The Switchblade

GM: Air
Players: Mafen, Tactics, West
Synopsis: A synopsis of what happened here.
Date: DATE HERE, remember to add 60 years to the year to get the timing right :)


It's a cloudy day in Denver, warm enough but with a chilling westerly wind that cuts through clothing. At 10:02am a series of preprogrammed messages are dispatched to their intended targets, the fixers or trusted job providers of a few security contractors hand picked for a job. It's well paid, with an opening offer of thirty five thousand and a note to attend a meeting at 12 noon on the dot, in the back room of the Cool Cat club. Of course, no return address is included, attendance counting as initial declaration of interest in this case.

Mafen steps through the doors, taking a brief inventory of the contents, individual or otherwise around before manuvering his massive and heavy frame toward the back room. He glances at whoever seems to be attending to the needs of customers, making sure that they know where he's headed and that this isn't some elaborate April Fools joke to get him banned from the Cool Cat Club.

West plays it at least a little safe, arriving slightly early to the Cool Cat, and, given the environs, he's decked himself out in one of his two suits, 'cause, hey, it's just that kind of place. At least he makes it look a little good. His time prior to twelve - on the dot - is spent at the bar, smoking one last cigarette and taking a look around to see if he can spot anybody heading towards the back, and then, at noon itself, he crushes out the menthol and joins the small press headed towards that particular doorway.

Tactics heads over to the club from his place in the CAS, taking a cab and paying via certified cred. Not wanting to cause a stir, he doesn't bring the full military setup, only packing his 99SC and some cheap secure clothes. Hopping out of the taxi, he slides some shades over his obvious cybereyes in a vein attempt to conceal them. "Only cool cats wear their shades inside?" he thinks to himself, walking in the door just before noon.

Not getting any protests, Mafen heads into the back room, searching for meaning in his life, or at least the person who offered the job.

Within the back room of the Cool Cat, often used for such conferences as this, is Air sat at the head of the long table, more than enough wheeled and comfortable officer chairs arrayed around the table, and even one extra large, reinforced chair intended for a troll. With elbows on the table and fingers interlaced below his chin Air in a sharply cut suit looks the perfect example of a Mr. Johnson. Well, except for the obvious cybereyes, sporting a pair of shades built into his head, currently slid back to reveal the calculating blue eyes of their owner.
"Come in, sit down." A quick check of his watch, "Timely enough, gentlemen, shall we get right down to it?"

Mafen sets his briefcase down on the table, taking a seat in the reinforced troll chair with a creak. He nods slightly at Air. He smiles slightly, a slightly eerie notion with all thee whole uncanny valley thing he always has going on. "Proceed."

West has been in these sorts of rooms a lot lately; a slight knitting of his brows is the only thing that indicatesd his worry that this could be another gig to try and assassinate the five deadliest people in the world using only a spork and a team of mimes. Nevertheless, cred is cred, and so he's in perhaps a tad after Mafen, giving the blond gent a nod before he settles into one of the chairs, taking a side to himself, for now, though he doesn't say a word.

Heading striaght into the back room, Tactics gives a small wave as he peaks in the door to see Air and.. Nobody else he knows. Sitting down in one of the chairs, Tac lets the others do the talking.
For now.

Air clears his throat with a quiet ahem as he grants a small nod to each person who enters before launching into his rehearsed spiel. "Thank you for coming, though I imagine the offered pay might have had a hand in that. I have a relatively simple, on paper, job for you today; there is a group of terrorists operating out of an underground rave club in Aurora who are wanted neutralised. Expected threat level from them is high, for what they are they're well funded and somewhat well organised. There is also a secondary target of opportunity in the club that is worth a ten thousand nuyen bonus, per head, should it become possible to achieve." The blond man with the slight southern gent accent pauses for emphasis here, leaning back in his chair and letting his arms drop, "I'm afraid that is all the information I can divulge before you accept."

Mafen clips almost immediately, "Accepted. Proceed." That same eerie smile.

Air nods shortly, as if Mafen's acceptance had been a foregone conclusion in his mind.

West listens to the spiel, his brows arching up a little at the mention of terrorists operating out of rave clubs, but he, too, seems just fine and dandy with killing folks for cash, or at least trying to. "Consider myself in as well."

Nodding, Tactics gives the same answer as the other two, simply stating "Sure, I'm game."

