Globalemits November 2012

November 2012

Fri Nov 2

KSAF News in brief. A male talking head looks into the camera» "Denver authorities have released a photo of their suspect behind last week's airport bombing, allegedly intended for Jeremy Falloon:
»Inset Picture of Connor Seale, former VP of the Tusk Liberation Front, terrorist organization
»Inset security cam loop of a small blurry group running on the tarmac towards a sitting plan
"Mr. Seale's whereabouts are unknown and is wanted for questioning, but he is considered armed and dangerous.


KSAF News in brief. »A female elven talking head smiles at the camera. "Thanks, Craig. Well big news in politics. Proposition 87-B is on everyone's lips as the Council approved a motion this morning to allow a quorum for the controversial bill allowing blanket search and seizure of any metahuman suspected of hate-terrorism. This comes after a summer and fall of multiple terrorist actions. Councilman Ramirez is expected to filibuster the bill if it quote, 'moves faster than Montezuma's revenge'. In other news, are you pampering your puppy too much?"


Wed Nov 7

The UCAS election proceeded as expected. The Technocratic Party pushed through its 11th hour legislation to get widespread voting by matrix. The results were unclear as the polls opened. The screamsheets and airwaves have been abuzz with election coverage and ads, ranging from stirring patriotism to the dirtiest smears to hard-nosed pragmatism. The people took their ballots, physical and digital, and made their wishes known.

For the first hours, things went smoothly. Vote counts became easier with instant electronic tabulation, far better than even the best drone systems that previously provided the first ballot count could manage. Emotions ran high, but they always do.

Then the vote counts stopped updating. "Technical difficulties," said a senior official in Michigan. "There's a glitch we're hammering out," an expert from Cross Applied Technologies said. Unrest grew. Had CATCo dropped the ball on voting? After 21:00 Denver time everything went silent. The matrix exploded with rumors. The news analysts filled the lack of data with speculation. The candidates largely blamed Angela Colloton's Technocratic Party, she blamed hardware and software. The world waited for results.


Washington is simmering on the edge of riots on the morning of the day after the election. Security forces, public, private, and hybrid are out in force in many cities, especially after quiet Worcester, Massachusetts erupts into violent demonstrations against "military dictatorship and vote suppression."

Slowly, bits of truth leak out. In New York servers crashed and the hard copies of votes were mysteriously misplaced. Ontario and Nova Scotia both found evidence of widespread magical tampering with voters who showed up in person. Exit polls and results don't match up well anywhere, and Novatech's ace deckers uncover evidence of widespread unauthorized access attempts in the matrix systems. Sure, most of those guys ended up with their brains dribbling out their ears after the IC got to them… but some of the tampering seemed to come from within CATCo software. Fingers are pointed. Accusations fly about who thought trusting a Quebecois company with UCAS interests was a good idea.

Haeffner, ever the elder statesman, pleads for calm. Results will be found, all will be made right. The country will not fall into the hands of those who have not been backed by the people. But the candidates, civil until now, turn on each other like rabid dogs. The Normalcy party thunders against the mages' involvement, Michelle Diego, narrowly the front-runner in the final polls, delivers a speech to her American National Party supports on the need to clean house with ominous, militant overtones. Nadja Daviar remains conspicuously silent.


Any sign of weakness on the political stage is blood in the water among sharks. The CAS and Sioux look to their neighbor, wondering what instability might bring to their borders, while the members of the Corporate Court look to expanding their holdings. Denver, always in uneasy equilibrium, stews in worry over what it might mean to have its borders redrawn if the ANP makes good on its promise to turn over the UCAS Sector to the CAS… and how the other Treaty signatories might react to a shift in the balance of power. A petition for Seattle to secede and become an independent state gains 50,000 signatures in less than a day.

Meanwhile, the big names in Washington unsheath their claws and send out political operatives. It's obvious that the shadows have already had their fingers in this mess, but there's always room for more. Calls go out. Johnsons take up their credsticks and head to quiet, private locations. Deckers blow the dust out of their decks with compressed air, load up their programs, and get ready to hit the feeding frenzy of lost, found, and faked data. Riggers send out aerial surveillance drones that circle like vultures over trucks shipping ballots, chips, and even mainframes.

Despite the jokes, government security is competent, dedicated, and expecting trouble. These are the circumstances that make a runner's rep in the shadows forever, but this is also when a lot of kids with more balls than brains, and some pros who've used up their luck, end up dead. You don't need a SIN to cast the deciding vote in this election anymore.


