[2] Sumner Safehouse

"Welcome to Seattle." the fixer said to the four survivors, after showing the passcode for the ramshackle warehouse. "Stay or go, that is up to you." They now have Metalink commlinks, a cheap and easy unit to burn on the fly. It wasn't much, but the cheap clothing, food, and shelter were more than they had on the barge. Now they have a choice. The group is given time to decide. Stay or go. It has been three days since waking up on the barge. There is still a level of tension among the group. They all had questions. Only a handful of them got answers that didn't make sense for everyone. "You have my number, if you should ever need anything... like work." the old man added. He was sporting a few bruises of his own now. A language barrier was the least of the challenges, and certainly not the last. The rest he explained, would have to be up to the four of them. He didn't quite understand the ordeal they found themselves in, but he had been a part of getting them out. Not the most graceful way to go about accomplishing it, but here they are. In a city, that is mostly strange to them. "I won't have all of the answers. but I will help. If you let me." he cautioned, "Get in touch with who ever, but be mindful. Some of them believe you are dead. Some of them might be the reason behind you ended up on that barge." His face, sincere and honest. "Some of you need more time to heal. Though the physical wounds are mostly mended. As for the rest, maybe you can talk it out with each other. Take the time you didn't have before, and introduce yourselves to one another." he suggested. He knew he was done, they were not exactly listening anymore. He waived before the closing the door behind himself. Wildcard is the old fixer's name. He made the last few arrangements, before leaving the survivors. The small warehouse, has basic living amenities. A restroom with a shower. A kitchenette, fully stocked. Four cots, and four sleeping bags. One set being troll sized. A security system to keep the outside on the outside. Several days of clothes. A washer and dryer. Suggesting to stay longer. A cheap trideo system, to help distract themselves from the last few days. The commlink, to maybe start engaging the outside world. Also there were the bredsticks. He gave them each a credstick with 500 nuyen apiece. Not much, but a start. Lastly, a promise to stay out of their way, or to help them. He preferred they work together. That is how he found them. Together. To stay. To go. Either way, their choice.

He walks along the perimeter examining the security of the warehouse. He is impressed with the resources the old fixer has provided. As he walks a sullen and very tired look comes over his face, the weight of his situation had hit him all at once. In the safety provided by the warehouse the realization that everything he had known before the barge....before his decision was now in question. He didn't look or engage with the others, he let the old fixer talk and thanked the old man with a tired but sincere smile. He focus's on making notes on tactical positions of their new home, anything to keep the mind occupied. After his short walk, he heads to the shower, Changes his clothes, just realizing how "evil" his old clothes smell. He does this fairly quickly as he, doing it in the fraction of the time a civilian would have taken. He may not be able to be the man he was before, but old habits died hard. Puts on a pot of soy cafe, and sets the pistols on his cot and begins to clean them. He has remained pretty quiet up to this point, trying to rest mentally and physically as much as possible. He often looks at the troll, trying to figure out how to communicate with her. He makes a futile check his commlink to see if there is a translation feature. He mostly leans back on the cot, taking care of the pistols and tries to not think about the past.

As he might figure, the burner commlink had no applications installed. For a cheap device, it offered a basic way to talk with people on the outside. Only one number was saved into the contacts folder. It wasn't named, but the fixer promised the runners that they had his number. Anything else, he didn't say. The expectation would leave them to what they could remember for their contacts.

Castien examines his new surroundings, taking in the smell of fresh air, air that didn't smell of death. It wasn't exactly Florida, but this would have to do. Now that he thought about it, he couldn't seem to remember much about his previous life, he knew shadowrunning was a dangerous profession, but he didn't remember any bad jobs he had. In fact, he only recalled one or two out of the four or so he'd done that ended with even one gunshot. Technically there was that one where he had to..."deal with"... an old business partner for some client, but that was over before anybody knew he was there. Focusing back on the present, Castien introduced himself to the other survivors. The old man left. Literally, without a word. He was like that on the boat ride, it shouldn't surprise anyone he was like that now. "Nice to meet you, I go by Castien. What sort of work do you think he had in mind? Can't hurt to ask, and then discuss if we want to take it or not, right?" Castien asks, extending his arm out for a handshake. GM: Slight timing edits. It is still a good entry.

Injury and fatigue proved to be incredibly potent sedatives. Comfortable blankets and edible food operated as reliable suppressants. Long hours of passage atop a cramped boat with an easily agitated, local language deficient, wounded Troll provided tangible meaning to the pre-Sixth World idiom: "You can cut the tension with a butter knife." The origniator had long been forgotten, but their words rang as true as the promise of sunrise. Though bodily systems bargained for rest, all offers were denied. The vivid memory of a massive, ten foot tall Troll glaring at the gathering of individuals the entire ride was still fresh. In fact the scowl remained an ever constant presence. The Troll had remained. Her reason was not that of trust. Nor was it attachment to the petty frivolous luxuries the safe-house provided. The Troll's immediate action upon reaching shore was to abandon the group and strike out on her own. She was undeterred by barely understood warnings about her distance from home and the challenges of her social situation. No, what stopped the Troll cold was the expected and unfortunate consequence of a haphazard mixture and application of various vigorous chemicals. They had met the demand for breaking the will and controlling the emotional and physical functions of the Troll. It had also resulted in a terrible consequence. The symptoms of withdrawal. Her limbs and digits shook uncontrollably. A sharp and unrelenting migraine jarred her. Motor processes slowed and rusted to the point of being impossible. Her damnable vision failed and her breathing was hoarse. Of course the street samurai had recognized her predicament. Through her own assumption, it was out of manipulation and greed that the Troll had been offered solace. An injected stimulant. Supplies were few and needed to be administered at least once per day. Enough was available for a week only. No longer did a collar hang around her neck. No longer was she stranded inside the cell of a sinking barge surrounded by an insurmountable organism. No longer was she a slave to the bloodsport of the barge's now deceased proprietor. However, she was still trapped. Here within the deceitful walls of a cozy warehouse she was confined. She could tear off the door. She could use it to smash the others into a sloppy red paste, but it would do nothing. What awaited her out there wasn't freedom, just ruthless spasms and fatal strokes. Words were exchanged, conversations begun. The Troll maintained her silence. She had been in this situation before. The offer had a vainer of friendliness but the order was the same: Do something for them, get them money, and pay for the stimulant. It would repeat over and over until she died or she found a way out. She eyed the old analog clock, an ancient relic, hanging on one of the walls. Her eyesight prevented an exact reading, but it was nighttime. She gingerly held the injection capsule in a leather gloved hand. It was the size and length of a standard syringe but had the shape of a porcelain white pill with a blue liquid bobbing in the center. The button-like top was depressed, a small needle jutted inches out of a hidden compartment. She held it to her neck and pressed, an audible hiss echoed as the capsule discharged its contents. Its payload exhausted she hurled the capsule into the steel waste bin as if it was a live bomb. Her disgust was apparent, though there was a tinge of fear that occurred every time. She stared at her massive palm and felt the rising tremors calm. Another day had been bought. Only six remained. The Troll had scarcely moved from her designated cot in the building. She didn't get up for food. She hadn't used the shower, the foul odor of death and bile still permeated from her. The provided comm-link sat idle on the kitchen table, untouched. Her most vibrant action was staring longingly out at the night sky, biting her lip at a distant unobtainable desire. Pointed ears twitched as one returned from the shower. Sitting with her legs and arms tight to her chest the Troll finally rose. The room barely contained her extensive height and muscled figure. She climbed old scaffolding, listening to it creak under her weight. Reaching a ladder she pushed up an ancient and rusted steel trap door with ease. She inhaled deeply, taking in the chilly night air. Atop the roof of the ramshackle warehouse she stared idly at the nearly invisible stars hidden behind the vibrant, flashing night life of the metroplex.

