Name: Cooking the Books
Pay: 20k Nuyen. 2 Karma. Indra is opting for the 20k Nuyen over .5 GM Karma Bonus
Players: Snack. Ironfist.
With the Urban Brawl bets going strong..there was plenty of chances for people to be swindled with ease. Infact..more then one bookie has already done so no doubt..but some didn't exactly think this through. One specifically had tried to cook his books and the like, setting up false bets to drive up further business, but another bookie who was trying to pressure them out of business had caught wind of it. A few paid goons later, and the man had been forced out of his own operations and was desperate to recover his assets before the myriad people who had placed bets with him caught wind of his treachery. Thus..he was asking on the Trix for some muscle to meet him in a run down clinic just a short hop in the Rens..presumably because he was put in there by his rival..
Warrens? No use in being Fang Zhao, he could be the Iron Fist freely and approachs the clinic with his form shrouded in a weathered Professional overcoat to conceal his goodies. His face bound in a yellow zorro-esque mask, and an earbud plugged in to pump some sweet hip-hop tunes. Head bobbin, the Fist walks along the street for the clinic. "I bomb atomically, Socrates' philosophies and hypotheses, Can't define how I be dropping these mockeries, Lyrically perform armed robberies!" He sings along, because that's what he does. He gives no Frags.
Finding that particular offer on the Matrix, Snack would send a reply and then begin getting ready. In the privacy of his own home, his face warped, no longer baring that long muzzle and animalistic look. He put time into disguising himself, sculpting his polymask with care, picking out a wig, stuffing his tail into some rather baggy pants, and grabbing all his gear. He'd arrive appearing human, dressed in casual-looking clothes with armor underneath, and a rucksack slung over his shoulders. Looks like he's just in time to bump into the guy rapping! He passed by, thinking the man a lone crazy, but did spit out, "You defined it, when you rhymed it, Socrates' and mockeries flowin' well together, I'm jellin' it, won't rebel against it, you got this boy, use them bombs like they're your toys."
The clinic isn't entirely run down like some of the rens..likely those who end up here..can totally afford it. Indeed, the 'receptionist' will indicate a private ward..which is really just what amounts to a bed room with a locking door. Two orks are in beds there..looking quite bad for the wear..the only one conscious is a man who looks like he was beaten severely, a human, but alive, conscious..nervous. "If you think I'll sell out I'll put a slug in.." He starts..then quiets, clearly he at first thought the runners were people being sent to do him in. A small hold out pistol in his lap before he tries to calm him self. "I truly hope you came here to …help cover up unfortunate outcomes."
"Yeah like your face, that drek be unfortunate, mang!" Fist snickers to himself, shoulders bouncing up and down as he holds back his full laughter to his own terrible joke. He sighs in relief. "So what's up Bing Bang? What's the pay, who's the bozo or bozos, and where can I get a cute little pea shooter like that to offer a kid?"
Suprised that there's another man on the job, at least momentarily, and then MORE so when he sees the shape the client is in makes Snack stay quiet for a while. But then he hears the rapper speak up, and decides to step towards the bed. After the man's nervousness subsides, of course. He'll smile empathetically, "What he says is true. What's happened to you is unfortunate. But we're here to hear the details and perhaps assist you in your endevours, whatever they may be. So please, enlighten us, and take your time to speak if, perhaps, that would be easier for you, given your current state."
The Man doesn't even bother with a name; it isn't some thing important. "It's simple..I need my records recovered from my office. Before they find them and release them to the various people who have placed bets with me." Like gang members, who are even more likely to kill him. "They ambushed me and my boys and are trying to find them in my deck..except they aren't in the deck. They're in the leather bound copy of Moby Dick behind my desk." He says, moving to flop a pad of paper down..the address of a converted shipping container here in the Rens.
Fist fishes out a cigarillo from his a tincase, pinching inbetween his teeth and nodding his head a few times. "Aight, mang. Big white dork book, gotcha. Who be 'dey? Niqqas still around to worry about, or we coo' to glide in?" He finally fishes out a refillable lighter, sparking it up to light the cigarillo, taking in a big puff to start things off.
Snack takes the adressed paper with a gloved hand and steps back, to show it to his co-worker. "Along those same lines, how heavily have these men armed themselves? And how skilled do you believe them to be if, indeed, they are close by and to be tussled with? And are there any other items you wish to be procured from your domicile?" Each word is perfectly punctuated, with even tone and practiced diction. Still, a hint of friendliness shows through, like maybe the windbag in baggy clothes actually cares about the mook in the hospital bed.
Snack is weird..he's so proper, the bookie is showing a bit of surprise. "I'd guess they are still there, making sure no one breaks what ever they are using to try and break into my deck. I think they were just local gang bangers..it was mostly surprise that laid me and boys out. You get my book, you get a fat paycheck when you get back." He confirms.
