(An introductory mission for team #2.)

The briefing room was a small, sterile room in a small lab complex a short way from Yokohama's docks. It smelt of disinfectants and fresh paint; even the plastic chairs had a smell of newness about them. The project leader, nervously walking about, also seemed quite green - barely out of college, you'd guess. His first experience at black ops, perhaps. He'd screwed up bad in the legal part of the business, and it was black ops or wearing the cement shoes, you'd heard. Being assigned to his project made you wonder about your own status within the corporation.

You entered the room and sat while the young man chewed on antacids, his expensive shoes andt the faint hum of the air conditioner the only sounds in the room.

The dim florescent ceiling lamps cast an unnerving shadow across the masked face of Takayama Hideo. His stride had purpose and pace, grace and style. Away from the prying eyes of the usual zaibatsu office monkeys, Hideo allowed himself a modicum of slack. He kept his hands thrust in his trouser pockets as he walked. Beneath the tinted lenses of his mask he watched the people milling about him: dockworkers, purchasing agents, couriers, fishermen, filtering eventually into more urbane crowds of engineers, technicians, and students as he neared the small lab complex. Hideo didn't much mind the walk. It was even refreshing to be away from the rigid, slavish drones of the head offices. And yet the remote location worried him. Surely he'd caught the eye of more important handlers by now.

There was hardly any security at all. He was waved through without a word. Hideo could feel his professional demeanor slide over him like an eclipse: the posture, the gait, the lightness between his fingers, the slow measured breaths of a trained killer. He entered the small, sterile room; smelt the disinfectant and new plastics. Something had gone wrong. And he would learn of it in due time. Surely, it's why he was here.

Takayama Hideo offered a polite bow, his eyes beneath the lenses never leaving the face of the young man before him. "Komban-wa."

Ocean He politely entered the briefing room.  He wore a red, heavy padded parka over his thin frame and carried a thick satchel.  He adjusted his small round glasses and squinted into the florescent lights.  He smiled slightly, almost embarrasingly and slumped down into an office chair.

"Name of Ocean.  Job of cyberdeck operations."  He patted the satchel and grinned broader.

It figured, of course.  Zaibatsus were never terribly forgiving, after all, so the logical part of his brain had been expecting just such an insult as this.  But it was still a blow to his pride.  After all that he had suffered, he was all the way back to square one.  Assuming there was no "square zero" existing between employment and termination.  The latter of which tended to be fatal, sooner or later.

Still, he hadn't ended up with a bullet in his brain on the floor of the debriefing room, as the dearly departed Fujiwara-san had.  But then, he'd always been rather lucky--when it truly counted, anyway.  Not that he made a habit of relying on that attribute.  It too often only just managed to scrape him by whatever sticky situation had cropped up.

Rokkaku bowed incrementally to the two men--was one of them a New Honker?  How embarrassing--who were apparently to be his teammates, then slightly deeper to the young man was apparently the project manager.  The youth's obvious distress did little to engender feelings of confidence, however.  Peachy.

Your new project leader was way too nervous to say anything coherent. Instead, he closed the door, fumbled with a small projector. Diagrams, floor prints and personnel files flashed on the wall in fast forward mode as he fought with the controls.

"Uh... sorry. I'm just too nervous."

He coughed and put another antacid tablet in his mouth, then chewed through it in a matter of seconds as the projector settled on the picture of two young women.

"As you know, the Nail Polisher Ten-Thousand was less than a resounding success. The cause has been tracked to industrial sabotage, and the guilty party in the manufacturing plant ahs been dealt with. That leaves us with negative publicity spread by persons allegedly injured by faulty devices." He waves at the faces of the women. "These two need to be convinced to stop spreading that negative publicity. How you go about it is left to you. You have the usual company funds to your disposal, and forty-eight hours to report success. Questions?"

"Two: what are their names, and where do we start?"

The voice was hardly muffled by the designer mask, but it certainly gave it a hollow timbre. Takayama Hideo lightly brushed the front of his suit jacket, his fingertips feeling the weight of the firearms obscured beneath his clothing. Two women. It wasn't his usual market. Then again, he hardly had a choice in the matter. Beneath the mask, he cocked an eye towards the other two. The Chinaman, well, one could hardly consider his opinion to have any weight; but the company man seemed to have a head on his shoulders. Perhaps he could be convinced of a less lethal solution to the company's problem.