A closed council meeting ends in a shouting match. Councilman Ramirez' loud and booming objections vibrate the solid oak walls. Expert witness statements, multiple studies provided by conservative think tank and construction conglomerate Isaiah Group, are no match for the man's filibustering and delaying tactics. Too many why's for the council. A tired Jeremy Falloon and an annoyed Elizabeth Kalheim call for a recess for "further panel investigations". Proposition 87-B or the Pan-National Denver Law Enforcement Suspicious Terror Frisk….Act, is delayed another day. Change to the status-quo is difficult at best, but with enough money to be made anything is possible. Anything.


Thu Nov 8

Down in the Warrens, the evening heats up for a small section of the community. With the hotbed of activity that is the wasted residential area of Aurora right now, that might not be too surprising, but just north of the Rez neutral market automatic gunfire rips up the tranquil dusk. All across the southern half of south central, gangers are killed by other gangers.

It heats up very specifically for a small group of people around the Bare Knuckle Gym. The popular hangout where people get beat up, cut up, shot up and very rarely sometimes work out at is kinda busy. With the Warrens being such a state, any place that seems stable is like a beacon of hope. That illusion is shattered when a group of Crimson Smoke gangers burst in and start barricading the place. They yell at the Gym clientele to stay out of their way. Moments later the glass doors shatter under a hail of automatic gunfire: outside a big group of orks hide among the assorted burnt out wrecks and broken buildings, and every one of them is pointing an AK-97 at the gym.

The couple of names inside, plus all the paid up members head upstairs to keep out of trouble. The Plum and Boxer head to their lockers and arm themselves and join the security razorboy in watching the stairs. Nothing is going to come up those stairs.

Outside, Fray and Katarina pause, they're on the outskirts and it's difficult to say what they really can do at this point while Rex and Double Tap prepare themselves to aid the Horsemen in the Assault on the Bare Knuckle Gym.

Everything pauses for a moment, just a moment of pure silence, like one of those shots in a war trid when the camera pans across all the actor's faces in variously grim and set expressions and then you see the commander give the order. It erupts, loud and dangerous as nearly fifteen assault rifles open up all at once. Double Tap heads upstairs on a grapple line and infiltrates from behind while Rex, well he just seems to have fun running right through the hail of gunfire, bullets pinging off his armor-plated hide, and then using himself as an orkish battering ram to clear the front door. Mere seconds pass. It quiets down. The orks outside are reloading, the Smoke's inside? They are not.


Sat Nov 10

Down in the Warrens, the Crimson Smoke reel without a leader figure to rally them. A solid chunk of their major turf is now populated with orks that don't bear Crimson colours including the area around the Bare Knuckle.

Further north a small party of humans scrabbles through ruined buildings, trying to keep quiet…


…until they finally get noticed. In a twitch shootout, shotguns blast and smg's rattle, and suddenly the whole area erupts. In a moment, North Central becomes a live battlefield…


…then just as soon as it starts it… no no, we won't have any of those movie cliches. The fighting drags on for a while until it eventually starts to sputter out. Gunfire becomes more sporadic until slowly it stops. A few more precise shots toll out the end of the battle much like a big old clock tolls out the time. North Central fades back into quiet again.


Then it all fires back up again. Pockets of Smokes hide out in buildings that the Royals just didn't have the manpower to storm. That is until some unknown third party joins in. A black GMC bulldog makes the rounds, expertly driven at high speed from one hotspot to the next, kicking up dust and debris from behind the wheels around every corner. It doesn't stop as it passes by on it's rounds, a turret just pops up and annihilates the majority of the Smoke's opposition in long, painfully accurate bursts of heavy weapon fire. In the end, what had been a victory for the Royals, becomes a complete rout for the Smokes, and North Central falls into an uneasy peace as the smaller gangs pause to figure out their new situation.


Mon Nov 12

Shadowrunners are like parasites, like viruses. That's what the authorities and security services and all protectors of peace and prosperity say, and they're not wrong. Parasites live off of others, and they do it while avoiding detection. Viruses have to get in and get out or go into hiding before the host's response destroys them. One of the keys to that is keeping the immune system down. Once the host is in high alert, the game's up.

There's an asymmetry in runner-target relationships. Any corporation has more resources than any runner team. Even their security alone is better than what any runners can muster. The trouble is that they can't maintain high alert forever, and runners only need to strike hard and quick before the security goons know what's going on and come down on the runners hard.