Not that this vantage point could easily be seen from the warehouse. The burning metroplex is obvious to the survivors. The lights and landmarks have an unmistakable personality. There is no place in the world, that looks like Seattle does. The safehouse is in a snug and obscured location within Sumner. A significant township, located in the southeastern part of Seattle. Situated between Auburn and Bonny Lake. None of the places would be known in any great detail. The street signs highlighted them just the same.

I always wanted to visit Seattle. I remember me and Bea listening to Uncle Frank talk about "Jet City" at some cousin's wedding back in the day. I couldn't have been more than ten. The way he described the lights and the people.... it made us talk all night. I'm in no condition to go sightseeing. How drekking tragic. No idea what it'll cost to fix me, no friends in town besides the old man, and something tells me he doesn't like me much. Work is the only option. The kind of work that could put me in even worse shape, if I come back at all. I wonder how many of the old man's "friends" have lived here? An Elf, a Dwarf, a Human, and a Troll walk into a city that likes to keep its secrets. It's like a bad drekking joke, and I'm the punchline. Gibs sits on an overturned barrel and turns on the Trideo, looking for local news.

CHANNEL 23: ALL NEWS ALL OF THE TIME The Boston Lockdown has now gone 90 days, with no end in sight. No traffic going in, nor any traffic coming out. Media, Commercial, or Civilian. In Other News : Cliffhanger July Update

Yes, a good principle to play by. Make the players' characters' lives not boring. What does that mean in Shadowrun? What does that mean during downtime? It has been another three days. The survivors have rested more. The neighborhood that the warehouse is located in, did not help to make that rest any better than it could be. Today, the runners keep less of an alike schedule. Sleeping, eating, and taking in entertainment separately. What are they doing? What have they been doing? What have they been talking about with each other? What have they been reflecting on? What have they been learning? Are they learning from each other? One day recently, one of the runners discovered that the building security had been tampered with.

Nothing had been taken, nor has anything been added. The evidence seems amateurish at best. Maybe somebody was curious about an abandoned warehouse. There is a small amount of power coming to the building. Just enough to help the survivors cope with their situation. There is plenty of food left. Either because it is cheap, or because the runners are still finding strength. Their energy seems to be at a level on par with prisoners of war. They may even feel, and openly acknowledge this. However, nobody has come back to put them in their cages. Additionally, the commlinks remain unused. No messages in, or any going out.

Castien is standing in front of the Troll, a good 10 or 15 feet away, just to be safe. "So, how are we supposed to talk to you?" he says to the Troll, then to the rest of the group, "Anybody know Chinese?".

Prior to the security tampering: For the past three days Striker had been visibly distraught and depressed. Something changed on the first day they were here, before a certain point Striker had seemed calm and collected. Willing to interact with the others, especially after the hot shower and a nice cup of soy cafe in his stomach. But something had happened that first night that just completely changed his attitude. It was more than just being tired from everything that had happened or depressed at their current outlook, anyone who looked closely at Striker would have seen a twitch of anger in his eyes and if you caught him at the wrong time you would have murdered you. He actively avoided being near the Trideo when the news is on, often going to the roof to scout the surroundings. If anyone had engaged with him, he would have simply replied, "Am not in the mood to talk," and weakly walk away. Others would have learned very quickly not to talk about the news or Boston around Striker. As terrible a condition as striker was, he daily cleaned and organized the warehouse. Exerting what little effort he could on the smallest of things. Sweeping what he could with what ever he could find, organizing the food in a better manner, cleaning his cot in the morning, washing shower with a rag, etc. If others tried to help he ignored them and continued with his work. The others would have learned that cleaning had been drilled into Striker. When not resting and trying to regain his composure, others would see Striker sitting on the ground with his blanket(or something similar) carefully placed in front of him with his guns laying disassembled. Fiddling with his his pistols gave Striker something to do that required little physical exertion. Unfortunately without the proper tools he just practiced taking them apart and putting them back together, sometimes making a mistake which often led to Striker taking out his anger on the ground with a tin cup he had been drinking his soy cafe from. Before going to bed, Striker would practice take imaginary shots at distance location off the roof. He would have done this when no one was around, but if someone came to look he wouldn't have cared. As guilty as he was, he would have learned little from the others. He was just too damn depressed, tired...but mostly enraged. This is how he mindlessly spent his time.... After the security tampering: Striker gave a half smile to the security breach, have the finally come? No, who ever did this was an armature. He checked the perimeter of their home looking for their clues, even going as far as to check the roof. At least its not them, if it was them they would have already come through the roof by now. Nothing seems taken. For the first time in a while, Striker turned to the group. "Seem like there is nothing to worry about." Giving a half smile, "I'm going to go out and get some fresh air." On his commlink he would have written, "Be careful, place could be bugged. Going to go outside and see if we are being watched. Might be nothing, but seems odd. Play it cool or help. Either way, I'm beating the crap out of who ever did this. P.S. avoid the cops at all cost, I don't think any of us are broadcasting SIN's." Shows this message to everyone before he deletes it. Striker would have taken two pistols with him, leaving the other on his cot. Putting on the clothes with the best cover and hood, he would have left the warehouse. Circling the block he would have checked to see if any cars or people were following him, or if he saw them twice. He would have checked the roads thoroughly before going anywhere to visible to avoid the cops, but also would have stayed near the warehouse if anything had happened. Even if this is just a curious scavenger....i'm going out for blood. Striker was on the lookout for who ever did this.