"How fat is the pay? Like 2pac phat or Lil Dicky tiny?" Fists scrunges up his nose as he muses the things laid out. "Also, got any magkey to get into your place or some passcode, or whatever the frag you people do to keep assholes out? Could make things easier for us to sneak in and murk some niqqas."
"What my associate is trying to say, is: We expect to be compensated fairly in this situation. Our services do not come cheap, because our profession requires us to be highly skilled. We know you understand, and will place careful thought into how you compensate us. But, indeed, we would prefer to know what we will be compensated with, before our work begins. Are we in understanding?" Snack rattles it all off like a lawyer. But at the same time he's polite, smiling and using a tone of voice like he's talking to a best friend, as well as a client.
The Bookie isn't a stranger to these things; he just wants his records back before he pays any one. "Of course..I am willing to pay you both twenty thousand nuyen..and I don't think you'll need access codes..they took care of that." Since they already rolled on the joint, the door is less then locking it seems! "I'll set up burner accounts upon your return."
"Aight, Bing Bang. We'll take care of your probs and break some foo's for ya, and also bring back the book about the big white dork and the captain." Fist thumbs up with a toothy grin, clenching the cigar inbetween his teeth still as he keeps puffing away, filling the room with some sweet, sweet aroma.
Snack's polymask'd face breaks into a grin. A rather joyful one. "Great. Perfect. We are in agreement, then. We will return promptly with your merchandise, and you will have both it and the knowledge that these men of ill repute will no longer be bothering you." With that, he gives a sweep of his arm and a bow. Next, he's turning to leave, with one last look shot to Iron like he's saying 'Cmon man lets get outta here'.
The bookie maintains his composure until the runners leave..then he'll collapse back into his bed until they return..or people walk in again. You know, you deal with a major concussion!
Fist exhales a large cloud of smoke in the room, dropping the cigar into the water jug to extinguish it and nodding to Snack, following the polymask fellow out with a hummed beat. The earbud gets put back into a single ear, head bobbing as the music returns to his life. "Aight, so you good with murkin' niqqas? Or scalpin' 'em? Or kickin' 'em in the balls or somethin'?"
As soon as they exit the hospital, Snack heaves a sigh of relief and his posture slackens, "Man, fuck speaking like a lawyer. Shit is ann-oy-ing." After Fist asks that question, he nods. "I'm alright at sneakin' around, and I can fire a gun okay. Also got a stun baton to zap some fraggers, too. I'm guessin' you're pretty good at that drek, though?"
"Yeah I scalp mofos." Fist nods his head. "I'll leave the cowboy stuff to ya, I'll cleave some heads and leave souvenirs in that asshole's office." He nudges his head to the claimed paper. "Let's scope the place out, see if we can sneak in pretty easy."
"Nice." Snack offers a fistbump. Then he's pulling out some kinda fruit nutri-bar and chomping down. "Sounds like a plan." On their way to the location, he keeps pulling out small bits of food and eating it, always tucking the trash away in his rucksack.
«Auto-Judge» Snack (#11034) rolls Stealth for "Sneakin'!":
1 5 5 5
<Auto-Judge» IronFist (#1922) rolls Stealth for "+4 To Sound Perception-> Traceless Walk":
2 2 3 8 11
«Auto-Judge» Indrakshi (#6312) rolls 3 vs TN 5 for "Gangsta Gangsta":
1 3 8 = 1 Success
The converted shipping container isn't hard to find..there is a beat up pick up truck parked in front of it, one past their prime ork gang banger sitting on the hood, polishing some aging sawed off, chewing on the end of a cigar, glowering at any one passing by. There is the faint sound of voices inside the actual container..the door looks like they used the truck to -tear- it off the hinges..
Sneaking around was something Fist was good at, it helped that his footsteps didn't make a single sound. As they neared, Fist split off into the shadows and began his silent ninja approach. Pocsec music turned off, and a pair of Tomahawks drawn from under his coat. He nudges his head towards the guard, doing a slit throat gesture.
Snack nods, and pulls out his pistol, along with a pair of… glasses? After slipping them on, and gripping the pistol, he mouths, "Who takes him out?"