Air nods again as assent is given by all, "Excellent." Turning he stands up from his chair and through the click of a remote turns on a trideo screen bearing a picture of a cul-de-sac, at the end of which is a proud neon sign showing the word Switchblade in green. "The Switchblade is the club in question. The location is defended by the local gang, who also use the club as something of a base, and for entertainment."
Another click and the picture changes to a short 3 second repeating clip of two ganger chic types, taking a few steps in front of the green sign, bearing assorted weapons including up to a shotgun each. "The terrorist cell that is wanted operates out of a basement level within, and the target of opportunity is a broadcast hub. It's location is unknown, hence it's secondary nature. If you find it, destruction is all that is required."
The blond pauses and turns back to the assembled group, "I'm afraid I have little in the way of reconnaisance for you. The targets are within, and should be obvious from their superior equipment and skill, not to mention they likely keep themselves apart slightly. I know their numbers have been counted to at least four known bodies, and possibly more in support who have not been identified. The only requirement regarding them is neutralisation, either through death, or whatever other means you can think of."

Mafen tilts his head and takes in the information. "When do we need to leave for the site? Time limit?" He hrms. "Any idea what kind of weapons the terrorists may be bringing to bear? Gangers seem to be using pretty soft hitting stuff."

"So I'm assuming this gang is more than willing to protect the targets, right?" West asks, despite the fact that Air admitted he had little in the way of reconnaisance to give them. "And what are entry requirements like for this club?" A brief glance around the table confirms his suspicions; "I'm the ugliest here, would I have issues gettin' through the door? Need to bring a squeeze piece along, or is it a free-for-all?" He's apparently thinking more along the lines of infiltration rather than assault.

Tactics says nothing, sitting with his arms folded, leaning back in his chair a bit. He seems content to let others question the Johnson first before he takes a crack at anything he feels was left out.

Air moves back to his seat, moving it with one hand on the back as he sits down and swivels around square with the table again. The gangers walking their neverending three second loop on the screen behind him. "There's no time limit, but if you wait too long the cell may well have left to pursue another target. As for their weaponry, I was simply given "well equipped". I wouldn't be surprised if they were equipped with any kind of small arm, explosives, perhaps even chemical weapons. I simply don't know. The same goes for the club, I've never been, though that would be a tactic worth exploring, I'm sure."

Mafen nods. "I suppose we'll start immediately. Do either of you need anything else?" The massive elf tilts to look at the two others, and slides the chair back and stands, brushing his gloves off briskly.

No other questions seem to occur to West for a moment, so in the meantime, he tugs his pocket secretary out of the interior of his suit jacket, flicking it on and starting to tap away at the screen, keying in something or another. Finally, though, his head comes back up. "Do you know what sort of terrorists these are? Eco? Political? Good, old-fashioned religious?"

Air shrugs, "Probably eco, judging by who wants them gone, though I couldn't say for sure. I wouldn't expect any of you to trust anything I tell you, so I'm simply leaving the legwork up to you."

"Alright," is West's simple answer as he shuts his pocket secretary, giving a slight shake of his head to Mafen; no more questions from him, apparently.

Tactics raises a hand for a moment to get the attention of the others. "So to confirm, it's one hundred and five thousand split three ways, with an additional ten thousand each if we take out optional target beta, where primary target alpha is four skilled and well armed terrorist members within the confines of the Switchblade, located in the Aurora Warrens?" he asks, adding "Does that summerize the job sufficiently?"

Air nods but also appends, "At least four well armed and skilled terrorist cell members. Hopefully you can eliminate more than just the gunthugs."

Nodding, Tactics replies, "Would a better summary be that the job is to secure the building, eliminating all major threats, again with target beta being an optional bonus?"

Air shakes his head, "The club itself, the gang that controls the area, and the… 'public' clubgoers are of no concern. You can circumvent, bribe, eliminate or ignore them as you see fit."

Mafen nods. "Seems simple enough. With exits covered, they'll have nowhere to run to. Hit them fast enough and they'll be dead before they know what is going on."

"Might be worth it to see if the gang isn't all that interested in protectin' these slots, or even giving them up. Issue there bein' that we're not gonna find out how tight this gang is with these moffies without tipping our hand," West muses, running a hand along his bearded jaw. "Either way, can't hurt to take a look around." His own chair is rolled back, allowing him to rise. Mafen's plan gets a slight shrug and a nod.

Mafen shakes his head. "If they are loyal, they'd immediately warn the eco terrorists. Habitation implies at least some shared interest in mutual preservation. I wouldn't want them warned."

