Business as usual.

Load up on taco ingredients. Prepare taco ingredients. Make and sell tacos. Use money to start again.
Load up on supplies. Prepare. Do the job. Get paid, just to start again.

But was it really? Business as usual implies there is a "usual", implying common work. But lately, 'running jobs have been drying up. Even getting a cat out of a tree would take an act of...well, whatever you believe in. Which is why it seemed so weird to get a call from a fixer about a Johnson needing an extraction. Whether or not the job would pay more than the day of selling tacos on the street was yet to be seen. As was the Johnson. You'd all been sitting in the diner on the corner of E 11th Street and Broadway for nearly an hour before the Johnson showed up, looking more casual about his lateness than any excuse he could possibly give for it would allow. And he didn't even bother with that.

"You don't even try to blend in." The middle-aged, clean-cut troll with polished horns says before waving over a waitress. "You're the, uh, taco truck, right?" The waitress comes over. "Just some water, thanks. Maybe a...hell, I'll take the rancho taco, in honor of my friends here." As she leaves, he smirks. "We can be friends, right? For a handful of credsticks?"

Rivet was used to Johnson's being an ass. It was part of the job, sadly. But she was forced to deal with it. On the more fortunate side, she wasn't the face for this team, although she sometimes wished she could speak her mind. After all, she took a great deal of pride in her work, and her vehicles. But she held her tongue and kept a straight face, and let the team's face do their job.

She wore her usual Urban Explorer's Jumpsuit, with a hooded jacket over it. The rigger was nursing a beer while waiting for the Johnson, which she would've been happy to have a few more if the account could afford it. Rivet was careful to leave her taco-truck apron back at the ride, and set the chameleon coating of said vehicle to something more neutral while disabling the advertising ARO's. If the truck wasn't open for business, it wouldn't put on a showy display. But it still had that noticeable food-truck look, regardless of how much Rivet tried to hide it when the shutters were down. And riggered assumed that the fixer network described her team as 'the taco-truck runners'.

Rivet held back a sigh as her mind wandered, waiting for the face to take over...

Jackie disliked this part of running, but unfortunately it was a necessary one. She pushed aside her vibrant red hair and sat forward from her leisurely position. "So, from what I am hearing, you need some help." She directed her statement to the Johnson. "What exactly do you need done?" She kept her voice steady. "More importantly, How much are you paying?"

She listened to what the troll had to say, paying close attention to details, ready to ask more questions as needed, no job ever went the way the Johnson described it.

The troll tenses up unexpectedly, then relaxes just as suddenly. "I never talk money on the first date." He smiles lecherously at Jackie. "But for you, I'll make an exception. Be lucky it's not your...friend there. The one who stands like like a soldier, but probably never killed a man. A real man, anyway." He makes a dismissive motion to Rivet. "We're talking a clean 7.5k." He emphasizes the "k" way too hard, before leaning in conspiratorially. "Just go in, take Mr. Kawasaki by the hand, and escort him out. But see, I'm not offering 7.5 for it 'cause it'll be easy to get in. But for a group like you, sure. You could probably get in. See, they keep him locked up. Not literally, of course, just in a lab." He leans back. "I trust you can figure out how to get past that. All I ask is you bring him here. 3PM. Three days from now. I'm sure he'd love a nice...sandwich or something. Don't you?"

A slight hesitation. "Right. His name's not actually Kawasaki. Just can't be assed to remember some foreigner's name. Anyway, address is here. What little our little spies have gotten. Had trouble reading it. No vowels. Guess they didn't get much time to write it. Don't care. Not my problem anymore. I trust you've got a more...caring touch?" He throws a plain, cheap-looking datachip on the table. Like the kind you could easily get in a pack of a thousand for a single nuyen, tops. This thing looks old as hell.

Rivet did her best to hide her irritation. She sent a message to her team's comm's via DNI: He makes another remark like that, forget the job, 'cause I'm break his sorry face. Johnson or not. The rigger took a sip from her beer. This jackass better have more details than an address on this chip. Otherwise this run isn't going to go much farther than this discussion today if we have nohing to work with.