That's the game. Shoot straight, conserve ammo, and don't kick the hornet's nest and stick around for the hornets. And when the hornets are swarming, don't go anywhere near the nest. When you're running circles around the guards who spend years on duty without seeing trouble, when you're slipping in and out of the facilities or cutting through IC and nabbing the data without leaving any traces and laughing your way to the bank, it's easy to forget that last rule. You are only better than they are when they aren't ready for you. The megacorporations are sleeping giants. Don't ever, ever go after them when they are awake.


Matrix Free Toronto is a respected team of runners. They're not the best of the best, but they're probably close to it. Their decker cut into a CATCo voting database just after the election, found the information, and led the team to a facility in Ottawa. It's not clear exactly what happened there, but Seraphim came to interrogate their friends and their friends' friends. Word leaked out slowly, with rumors of psychotropic black IC and disappearances. The only thing that's clear is that Matrix Free Toronto is no longer, as of today, of concern to anyone.

Last Friday a trio of riggers launched an assault on a convoy carrying voting equipment. There were no obvious escorts, but the attacking drones never made it within half a kilometer of the target. Ares stealth fighters took out the drones, tracked down the signal, and then hit the riggers' command post with a small but sufficient burst of missiles.

And those are just the competent actions against the UCAS and the megacorporations involved in the last election. A hundred of more small-time runners probe government buildings and networks, sniff around the periphery of Wuxing and Cross Applied Technologies compounds. They are captured and killed by the dozens.

Of course successes aren't public. They can't be. But the usual runner haunts have very little bragging about successes in the election game, and there are more empty seats and posts without comment than usual. Runners went into the bear's cave and discovered the bear wasn't hibernating. The UCAS was expecting the opportunists. The megas were expecting them. There is little glory for the shadow community. Survivors lick their wounds quietly and election counts proceed without interference, at least as far as anyone can tell.


Sometimes the cynics are right and it doesn't take deliberate action to make a hash of politics. The counts are in… and indecisive. New American Era did well, but the lack of real new suggestions and hesitation at electing Daviar, a woman with a murky past, hurt their numbers. The Technocrats' military posturing got mixed results, with most voters split over how to deal with California, but General Colloton has a real record, is a real military hero, and has more specific policies outlined in her platform. The only thing that's clear is that the megacorporate parties came out on top. Ares and Novatech, the American AAA's, are riding high.

But what does that mean on the ground? The UCAS Constitution abolished the Electoral College and provided for election by popular vote, but at this point the voting margins are in the range of statistical noise, unclear ballots, and software failures. There are recounts and re-recounts ongoing, but the fate of the UCAS is uncertain. Novatech and Ares aren't enemies, but they aren't friends, and they may be heading for confrontation. Congress wrings its hands without solutions.

At this point blaming shadowrunners would be nice, but after the crowing of security successes earlier it won't fly. Colloton calls for military preparedness "just in case" and Ares responds by stepping up its private forces "in solidarity." It's all posturing, but it makes for uneasy times.


Wed Nov 14

The Warrens: Tir LLewn, 12:15 AM.
Within mere moments there was a resounding explosion and flash of light from the inside of the sniper's nest high above. The Blackboot Skins blitzkrieg a portion of the elven enclave with nary a single uttered word. An Uzi chatters off rounds, sweeping through a checkpoint. Bullets spang and spark off of burned out and rusting car hulls. Willy Pete grenades flash Hot Melting Death among the armed and unarmed alike. One particularly large and bulky Blackboot rides roughshod through the check point, a sword in one hand dragged across the ground producing sparks.


The Warrens: Tir Llewn, 12:22 AM.
A brief and much too late counter-attack quickly caves from the precise grenade tubing of the human supremacist gang- A man is split in half by a Blackboot sword strike. An aspected Wiccan is ignited by gunfire. And just as quickly as it began, the guerilla strike force evades capture, detonating secreted pipe bombs to cover their exit. The quiet cries and moans of the injured elves rise as information flows out. Retaliation is inevitable.


Aztlan Sector, Industrial sector, Soltar LLC Main Office. 3:09AM
A Hardcorps Security guard places a hand towards his throat mic as he watches a lone figure walking quickly- northbound- under the sodium street lamps. He inspects the front entrance ensuring no Maglock tampering.

»Stanton, I'm gonna need a bug job in East Sec I think—«

BOOOOOOM!!!!!!