Air remains silent at this point, simple listening and watching calmly from his spot at the head of the table.

"I think the best way to go about this is CS gas and flash. Any civies will bail, we take them down with gel rounds and zipcuffs. Figure out who's who later. Once the gas is clear, two man team goes in and drops any stragglers while the remaining man holds the prisoners outside." Tactics says, thinking about how this op would go down back in Detroit.

"We'd need to know how popular this joint is," West opines, head shaking slightly again. "If they've got two hundred slots packed in there when we hit - and they could, if it's a rave place, you know how those fuckers are - I don't wanna be trying to cuff seventy-odd nova'd-up slots myself. Job's killin'. Might as well go with the deadly stuff if we're gonna use gas, unless you're not talking theoretical and already got enough CS to fumigate the place."

Mafen nods. "That sounds agreeable, though I might prefer neuro-stun and barring the doors. A target posing as a civilian upstairs may get away in the initial upset. Alternatively, I have a suit of stealthy armor I could use to try to bypass the civilian portion of the facility, but my size is prohibitive." He grabs his briefcase, looking over tactics carefully. "I have neuro-stun agent ten available. You seem to have some experience in these matters." Mafen raises an eyebrow, shaking his head. "Unneccessary death will may outweigh the cost of the operation entirely. A club full of partygoers is bound to have at least one person in it that may have connections to people we'd rather not be upset."

"I agree. This op is a no go if we are talking lethal force on civies. Your neurostun in mini-grenade format, or we talking some sort of chem bomb here? I'd also note that all of this planning is pending recon, after which I expect we'll do some replanning of sorts." Tactics says, matter of factly. "Besideds which, despite what the media says, the party does in fact end and we don't have a heavy time limit."

West's broad shoulders shrug, scratching at his rusty beard a little more. "Well, then we probably better get to lookin' it over, right? For all we know we haven't even come up with anything feasible yet due to something we don't know about. Time to take a look around." Then, of course, his attention turns to Air to wait for an answer to Mafen's question, too.

Air clears his throat quietly at being addressed and nods, "Intuition would be your best bet. They'll likely be the best equipped and organised of any group in that area. Otherwise they might self-identify."

"Alright," West nods at Air. "So. Gents. Time to go peeping about, I think, yeah?" There's that, and the fact that he wants to get out of this conference room and have a cigarette. "Gas sounds workable, given the number of unknowns, but let's go make sure."

"We should check the party out, every few hours for a day or so. After that, we can meet up and plan the op for when it's least crowded. Unless someone has a better idea?" Tactics queries.

Air raises a hand, "Gentlemen, one last thing. If after your recon you think you need some more backup, I can arrange. But you wil be splitting your pay at that point. Just an option for you. Keep me updated."

"Sounds like a good enough plan," West answers, his head nodding a little absently at Air's offer of backup. "We all going, or just some of us? You boys sound like you know what you're looking for when it comes to gassing a building - I'll admit that I sure as hell don't. I'd like to get a look at it, but if three slots like us rolling into a raver club is more suspicious than two, I can sit." His eyes flick to the silent Mafen.

Mafen shrugs. "It's hard for me to go anywhere without spooking people. But I'll happily go in if that's what you want." The elf grabs his briefcase and moves toward the door.

Aaaaaand they're moving again. Excellent. West shrugs slightly and starts to follow afterwards, already starting to dig his cigarettes out of whatever pocket they're in.

Mafen holds out his pocsec toward West, and it beeps in a tone indicating a key exchange. "Comm freqs. Backups to switch to if we think the primary gets compromised."

West obediently holds out his pocsec, letting the little machines do their work. Technology. Ain't it grand.

Tactics fumbles around in his coat pocket a moment, but finally finds his pocket secretary. Holding it to Mafen's, he recieves the comcodes, and asks "What level encryption you lot got? I cap at grade 4, unfortunatelty." he says, making a quick note in the pocsec to upgrade his taccom.

Mafen does the same for Tactics, then checks the comms. He mentally scales down the encryption to grade four, drastically decreasing the key-size. Not sure how you are seeing into his brain, but there you go. Anyway. «Tinman, team. Comm check. Grade four should be fine, but let's keep radio traffic down on site.»

"Likewise," is West's answer. "And not on me. But, as we're headed to the 'rens anyway, that's a quick fix. 'specially as I ain't walking into a raver club dressed in a suit. Or pretty much anywhere else in the Warrens, for that matter." Indicating, perhaps, that he's stopping off at home to change and, you know, actually grab his stuff.

