Moviebusiness

Players: Hek and Turk Summary: Hek hires Turk and they go through some Negotiation. Hek is acting a middle man for the Surenos 13 gang, finding a decker for Smiley to obtain schemetics of the simsense equipment that Hek stole. Turk decks the system and does a very good job of it, only triggering one piece of IC and managing to obtain the schemetics. Turk delivers the schemetics to Hek and then Hek uses them to put the simsense equipment together. Hek turns the equipment over to Smiley and the gang. Word percolates through the shadows that someone needs matrix talent for what purports to be an easy data snatch. The details are vague beyond that, but the contact method is a cellphone number. The Rameriez-Feng curve; An interesting plot-out defining the cost of money per quality of cybernetics, and the 'homeopathic' status there-of. A curve that, in essence, stated there was a point of no-return for capital investment. Unless they were lying, and someone managed to break through that defining limitation. The message reaches Turk as he's in the middle of his 'investigation' - into cybernetic body doubles. It, of course, catches his attention, mostly as it comes -convientantly- as a distraction from his current conspiracy. But, money is money, and curiosity being what it is, he cannot pass up. The comcall is routed via the 'trix itself - to make sure he's as untraceable as possible. Ring ring.. The voice on the other end of the phone comes in as the electronics give it presidence over the background noise of crowds in what is likely a very public place. "You got me." "Lets hope so." Plan 9's voice - Turk's Avatar - is little more than crackling static when he isn't speaking. Evidence of a hashed together connection, running channels along the 'trix itself rather than depending on the cellular company's dedicated tracts. Plan 9 itself, in the 'trix, little more than a stirring breeze carrying the debris of the current virtual environment; Bits of newspaper, old cigarettes, swirling flim-bags. To remain, as it were, as unobstrusive as possible to the host. "I understand you're looking for a gift wrapping service.. Mister Johnson?" The sound of chewing, slurping, probably noodles. Words voiced around a mouth half full of food. "Yeah, that right." A few moments pass, the phone cutting out the background din to save bandwidth. "You know Falstaff? Lounge in the CAS? Tell the bartender you are there about the job. This line is not secure. I will give you detail face to face." The hint of an Asian accent, the missing pural giving it away. It wasn't secure? He'd made the connection himself! Unless someone was listening to the conversation on their side. Or the 'Johnson' was an agent with such devious methods that not even Turk could spot them. An absence of evidence was not evidence of absence, after all! How deep did -this- burrowing web extend? There was only one way to find out. "Face to face it is." The voice fades away to static, which steadily grows as the connection is deconstructed - until it gives way to a 'dead signal' beep. Plan 9 swirling up and away from the 'trix virtual boulevard, Turk's mind slipping back down the line to his own mind. Eyes open. Time to get dressed. He forsakes his usual Actioneer suit for something a bit more down-to-earth. Armored clothes and a lined jacket. And considering the -nature- of the conversation, forsakes his ID-tagged cerebus as well. Preferring the silenced predator in the concealed holster, and his stun baton. The rest of his gear loaded into the zT, he begins heading off to Falstaff's. Intending, of course, to park a few blocks down and out of the way. The area is what one would expect in the part of the plex that borders the Warrens. Lone Star patrols are non-existant, despite the area being nominally under their purvey. Squatters and those who are a paycheck or two away from the designation make up the most visible residents of the district. The lounge is about what one would, a bar, some pool tables, cracked linoleum and smoke hanging heavy in the air. The bartender is an effeminate male ork, who upon hearing about the job, directs Turk to the table in the back corner of the place. Of course it is the table in the back corner. Hek is seated there with a good view of everything going on in the place, and he stands up when Turk approaches. "Thank you for come to see me." He says before sitting down again and leaning his shoulders back against the wall. Homeless, or transient agents? Hard to say. Hard to KNOW. None the less, as none are immediatley leveling technomagic implantation devices in his direction, Turk takes it they don't know that HE knows. Unless they want him to think that. Clever. But not clever enough. The halfer enters the bar, asks, and is pointed in Hek's direction. He'd tip his hat, but he hasn't got it. Rather, he just flashes a toothy smile and nods. "Of course. Always happy to be of service, Mister Jay…" He settles into the booth at an awkward