The evening spent staring at the stars hadn't been idle. The Troll felt the chilly winds biting at the scabs of her formerly horrendous wounds and fresh disgusting scars. They pulsed in a continuous rhythmic throb of muffled agony that constantly reminded her of the reality of her situation. It was a continually potent indication. She was alive. Despite all of the narrow evasions and seemingly inevitable conclusions, she had survived. The first step had been completed. Ages had passed since she operated at higher capacities than reliable instinct. She remembered her earliest teachings and the learned procedures buried under years of struggle. First she had to determine what her problems were. She wasn't home. The term uttered by the elder suit regarding their location was "Seattle." She was unfamiliar with this place. She wasn't free. The Troll was bound by a chemical leash. If she didn't acquire a steady flow of stimulants or a definitive cure, she'd die. She had no consistent income. The elder had given her a credstick with five hundred Nuyen, but that was all. She didn't know anyone here. The three others and the two suits registered as less than strangers to her. She didn't have a phone. There was a communication device, but it was plastic. It might as well have been a bag of venomous snakes. She had her problems. Now she needed solutions. She wasn't home. Thus she needed either a plane or a boat ride home. For that she would need a regulated sum of Nuyen. Her lack of familiarity with Seattle could only really be remedied if there was a common language she possessed that others used. She was imprisoned in the city until she could cure herself of her addiction. For that she required Nuyen. There were three others in the warehouse with her. One had tried to harm her. Hated. One was an Elf. Despised. The last was that Dwarf. Ignore. Her assessments of them finished she decided that it would be best to search in the city. This was the Sixth World, illegitimate work was everywhere. She would find a gang in need of muscle. Her main goal was clear. Achieve a steady flow of Nuyen. That would inevitably solve most of her problems including her lack of a phone. Night 1: Having still not slept the Troll waited until the others were either asleep or otherwise not present. She rose from her cot and moved to the cramped shower. She cleansed herself of the putrid odor that clung as a reminder of the barge. She changed into the clothes provided by the elder suit. Choosing a long sleeved T-shirt, long pants and boots she set out. Her immediate goal was simple. Find a local gang. There were gangs all over the world and if she could locate one here then she could present herself as useful muscle. She relied on the fact that she could say a single phrase in City Speak. "Need work. Strong. Want Pay." She practiced those words to herself as she searched. The Troll limited her exploration to the evenings. Her sensitivity to the presence of police and other authorities endured. Her innate night-vision allowed for an advantage during the night that her deficiencies failed to provide in the morning. The Troll had confidence in her experience. Years of her life had been entrenched with gangs. She knew how to approach so as to reveal her interest but deny accusations of intended harm or police affiliation. It didn't take long for her to discover a potential income source. Similarly dressed individuals wearing flags while smoking in back alleys. She recognized the indicators. Attempts at communication ended miserably, however. Their initial mode of communication was English. She obviously was unable to understand. She tried to utilize Cityspeak but her transmission was poor. She elicited anxiety and fear that led to confrontation. The group of three quickly turned to seven and she was forced to defend herself. Practiced swings and maneuvers engrained in muscle memory awoke. A fearsome display of strength and inhuman resistance powered by thick muscles and natural dermal platting shattered the hooligan's confidence. As comrades fell with broken jaws and cracked ribs morale plummeted and retreat ensued. The commotion had attracted attention, forcing the Troll to flee. The morning was spent waiting for the others to go about their business. Attempts at communication in a non-relevant language were ignored. She managed to get some rest, thinking again on where to try tomorrow. Night 2: Once again waiting for the others to be occupied, the Troll set out into Seattle with her stomach fueled by a single soybar. She cautiously examined similar territory to where she saw the gang members prior. She used the location as a reference to potentially cross into another gang's territory. Perhaps she could use the previous fight as leverage to gain access to a rival gang. Hours were spent with desperate attempts to remain hidden and separated from main roads and populated streets. Eventually she came across others bearing the recognizable paraphernalia of gang-bangers. Thinking back to her earlier failure she attempted to use her imposing figure to her advantage to get the idling figures to listen first before reacting. Initial attempts resoundingly failed again, but she managed a few words as the gangers were reaching for their firearms. "Work! Need Work!" She had managed to say. The duo responded with trepidation, still incredibly wary of the massive Troll. Realizing that her conversational skills were lacking but that she used City Speak rather than English, they endeavored for communication through that medium. Despite her best efforts she was unable to understand them and couldn't properly relay her desires to them. Thankfully it didn't end in a hail of gunfire. If she understood correctly then she was to return the following evening to work things out. It was just a scrap, but had far more promise than her previous attempts. Night 3: Sitting in the corner of the room the Troll observed the seeming discomfort spreading between the others. They were apparently concerned about something that prevented them from sleeping. The sun hadn't completely set so she still had time. While she preferred to not just walk out when they were awake, she would if that's what it came to. After the familiar hiss echoed from the capsule she hurled it into the waste bin and waited. Three left. Her slit eyes fixated on the Elf as he attempted to address her. The gaze was the same scowl that she had since arriving from the barge.

