”Ok, let’s go.” said the man as he climbed into the back seat, shedding rain, soaking the leather.

Rafael Werner, an operations director for Proteus AG, visiting CalFree working through a subcontract dispute. The BMW sedan that Proteus AG has provided sits at the northern terminus of Alameda island, in the dockyards on the airfield of the old Naval Air Station.

The station is separated from the rest of Orkland by a large wall.  Constantly monitored by the Imperial Navy’s shore patrol sentries, armed drones and ever present surveillance cameras, this is the sole enduring Imperial presence east of San Fransisco itself.  The shadow of the Imperial presence looms over Orkland’s metahumanity like the shadow of the light carrier USS Hornet, now renamed Suzumebachi, formerly a floating museum that the imperials are upgrading to put into service as a drone carrier under contract of Mitsuhama's Heavy Shipbuilding directorate.

Which is what brought Werner out here into Orkland’s d-zone. Proteus AG has a systems integration contract that is weeks behind schedule. Werner is here to get things back on track.

”Back downtown.” he says. ”To the office.”

@Pacer, @Sidewinder: This is your not too distant past. Your corporate past. You both happen to be on contract for Proteus AG … today is just a routine driver and security gig assigned to the executive protection team. It’s your first outing together. Let’s play a bit to establish a bit of background between the two characters.

"Got it," Pacer said, leg twitching with inaction as he flicked the sedan into gear and tightened his black necktie.  Waiting around was always the worst part of the job.  That, and all the dry cleaning.

As the wheels began to roll, the sound of raindrops on the windshield scored Pacer's thoughts: questions he had about his current employer (Herr? Mr? Werner?  Must be a big deal going on if a Director is coming to Orkland in person?) and his new partner Sidewinder (wonder how they hold up in a firefight, and do I detect the whiff of magic?); observations he had about this contract (this is the smoothest gig I've ever had in Orkland...so far) and the current state of Orkland (this place looks more like a warzone every time I come here...)

Thoughts he knew he'd better keep to himself, at least for now.

So he sipped the last of his cold soykaf and settled for a quick glance over at his new partner Sidewinder, before muttering, "Office sounds good.  I could use a hot cup.  You see anything out there?"
This message was last edited by the player at 23:20, Sun 22 Oct 2023.

Being called away from her research is always irritating, a fact Viktorie Dvořák keeps to herself. The ‘doctor’ in ThD should rightly keep her out of the field. But logic dictates the scarcity of mages inevitably calls for the grunt work of a standard wagemage. Especially since there is no doubt in her mind that her division is the corp’s least profitable enterprise. The fact that she was specifically tasked to a director’s security detail is both a blessing and a curse. If she performs too well, this could increasingly draw her away from her postdoctoral fellowship. If she performs to poorly . . . best not dwell on that.

The driver spilling water about the vehicle is distasteful—unprofessional—but ‘hot cup’ does trigger a momentary twinkle in the elf’s lethargic eyes. She didn’t dare bring soykafe inside a vehicle in the presence of a director—professional—and the trace of a headache is setting in.

“Slower; mildly,” she succinctly instructs the driver without clarification as her lidded eyes droop completely closed and her body slumps against the car door for a few beats. This would grant the most negligible advantage possible, but it at least appears that she is putting a little extra care in answering his vaguely reasonable question. A question posed in Werner’s presence

OOC: Perfunctory sweep with astral projection.

Pacer eased off the gas a touch.  He was starting to get the feeling his new partner viewed him more like an employee--or maybe a liability...

It wouldn't be the first time an elf gave Pacer vibes of superiority.  He tried not to let it bother him.  For starters, he knew that some people just came off that way--high and mighty, or aloof and distant.  Doesn't mean they all felt they were superior to him.  And second, it was a goal of Pacer's to seem more innocuous than he was--to keep his head down, to be the ultimate fly-on-the-wall.  Let people think whatever they wanted--he couldn't control it.  And being underestimated gave him an advantage.

"You got it," he muttered softly, wondering if Sidewinder's request was due to her scanning for threats--getting a clearer picture at lower velocity--or because she didn't trust him as a driver, or she was nursing a headache, or...  Whatever; he didn't care.  He was paid to follow directions, and he took pride in his work.

Pacer scanned the wet pavement, slick and shiny, as he drove, conscious of the many cracks and potholes, and dared a single glance at Werner through the rearview mirror, wondering if he'd have time to hit up the bar after work, of if he'd be stuck babysitting this Werner guy all night.
This message was last edited by the player at 23:24, Sun 22 Oct 2023.

Neither of you is surprised that Herr Werner connects his datajack to the car’s jackpoint and logs into the corporate host. Whatever simulated worlds he is navigating, he isn’t paying attention to Pacer’s need for hot soykaf or Sidewinder’s cold shoulder.