The group leader thumbed the remote control and szmbols flasehd on the projection.

Target 1: Akamatsu Makiko, age 21, occupation: weather girl for a local TV station, resident of Shinjuku. A petite, pretty redhead with haunting green eyes. Comments publically on how the appliance burnt her fingers with electric shocks.

Target 2: Amami Yuki, age 67, a retired actress, also residing in Shinjuku district. A frail looking lady with grey hair. Claims minor injury to her fingers, and writes denigrating articles about our great company for the local media.

Ocean squints his eyes at the pictures of the two women on the screen and punches delicately, but fast on his Amstrad C-22 cyberdeck. In seconds he has found addresses and traces credit card transactions to detail their most frequent hangouts.

Using the external projector on the deck, these he displays on the wall next to the images of the two ladies.  Then he sits back and grins at the other two operatives.

Kids these days.  It was like they didn't even bother teaching them proper presentation skills.  At least his associates were business-like.  The Chinaman even managed to pull up some good data.  Reaching out a hand, Rokkako pointed to the older lady's list of credit transactions and looked at the hacker.

"This boutique.  I need more information about it.  Everything you can get."  Turning back to the group leader, Rokkako bowed minutely before speaking.

"Senpai, do you know who published Amami's latest article?"  After listening to the sarariman's response, Rokkako pondered for a moment before turning toward the masked man.

"What can you do?"
This message was last edited by the player at 22:43, Wed 24 Aug 2011.

Ocean turns his head to the side like a dog listening to a confusing command.  "Bow Teak?  Bowt Eak?"  He mutters to himself and punches a few keys.  "Oh, Salon! Nail salon. Ok..ok."  He bends his face back to the glow of the deck and types fast, but quietly.  He muttered the new word to himself committing it to memory, "Botique....botique".

OOC:  GM, do I roll for getting more info?  Or do you have some to give us?

OOC: just pitch me your intent, I'll roll and post results. However, if you want to be creative and wing it I'll play along.

"I'm just a simple gardener. You understand."

Takayama Hideo cocked an eye towards the man who had questioned his purpose. For all his bluster and business, he at least had a sense of focus and decorum. Hideo could appreciate that. On the matter of his skill set, clearly his services were required or they wouldn't have called him. Right? Or had he sunk to being merely hired muscle for the other so-called 'street samurai' Makita were employing? It occurred to Hideo that, given the lowly office of their current handler, clean-up would likely be his own responsibility. Beneath his mask, he frowned.

Wordplay?  Really?  There were more important things they could be doing.  Like getting this over with as efficiently as possible so he could get back to doing something that was actually interesting.

"And how picky are you about your fertilizer, gardener-san?"

"Any kind of humus will suffice." He paused. "Do you have another avenue in mind?"

"I am creating multiple.  That means grasping all available solutions, from one extreme to another."  Rokkako buttoned his pinstripe coat reflexively, pondering.

"We will have to move fast.  The women will have a handler, no matter how stand-offish.  They will no doubt run to him.  We must prevent that."  He glanced sidelong at the Chinaman.

"The modern world can be so very... intrusive, don't you think?  This constant need to be connected to all and sundry.  It's so taxing, especially on the delicate female physiology.  They might benefit from a little... pruning.  Don't you think, gardener-san?"

Ocean listens to the chatter of the other two, but doesn't partake in the conversation.  He grins and hums softly to himself as he taps on the deck's interface.  Soon, he is projecting a map of the Salon and relevant location details along with financial information.  A small pop-up for live sex stim appears on the screen which he closes quickly and grins sheepishly at the others.

OOC: Intent is to find anything about the Salon to give us advantage in the situation.

The live sex popup from Ocean's deck was a little louder and more explicit than he would have liked. The sight made your project leader coughing uncontrollably. Then it seemed he wanted to ask Ocean where he got the flick.

The boutique Ms. Amami frequented was a high profile one - "The House of Red Silk" allowed only selected clientelle to enjoy its luxuries. A single visit cost a minimum of five thousand Yen.

The Nail Polisher Ten-Thousand was a mass produced, low-cost appliance. Things don't fit, somehow.