Aztlan Sector, Industrial sector, Soltar LLC Main Office. 3:10AM
The indoor blast is amazingly powerful and fades amazingly fast. While the building itself doesn't crumble, the front doors, however, explode outwards from the pressure wave decapitating the security guard and setting off an alarm… and also, every car alarm for three blocks.
News52 gives the story some coverage
»Blast causes local seismographs to send out an email earthquake warning of 3.5 on the Richter scale. Soltar LLC local employer, recently acquired Aztlan subsidiary.«


Thu Nov 15

News52 and KSAF fight for news cycle scraps, but what can you expect during a scandal ridden election season?
The 24 Hour Rehash-

»2072's Denver Trend??? 38 agree terrorism is in vogue!!! Magical/Racial/ Criminal/Political Terrorst Acts of all kinds. Op-Ed's get a lot of people talking. Who's right and who's wrong?«


Screamsheet Headlines Fight For Attention

»Warrens "Containment" Strategy«
»Politically Connected R&D Corp Bombed?«
»Ramirez Ceases Filibuster On Prop 87-B / Pan-National Frisk Act. Possible Council Vote Next?«
»50K =Y= Bounty 4 Terrorist 'Suspect' Connor Seale«


Fri Nov 16

The Warrens. Ork Town, Tir Lewyn, South Central, pockets everywhere.
Like the Combat Bike World Series, multiple gangs now vie for a a piece of the Warrens and the shining title. The elven gang coalition, the Horsemen (now being supplied hardware from the Sons), newcomers Blackboot Skins, and wild cards the Crimson Smoke and ork splinter groups all battle each other on various fronts and for various reasons.
Meanwhile the left overs of the Tusk Liberation Front, so far as any average joe is concerned, have been absorbed by the Horsemen. The new leader in hiding, their political aspirations shattered, the road to hell paved by their good intentions. What other move could they make?


Wed Nov 21

Weeks have passed since the UCAS elections without any solid answer to the central question: who will occupy the White House? But this evening that question has been answered. Colloton and Daviar conferred behind closed doors, alone. Then they met with leaders of their parties behind equally closed doors. Then the House and the Senate voted to approve their proposal.

General Angela Colloton will be the 9th president of the UCAS and the first woman elected to the position. Nadja Daviar will be sworn in as her vice president in a solution not unlike the old solution to an electoral college tie back in the days of the USA. The fact that the solution has no standing or precedent under the Constitution of the UCAS has deterred no one. The watchdogs mutter balefully on the sidelines but most of the world is just relieved to know what will come.

And what will come? Where Haeffner has been a politician and a master of the games of state, Colloton is a fighter. She favors business, of course, but that's business as usual. A bigger change will be her emphasis on military intervention and her stated goal of bringing California back into the fold. What does that mean for the Free State? For the Japanese Protectorate?

As for Daviar, the cipher remains a cipher. She played second fiddle to Dunkelzahn and then to Haeffner after him. She'll remain in her customary place. As power behind the throne? As grand vizier? As good steward? More importantly, what deal did she and Colloton hammer out between them to let rivals work together in the halls of power?


The Warrens.
Law Enforcement puts it's foot down tonight. Fearful of more mass unrest due to the official UCAS Presidential confirmation, the two security agencies launch HTR and KE-Elite Teams to secure their respective perimeters.
Sergeant Apone with the KE 32 Precinct, Air-Ops, says a blessing before rising into the sky. His five man team sweeps across their assigned sector. A pair of air to surface rockets materialize and obliterate a four story building on the outskirts of Orktown.

»Blake! Move in! Who's firing?!«, radio's Apone.
The sleek KE helicopter throttles towards the site. Suddenly, seemingly from nowhere, a hornet shaped helicopter descends. »Evasive Maneuvers!«

Twin miniguns chew through the KE Helicopter's rotor, ammo on board cooks and explodes. Apone watches the world spin closer and closer. And then he blacks out. (Staff Plot)


Wed Nov 28

The Warrens.
The KE helicopter spirals down, spinning and spinning and eventually hitting the ground in a thunderous clap of destruction. The noise is heard for blocks and the acrid black smoke rises from The Sticks against a cold Denver sky. Gangers, shadowrunners, and even ghouls see opportunity of one kind or another.
Sergeant Apone awakes with a jolt, his leg shredded with metal, a gun already in his hand. He leans against the wreckage and fires his weapon into a mass of hungry Ghouls lurching through the detritus. "Get away from him you bastards!", Apone screams. "Blake! Get up" Click, click. Apone dry fires. The ghouls get closer. In the distance, a scout group of Horsemen on salvaged elven motorcycles circle crash site, probing for an opening. For the pilot, Blake, and Sgt. Apone, this is their last stand.


