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GM: Viktor
Players: Viktor, Lars
Synopsis: After the attempted hit at the Stuffer Shack, the two get together for some drinks…
Date: June 26, 2070
Joe's Dropoff
Joe's Dropoff is a classic. Honest. The noir films of the 1930s were a branching out for society, as they turned from the optimism of old and began to recognize real life as a source of entertainment. Antiheros in the forms of Sam Spade, Rick Blaine, Humphrey Bogart, and Sydney Greenstreet hit the scene, changing the entertainment industry and the cultural heritage of North America all at once.
This entire establishment is a tribute to this century-old era, the entire decor done up in blacks, whites, and shades of grey. Stepping into it one would almost expect all color to vanish and to exist in a world of duotone, with a man in a white suit in the corner playing the dulcet tones of the piano. Surprisingly enough, the piano is located in the corner of the establishment, although the player is nowhere to be seen. The Duotone is rather accentuated though, as even the employees' skin has had various cosmetics applied to it to remove as much color as possible, drawing toward that grey shade of old.
The bar, is long, and made of a dark wood accented in dull brass. Tables are scattered about, and usualy occupied by chatting patrons. Rumor has it, that if you dress appropriately to the genre, you get 10% off your drinks. To the left of the large oak doors, is a small corner that is badly illuminated for that extra noir feel.
Viktor sulks over the bar, a jacket thrown on to cover his injury. He nurses a drink, looking around at all the oddly dressed people, feeling like he's in Casablanca. He leans forward and puts the cool drink against his forehead and shuts his eyes for a few moments.
After an hour or so enough time for Viktor to throw a couple back, Lars enters the joint. He turns grey-green eyes, more than a little ire-filled, around the bar. His nostrils flare as he spots a certain elf, and the auburn haired man strides to the bar, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. He mutters and grunts as he eases, slowly, onto a stool, then turns his glare on Viktor. "Alright omae. You've got some explaining to do." He states simply and directly.
Viktor groans under the man's glare, finishing his last drink. "Call me Lucy and I'll slap yer' ass back to Valhalla." The elf grabs the edge of the bar and steadies himself. He's been busy. "Them Ares shits framed me. Me and that decker guy." The bartender, a man in suspenders and a white dress shirt, pours liquid from a bottle into Viktor's glass. "And now we got some ass ta kick. You watch da trid, brother? Yea…that Beauregard homo…" the elf makes an obscene gesture. "Yea, I'm gonna gut him and mount hiz head on mah wall."
Lars raises an eyebrow and relaxes a bit onto his bench, exhaling softly with the stiffness in his torso. You know, being shot will do that. "Well, it's my understanding that Beauregard jackal is the one responsible for me eating gunfire. If you're out for teaching him a lesson, I want to hear about it." He inclines his head, "What's this about being framed? Tell me everything, from the begining. Why'd you even go on that show?"
The alcohol begins to dig in and take firmer hold in Viktor's brain. His speech begins to slur even more than usual, "I toldja already - *I* didn't go on da show…" The elf knocks back more of his drink and begins to explain how he and Criticalfault were called in for a possible run but were instead ambushed by the "Jay" who turned out to be Beauregard Jackson. The two got zapped and then woke up fourteen hours later to see that they had been brought on the trid. With a wince, Viktor indicates his arm and talks about the brutal removal of Ares' 'bug' from his arm.
"An' so I decided…fuck it. Les' get a slurpee, right? Shit's alwaysh better wid a fuckin' slurpee…" Viktor lowers his head and groans. "I swear ta god…once I fuggin' wake up, I'm gonna smoke that fool."