Mafen nods, pulling down map information from his pocsec. "Let's meet at the parking lot, two blocks down from the club. I will be driving a large white pickup truck."

"I assume pay will be setup after confirmation digitally? No debrief required for a job well done?" Tactics asks, just before everyone gets to leaving.

"Black 3220," West answers, head bobbing in agreement to the plan. "And I'd recommend against all going in at once. We don't exactly look like guys who go clubbing together all the time." With Tactics' question hanging in the air, he waits, and, once it's answered, he heads out to prep and drive.

Air nods to Tactics, "I have all your contact details on file."

Unless anyone else has anything to add, West will slip on out, making his way quickly through the hep cat vibe of the Cool Cat, and thus on out into the parking lot. Once there, he'll hit the keyless entry on his Honda, sliding into the driver's seat and firing up the engine, starting the long trek back to the 'rens. Destination: his apartment, to pick up his gear and change clothes to something a little more appropriate for a raver club. And, since the club itself is in Aurora, he doesn't need to worry about packing light, slinging his sea bag into the back of the coupe before setting off to meet up. And, of course, getting his own comms set up.

Arriving at the appointed meeting spot for the legwork, West tucks his Deputy into the inside-the-waistband concealed carry holster he wears at the four o'clock position, lights himself a fresh cigarette, and prepares to wait for a large white van driven by a large white elf to pull up, adjusting the fit of the little earbud that keeps him linked into their new comm network in the meantime. He hates these things. At two blocks away from the club, he can't really do all that much in the investigative line, but he can, at least, take a step out of the parking lot and into the street itself, using his vision mods to try and get it in sight. Checkin' it out. Seein' if there's a crowd out front, guys with guns wandering around looking badass, etc.

The club really does appear to be down at the end of a dead end street, a perfect little channel, or perhaps to some people, an obvious killzone on the way in. The street opens out in front of the club itself, into something of a gathering area perhaps, out front. The standard refuse litters the street, including a few hobos around barrel fires, and the badass ganger ratio is high, with them wandering about in groups of two or more toting their firearms openly.

Tactics wastes a little time before heading home by first hitting a strip mall in the CAS. Picking up some extra extra baggy ganger looking clothing to wear over his armor, he makes a few purchases and heads on over to his place in Aurora. Taking a moment to bag his gear, Tactics foots it over to the meeting point, Assault rifle slung on his back and duffel in hand, wearing his newly acquired ganger threads over his heavier armors. "There's no way this is concealing shit." he thinks to himself for a moment, before considering the fact that maybe that just makes him look even more the part. It is the warrens, after all.

"Well, they're decently armed," West announces to Tactics as the man shows up, hoofing it on down the street to the meeting site. In the meantime, West himself has gone back to a casual lean against the hood of his car, fiddling around with his pocket secretary. Possibly playing Snakes as they wait for Mafen to arrive. "Can throw your shit in the back if you don't want to carry it," he offers, not looking up. "West, by the way." Might as well get names out there.

Mafen has no clothes appropriate for a raver club, having a walk-in closet full of identical, gigantic suits. He does have a suit of armor though, which he slowly takes apart and pulls on, carefully folding up his suit in the process. He removes the neuro-stun grenades from the concealed compartment, and seals everything back up. Parking the car and engaging the anti-theft, he steps out and locks it, ruthenium already engaged. He starts attempting to be stealthy, which at his skill level is mainly just trying not to knock anything over.

«Auto-Judge[]» Mafen (#6763) rolls Stealth + Karma Pool: 1:
2 4 5 10

"So," West begins, putting his pocsec away as Mafen shows up, his own arms crossing across his chest. "We all going in, or just some of us? You two are the gas guys, I wouldn't even know what I'm looking for when it comes to that sort of stuff."

Mafen's just a fuzzy blurr, but he talks softly, voice coming out of the armor's helmet to be heard outside. "I'll scout the perimeter and see if I can seal the fire doors. You two head inside."

"Alright," West responds. He unseats himself from the hood of his Honda, and, with a glance at Tactics to make sure the man's ready, starts to stroll off the two blocks down the street towards the club. He keeps his hands in the pockets of his jacket, scuffed boots kicking the occasional chunk of broken ferrocrete, and his eyes, behind the glasses, focused on the front of the club, doing much the same as Mafen and trying to get a generalized sort of head count and notion of viable exits.