side straddle (dwarf, eh?) before knitting his fingers. Serious business time. Hek regards Turk neutrally, his expression betraying no acceptance nor rejection of the other man's presence. He eyes him as an equal, some presumably capable of getting done what needs to be done. A wary glance looks past the dwarf, thoughtfully considering the other patrons in the nearly empty lounge. A few are at the bar, nursing their drinks and minding their own business. A couple more are playing a half hearted game of pool, seemingly more interested in keeping themselves occupied than refining their skills. "We going to have any trouble understanding each other?" Hek asks Turk in the casual cadence of a street hustler. (Cityspeak) Turk tilts his head at the odd dialect; Some of the words are definately english. But put together in such an odd fashion that even his fairly perfect grasp of the language falters. With a small, quiet smile, Turk shakes his head and pulls a piece of flimsy from a pocket. A print out image of a cat statue, oddly enough. "Ever dabble in logic puzzles? I'm a bit of a hobbyist myself." A real, ink filled plastiPen is pulled out as well, and Turk writes a few words on the back of the photo before sliding it across. "Try this one." 'Sorry, omae - don't know that lingo'. Hek regards the note and cracks a slight smile. A nod confirms his understanding as he says, "Okay. Engrish then." The need to speak a language he is not fully fluent in receives little more than a shrug from him. Without the obfuscation offered by a dialect, and completely lacking any sort of electronic counter measures, Hek just rests his forearms on the table and leans forward, lowering his voice. "You know about simsense? Producton main-a-ree" He queries the dwarf. Turk lifts an eyebrow at the accent; Not that English is his first to begin with, but as a trading language its nearly unmatched in the world. With a faint smile, the photograph is withdrawn and tucked away, thick hands knitting themselves together once more. Pitching his voice low, he confirms "I know -of them-, yes indeed…" Curiouser and curiouser. Hek furrows his brow, waiting a few seconds to see if Turk has anything else to add to the knowledge that he knows of. When nothing else manifests, Hek shrugs, a seemingly common expression for him, and then continues on. "I have simsense project. But, I need document. All document. Operate document. Technical document…" The man speaks slowly, making sure to communicate his expectations appropriately. "I have reg-a-see Fuchi sim sense studio, Fuchi SimTech Studio 2063 model." A hand lifts to tug and pull at that short cropped beard, Turk glancing briefly to the doors. He'd heard rumors that the KE were putting Jays in to catch runners. And eveyone - at least, everyone that is Turk - knew the KE were a front for insect spirits. Especially after their infection and exposure in Chicago. He squints at the man again, that soft frown never fading. Regacy? A hint to the Regan documents of preSurge? Or legacy - time travel experiments? Hard to say. More data needed. "So… You need these Fuchi documents on running your… studio… "gift" wrapped?" It seems like Turk understands what Hek is asking, and the man nods quite assuredly to confirm that the dwarf is on the right track. "Exac-chur-a-ree." The dark skinned human smiles broadly. "Should be easy job for you." As he says that he nods a few times, as if his own appraisal of the situation and positive affirmation of that appraisal is enough to make it so. Despite the relative low key nature of the place, Hek seems wary and often looks beyond Turk to survey the lounge. Turk leans back, but there is no comfort to be found in his awkward sitting position. Legger booths were always like this. It was either dangle his feet like a child at supper, or contort and be prepped to slide out and move if someone kicked the door in. The stunter casually following Hek's gaze - but can see nothing himself. Which probably means invisible compatriots he can't even pick up with his natural thermographic sight. "Never underestimate, Mister Jay." he states, as they get to terms. "What ince- .. what price are we asking for the prep and gift wrapping?" Asian? Of course not. The accent was too obvious. Gene altered scottish troll? He'd have to dig to be certain… The mention of cost actually causes the man to smile. Who likes talking about money? Apparently Hek does, and he takes a moment to size up the dwarf seated across the table from him. "Well…" He trails off, already offering an apologetic shrug to soften the blow. "I can give you, seventy five hundred." Despite the ambivalence conveyed by his body language, he looks directly at Turk. Those eyes of his are blue, perfect and crystal clear like one might expect a trid star to have. Turk rubs his chin at the offer, nodding faintly as he considers it. While his darkened complexion lacks the blue flare of a trid star - and his mind full of artificially bent cogs - he is no immediate fool. "A promising start, to be sure. But there are material costs to consider as well, Mr. Jay. I think ten kay is not unreasonable…" It would be bad form to laugh out loud during a negotiation, so Hek resists the urge to do that. It would also be bad form to stare with disbelief at the other party, so Hek does not do that either. He nods thoughtfully, considering the point in silence for the span of a handful of moments. "I tell you what.." Again he lowers his tone and leans in a bit, as if to share a secret. "I give you, seven nine. Very good deal, for simple work." There is that curt nod of his head again, firm, final. "I'll admit, it will be skinning the haunch close to the bone, getting your package wrapped clean and with no complications - at least, in regards to profit for time. Still, you seem like a good man, Mister Jay…" A cold, toothy smile. A Runner's smile. "…. And I do hate seeing good men lack. I think we have an accord." he pauses, then adds for the benefit of might-be-scottish Hek "A deal. Where would you like it delivered?" "You put it on optrical chip?" Hek suggests, nodding, confirming for himself that he thinks it is a reasonable enough idea. "You just call me. Let me know. We meet up where ever." Apparently not the most prepared, or long sighted Mr. Johnson, Hek shrugs easily as if such details do not particularly concern him all that much. "Back here is fine." "While I enjoy the theme, I'll find our next spot." It was a fool who came to the same locale twice; After all, he who arrived first had time to setup all sorts of nasty surpises. Being unpredictable was part and parcel to a Runner's success. "See you soon, Mister Jay. I assume the same number can be used to contact you, or will you have another?" The question of another number causes Hek to reach into his jacket pocket, from where he retrieves a disposable burner phone. Making note of the number on a napkin, he slides it across the table. "Remember. Fuchi SimTech Studio 2063 model. Must be that one." A thick hand takes up the napkin, tucking it inside his jacket as Turk nods his head. "Not an issue at all. Fuchi SimTech Studio, two oh six three model." The repetition complete, Turk dips his head and slides from the booth. The stunties legs carrying (relatively) quickly away, head clicking away with questions. Why would a scott pretend to be asian? What did this have to do with benraku circles? How did Blue and Renegade play into it? So many questions.. So little time Turk gathers his requisite items for the job; A few stim patches, his good clothes, his deck - and his portable satellite. He'll then head out of his Mission Hills home in the little LZ Tsarina, heading out of the thickest of Denver and towards the distant sub-urbs. Where the buildings are no more than two stories tall. The drive is a fairly long one, considering the size of the megacity - likely nearly half an hour to get where the sky is visible. Eventually, he'll try to find someplace relatively private, like the top of a parking garage or even an ill-used parking lot somewhere. And then begin spooling out the cable to his portable satellite, the tiny cylinder body clamped onto the window ledge… The tiny, eliptical dish is exposed and pointed upwards, even as Turk slides the other end of that cable into his own temple, brushing hair away with a thumb. And then? He begins trying to align himself with a satellite cluster.. The signal light goes solid, and the connection is made. Turk floats in the grey, emptiness of his own deck shell for a moment - before his form begins to disintigrate. Ashing away, until nothing is left but a lazily spinning breeze, which sweeps upwards along an invisible beam towards the distant star.. FreeSat, the low hanging orbit of liberty minded individuals with extra credits to contribute to the altruistic goals of providing access to the matrix, at any time, from anywhere. The UMS standard imagery practically comes out of a turn of the century Visio, a simple "satellite" icon so flat it almost looks two-dimensional, like a large sprite in the otherwise highly rendered, three dimensional marvel that is the matrix. The system welcomes the connection from Turk's deck into the constellation as easily as it would a legitimate node. Programs negotiate addresses, a couple back and forths flying by in a handful of seconds. Then the link is established and the access routine initializes, waiting for credentials. Plan 9 appears as nothing so much, iconography wise, as a breeze. Altering it's nature to match and meld with the local virtual environment - so as to provide as little obtrusion as possible - it becomes a solar wind, carrying the dying etches of protons across space. A wift of stellar embers as it brushes against the Iconography of the FreeSat system, interfacing and slipping within the SatRTG - from there it alters once again, air pushed by vents and airconditioners, carrying the faint shimmer of dust motes as it hunts