<Auto-Judge» IronFist (#1922) rolls Reaction vs TN 2 for "Supplies, motherfucker!":
1 1 2 3 4 4 4 5 5 = 7 Successes
«Auto-Judge» IronFist (#1922) rolls Edged Weapons + 3 vs TN 3 for "Chop Shop Mofo! -1 TN for 1 Range on Dikoted Tomahawk, base damage Str+1 S, Main Hand.":
1 1 2 2 4 5 7 8 = 4 Successes
«Auto-Judge» IronFist (#1922) rolls Edged Weapons + 3 - 4 vs TN 3 for "Chop Shop Mofo! -1 TN for 1 Range on Dikoted Tomahawk, base damage Str+1 S, Main Hand. KP1":
2 3 5 11 = 3 Successes
«Auto-Judge» IronFist (#1922) rolls Edged Weapons vs TN 4 for "Off Hand!":
1 2 3 7 9 = 2 Successes
Unheard footsteps carry the Fist towards the unsuspecting Gangbanger who should have called it quits a while ago. His pace not even that slow due to he fact what with a blind side approach, he didn't even have to worry about his footfall making sound. As he gets in range, both Tomahawks and swiped inwards in a horizontal fashion. The first plants itself firmly into the side of his skull, and the other lobs the head clean off at the neck. The skull stuck on his blade gets pushed off with a foot and he nods sagely towards Snack. Was this normal? Yes. Yes it was.
Snack is torn. It's grisely, that's for sure, but he can't help but want to cheer. Dude hunkers down in his hiding spot and flashes a quick thumbs up, plus a grin. Then he's slowly, stealthily making his way over, muttering/mouthing, "Should we hide the body, or head inside?"
If that ganger had been wearing a bike helmet or some thing? It would have made more noise when it hit the ground..as it is..the body slowly slumps on the hood of the pick up. There is how ever, more noise inside..three distinct voices..and the splintering of wood..some thing being pried apart! So far..so good, right?
Fist motions Snack over with a gesture, then he points an axe towards the container. He even crouches down low and charades sneaking up on it. Exagerated leg movements to emphasize his point, yet still under the cover of not being heard with each time a boot lands on the ground.
Snack nods and slowly creeps towards the entrance of the container, careful to stay hidden and silent, to the best of his ability. He readies his pistol, smartlink reciever in the glasses giving him little targets in his vision that would, most likely, lock onto whoever could be seen inside.
«Auto-Judge» IronFist (#1922) rolls Stealth for "Be vewwy, vewwy quiet…":
1 2 4 4 5
«Auto-Judge» IronFist (#1922) rolls Stealth for "Be vewwy, vewwy quiet… KP2!":
2 4 4 5 5
«Auto-Judge» Snack (#11034) rolls Stealth:
2 4 4 5
«Plot» IronFist says, "Eh, fuck it 5 it is!"
«Plot» IronFist says, "+4 to sound perception with traceless walk."
«Auto-Judge» Snack (#11034) rolls Stealth for "KP1":
1 1 4 11
«OOC» Snack says, "Staying"
«Auto-Judge» Indrakshi (#6312) rolls 5 vs TN 5 for "Do the thugs inside notice?":
2 5 5 5 11 = 4 Successes
Some thing goes -terribly- wrong this time..like you know, stepping on the broken glass, twisted metal..their friend not bitching at them. By the time the two get up there..two gang bangers are using the actual door drame for cover, packing heavy automatic pistols..a third is behind the splintered desk <they were ripping it down to connect a poc sec to the deck inside> and has set up a LMG on it.
«Auto-Judge» IronFist (#1922) rolls Edged Weapons + 5 vs TN 5 for "Multi strike! LMG + 1 Pistolero. -1 TN for range, +2 TN for additional opponent engaged! Main hand!":
1 3 4 4 5 5 5 5 7 8 = 6 Successes
«Auto-Judge» IronFist (#1922) rolls Edged Weapons + 5 - 6 vs TN 5 for "Multi strike! LMG + 1 Pistolero. -1 TN for range, +2 TN for additional opponent engaged! Main hand! KP3":
1 3 4 9 = 1 Success
«Auto-Judge» IronFist (#1922) rolls Edged Weapons vs TN 6 for "Second hand!":
3 3 5 7 11 = 2 Successes
«Auto-Judge» Indrakshi (#6312) rolls 6 vs TN 6 for "PistolThug1 Soaking":
3 4 4 5 5 5 = 0 Successes
«OOC» Indrakshi says, "he's pretty fucked"
«Auto-Judge» Indrakshi (#6312) rolls 6 vs TN 4 for "LMGThug":
1 1 3 3 4 5 = 2 Successes
Fist sprints within as soon as they are noticed, the adept dashing passed their would be cover and spreading out both axes as he slides into a whirlwind of blades. Poor Pistolero will be leaving bits and pieces of his life on the floor, while the LMG thug was a little tougher, but that didn't change the fact that both blades ended up leaving some nasty gashes right into his back. "Surprise mudafakas!"
