form. It seems to consume its way up his form.

"I… WILL NOT… BE FORGOTTEN!" calls out the mountain, the sound seeming to deafen as it swats the helicopter from the sky. The Aki-Kaze combat helicopter crumples like a toy, shattering in to a thousand peices as the truck gets away.

The Mountain pauses then, shuddering again as the blackness reaches its 'hips'. It turns its fury, now roaring down the slope of Abajo peak, a furious pyroclastic flow as it loses control of its physical form, giving rise to the simple anger of the earth.

"And Deeprock was nomore." Says the old man, shaking his head sadly. "But he was not forgotten."

+ Diliberation

Mafen shakes his head slowly. "Amazing. Did the violence alone cause the… manifestation, or is someone behind the awakening? Was the Suburban … is that how Jacob Anders got here?"

"No. Jacob was found by others, nearly two miles away." Says the old man. "The people in the truck were witnesses, called here by Deeprock to.. ensure his memory. "As for Deeprock… he was poisoned. Wheels within wheels, William… Wheels within wheels."

And then… You're back in the infirmery. Back in your own body, the unfeeling encasement of metal and ceramics. Detatched once again.
The monitors all report a monotone deathnote, while the old man simply shifts his poncho, moving for the door.

Mafen feels a sudden sense of longing before the feeling of security sets in. It's always a trade off. Hearing the sound, he removes his Savior medkit from his jacket… "Do you want me to… try to help?" He shrugs — there's really not a lot even the nanites can do, though it might give him a few more hours.

The old man looks back, yellow eyes, such odd yellow eyes, holding sadness. "Only men help." he says with a smile then. "William Brixtius needs to decide his path." He turns for the door again. "And he must find his answers for himself. If you wish to see me again… find me at Racetrack Playa. Those who dwell will let you pass. Pooneekay Vatsoom Ahdtuih, William, William Tagooven."

Mafen nods slowly, brain fishing for what phrases he has at his disposal. "Tograyock Tagooven. Pooneekay Vatsoom Ahdtuih." He looks at the body. "May I take a sample of his skin tissue? The deep tissue may be able to provide forensic evidence that the VX agent was used on him." Gruesome, but Mafen is trying to think ahead.

"He cares not what you do with his body; he no longer has need of it." Says the old man as he makes his way out of the infirmery.

"It was good to see you again, Ms. Jones."

"And you, Mr. Coleman."

And then he's gone.

Mafen pops out a hand blade, and, with the help of his medkit, harvests a significant chunk of tissue, filing it in a forensics bag. It's not pretty. But what he does rarely is…
The old man looks back, yellow eyes, such odd yellow eyes, holding sadness. "Only men help." he says with a smile then. "William Brixtius needs to decide his path." He turns for the door again. "And he must find his answers for himself. If you wish to see me again find me at Racetrack Playa. Those who dwell will let you pass. Pooneekay Vatsoom Ahdtuih, William, William Tagooven."
Mafen nods slowly, brain fishing for what phrases he has at his disposal. "Tograyock Tagooven. Pooneekay Vatsoom Ahdtuih." He looks at the body. "May I take a sample of his skin tissue? The deep tissue may be able to provide forensic evidence that the VX agent was used on him." Gruesome, but Mafen is trying to think ahead.
"He cares not what you do with his body; he no longer has need of it." Says the old man as he makes his way out of the infirmery.
"It was good to see you again, Ms. Jones."
"And you, Mr. Coleman."
And then he's gone.

Mafen pops out a hand blade, and, with the help of his medkit, harvests a significant chunk of tissue, filing it in a forensics bag. It's not pretty. But what he does rarely is…

So there you are. Standing in a quiet tomb on several levels. Jenny stands in the hallway, back leaned against the light green painted hallway, eyes closed while Mafen does his grisly task.

Mafen nods silently, stuffing the tissue away in a sample alcove in the expensive medikit — better than the jacket pocket, at least. He stops a second… It feels like the poor kid should have some kind of solemn ritual, but he can't think of anything good. He shrugs and says to the body, 'I'm sorry. I hope to stop them.', quietly, and then pushes the thought from his head and turns away, walking to Jenny. "Can you direct me to the track he mentioned?"

The woman opens her eyes. For the barest moment there's a spark of something in them, a metaphorical, not literal spark. She turns to Mafen, an eyebrow raising. "Track?"

Mafen is glad that spark was a metaphor, and not like the ignition sequence in some cortex bomb. It still generates an interesting pang of emotion somewhere in the cyborg — emotions can have long-term consequences more devestating than cortex bombs. "Racetrack Playa. The old man told me to meet him there if I wanted to do something about this."

"Actually." She says then, turning away from Mafen to walk down the cold hall. "He said if you wanted to speak to him again. And Racetrack Playa… well."
She shrugs, her bootfalls punctuating her words. "Thats in the heart of the Mojave."