for the access path back to Denver… Plan 9, drifting quietly through the FreeNet deck, begins trickling out tiny rivulet streams that tease through the system; Indexing. Hunting. Search algorithmns pouring through open registries in an attempt to find a hint of the LTG's location.. Where the package lays, awaiting gift wrapping. Keywords are compiled into a list and fed into the protocol stack for the satellite link, where they settle into the background with a simple pointer that dumps potentially relevant results into a file to parsed. Another series of browse routines parse the file, and an analysis engine abstracts them out. In the real world, hours drag by as the MPCP of the deck digests the data streams. In the constellation floating above the North American region of the matrix, the connected RTGs have been abstracted into flat, primary colors painted on the floor below. As the deck hones in on the specifics of the traffic, more and more of them are localized around the UCAS-MW (MidWest UCAS) RTG. A final forty five minutes confirms it. Despite Fuchi's absorbtion by Imperial Tech Services as part of Shiawase's corporate consolidation, the simsense division is still based in Chicago, right where they always were. An LTG code manifests itself. NA/UCAS-MW-0312-57102 Data. Data was the key. One would think Turk might grow bored, but that was the thing about Decking; It provided continual, constant stimulation as one massages one's very thought process into stream manipulation. In addition, the [REDACTED] simply won't let him rest. Not while there are questions unanswered. Fuchi absorption, Imperial Tech? Related to Imperial Oil? And Shiawese. That name kept coming up, over and over again, in his investigations. The wist of dust hovers over the UCAS splash of color - before coalescing and swirling down once more, slipping through the new plane of virtual existance. Now a winding dust devil of sparkling bits as it sweeps along the contemporary, 'flashy' data streams, seeming more a part of the decor than anything else. It eases tendrils of itself into one flow, 'tasting' - before swirling away towards the distant location, fluttering with oak leaves and pine needles… NA/UCAS-MW-0312-57102 The host presents itself as a movie studio lot, obfuscated from the outside world of the matrix by high chainlink fences that have had dark green tarps zip tied to them to prevent lookie loos from snapping pictures of their favorite stars. The world on the other side of the tarps seems to be a hive of activity. Yet from the public grid, there is just a gap in the fence minded by an individual with a clipboard. Where ever there are people who consider themselves important gathering, you can count on someone with a clipboard maintaining a list that either affirms, or denies, the afforementioned people's status in the minds of the people who gave the person with the clipboard, the list that are in charge of. The breeze carries tiny clippings of fan mags, now, the occasional plastic bag and flimsie. In essence, coating itself with the local environment. The swirling breeze slows and lazily twirls beyond the gates - before suddenly twisting inwards, attempting nothing so much as a bypass on the gateway.. The digital breeze picks up, urban detrius tumbling through the virtual landscape. Plastic bags and cans get caught on the fence, clinging to the tarp and then falling to wrap up around the chainlink where it meets the ground. A single brown paper bag, a rarity in the world of 2073 when trees are at an absolute premium, tumbles through the legs of the man with the clipboard and into the lot beyond. The paper bag - a rarity in the 'modern' world - quietly strips itself, pieces rolling up into the debris one would expect from a movie lot. Bits of napkins from roll-a-way buffets, a few plastic everLeaves and worn out gaffer tape that tumbles along the ground. Plan 9's avatar, once more, adapting to maintain as low a profile as it can; To cause as little fuss as possible. The wind lazily circling the center lot, algorithms sniffing away at the winding data traces represented by busy execs and handlers, the scrambling script boys. All iconographs of data, pure data. Hunting an index pointer towards products; Suites, and technical manuals there of… In the meat world, inside the car the fans inside the cyberdeck kick into the high RPM mode to disipate the heat generated by the MPCP burning its way through the data streams, trying to parse out the content that Turk's employer has dispatched him to find. Inside the movie lot, the masses of bodies required to make anything happen in the make believe world of digital film production move about in barely ordered chaos. What looks like a production assistant, a young elf with a clipboard, skin completely smooth like quicksilver, comes jogging up to the whirling mass of debris that is Plan-9. "Here you go! Just what you were looking for!" The icon heads back towards the largest group of icons, gathered