UCAS District, Knight Errant Brass.
Data lines glow white hot as reports come in and internal calls are made.
Within minutes Knight Errant is already on top of rumored downed helicopter sightings in the Aurora Warrens. Instant Press Releases to News52: Criminal Gangs out of control, but crash due to pilot error. KE-HTR already en route. No need to worry folks. Internally, it's a different story.


Warrens, The Sticks.
The calvary arrives! A quartet of shadowrunners, disparate in backgrounds, but united in a commitment to doing good when possible, materialize from Smoke's city spirit. Hideous shapes gorge themselves on dead KE officer and hiss with glee.

Rowan's Ruger Thunderbolt saves Apone, the gun ripping two ghouls apart with burps of lead. Pistolier and do-gooder Shoeshine plays with a group of ghouls and they dance for his Predator before being vanquished. Savannah, a sword at her side, surveys the mission and decides there's too much hardware available in the Helicopter. She summons the Art around her, fiery air intensifies giddily licking through missiles, ammo boxes, and dead cops.


Rowan leads the group through the Warrens. Empty buildings, alleys, abandoned and gang scarred territory, through Fox Hollow and ultimately to Checkpoint Arapaho, CAS District. The runners leave the survivors for the last block, drifting back into the shadows. They've made a friend, one who owes them his life and the four runners have made a name for themselves.


UCAS District, Jim's Ale House.
Street Samurai Denton gulps down his soybeer, then drops a fat credstick into the empty glass. He slides it to the man next to him, an off duty KE officer by the name of Gerold. Denton's worried about his 'nabe, Sunrise. The Street Samurai is worried The Crimson Smoke, the Tir Elves, or The Horsemen might muscle in and he might lose his pad.
Gerold says Tough Drek. The cop drops that a KE Helo went down just a few hours ago, Apone was the name of the man in charge of that operation. Gerold lets on Apone's claiming some "civilians" got him out of The Drek. Right. If you ask Gerold, which Denton is, the gang war is spreading what with all the rumored mil-spec gear getting tossed around. And it ain't the usual refurbished LAW rockets.
Meanwhile, a Crimson Smoke ganger with cred to burn overhears all this, he snaps Denton's photo with his pock secretary and texts it to his people. »Drekhead sez we weak. Put the word out« Uh, oh.


Thu Nov 29

The Warrens, Orktown.
Rex, a meta-merc who's made a name of himself in Orktown, doesn't like the sporadic potshots coming from the Tir. If we're gonna tussle, let's tussle. The man's adrenaline spikes as he circles to the northern border of Tir Llewyn, hunkering down Rex pull's the trigger on his grenade launcher. PHOOT! He arcs a dozen rounds of White Phosphorus from his grenade launcher with abandon.
The rounds bounce off walls and roll down roofs exploding a fine mist of chemical induced fire that coats anything within it's radius. A toasted Leafcutter here, a smoke shriveled dandelion there, incinerating any flesh they touch. Rex is enjoying the wanton destruction so much so, that he fails to notice as a group of Leafcutters counter-attack with a barage of steel tipped arrows. Rex's luck holds, only a single arrow manages to pierce through his right arm. It ain't too bad.


The Warrens, Tir Territory.
Vollo's respect has increased in the Tir since helping repel the Horsmen attack on Twilight bar, so he gets a round on the house and starts asking questions. The elf doesn't buy what's going on, first the Horsemen, now The Blackboot Skins are involved? Vollo chats up a group of Leafcutters shooting the drek outside, "Null sheen chummer. This drek's all on the tuskers. You think Tir's leadership can get their hands on Seven-7 /and/ would use it? No way omae, no way. Besides, we're just defending out turf, not trying to take any…..I mean ok, maybe if the turf happens to be up for grabs but…"
Suddenly, a white phosphorus grenade rolls off the Twilights roof. Vollo dives away as flames caress his torso. Only minor burns, he'll make it. His buddies on the other hand are toast. Literally.
Two ramshackle apartment buildings, already weakened from sustained attacks from Ghost knows who, succumb to the intense fire and heat….crumbling and caving in on a ghettoized ammo dump of explosive bullets which in turn ignite like shrapnel. Fighting breaks out in tired pockets and momentarily spreads out into Sunrise.