Suggestive memories steamed in the Troll's mind concerning actions that were taken in regards to the elder suit and his retried partner. Physical aggression in response to social disrespect was ended by a powerful sedative and a stern demand. The specifics were intangible to her, but the posture and expressions were obvious enough. She refused to grovel, however. Observing the Elf's face had reminded her of something incredibly unpleasant. Displayed by his features and gestures it was clear that the Troll was being asked something. His distance suggested his understanding of her irritation. The lean individual had left earlier while uttering some claim. Signals were made towards the communication devices and he conspicuously armed himself before departing. The Dwarf was nowhere to be found. Retaining her seating position the unique biology of the Troll twitched and focused. Optical nerves concentrated. Visibly the silt pupils of the Troll lengthened and her irises glowed a faint green. Everything within her gaze adopted a pale green filter and all heat sources animate and inanimate appeared as blips of orange. She shifted her view towards the window observing the world through her thermal vision. Her genetic deformity presented itself again. A haze of pulsing orange radiated from the various appliances, telephone wires, avian creatures and street lights. Unable to see anything in particular she relaxed her innate unique vision and returned her constant glare towards the Elf. In her mind she counted, passing the hours one second at a time as she awaited an opportunity to continue her ground search for work.

(In response to Striker's post): Castien, upon seeing the note left in his comm link, he thinks to himself, "I'd be more surprised to not see it bugged, that old man's gotta keep an eye on us somehow. But it might not be him, only time will tell. Hopefully Striker finds something out there." Castien sighs, "I guess the first thing on my list will be to get a comm link with a translator." He notices the Troll tensing up as he stands, waiting for a response, so he decides it would be best to just leave, give her space, and talk to the other members of the group. Looking around, Castien looks to find Gibs, probably watching the news again. He makes his way over and sits down next to the Dwarf, "So Gibs, how have you been these past few days? You haven't said much to anybody, and I've had enough of trying to get that Troll to talk. It's clear she doesn't know English."

Day 1: At least I'm not in Boston. Gibs turns off the trideo. Better get some sleep, no point in wasting energy. Easing gingerly into his sleeping bag, Gibs drifts off to the now familiar sound of plastic and bone grinding together. If I concentrate hard enough, it almost doesn't hurt anymore. Almost... Day 2: Gibs spends his day trying to prepare himself for his inevitable foray into Seattle. Gotta find a cheap surgeon, oh drek, just thinking about it gives me chills. A street doc, about as shady as it gets. A handful of creds and faith in a man who makes his living cutting people up gets you everything you can afford. If you're lucky. Day3: I keep thinking I'll wake up back on Queen St. in my old office, Chief Westin chewing me out for another screw up. Surely this is just another drunken dream from a time when my life made a little sense. No. That would be a little too easy. Gibs inspects the area carefully around the security door, another old habit from his previous life. It was a hasty job, none of the elegance of a proper burglar. "Whoever tried this had no clue. Some shaky slothead, probably looking for a quick smash and grab." ... "I'm just trying to come to terms with everything that's happened, Castien. I'm not much of a conversationalist, I'm sorry to say. I think I might be able to get across some basic points to our troll friend, though. I picked up some city speak at my old job. I was a detective for the Charlotte Metroplex PD." The proud spark in his eyes flutters and dies. "Back when cops didn't charge by the hour." Gibs approaches the troll, noticing a few fresh cuts and bruises. He looks her in her eyes and starts simple. (City Speak) "What's your name? I am David Gibnir." "Do you want to work with us?" "I need your help so we can make some creds." Gibs points to his chest, knowing the troll is familiar with his mangled torso. "Need Doctor."

This might be the breakthrough we are all looking for. Gib's made good on the language. Qing actually understood it.

Returning a bit more calm, what ever happened in the walk seems to have calmed him. "Didn't notice anything out there, seems safe for now" he says to the group before he notices the Dwarf trying to communicate with the Troll. Goes to the kitchen to get a cup of soy cafe. Heading towards the elf and speaking in the hushed tone while looking at the other two trying to communicate, "Hey Castien, you remember that fight between those two? You don't think that's going to be a problem is it?" Takes a sip of his warm drink, "I'm not sure if we should be worried about anything else that happened on the Barge. some complicated stuff happened. Might be a good idea to try and make a timeline together, might be nothing but better to be prepared. Plus the information might be worth something."

The approach of the wounded Dwarf earned the complete attention of the Troll. Some form of conversation was relayed between him and the Elf enabling the simple assumption that it was relevant to her. Seated in the corner of her cot with both her arms and knees tight to her chest, this was one of the few times that the Troll and Dwarf were eye level. Theories pertaining to the Dwarf's desires slowly formed. He approached without aggression, but with an atmosphere of confidence. It was different from the Elf's constant trepidation and the human's apathy. Still, the Troll's muscles were tensed. Prior experience had taught her the fallacies of a benign presentation. Hearing the Dwarfs slow and meticulous annunciation of every syllable, she realized it contained no hint of superiority. It was obviously done out of necessity and caution, not deceptive manipulation. The Troll waited patiently for the Dwarf to finish before she responded to each question. Her slow annunciation and strained pronunciation was derived from a combination of ineptitude with the language and recent experiences of how misunderstandings complicated matters. [City Speak]"Qing Daofu (Cheng-Dah-O-Foo)." Her name was stated in a heavily accented Chinese despite her use of City Speak. If there was still skepticism regarding her origin this should have quelled it. [City Speak] "Considering." It wasn't a yes, but at least it wasn't a no. [City Speak] "Am strong. Am tough." Though simplistic the meaning was clear. She was powerful and she was durable. If assignments utilized her massive strength and unbreakable tenacity then she could easily comply. [City Speak] "...Can't help." It was obvious that Qing had no medical training. She technically caused the wound but if David wanted medicine or compensation he wasn't getting it from her. [City Speak] "Need Nuyen. Need Cure." The desire for money was easily understood. Without it and without connections her actions were severely limited in this unknown city. The latter pertained to the capsules of liquid she fearsomely defended. Her original supply of seven was down to three and each passing day had seen a visible rise in her anxiety. The recent injuries on her body displayed her desperation for a solution.