«Auto-Judge» Snack (#11034) rolls Pistols vs TN 4 for "Smartlink -2, cover +2, 9M base, Ares Pred 3":
1 4 10 = 2 Successes
«Auto-Judge» Snack (#11034) rolls Pistols vs TN 4 for "Smartlink -2, cover +2, 9M base, Ares Pred 3 Second Shot":
2 3 5 = 1 Success
«Auto-Judge» Indrakshi (#6312) rolls 7 vs TN 6 for "Soak":
2 2 3 3 3 4 4 = 0 Successes
«Auto-Judge» Indrakshi (#6312) rolls 7 vs TN 6 for "Soak2":
5 5 5 5 9 11 16 = 3 Successes
«Auto-Judge» Snack (#11034) rolls Pistols - 1 vs TN 4 for "Smartlink -2, cover +2, 9M base, Ares Pred 3 Second Shot KP2":
1 5 = 1 Success
Snack has no time to reel back or act suprised that the guys are in the doorway. He launches into Battle Mode, raising his pistol and firing two rounds at the guy who's in the doorway. Lady Luck is on his side, showing her favor in the form of two bullets ripping through Door Guy'storso!
«Auto-Judge» Indrakshi (#6312) rolls 6 vs TN 4 for "LMG opening up on full auto..12D base. On Ironfist.":
1 2 3 5 5 11 = 3 Successes
«Auto-Judge» IronFist (#1922) rolls 4 vs TN 7 for "Dodging 1 success on Full Auto.":
4 4 5 5 = 0 Successes
«Auto-Judge» IronFist (#1922) rolls 4 vs TN 7 for "Dodging 1 success on Full Auto. KP4?":
2 7 11 13 = 3 Successes
The man with the LMG grunts when a blade enters his torso..there might be bone lacing in him judging from the lack of axe cleanly going through..and then he starts firing off that LMG wildly; it's likely smart linked or some thing given how it seems to fire with out him moving his finger, bullets spraying against the bodies of his own two buddies..trying to force Ironfist away with the snarl of loud gunfire.
«Auto-Judge» IronFist (#1922) rolls Edged Weapons vs TN 3 for "Sup Bitch.":
1 2 4 5 16 = 3 Successes
«Auto-Judge» IronFist (#1922) rolls Edged Weapons vs TN 4 for "Sup Bitch, second hand.":
1 1 2 3 11 = 1 Success
«Auto-Judge» IronFist (#1922) rolls Edged Weapons - 1 vs TN 4 for "Sup Bitch, second hand. KP5":
4 5 5 11 = 4 Successes
As soon as the LMG snaps his way, the Fist leaps sideways out of the way, using the container's wall as rebound to leap forward and close the distance rapidly. Both axes swung down swiftfully in a straight vertical pair, cleaving through that bone laced skull of his and planting firmly down till the jaw. Once more, the adept is forced to yank his axes out in a brutal fashion, nodding his head towards Snack sagely yet again. Completely normal.
Snack fires off two plugs in the head of the man he had downed moments before, just to make sure he's dead, and then grins wildly at Iron. "Fucked 'em up!" He pumps a fist in the air. With that, he begins frantically searching the room for that Moby Dick book, tearing through the room like a whirlwind.
«Auto-Judge» Snack (#11034) rolls Intelligence for "Searching for the book":
1 2 3 4 4 4 5 7
«Auto-Judge» IronFist (#1922) rolls Intelligence for "Searching for anything of value on the bodies, totally bringin the LMG home too.":
2 2 3 3 4
«Auto-Judge» IronFist (#1922) rolls Intelligence for "Searching for anything of value on the bodies, totally bringin the LMG home too. KP6!":
2 3 4 5 5
«Auto-Judge» Snack (#11034) rolls Intelligence for "Notice what Iron's doing, search bodies for stuff also!":
2 2 3 3 4 5 7 9
Most of the office/container has been trashed in the several fights having occured in it..the deck it self? Well it's no doubt booby trapped or the like..but the book is easy to find <even if the book shelf has been tossed to one side>. Indeed, there seems to be a method to the madness of writing inside..but damned if any one can figure it out.
Fist wipes his blades clean on one of the ganger's shirts, the two axes then brought back to be concealed within his professional overcoat, as if they weren't even there at all. First thing's first, rifling through pockets for Script, credsticks, drugs, interesting doodads, and last but not least, hefting that LMG over his shoulder to bring home. "Mm, pancakes would be nice right now."
Snack pulls out a big zip-loc bag from his duffle bag and shoves the book inside, zipping it up, and stuffing it in his duffle. When he notices what Fist is doing, he joins him, looking for anything interesting.
Looting aside; once they return to the bookie, who forces him self to sit up and briefly consults the book they brought..hurridly using his pocsec to begin transferring things here and there to dummy accounts, and forwarding them to the runners for their work. He doesn't ask about the goons involved.. but they do get their money! Gotta love how people don't bother checking minor chump change accounts right?
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