Mafen walks with the woman. "Well. I had hoped he had an idea of a good plan of attack. So far I have no direct way to link Colonel Tanaka, Saito to the crime and, of course, no way to prove Clara is not the real enemy. And no leads on where to find Junjiro… Or what he is." He shakes his head. "Sorry. The visions the old man gave me from the mind of the dying are still fresh. Trying to figure out what to do with them."

The woman nods. "I have never experienced anything like that, so I don't know what to tell you. I'm just your pilot, Mr. Brixtius. A guide, but not your partner. I think you have a lot of questions to ask, before you can settle on your path. Uncle Coleman… he tends to do that. Give you more questions than answers."

Mafen nods slowly. "I know. I'm just thinking out loud. I have a lot of reasons to want Whitebone to stay alive, and not a lot of scenarios that result in her doing so. Even if I just forget about it, they'll just dispatch another agent. I know, not your problem." He walks along toward the elevator.
She moves with him. "You are still thinking binary." She says with a small mote of frustration. "Has the concept of -lying- not yet entered your head?"

Mafen shakes his head. "I'd need convincing evidence to prove her death. She would have to then undergo powerful rituals to render the ritual sample non-binding." If what Janie & May told him was true, at least, and it could be done…

She chuckles quietly. "Magic. It's a funny thing. Let me ask you this." She turns to Mafen then, thrusting a finger in to his chest with a dull thud. "Don't you think if they thought magic could kill her, they'd have done it already? Clara… you know, for all my life I thought she was just a crazy old woman. It's a little wierd to find out she's one of the most powerful Shaman in the Ute Nation. You think those kinds of people would be flashy. No. She can defend herslef magically." a pause. "Why the frak do you think YOU got sent?"

Mafen chuckles, stepping to the elevator but not opening it yet. "Yes, that makes sense. Well. I can at least get her a new lease at what life she has left if I can find her. If she wants to cooperate." He shakes his head. "Tanaka has to be stopped, though." He can't stop thinking about it — of all the genocides that have happened, it's the first one that he's had advance warning of…

She gets in to the elevator now, punching in an access code and putting her thumb to the reader. The elevator starts its way back to the top. "Finding her is on you. I don't trust you, would be an understatement. Last word had her in Denver with a fixer called Maria."

Mafen nods. "I understand, and appreciate the information." He thinks a bit. "Do you have a good matrix connection anywhere nearby? A satellite uplink would do nicely…" He steps into the elevator. "I might as well check something while I am in the area up here."

"No. No matrix. We learned in the early 40s if you connect it, there's no security, not even for a Sat Link." She pauses as the elevator lifts them to the old barn again. "Security is tight. We keep it that way."

Mafen nods. "Well, my first priority is to protect Clara Whitebone. My second is to positively link the Imperial forces in Calfree with the attack on Blanding. For the second, I'd want to inspect the Deseret Chemical Weapons Plant… not an easy thing to do. For the first, I'd need to get back to Denver. I guess I should get that taken care of. From Denver I can scour for info to use on both tasks, too. Can I hitch a ride?"

Mafen nods at Jenny. "Let's head back to Ephrams. I think I can go from there."

MONTAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGE.

Airplane flies! Airplane Lands! 6 hours later, your back on the shores of the Salt Lake.

MONTAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGE.

Mafen loves a good montage. He clicks open the canopy door and steps out. "Thank you for your assistance, Jenny. It's been… eye opening." He nods at the woman, and heads for the SUV. "You're quite the pilot — do you do private contracts, or just what Ephram passes down?"

"I work for my husband." She says primly, stepping out of the aircraft after it comes to rest in its small hanger. "But I do accept tips."

Mafen nods. "There's one in the plane." He climbs in the SUV, suspension listing slightly, and prepares for the trip back to his bike, scanning the region for the nearest good access point for some light matrix work. Some place that charges hourly, that doesn't ask for a SIN would be perfect.

The woman peeks back inside, then gestures down the road. "Marshall. It's a small town just outside the SLC AZ. It's got a truck stop run by Flying Jay. Tell them your a trucker, and give them some cred, and they'll make beleive you have 16 more wheels."

"Perfect." He watches the dark scenery scroll by the SUV as they race home. "I'll send some mail to Ephram to let him know how it goes. He'll be able to figure out who it is from."

"One imagines." Says the woman then as she drops him off at his bike. "Do me a favor." She says, loking back to the robot man.

Mafen tilts his head toward Jenny, and listens.

She looks at him levelly. "Don't make me kill you. Don't… ever… do something to harm my family… Ephram and the kids, the other women, they are dear to me. Don't do something that puts us in a situation where I have to try and end you. It won't end well. For either of us."

Mafen raises his eyebrows. "I sure believe that. You don't trust me so I don't see how you can value what I'd say, but regardless, don't worry. I'm not in the business of repaying favors with betrayal." He shrugs, removing the kickstand from his bike. "Hopefully, you'll never see me again. But if you do, it should be amiable." He clicks the bike's motor on. "Goodbye, Jenny." He accelerates off rapidly, heading for the small town of Marshall, dust kicking up behind him.
badlandschar:mafen
page revision: 38, last edited: 22 Feb 2010 19:02
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