"Sure thing." Tactics says, tossing his bag in Mafen's truck and starting a casual stride towards the entrance of the club with West, AK-97 slung over his shoulder for fear of the Ares Alpha being a tad too professional. "So when you're gassing a place." Tactics says casually, "You're just making sure the place isn't heavily ventilated, and is reasonably weather sealed. Any livable place in denver should be a decent target for flash and gas."

"Right," West answers, nodding along a little, that clearly making sense. "My question's more along the lines of how we get the gas in there, seal it, and let it do its job without getting dosed ourselves, yeah?" He's in no hurry as he approaches the front of the club, keeping his hands in his pockets, just ambling along like he and Tactics are two dudes having a chat on their way to a…you know, rave.

The buildings in this area are all two stories or higher, and as one enters the street that leads to the club all the side roads and alleys are blocked off with assorted car wrecks, overturned skips and the like. The strolling armed gangers give scant attention to people walking towards the club, people are assumed to be going that way, o they're overconfident. Just in front of the club's entrance, in the open space is a raised platform, on which stands a few gangers, armed and lounging around. The rig of lights and speakers attached beneath it seems to state that sometimes this area is used when the club is full.
To the left of the main entrance is what might seem to be the gangs hangout, as many and more with their colours appear to be on that side, while the opposite side to that is a blank, boarded up building.
Directly ahead, beneath the green neon SWitchblade sign a hole in the building leads deeper, with a couple of gangers standing doormen, but no actual doors to speak of. Curiously, no music can be heard out here.

Mafen is invisible and slowly marching around the grounds, looking for interesting exits, entrances, or possible escape routes. He notices a sewer grate, and carefully considers the options — the layout seems to suggest the building may have access to a tunnel. He proceeds back to his vehicle, unlocking and cracking open the door opposite the club, and gets a claymore mine out of his concealed compartment. Sneaking back, after locking and turning anti-theft back on, he pulls up the manhole and attempts to set the claymore mine.

With a grunt and a crunch, Mafen works his way over the wall to the rear of the building. He surveys it for entrances, exits, fire escapes, cellar doors, etc. Meanwhile, at the club entrance…

"Maybe they're closed?" West suggests quietly, the lack of music in a rave club perhaps providing a hint. Or maybe it's just the middle of the day and nobody's recovered from last night's party yet. He continues to stroll forwards more or less near Tactics in his perfectly normal, non-ganger Warrens clothing. "Y'know, even if they ain't, I can't dance. I dunno if you can dance, mate, but I sure as shit can't dance. Might look a lil'…suspicious, like. I know a couple chicks it might be worth callin' to come 'long and act like they ain't straight-up casin' the joint."

The wandering shotgun and assorted other small arms toting gangers don't seem to take a whole lot of notice of the two newcomers approaching the club. People approach the club all the time. Right now, not so many, but it's a regular thing.
Across the walls of the surrounding debris strewn streets is numerous graffiti slogans including one that says "Lez sux" in bright white writ huge across one wall.

Taking in his surroundings, Tactics continues to move forward, AK slung over his should, cause that's apparently the norm for what you carry in the warrens as personal protection. "This'll be real disappointing like if they tell us to turn around when we get there. I wanted to party, listen to some tunes, ya know?", he says to West, jokingly.

«Plot-Page» (To: West) Air says, "There are bullet pockmarks across walls here and there. Big slug chunks and flechette peppering mixed in. The whole street is obviously a good chokepoint, especially as the gang holds the high ground up ahead, and likely the buildings to the side where upper windows aren't boarded up."

"They turn us back, we just come back when it's kickin', and bring some friends," is West's answer, apparently already starting to warm to his own plan. He ducks his head for a moment to light a fresh cigarette, inhaling through a slightly stuffy nose, and then rolls his shoulders in a shrug. "No use in not findin' out either way, though. C'mon." And with that, he quickens his pace a little, though not enough to move him out of 'casual amble' territory as he moves for Switchblade, raver club to the stars.

As the pair of guys pretending to be Warrens residents but who rather obviously have a better diet than most CAS sector residents pass into the open area and beneath the raised platform, the pair of gangers at the 'door' begin to pay them a little more attention. The one to the left, a human, lets his SPAS-22 drop into one hand and he waves them over with the other. "You're new here. You gotta buy a membership to get in. Five hundred." He glances between the two of you, "Each. And you leave the guns topside." The dwarf on the other side is staring with something of a scowl in West's direction, and his Mossberg shotgun is fingered and held in both hands, ready to go.

TO BE CONTINUED

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