As the sedan rolls past the security gate, the neat and orderly base gives way to the litter and chaos of the Orkland dregs. The streets of Alameda Island are lined with empty storefronts and broken cars. A knot of tuskers in gang colors and openly carrying a sawed off shotgun give you a mean glare, but decide on discretion, weighing their firepower against what the beemer might be hiding beneath that shining tanzanite blue exterior.

@Sidewinder. peering into the astral reveals a dead world of plastic, steel and concrete. The life essence of the gangers and rats light up the cold dead grays, but there is nothing noteworthy here except the wards and watchers that patrol the Naval base.

@Pacer. through your control rig, you feel the engine’s power waiting to be unleashed. Your system’s display shows everything operating in normal parameters. It’s a perfect example of flawless engineering. You’re itching to get this thing into the highway and really open it up.

Spying nothing of interest, Dvořák’s astral form flits over to Pacer, momentarily assensing the driver for anything glaringly obvious. This serves no purpose whatsoever outside idle curiosity.

No matter what she saw, her eyes then partly open as she pushes her body to its original position like a sloth.

“I see nothing of concern,” she says, answering Pacer’s question with her head tilted toward Werner then moves her gaze toward Pacer. “I missed your name, Mister . . .”
This message was last edited by the player at 03:34, Tue 24 Oct 2023.

"...Wilcox."  Pacer's grip on the wheel loosened a bit.  This gig was turning into a bore, and he knew wasn't going to have a chance to really do anything fun with the ride, fancy as it was.  He was tempted to engage the autopilot, but he didn't want to seem too relaxed in front of the elf.  He had the feeling Herr Werner could care less--Pacer could see the man was already jacked in, mind somewhere else.

"Avery Wilcox.  And it's *Doctor*...?" Pacer's voice trailed off in question.  "Sorry, I don't want to butcher your name."

Silently in his head, he continued to question her. ("How long you been with Proteus, by the way?  I'm not sure I've seen you around.  Of course, they don't let errand-boys like me up into those research labs very often.  Not without good reason, which seems to continually elude me.  Ahh, who cares, I probably don't even want to know what they get up to.  This car is fucking sweet, though.  Wonder how much she costs?  I gotta upgrade my ride.  Everyone's got so much fucking money in the Bay.")

He had given his a full name, so it is only fair to reciprocate. “Viktorie-” this name is spoken at a normal clip then slows for, “-Dvořák.

“And ‘Miss’ is appropriate.” Precision may be imperative, but academic conventions would be an waste of words to explain here. And waste is, well, a waste.

“Though one must wonder . . ” she leans forward, fingers just barely touching the driver’s seat. “. . . why are you here, Mr Wilcox?” she asks an octave or two above a whisper.

In reply to Sidewinder (msg # 3):

OOC: By the bye, did Sidewinder see anything when assessing Pacer? From an OOC perspective, it was just for the presence or absence of cyperware and its vague extent. (ie, Essence)

Actually, that’s also pretty much true fot the IC angle as well.

Avery shifted slightly in his seat as the sedan sped forward.  Was she was trying to get under his skin, or...  Avery had met more than a few elves who were unnerving by nature.  He'd learned it was important not to take it personally, if he wanted to work with the Awakened.  And that's where most of the money was these days.

Still, he couldn't shake the feeling that she--Miss *Dvořák*?--along with most of the other elves and magic-types he'd met--viewed him as lesser than them, *mundane*.

"I got no problem being mundane", Pacer thought to himself, wondering how to answer the elf's question.

"A job's a job", he thought, before reconsidering.  Herr Werner might be listening, and it was never wise to make a client feel like...just another client.

He settled on a simple response.
 
"What can I say?" he said with a smirk.  "I'm a workaholic."  Avery shrugged.  "Or I just haven't hit that payday yet, you know?"

The sound of the rain on the windshield commiserated his sentiment.  He always liked driving in the rain, even if it did require more attention to detail.

"What about you?" he said after a pause.  "Should I expect to see you around more often?"
This message was last edited by the player at 00:45, Thu 26 Oct 2023.

You two are taking the thread exactly where I hoped it would go. Some light getting to know you chit chat. Keep it up!

@Pacer. cruising down Stargell, you pick your way past the burned out cars near the turns that lead toward the pair of tunnels that cross under the inner channel. The tunnel entrances look worse from this side then they did from the  Orkland mainland when you passed them up on the drive out here. It looks like ambush alley down there with no escape options. Better to brave the Alameda Orkland slums and push south to Park Street.

Next time they should send a VTOL or maybe a fraggin’ t-bird.

@Sidewinder. your quick scan of Avery reveals an aura marked with the black tendrils of the machine. It’s fairly extensive, running throughout his body, a datajack tied into his brain and some kind of neural mesh that connects to his nervous system.

“Ah,” she mutters with a sliver of disappointment. His answer is surely true, but it isn’t true in a right way. “Who can say? I go where Proteus desires,” she replies with a true answer, but not true in a right way. I really, really hope not! flutters through her mind every time the subject enters it, unless the corporation wants her back at the northern rim of the Bering Sea. But the fact that she is a poor choice for a bodyguard suggests he might indeed see her around for a while.