Gibs will translate for the others. "We should give Wildcard a call, I'm sure we could all use some nuyen."

A very good idea. Some of the survivors still have the security matter lingering on their minds. It may be a shoddy attempt but an action that was evidently taken. The easy part of it, Wildcard gave the same security code to the survivors. Character logic might have a bean of contradiction, but the intent of their situation and history is to keep them on the same side of the affair. There are some off-screen events happening. Maybe the place is bugged. Wildcard didn't claim ownership. Then again he wasn't really asked. He didn't give them a chance.

Castien is sitting idle when Striker approaches and whispers to him. Castien suddenly remembered that those two definitely had fought, and it was actually a damn good fight. Castien whispers back, "You might be right, hopefully they either won't remember, or they won't blame each other because we were all forced into that situation, none of us wanted to be there. Hopefully they can understand that." After Gibs translates for him and Striker, Castien responds, "Agreed, we should take Qing, we know she won't immediately try to attack us and that's good enough for me. Plus I always like having another body to hide behind in case things go wrong. I'll make the call, if that works with everyone else?"

Rubs his chin for a moment before saying , "May I suggest a team building exercise first. I'm not talking about those stupid trust falls, god I hated those. I suggest we go out, look for a sprawl ganger or two ideally one that looks to be dealing drugs, and we" rubs his chin again, "do a citizen's requisitioning of his ill gotten gains and supplies. For one we could use what ever nuyen he has, two we could use the drugs for a variety of things," begins to list ways of using drugs in a fight or to knock a target unconscious, "we definitely need some weapons, four it wouldn't hurt to do a simple task as a group before taking on a real job, but most importantly I think we should proof to ourselves that we aren't completely reliant on the old man Wildcard. I am really thankful to him, but it just isn't a good idea to have nothing to fall back on. Also might lead to who ever tampered with our security, which I haven't been able to find anything on by myself."

Castien thinks for a moment, then agrees with Striker, "That's probably a good idea, get our feet wet a little. But I doubt they'll be carrying drugs openly on them, we'll need somebody to get them to spill the location of their storage space. Luckily, I'm pretty good at getting people to talk."

hee hee... Yeah, but still can't talk with the troll. If Castien only knew what she does know.

Precious seconds trickled away as the Dwarf turned around to engage a conversation with the human and the Elf. Of course she had no idea what they were discussing. She was able to catch the unique, obvious vocal identifier in their discussion that isolated her: Her name. Now that they knew her name, or at least one of her names, she no longer had to simply assume they were talking about her. Given the infrequency of its usage she interpreted that she was being considered as an afterthought. Since none of the information was being relayed to her and her opinion not asked, she stood. At full height she was more than twice the size of the Dwarf. Her massive bulky arms could easily surround the lithe Elf and lean human. Her gaze shifted out the window noticing the sun set. She turned to look at the Dwarf, her lips parting as she attempted to slowly articulate. Her mind struggled to properly translate the term from her native Chinese. [City Speak] "Going out...Appointment..." After enunciating to the best of her ability the Troll moved to her designated sleeping area. She picked up an old knapsack that was conspicuously new: It was definitely worn, used and slightly bloody, but had been transferred to their abode within the last few days. She slung it over her right shoulder. It hanged limply, obviously not meant for someone her size. First reaching for a pair of gloves that she was incredibly defensive about she then pocketed the three remaining capsules of her stimulant, not touching them with her bare hands. Pushing past the trio she headed for the exit.

(From now on we can assume that Gibs will translate what other characters are saying as best he can for Qing Daofu.) "If we do something risky like this, we should be sure we aren't outnumbered or outgunned. I'd really rather not piss off any gangers this early, these things have a habit of coming back around."

The Troll seemed unquestioningly focused on this 'appointment' that she mentioned to Dwarf. Whether the Dwarf informed the others of her intent was irrelevant to her. Her understanding was simplistic but reasonable. If those three needed her for work and could provide Nuyen then they'd make it obvious to her. Gestures and directing were innate to all. Specifics would be difficult to depart but weren't needed for her. Go here. Hold this. Carry that. Hit that. Crush that. Regardless, dependency on the trio wasn't desirable. They could easily confuse her with complexities that her intelligence and language deficiency couldn't decipher. The same could be accused of the gang, but at least it would have been of her choosing. Additionally she was familiar with gangs. She knew their operation, hierarchy, resource priorities and social expectations. Each had its own unique details, but the general ecosystem of gang organization and gang life was engrained into her very body. It was muscle memory to her now. If she heard the individual with the strange "Number 5" patch correctly, her interest in joining the gang was being considered. Returning tonight would determine their decision, her position and guide the beginnings of her work. A thought crossed the Troll's mind as she mentally retraced the meeting location. She pushed pass the trio again and knelt down. She picked up the dainty credit stick, holding it gingerly between her massive fingers and then gently stuffed it into her pocket. Complete, she returned to the door and started to leave. The statement uttered in City Speak by the Dwarf caught her attention, but despite several attempts she couldn't properly translate it. She heard "risky" but nothing beyond. Turning she pushed the door open.