around what one might assume to be the director. The memory on the deck absorbs a good 25mp of marketing materials. Most of it snippets of raw simsense product that has been produced by the product in question, along with some testimonials of simsense engineers and studio executives, touting the full feature set, and affordability of the unit as suits their respective positions. Also, one of those many black shirted, blue jean wearing men who always seem to be around the lots notices the vortex of digital detrius. The man with SECURITY written in white on the back of his shirt. "Hey! You need a wristband to be around here!" He says as he reaches out for Plan-9. «Auto-Judge[]» Hek (#10968) rolls 6 vs TN 5 (to no one) for "Green6 vs TN5 to hit icon on a Green host. Every 2 successes reduce Masking by 1.": 1 1 1 2 2 4 = 0 Successes The incorporal form of Plan-9 is a bit too much for the bouncer to handle, and its attempt to grab ahold comes up lacking. The proffered advertising is pulled up and into the lazily wind, papers fluttering and disitingrating into dust as they become part of the integrated whole; Sorted. Nothing of real interest. The "bouncers" attention, however, does grab Plan 9's attention, even as IT tries to grab him as well. There are two thoughts regarding this; Attempt to validate an account. The last time he tried that, it triggered a sysop alert. Even though he was successful, accounts suddenly appearing tend to make security deckers nervous. Especially if they're paying attention. The second track is less obvious; The wind simply attempts to disperse, breezes driven by the virtual sunlight in all directions, paper and gaffer tape swirling between drumming legs… Beneath the hallucinatory surface of the matrix, highly optimized obfuscation routines bombard the Chicago host with hundreds of packet streams, effectively DDoSing a good portion of the system's active bandwidth. Inside the movie lot, the vortex of trash disperses as easily as it coalesced and the bouncer seems to be at a loss. It wanders back to its post, on alert, scanning the lot with a perturbed expression. With the virtual waters muddied enough to throw off the interrogation query, Plan 9 slowly draws itself back together again; A metaphorical U-boat, carefully plumbing the rich waters around a destroyer zone. Bits of cigarette and napkins roll along the ground or dance in the air, once more briefly touching here and there as it continues its data sampling and indexing; Building a pointer list towards more and more relevant data. Technical manuals, for suite products. Suite products of a particular type, a particular year… As happened before, the quicksilver skinned production assistant comes bounding out of the crowds on another errand for the director. She runs up to Plan-9 and hands over another binder of information. "Here you go! Just what you were looking for!" Back in the real world, the cyberdeck resting on Turk's lap inside the car parked atop a parking garage downloads the data from the satellite link. Roughly 100mp of slightly more useful information appears in the memory registers. White papers, case studies, even a virtual trainer on the basics of how to use the SimTech. If the bouncer even recognizes the PA giving Plan-9 the binder of information, it does not let onto it. No sir. The large troll, its skin as smooth as quicksilver, but done in ebony, still keeps searching. The swirling dust of data coagulates once more as further tags are added to the pile - before pressing inwards and seeming to evaporate away as it's drawn down the long chain of connections and neatly packed away into storage for later use. Plan 9's form once again thinning out as it releases some active memory for later use.. The search code keeps branching out through the system, culling through directories hierarchies and blowing past access control lists as it builds indexes and parses file contents. Inside the matrix, the production assistant with her liquid silver skin approaches Plan 9 once again. "Here you go! She has the file that you need." The icon extends a slender arm towards the mass of people gathered around the director. Specifically, she points to another quicksilver icon sitting in a tall, wooden and canvas folding chair. Stenciled in white paint on the back of the black canvas are the words, "Assistant Director" The compilation complete, the new batch of information - of data points - is just as easily teased apart by the gentle, swirling breeze. As the first link-up is finished, Plan 9 quickly spins away from it's local, once more dancing between icons as it dips under the 'transmission' noise in it's transit - a dervish, briefly swirling about the 'assistant director'. The lightest of touches.. In the physical world down on layers one through five, electronic pulses ebb and flow through the hardware sitting on Turk's lap, out through the communications links into the matrix, and into the remote host half a continent