CAS Sector, various haunts.
Simon shuts the the world out as he concentrates on his target. He's looking for someone named Caleb, among other things, and needs to think. He runs a description by his fixer Reed, "Sounds like a guy calling himself 'The Man' at an exclusive runner mixer on Halloween. Biz and party costumes. Yea, I heard him chatting up some guy calling himself 'Austin', they talked about Cal Free State, he said he was doing 'consulting' downtown."
Simon hits the runner bars, the rumor mill More contacts, more drinks bought. Like most runners they're all selfish and aren't helping particularly one side or the other, but sources say some low level -and they mean low level- mob guys were spotted at the Bastille shuffling fugitive Connor Seale around. Now pay up.


The Warrens, Tir Llewyn.
Once more into the fray.
It's been a long night for Savannah. First saving a KE cop and now she's making her way into the Tir just as some nut as reignited tensions. Flames dance amongst innocents attempting to find safe haven.
Savannah beckons forth an elemental, it's services used to put out fires. A tiny fairy like glowing ball leads her to a huddled mass of scared, dirty, working poor elves, the conjurer protects them, using her skills in a defensive manner. These poor people have been caught in a never ending pissing contest they never asked for or wanted.
Cut to a long view of the group, seen through a thermo enhanced 12X scope, cross hairs across Savannah's back. The first shot misses, the bullet puffing dirt near her feet. An elf child pushes the savior out of the way and takes the second shot straight through the heart. Even the best of us have blood on our hands tonight.


The Warrens, Tir / Orktown / No Mans Land.
Doc Halo and a couple of third string runners dash in and out for a quick buck…in the name of Science! They're all spotted, someone trips a flare, but the fighting is too intense and her hired muscle is fast and strong. Two bullet ridden Horsemen and one mysteriously dead Blackboot Skin later Doc Halo has some salvageable/experimental flesh and ware to work with.
The Doctor's "interesting hobby" spreads quickly through the shadows, maybe it's bad maybe it good, but hey, who are you to judge?


Fri Nov 30

Ute Sector, The Railslums.
The Street Finds It's Own Uses. That motto never meant more than here. Daemon Starks has some high value cargo with him, namely TLF President and wanted fugitive Connor Seale. The man's hot property and Starks has the winning ticket. He and some hired goons help smuggle Connor and sneak him into a tricked out GMC Bulldog. The route to a safe house plotted, Starks guns the engine and plows through the Zocolo market. BTL Chips, Black Market cigarettes, cheap guns, and whores spill out in the trucks wake.
The Ghostriders catch a whiff - it smells like an extraction. Bikes are revved, guns are cocked, horns are honk. Oh drek. Starks twists down a tight alley, sparks fly off the side and he loses the side-view mirrors. SMG's burp explosive rounds. The GMC- windows bust/tires pop/goon blood sprays/engine blocks stutter and shimmy. Connor pops out the passenger side firing a combat shotgun, buying enough time for escape. Pulling onto Pico, then speeding on Highway 470 the Made man finally makes it to a safe location and the van's engine literally falls out.


CAS District, Falstaff's.
Knox wants to dip his greedy finger into the information pie. he's heard tales about all this race war stuff and political backbiting from a few runners. He finagles an Op-Ed in a two bit scream sheet. He hits up his contacts, digging deeper for non-public info, but in these charged times no one's looking to do business with an ork fixer. Not with this proposition coming. Frag that noise. Knox throws his cellphone across his office and bangs his head on his desk in frustration. Shame, shame baby, shame shame.


The Matrix, Event Horizon.
Ryan's flying through datafiles and nodes. He's digging into this Proposition the Council's set to vote on. Where is the money TRUELY coming from for it?
He digs into Soltar LLC, he puts two and two together with after following posts on the Denver Buzz and a blip about Isaiah Group. He takes a pass at their trix host, and a shiver runs down his spine and he bolts. He dumps bribes into his Government contacts. He extrapolates and calculates. He gets some of what he's looking for. He sees Nuyen signs. =Y= =Y= =Y=


UCAS/Downtown, Franky's.
Bigman's big ass settles into barstool. He puts up a stack of corpscrip, laundered CAS dollars, and credsticks in front of tonight's bartender Tony Russo. Tony's a rumor monger extraordinaire albeit far, far down on the Mob ladder. Bigman lets Tony in on some disinformation about Isaiah Group with a six grand donation to Franky's in exchange.
"They're a Yakuza front. They're close to bankruptcy. They hate Italians. They don't respect Cordero's construction outfits, etc etc." Russo in turns spread word to soldatos in the Sucreasi Organization, who in turn put pressure on their bosses. Hey, these cats don't play ball.


Unless otherwise stated, the content of this page is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 License