Yes. On the right track, with the translating. Good call, but there are difficulties. Here is the quickfire interpretation of non-native language dice scores. Native Language handles differently. I will clarify the need to have language skill at level 2. City Speak, or Chinese, or English. Then, to prevent any basic complications (like in this situation), the combined attribute+skill dice pool should be at last 4. The open translation without hindrance, and during stressful situations, should be at least 6 for both parties. If achieved, then minimal to no action checks required. Gibs will still fumble with words, at skill 1. Though he is at dice pool 4. It would cost 2 karma for him to raise to skill 2. Qing has a negative quality that prevents her learning English. It wouldn't be an overnight thing for her to overcome. If she found a speech therapist (in her case it is required) to overcome her disadvantage, then it would cost 5 XP to remove. Then, she would need to learn basic English. There is justification already in place, so it would cost 2 XP for skill 1. The further complication in her learning English is then learning better English. At the moment, the cost for English at skill 2 is 4 XP. That whole bit about Muscle Memory and Gang Activity, does make sense. Qing is very out of place. Which is what has been making these story threads exemplary for role play. Her unusually high XP cost for English could be around 11 for the dice pool 4. 18 XP for dice pool 6. Not much of an option. Further evaluation, to overcome the language barrier? Qing could spend 4 XP to improve her City Speak to skill 2. Even if with raising Smarts. Which is also justified, but she couldn't raise another attribute until after earning 20 XP. It would be easier on everyone , if Castien and Striker dust off City Speak. The 2 XP cost for skill 1 is justified. It's less drag on translation time. If everyone worked up to dice pool 4, then as GM, I would waive the need for dice pool 6.

Striker laughs and holding on to his side, in a sarcastic tone "I see your quick to find a new ring leader, I guess you got use to that life. I guess you really were there longer than me." rubbing his eyes and heading to his cot, " Don't get me wrong Wildcard could be of great use, but I'm not to keen on relying on him without other options. I'm going out to see if I can find out who's been tampering with the security and maybe have a few drinks, you have fun." Striker puts his pistols into his belt, all three this time, and puts his coat on and hides his pistols underneath. Taking out two cred sticks, one new and in fair condition while the other seem badly damaged by the sea. He begins to mess with the commlink. Waiting for the troll to leave, he heads out. As he heads out, you might hear him chuckling to himself if you attempt to follow or get near, "Afraid of gangers." Striker continues to head out.

...maniacal evil laughter... Ask, and you shall receive. The security situation? WORSE! Just as Striker approaches the main door, it crumples inward. CRASH! It comes off its hinges, and then slams to the floor. With it, on top of the weathered and chipped paint surface, is an unconscious young human male. He is wearing street clothes. On the jacket is a gang patch. Outside, in the deteriorated parking lot. Qing is standing among overgrown weeds. She looks as if she exerted herself to throw the boy's body. She is surrounded by 5 other gang members. Their clothes sport the same demonic patch.

Castien shakes his head at Striker's sarcastic comment, "Let's just go, see what happens." He then grabs his suit jacket, throwing it over his shoulder with the other hand in his pocket. "Not like this situation could get much worse right?" he says jokingly just before the door comes crashing down. He then ducks behind the nearest cover, and hopes he can find something to make himself useful with.

"SHE KILLED KENNIEEE!" One of the other gang members said.

Striker crouches and begins to drag the door frame off to the side, once out of sight he begins to search the body for a weapon or something else useful. He also keeps an elbow on the kneck of the man in case he wakes up. Once done searching he check for a pulse or to see if he's breathing.

Looting Kenny's body is not so easy under pressure. The stress coming from the confrontation with intruders. Striker does find a butterfly knife in useful condition. [Added to Journal] As he finishes with the search, a coin falls out of a jacket pocket. It clinks to the warehouse floor. Striker then inspects Kenny's health. He can't find a pulse, but it appears Kenny is breathing. They are short and raspy breaths.

" Drek !" Gibs rushes out the door to Qing Daofu's aid. He charges the nearest ganger, intending to tackle and disarm.

In general fashion, this is outside the main door of the survivors' safehouse. The warehouse isn't exactly abandoned. It does belong to somebody. At least this was the impression from Wildcard's effort to get it set up. The details about it are hazy. Qing and the five gangers are standing near the center. Gibs comes rushing into this. The advantage the runners have, is the time they have spent here. They had taken time to survey their surroundings. The building is in the middle of a busy industrial area. However it is a place that is easy to overlook, as if like that it would belong to another business complex. Unless the gang had a real clue towards what they were doing, or what they were looking for, then they shouldn't have found the place. More like, they shouldn't have a notion about the place. At least this is the impression, each of the survivors could possibly conclude.

As Gibs charges, he spots a nearby ganger. He is drawing out a knife, while keeping attention on Qing. Another ganger is startled by the dwarf's sudden appearance. A third ganger spins his large mass toward the dwarf, and tries drawing a bead with some sort of longarm weapon. BLAM! The shot clips Gibs as he tackles the knife handling ganger. The shotgun burst hits both of them, wounding them. The two remaining gangers expected the whole group to dog pile onto the troll. Gibs easily redirected their attention, so only the pair try jumping onto Qing. They sort of latch on, but their attempt to take her down goes wrong. They appear to be hugging the trunk of a tree, as they each hold onto her legs.

Striker takes off his coat and wraps it around the neck of Kenny in such a way he could easily choke him with some pressure, and turning his head to Castien he says in a low voice, "Elf, it might be useful for you to grab him like this, his friends seem to care about him. Could be useful. Oh, if you find a gun look for me out there and if you are so inclined toss it to me. But I should be fine." Striker starts to walk off towards another exit, "I'm heading there," motions with his head to to the outside where the others are fighting, and as he walks off to try to flank the gang he says, "Welcome to Seattle by the way, this stuff happens all the time." Gives a thumbs up with his left hand and holds onto the knife with the other. Striker attempts to sneak around to attack any gang member that is using a gun.