away. Various analytic algorithms probe at the system functions surrounding the file system, and it soon becomes evident that the retrieval subroutine might do more than just return files. Inside the movie lot, the Assistant Director suddenly glows with a red halo around its form as the MPCP visually represents the danger posed by Intrusion Countermeasures. The wind slows it's crazed dance, passing by as a ghost. Not alive, then, but an IC - unless it's an AI. It'd have to be a brilliant one, of course, to look so much like a simple IC. Plan 9's sighing path through the stamping feet turning back on itself once again, a metaphorical fighter plane turning in for one another pass; A U-boat performing it's quiet, passive touch as it tries to figure how best to bypass this line… As any Decker, Turk had gotten used to the heat on his lap, which is quite quickly becomming uncomfortable. The soft pitter and ting of heat being dispersed into the air around his meat body, his deck running - quite literally - hot. The heat must be getting to the deck, introducing subtle glitches into the memory modules as the analytical code passes through them and parses the incoming data streams from the host. The Assistant Director remains as oblivious to Plan-9's presence as the CEO of a major corporation would be to an intern. The icon continues to watch the scene that they are all working on, that never ending shot that has to be just right. The bouncer on the other hand, that massive, ebony rendered, troll like icon with SECURITY stenciled in white the back of its black t-shirt… That bouncer notices Plan-9 poking around. "Nobody on the lot without a wristband!" The bouncer swipes at the swirling vortex of digital debris, trying to coral and tackle it. The ethereal form of the icon proves too much for the relatively low powered IC to overcome, and it fails to affect the code running on the deck that warms the inside of Turk's car in the otherwise frigid Denver night. It was a close thing; For all he knew and could do, Turk was still a second tier decker at best; None the less, he manages to hold his own for now, the wind acting as wind does - simply allowing the bouncer's hand to pass straight through. And the wind suddenly spirals upwards, attempting to dive beneath the transmission noise once more, and evade the bouncer… Although Turk might consider himself to be second tier at best, the programs that he has loaded into the active memory of his deck are more than enough to handle the relatively unsophisticated system that he is interfacing with. The evasion algorithms heat up the deck, nearly scalding Turk's lap back in the meat world. But in the matrix, the bouncer icon once again loses track of Plan-9 and returns to its hunt cycle, doing slow laps around the perimeter, along the tarp covered fence. The breezes reaches the upper limits of the V-environment before swirling away, apparently disappating into nothing; Scrambled junk code scattered throughout the node, riding several different false trails as it trips up the IC's lock-on cycle. When the Bouncer moves away, however, a quiet stirring from beneath the Assistant Director's chair. The tiny dust devil slowly gaining strength again as it slips along the angles of chair and IC alike - trying to discern the next puzzle before it is found out.. The cyberdeck sips small slurps of data from the file, a few packets here, a few packets there. They are all garbled and obfuscated, encrypted… Scrambled. Inside the host, where milliseconds of response time matter, the effect is much more immediate and visceral. SCRAMBLE IC «< The label strobes above the head of the Assistant Director icon. The wind continues to circle upwards, becomming a bit stronger of a dust devil. It's conic top, however, suddenly bends around on itself in a manner most unlike a natural breeze; Funnel tightening and spinning faster as it curves back and away - then loops towards the 'Assistant Director's mouth. Seeking nothing less than penetration of a most bizaare nature. To steal the Director's breath away. The digital debris forms into a funnel and dives down the gullet of the Assistant Director, who an instant later coughs everything back up and rises from the chair. "Here you go! This is what you were looking for!" She says with the exact same audio track as the Production Assistant icon. Multiple file copy streams open and bits fly along fiberoptic communication lines, bounce up out of the atmosphere and are collected again on the dish Turk has setup. From there they traverse the short cable from the dish into the deck and begin to fill up the available memory to the tune of 500mp. The breeze is vomited forth again, twisting slowly as the correct file is finally profferred - and what was a dust devil is now a hard breeze, ruffling and tearing the file away; Data teased apart and compressed to half its size, disappearing into the funnel of that wind, which is heavy ladened with the data it's finally sought. Thirsty