Mmming slightly, Lars nods. "So, this Star omae, he's not getting the 'volunteers' he needs, so to make for good television, he shanghais you and this CriticalFail character, eh?" Raising an eyebrow and holding his hands up. "What's next? I think I want to get in contact with that other group. The one from the warrens. Maybe he has the power to point out that what this has REALLY done is create potential for a lot of innocent people to get caught in collateral damage. It's fortunate nobody in that Stuffer Shack got hurt." He grins. "Well, nobody that didn't probably deserve it a bit." He rubs his own chest. "Myself not-withstanding." and winks. "But if there's going to be a move against the Star, it's gotta be done right. If you just go and wack him, someone else will step into his shoes, and you'll make a martyr out of him, to boot."
Thump….zzzZZZzzzz….
"Drek." Mars mutters and shakes his head, pushing Viktor off the bench and reaching over to take his drink, downing it in a long pull. "That must have been some slurpee. Pussy ass elves." The viking shakes his head again as he thumps his glass on the counter, sliding it under the tap and grinning as Viktor's tab buys him another.
CRASH! Viktor falls onto the floor. He bounces back up like a ball.
"SIR! THIS RECRUIT WAS NOT SLEEPING, SIR!" Rigid as a board he stares straight forward and up, lock on zero. The outburst passes and the elf looks around, regaining his bearings. He grunts as he remembers where they were at in the conversation.
He sits back down and cradles his head in his hands. "I never signed up for dis 'Shadowrunner' drek and here I am tryin' ta figure out who to hose ta get mah rep back," shaking his head, he sighs, "Who woulda thought." The elf's eyes turn up at Lars' fresh drink, "Das lookin' pretty good right now. You got some chummers that can help me run against Ares?"
Hmming slightly, Lars gets a thoughtful expression. "As a matter of fact… I know a certain troll.. knows a LOT about laying down hurt. I'm not sure I know how to get ahold of him, but you know how it goes. Put the word out on the street, and someone will pass it up the chain." He grins. "Maybe you've heard of him, even. Goes by Crocadillo or some drek."
"Naw, bruddah," Viktor raises a finger and orders another drink. "Can't say I have." He looks around the place, eyeing up a waitress, who despite the conservative, century old dress, still manages to be smokin' hot. The bartender returns with the drink. He drops it, spilling the drink all over Viktor's shirt, jacket and arm.
"You gotta be kidding me!" Viktor lifts his soaken arm. He looks at it and begins licking the liquid off of it. This goes on for several minutes.
Viktor spreads his fingers, licking between them and getting all the booze off the back of his hand. "I tink perhaps…" Viktor begins grooming his hair with the back of his hand, "…that was a signn dat I had enough."
Smirking slightly, Lars nods again. "You mentioned bad luck with magic. What was that about? And exactly how bad is that arm? Has it been tended at all?"
Viktor rubs above his eyebrows with the back of his hand. "Naw, just referrin' to Jackson ambushin' me with fuckin' pansy-ass Merlin's, no offense, Jack." Viktor flaps his arm like a wing, "Ya, bud, actually I had a chummer…well…" Viktor arches his back and stretches, "guess I wouldn't call him a chummer. But he mojo'd it." Viktor nods to the broad walking away, "The bandage is just fer' the chicks, dig?"
Laughing and nodding, Lars grins, "I follow. Ladies love to pamper a man with a bandaid." He winks. "Magical support is something I hadn't thought about. I can toss a few spells, but I'm nothing to brag about. That's something else we're going to need if we're gonna take on this Star drek-head." He takes a long thoughtful pull on his beverage, "And frankly, I don't know anyone I'd want to bring. Yet."
"I was thinkin'," Viktor pops a handful of peanuts into his mouth, disregarding the rule about bar nuts, "Ares and Cross Applied Tech are at odds, right? Enemy of my enemy's my friend, or some drek like dat."
"Are they?" Lars asks, chuckling. "Ask me to look over a year's worth of financial statements and tell you if a company is in the red or black, and I can do that." He glances sideways, "Don't ask." Then continues, "But I'm not big on corp politics. I don't know who is buds with buds. I figured I'd go talk to that Jolly Roger bloke, to start."
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