“Tell me, Mr Wilcox-” she kind of wants to call him ‘Driver,’ but decides against it, “-what does Alameda Island tell you?” A pair of compact optical binoculars appear to his right in a hand which would make for an exceptional violinist. A hand that has never been turned to that purpose.

She doubts he’ll take them. The first organs to go tend to be the eyes, and he is missing quite a bit of his body. The vehicle should be able to drive itself, though she knows nothing apart from its expensive appearance. So it should be able to do expensive things, right? If it can’t then this will have been an embarrassing thing to say.
This message was last edited by the player at 03:38, Fri 27 Oct 2023.

Pacer switched on the autopilot, accepting the optics from his partner wordlessly.  They were even lighter than he'd thought they would be.  Fancy.

The car had its own sensors, and Pacer had optics of his own, but he knew better than to spurn someone offering help, especially a partner.  He'd done it enough inadvertently in the past to have learned: People get touchy about these things.

He scanned the slums, on the lookout for movement and heat signals, hoping he could keep the fact that they were taking a slight detour--albeit hopefully a safer one--to himself.
This message was last edited by the player at 01:53, Wed 08 Nov 2023.

Dvořák is somewhat surprised Wilcox took the binoculars. She had expected rejection. They should enhance his long-distance vision—no amount of cyberware can defy the laws of physics—but she suspects they will be useless to him. Possibly less than useless. Though she has learned that vehicles can drive themselves. At least fancy ones. This technically renders a driver redundant, a concept which usually has negative connotations, but she adores redundancy. Anyone who fails to appreciate it is an imbecile.

His compliance does improve her opinion of him. Anyone who does what she wants without complaint and with competence is invaluable. Time will tell for the latter. They reap benefits of some manner or another. Quid-pro-quo is a creed. Of course, getting the better of the quid or the quo is another creed, whichever is better. Wilcox will surely give another true answer, but not true in the right way again. Data are her lifeblood and there is nothing without some datum or another.

She abhors waste, and comes up with an efficient use of her time. But she’s not going to try anything with this worsening headache. Professionalism sometimes require a touch of the unprofessional.

“Do you still have soykaf, Mr Wilcox?” The simple words somehow manage to be steeped in academia as they slide off her tongue.

Pacer tried not to interpret any intent behind the question, but he still didn't know how to answer.  He figured there was no way this elf was going to put her lips onto the same surface as his, so...

"I left the brewer at home," he said.  "Hold on." He waved his head vaguely, trying to concentrate on the view, keeping an eye on his surroundings.  The rain continued to pelt the windshield.  The last thing he needed right now was a distraction.

OOC: Can I make a move: Check the Situation

@Pacer. Sure, what are you looking for?

Dvořák leans back with a half-smile. Sure, no relief from caffeine withdrawal, but his answer pleased her nonetheless.

In reply to Mr. Johnson (msg # 16):

OOC: I'm looking for any signs we are being followed or watched.

Through the car window, the slums pass by. Shells of buildings in disrepair patched over with discarded building material, old tarps and abandoned sea containers to create a functional, if disorganized warren. The majority of the people here are orcs, with an almost equal mix of humans and trolls rounding out the population.

Alameda Island is objectively poor, but there are sparks of functioning community. A street doc or clinic here, an auto mechanic there, the locals have a society that is governed by different laws and customs. But you both know that stopping here would be a disaster. Park Street can’t come soon enough.

Picking your way through Central Alameda, suddenly Werner pipes up from the back seat. ”What exactly does that mean Rown? How did we get this intel?” he says onto his PocSec.

@Pacer. you constantly scan your surroundings…

Check the Situation. 18:27, Today: Mr. Johnson, on behalf of Pacer, rolled 7 using 2d6+1. weak success

…Werner’s words snap you into focus. Something about his tone of voice or the way he asked that question puts you immediately on edge. What should I be on the lookout for here? Out here, where Lone Star and Nobunga Security never go, if you were planning to take out the competition, you would probably hire local runners to set an ambush. Take +1 forward to escape, evade or fight.

Rown...

The name thudded against Pacer's memory like raindrops against the windshield.

Do I remember hearing that name? he asked himself.  Either way, he didn't like Werner's tone.  And the scenery was only getting worse.

Avery handed the loaned optics back to his partner.  "Thanks," he said, squeezing the word through a clenched jaw, hoping his tone was icy enough to signal that something wasn't quite right.  "Get ready for an ambush," he said as quietly as possible.  "What are you seeing out there?"

OOC: Can I use a secondary move such as "Citation Needed: Corporate" to determine if the name Rown is someone known (or heard of, etc.) to Pacer?
This message was last edited by the player at 02:01, Sat 04 Nov 2023.