for data; There is a temptation, as always, to stay and see what threads this place has; How does it connect to the conspiracy of the burglary realty? Another time. the wind rising again, gathering humidity and forming clouds as it does nothing so much as attempt to float away.. The Production Assistant comes chasing after Plan-9 and grabs ahold of what would be an average sized man's shoulder. "Oh no, you cannot leave yet. You are about to go on!" The rising storm flickers as its icon is forcibly interfaced by the gripping Assistant Director. Where her hand lays, a shoulder is formed from nothingness; Transparent. The outline of a person seen only by the debris that clings to his frame in the strenghtening wind. A voice, the low moan of a air across the eaves with an undercurrent of electric static, speaks: "There's been a mistake. I'm on in two hours.." Trying to distract the icon as it once again attempts to leave. "You are right. I am sorry." The PA lets go and returns to her duties at the side of the Assistant Director. The bouncer, still wandering in a loop along the perimeter of the lot does not make any move to stop Plan-9's departure from the studio lot. "Have a good day." The man with the clipboard at the gate says as Plan-9 disintegrates and becomes one with the data trails, leaving first then host, and then a few seconds later, the entire matrix behind. Plan 9 evaporates once more, the cloud blown by it's own winds as it slips from the studio - and crashes upwards. Past the RTG. Past the SatNet. A meteor blown back towards the grey expanse of his own deck - Turk finalizing once again, looking like himself. Only - not. A younger version, perhaps. Light mil-spec armor, the 10K definatly tattooed on the meat of his right shoulder against all advice of his peers. And gears clicking away in the back of his exposed skull, some of them mistimed and catching. With a faint front, he quietly scans the compressed data before he'll begin uncompressing it in storage - and transmitting it to the disk drive.. The ebb and flow of the universe, the entwined strands of data and electrons in the sea of infinite potential that is the Sixth world. As the drive is burning the data onto the chips, the Johnson is across the plex in a run down lounge, drinking cheap alcohol and wondering how much longer he is going to have to wait for a gift wrapped package to be delivered. A slow breathe is drawn in, and Turk's eyes flutter open once again. Satellite quickly wound down, it's elipitcal dish collapsed inward, the small cylinder tucked into the cargo space behind the small car's seats. The deck itself - still warm to the touch - is placed aside, once the op-disc is released with its precious cargo. And, finally, Turk takes a metal wallet from his pocket, selecting from it's contents a small chip. His thumb brushes along his forehead, drawing the hair out of the way, and slides the chip home. A shudder. At last? One more call.. Ring ring. "This is Plan 9's Elite Wrapping Service. We've a delivery scheduled fora Mister Johnson. Is he available?" "Where are we doing to do this?" "The Fallen Angel." "Fair enough. I will get a booth." The line fades away into static as before, finally dying. A few minutes later, and Turk is on the road again, making his way back into the heart of Denver's beating metropolist heart with his humble, utterly blendable LT. Towards the slightly-more-upscale Fallen Angel.. The Angel is what it is, a slightly upscale titty bar where the girls mind their own business unless the customers are interested in making them part of whatever they have going on. Hek does not seem to be one of those customers, as he sits by himself, his only company the whiskey and ginger ale that he sips on while waiting for Turk to arrive. When the man does, he catches his eye and waves him over. Still in his drabber-but-serviceable attire, Turk nods his head to the wave over, the stunter making his way around the floor. It gives him a chance, for instance, to check for questing laser designators from snipers slash aliens slash shapeshifters. It's not a matter of -IF- the Jay has a secondary objective; It's who with. With a faint grunt, and a sideway twist of the torso, Turk slides his way up to the booth. Patting his pocket as he gives that amicable smile. <A pleasure to see you again.