Sensitive hearing was distracted by the loud hollering coming from behind her. It seemed like the human was laughing about something. Unable to properly understand the trio's conversation her base assumption was that it was about her. While she hardly believed that any of them had the confidence to laugh right to her face, snickering and isolating her as a joke was entirely possible. Innate reactions demanded she turn around and silence him immediately, but the situation changed vastly. Just a few feet outside in the neglected parking lot the Troll felt someone wrap their arms around her neck. Judging from the position they must have secured an elevated perch and leaped from it to ambush her. Time slowed for the Troll as her massive heart started pumping enormous quantities of adrenaline throughout her body. Her slit pupils widened, pushing the extent of her marred vision to its very limits. Her enlarged teeth ground harshly and her still mending jaw quaked. In a flurry of movement and flesh the lean body of the human clinging to her was ejected like a frail twig. She didn't mitigate her raw power as she grabbed his elbows, potentially shattering precious bones and crimping blood vessels. Turning and following a thunderous momentum she ripped his irritating hold on her neck free and hurled his figure through the safe house's door with relative ease. The sickening sound of soft, meaty flesh colliding with cold, hard, rusting steel echoed throughout the area as the Troll focused her vision on the five individuals before her. Hazy masses of male humans wearing similar attire appeared before her. The intricate details of their clothing and their facial features were lost on her. They had surrounded her and screamed loudly towards each other and her. Their shouts were lost to her, however. One of them appeared to be holding an object but she was unable to distinguish it. Her mind was blank, but ingrained memory grabbed the reigns. The confrontation was five to one. They encircled her using their bodies as an improvised ring. Two at her sides, two at her flanks and one in the center wielding an object. It could be assumed that the one at the front was the leader. Experience had taught her that while crushing the leader could have a staggering effect on the group's morale it was a deceptively difficult task. Minions and underlings would use the opening to attack her flanks and exposed back. No, the best way to shatter morale would be to crush the subordinates and have their leader crumble under the emotional pressure of demand from his flunkies. She didn't contemplate this. An extravagant plan wasn't developed in mere seconds and then executed. All of this had been beaten into her body through broken bones, torn flesh and healed scars over years. Instinct took over. Her chest reflexively puffed up, her frame widening as her legs parted. Her muscles flexed and her lips parted. Her razor sharp canines and enlarged molars gleamed as a violent primordial roar bellowed from her very depths. Stand tall. Reveal your power. Roar loudly. It was a dominance display. She was not just a large Troll that would take all of their efforts to bring down. Her instincts wanted to shatter that image as the apex predators of the wild conveyed to their rivals and opponents: She was an unstoppable, insurmountable monster that would bring them death. The moment that the Dwarf ran forward and grabbed the attention of the middle individual a loud bang rang out. This alerted the Troll to the knowledge that someone was using a gun. As her muscular legs and durable frame staunchly resisted the feeble tackles from two of the attackers, her massive arms reached down. Her aim was simple. She would roughly grab their wrists, the intent to break them. They'd then be picked up and wielded as weapons against their three other comrades: Living bats of screaming flesh, blood and bone that she'd use to hammer their friends into twitching, broken globs of meat against the pavement. Her goal was to crush four of the five assailants in one go, leaving their leader to watch horrified as his compatriots were smashed before him.

This splintered group was clearly not like the first that Qing had squared off against. Her personal headcount now reached a tally of 13 for this gang. It didn't register at first, but they were likely surprised by the chance meeting. They didn't evaluate the situation. She was a target of opportunity. Somebody must have survived the first encounter, but how much detail could they have dispensed among comrades? They didn't have a plan at all. They were acting on the chance for bragging rights. Something to elevate them among their peers. We took down a troll boyee! Now, their poorly executed action of attack would begin to spell out the rest of their doom. For Qing, her response to their action was easily given. She managed to grab a wrist from each ganger. She now had two flailing maces of flesh and bone to wield.

The skin curling sound of sturdy calcium infused collagen cracking and then breaking like fragile glass reverberated throughout the location. This was quickly followed by the frantic screams of pain and terror exuding from the two gang members. Unceremoniously hoisted into the air, the Troll had turned two average sized humans of at least one hundred pounds each into impromptu weapons. The tiny fragments of their shattered bones shifted and tore internal muscles as she vigorously swung their physical forms through the air despite their apologetic hollers and desperate cries for either forgiveness or help. She couldn't understand them and thus owed them no sympathy. Launching her body forward she harshly swung down with the ganger in her right hand. Her target, the confused and shocked gang member with eyes swiveling between his leader, Gibs and the approaching Troll. His senses snap him to action as he dives away from the oncoming flesh of his comrade. Another sickening noise resounds throughout the parking lot. It's the sound of the cascade of breaking bones of the ganger as his legs are slammed with relentless force against the hard pavement. The inhuman screech of agony imparted on the other ganger the consequence of his evasion. Numerous phalanxes fragmented, embedding themselves into flesh. The ankles dislocated with an awful and clearly audible pop. The tibia and fibula twisted, one snapping while the other pair twisted, exchanging places amidst a terrible grinding noise. The knees outright shattered and the femurs fragmented in several locations. Surely the shock from the sudden agony would steal the ganger's consciousness: A godsend that would prevent him from feeling the sensation of his pelvis cracking. The stench of ammonia appeared as the ganger in her left hand squealed while losing control of his bladder. The true grotesque nature of the event was its time-frame. Not half a second had passed before the Troll instinctively made use of the centripetal force of her own massive swing. Turning her body along with the momentum she managed to clip the sprawling ganger with the human in her left hand. Screams overlapped as there was a clear echo of something breaking. Whether it was her target or living weapon was unknown. The reeling ganger had taken the blow to his shoulder. He rolled on the ground frantically attempting to escape. The Troll was ruthless, however. Another horrifying swing with her left hand ruined the second ganger's legs in a similar fashion to the first. The hit temporarily stunned the fleeing human. She mercilessly beat the downed gang member with his fragile comrades. Blood, discharge, spit and urine visibly sprayed until none of the three were still moving. Dropping her brittle weapons as if they were crushed beer cans she turned her attention to the last two gangers: One was struggling with the Dwarf and the latter was holding an object. Her innate impulses warned that it was a gun. The distance would enable free shots as she approached, but similar circumstances had occurred in her history. Massive arms picked up the battered and broken gangers in sequence. Her meat flails had just become projectiles. The Troll's goal was to hurl them at the ganger one after another and then run. Three bloody human bodies should have provided enough of a distraction for her to close the distance and reach the leader.