The "House of Red Silk" also dealed in uncensored simstim porn and "escort service". The police were paid off, and no big scandals were associated with them. The local politicians, zaibatsu and yakuza alike respected the place for its timely and discrete service. The owner of the place was listed as "Hatoyama Mariko", but there were few informations about her, and no pictures. In a world where privacy was impossible to achieve, this was almost unheard of.

Ms. Amami's last article was published by the "Skin&Nail Care Magazine", an online review based publication with about one million subscribers world-wide, with half that number in Tokyo alone. The chief editor (Noda Gentaro, fiftyish, stylish, artificial green eyes, implanted black hair and fingernails, corporate look) had strong ties to the corporate world, particularly Fuji.

Ocean looked at Tokugawa, "Appointments very restricted at Red Silk. Very difficult."  He smiled confidently.  "Can get you one for today at 15:00.  Yes?  So you can see inside."

"Not me, him," responded Rokkako, gesturing to Takayama.   He would have to revise his opinion of the New Honker, it seemed.  Assuming that the man didn't get caught, or leave Hideo holding the bag.  But then, that's why Rokkako was sending Hideo in--the man doubtlessly had his own methods for managing a quick exit.  And, of course, Rokkako had no interest in being the one who got caught if the House of Red Silk had ensured the prevention of such exits.

"Get me more on Fuji, particularly Noda.  The name of his personal secretary and where he goes for discrete business meetings will suffice.  And how good are you at falsifying incoming and outgoing phone numbers?"

Takayama cocked an eye towards Rokkako. He was good, this one. A sharp mind. Hideo leaned over to peer at the Chinaman's cyberdeck. The women were clearly in the employ of competitors: mouthpieces for a PR engine that was out to tarnish Makita's reputation. Noda Gentaro could be a lead to finding the puppet-masters. "And find plans for the House of Red Silk." If he was going to be put into play, he'd like a feel for the game board.
This message was last edited by the player at 01:08, Tue 30 Aug 2011.

Ocean doesn't answer Tokugawa's last question, but instead punches a few keys on his keyboard, takes out his phone and dials a number.  Seconds later, Tokugawa get's a call from "Your Mother" on his own phone from a Swedish area code.  Ocean smiles impishly but meaningfully at him.

Then back to data mining on Noda Gentara.  Crosschecking slim shadow leads to build a concrete model from.

OOC:  GM, Anything more on Noda that you had planned?  I never mind making stuff up, but if you had something in mind, I'll respect it.

The plans for the House of Red Silk were easy enough to find in the public records office - all building being strictly regulated in Tokyo because of the earthquake danger. There was no guaranteee that the plans are completely accurate, however. The floor plans showed no surprises. The building was originally low income housing, with the ground floor reserved for a bakery and general store. That usually meant lots of small rooms, narrow hallways, and a claustrophobic atmosphere.

As for the secretary, Noda Ayumi was Gentaro's cousin. Seems the man was not above filling important positions with relatives. The most up-to-date picture Ocean dug up showed a barely legal girl (her actual age was 34) clad in perfectly tailored business clothes, a shadowless business smile on her lips. She also seems to have starred in hardcore porn at the tender age of sixteen, screamed the *other* search programs Ocean used. The wall was again filled with hot steamy projected sex, and your project leader coughed nervously.

Girls these days.  No sense of traditional morals at all.

"Leverage the girl's porn.  Demand the magazine apologize for its libel and stop printing such filth.  If her picture is that old, chances are that the family's interested in keeping things quiet.  At the very least, we can keep them multitasking and maybe gain ourselves time when it counts.

"Back to Amami.  Get her a voicemail from Ms. Noda.  Tell her to go somewhere reserved where we can handle things quietly.  Then begin searching for dirt on Akamatsu."  He cocked his head to the side, suddenly pensive.  "Gardener-san, be careful at the House.  We are too few to spare on this job."

Ocean sets up the rendevous with Amami, meeting at a very discrete hotel lobby with private rooms.  Next, he forwards the porn to a contact he has with a local newscast, within an hour it should be hitting the waves en force.

"Akamatsu...Akamatsu..." he repeats like a mantra tapping on the keyboard. She's young and there's not much dirt on her, but Ocean finds plenty on her family.  Only daughter to a an exposed (but never convicted) druglord.  Ocean wistles at the bio on her father.  "It is stuff of scary!"

(so, with some plans made, how do you proceed?)