> He states, in passable Japanese. A bit lilted, as it were; Nature of the programming. Hek narrows his eyes at Turk and shakes his head. "What?" He exclaims with a slight frown. "Do I look Japanese to you chummer?" The question has that rhetorical edge to it. "Do not insult me with that Jap shit. Those fuckers with their modified cars, and their arcologies full of wage slaves. Motherfucking samurai swords…" The rant abates when he takes a sip of his drink, nearly draining it. "You got what I was looking for?" The question is spoken in low tones, and he looks around warily, alert for anyone who might be interested in what two guys are doing in a strip club without any women around. Turk pauses, those eyes of his narrowing perceptively as the bent gears in his head tick over. A sudden shift in accent? Activity? Personality? -SHAPESHIFTER-. Drawing a sharp breath between his teeth, the suddenly wary stunter slides the opti-disk from his pocket and places it upon the table. Before covering it with his thick hand again, just resting his elbow everyone. Nothing to see here. "All wrapped and secured, Mister Jay." States Turk, his friendly smile quite cold. But speaking in English, his voice set low. "I assume you've got the prepatory fee ready?" "Absolutely, as agreed." No where near as subtle as Turk is, Hek pulls out two thick rolls of bills that are secured by rubber bands, one of them with a slightly more narrow circumference than the other. They are like rainbow wraps of well circulated currency from practically every corporation on the planet. "You can count it if you want to, but it is all there. And you know where to find me, if it is not." A subtle nod is directed towards the eastern wall of the club, and presumably Falstaff's and the Warrens beyond that. The hand palming the opti-disk stretches out to take the money, and deposit the disc in its wake. The clip of money tucked away in his jacket, likely in place where the opti-disk was. "And visa-versa, Mister Jay. A pleasure doing business with you. Do enjoy your gift.." Shapeshifter. Turk hesitates a moment longer, considering. Does he risk following? Finding the lair? See to which cabal this monster owes it's allegiance? Another day. Not while the satellites were overhead - especially -THAT- satellite. He'd had to brush his teeth recently, and the flouride would make him shine like a beacon. With a faint nod, he slides out of the booth, and begins making his way out.. Heather Ridge, the edge of the CAS district on the border of the Warrens. A low, single story cinderblock building in the middle of a few blocks of similar commercial buildings. The building has been practically gutted. No longer used for the light industrial production it was original intended, it now looks like a makeshift simsense studio. In the corner of the largest room is a Fuchi SimTech 2063. A decade ago it was not the hottest nor most advanced simsense production studio on the market, but it got the job done. Now it looks like a hobby project, half disassembled and many days away from functioning. That is Hek's current task, to get it functioning. Hek is armed with the technical schematics that Turk pulled out of the old Fuchi host that has since absorbed by Shiawese and slotted into the organizational chart beneath the Imperial Tech Services subsidary. Combining those with his natural aptitude for electronics and a complete tool kit, he learns on the job. The Surenos are not the type to suffer fools lightly. When people promise them things, they expect those things to happen. In Hek's case, he promised Smiley that he would help Smiley get into the BTL business. The studio is the keystone of that operation, and Smiley is not a patient man. It probably has to do with all of the novacoke that he does, grams of it every day. He hovers over Hek most of the time, pacing restlessly until he gets bored with the lack of progress and disappears into one of the old offices to party with some of the girls who will be his actresses. After the better part of a day, Hek breathes a sigh of relief. The scent of solder is heavy in the air as he closes his eyes. Smiley is in the office and Hek takes the opportunity to rest. Eyelids fall closed and he drifts off to sleep. "Fucker! Wake up!" Hek snaps awake, hands clenching into fists as Smiley yells at him and then laughs. "You get that shit fixed yet? What the fuck, sleeping?!" The man is wired, pupils huge as the effects of a few lines of novacoke have him excited about his project again. "Yeah, yeah. It's done omae. Shit, cut me a break.." Hek nearly pleads, wiping the sleep out of his eyes and standing up. "See.." He flips the power switch and the unit hums to life, slurping 220V/30A power from the industrial power feed that supplies the building. Smiley seems confused. He just stares at the unit and seconds drag into moments. "Now what?" He asks after some time has accumulated, the silence growing heavier with each passing second. "Wire the girls up and put them to work?" Hek suggests with a shrug, eyes drifting towards the open office door. "Bitches!" Smiley calls out loudly, his voice bouncing off of the bare concrete floor and walls. "Get out here. It's time to make some money!" Hek wanders towards the front door, looking tired and ready to be somewhere else, anywhere else at this point. "It's all you omae. Be careful with that shit.." Hek seems to be speaking more to a thin Latino human who is getting situated at the console of the SimTech. Smiley reiterates Hek's point to the young man. "Yeah holmes, you heard the man. Don't be fucking up the gear. This drek is going to make us fuckin rich!"