Striker lost his opportunity for a stealthy attack. He was't revealed to anybody, and it may be a good thing. He positioned himself near a new exit, and was able to observe clearly. The carnage was fast and furious. The troll a massive blur of violence. Gibs was knocked down to the pavement and bleeding. His target was also crumpled onto the pavement as well. The gun handler, an ork with a shoddy shotgun stood well enough out of the way. He was not close enough to shred anybody with his room-sweeper, but he was far enough to avoid being sucked into the melee. He is going to be a difficult target. The troll might not be fast. Her choice of projectiles were a good improvisation, but would clearly miss their mark. The ganger body sailed high through the air. Only their shadows, touched the ork's stocky frame. He wasn't intimidated by the action, but he understood that he would be out matched standing toe to toe with this troll. He turned his mass, and then darted down the alley way. Striker could run parallel to the ork, down a hallway. There was exit in the warehouse, that could head him off. Striker pushed out of his spot, and sprinted as fast as he could. It would be close. The glowing red exit sign blinked as it hovered above the door he wanted. CRASH! Striker spun out into the alley way in front of the running ork. A freight train of troll mass chugging up behind the gunman.

Defective vision marked the outcome of her toss as inevitable, but the sequence could not be undone. She was already charging. Seeing the gang member turn and start to storm away into the hazy background she bellowed. Her lungs expanded as she gulped swaths of air. The difference in speed was glaringly apparent. Though her footfalls shook the scattered pebbles of earth and pavement, their heaviness came at the cost of maneuverability. The ganger who she still assumed to be a human was outrunning her. She had one hope, one miniscule spark of a plan. He had run down an alleyway. There were garbage cans, bags and dumpsters laden within. It was obvious that he could nimbly or forcefully shove them out of the way as he bolted. However, the alleyway restricted movement, crippling evasion. As the Troll rounded the corner she wasted no time. Her hands extended. Anything she could touch that was large and looked metallic she would grab and throw. Even if the miscellaneous objects didn't hit him, her aim was only to drastically impair his movement. Leaping, ducking and sidestepping projectiles in a narrow space was difficult. It also increased his chance of tripping. It was a long shot, but if he slowed, she would gain. Amidst the extended chase the Troll's pores opened, salty perspiration dripped down her heated frame, cooling her. Suddenly for reasons unknown the ganger's movements slowed nearly to a halt. Gritting her teeth and grasping the opportunity she angled her body, braced her right shoulder and charged. The massive frame of the Troll stampeded down the narrow alleyway. All ten feet of height and nearly two thousand pounds of weight hurled itself towards the ganger in a fearsome shoulder rush. She roared again, this time the alleyway acted as a corridor, bouncing her bellow as it echoed in a rampage audible to all.

(City speak) to Qing, Striker tries to say, "Please don't kill him, he's valuable alive." As he attenps to step inside if the ork to get into position, with one hand he brings the knife down towards the orks wrist holding the gun. Rotating off his pivot foot he spins to get his other hand on the gun and away from the ork. Hoping to finish his maneuver with both the gun and knife pointed at the enemy.

Already locked into a belligerent charge down the claustrophobic alleyway the Troll barely notices the utterances of City Speak. However, amidst her adrenaline filled rage, the sounds of her own echoing roar and the earthshaking thumping of heavy footfalls the words become distorted. She is unable to understand them. Her blurred vision will clear as the distance drops, but she'll be unable to stop her momentum when she gets close even if recognition and a urge to halt rises. In her mind she has to brace against the ganger's inevitable buckshot and then bulldoze him. Like a sixteen wheeler with malfunctioning breaks and a brick on the peddle the massive form of the Troll casts an imposing shadow along the duo. An impending, violent train wreck forming in slow motion.

GM: YES! Hell yes! Striker's yell, his plea could be heard by the ork. There was no way the gunman could be an immovable object against the troll. Now, the stress the ork felt registered on his face. The garbage cans, boxes, and wood pallets left behind as useless debris became the troll's ammunition. The ork could deal with the objects as they rained down on him. He didn't expect anybody to drop out into the alley way in front of him. He should have kept moving. He should have disregarded the threat of whatever was coming through the door. Now, this mistake allowed the new human to join the skirmish. The prompt ambush quickly nullified, as the troll's body blocked out the sunlight. Stiker's maneuver placed him into the path. The ork didn't care about the human. He kept his attention on the troll. He tried to anticipate her maneuver. Then the ork realized what the human was doing. He felt the cut of a knife. He would worry about the wound later. The useless one-shot firearm left his grip. He didn't care about it any more. He didn't have the foot space to turn into the troll with it as a more useful club. Armed Melee wasn't a choice. It was too late to react. The human and the ork entangle with each other into a ball, just a split second before troll's crushing weight mashed down upon them like a fly-swatter to a bug.

Gibs lays sprawled out in the overgrown front lot. Questioning every decision he's ever made while listening to bones crack and gangers scream. Last time I took buckshot, I had some Kevlar between it and me. Just a scratch, right? Another close call? He shakes his malaise. Remembering Sergeant Tanner's voice from the academy. " Secure that weapon!" Gibs will try to get up and inspect his opponent, grabbing the ganger's blade if possible.

The pale ganger laid still. He was covered in sweat, and shook with fear. "IT... it... it killed Kenny." He wasn't even aware that he was knocked down. The spread of the blast covered over both of them. If it wasn't for the micro doc, Gibs would be still bleeding out as badly as the ganger was at that moment. It will take more time for the cyber module to finish its work. It had been working overtime since before the barge. With as much damage the dwarf had sustained, it's a miracle the device is still operating. While reaching down to pick up the dropped knife, Gibs could feel a wave of exhaustion again, as he shook off a familiar nauseous feeling. That medical device depends on the dwarf's biology, as much as the dwarf depended on it. A spark of memory flashed across his mind's eye. Maybe by doubling up on the next few meals could overcome this dizzy spell, and the micro doc can start working with a better efficiency.

Gibs clutches his ribcage as he stumbles through what used to be a doorway, his fist clinched around the unused weapon. Welcome to Seattle, David. Was it everything you hoped for? "Castien! It's over, call Wildcard. We're not sleeping here tonight. Drek, I need a drink!" Gibs props himself up against a wall and waits for the others.