It would be half past one in the afternoon, and with clear blue skies around the private jet that their client had loaned them for their flight to Lisbon. Their client even taking measures to ensure that all could fit comfortably inside the aircraft. Since the last thing the client needs is an annoyed shadowrunner.

On the outside of the plane, it looked generic, but on the inside, it was certainly easy to be comfortable, as if the client cared about their well-being while using one of his private aircraft. There were plenty of seats, a table, and even a tv to help pass the time until the plane reached its destination. Along with some refreshments.

They are in the final stretch to Lisbon after several hours in the air, and their Mr. Johnson looks like an average one with a black suit and shaded glasses. He is a human with a bald head and a clean-shaven face. He was busy looking at a tablet and was sitting near the cockpit. Barely making a sound as he focused on whatever he was looking at while occasionally touching it and typing in stuff on the tablet.

Now, what our team of Shadowrunners are doing to pass the time is up to them. Meanwhile, the team's resident shaman and healer, a oni wearing a black coat with black clothes and pants who goes by Bomoh. He was busy watching the tv after taking a long nap. Specifically, the channel he had flipped to was currently on a new channel and right now. It kept his attention despite him looking somewhat bored and was flipping a good-sized coin with his right hand. As if waiting for something or someone to grab his attention.

Reinhard 'Tenno' Martin

Tenno needed nuyen to live, and had been steadily regaining a measure of ambition, or just a will to live so that he can stick it to the Corpos. So the young man had decided to join the team of Runners going to that Mr. Johnson looking for competent people... Which he technically was. He recognized very few of the faces around him, and even then only vaguely; good - They were not too notorious. Going up to the Oni shaman, the young man, clearly not having shed the last remnants of boyhood, streached out his hand for a shake and said, "Greetings; my name is Tenno - I'm a Mystic Adept specializing in anything that requires straight-up endurance and various barriers."

As for the rest, he'd wait for them to speak up or move around, but for now, he'd try and chat up the Oni, take a few drinks and pastries, and occassionally scan the Astral and Physical planes with his 'special eyes' just to make sure there was no surprise treachery or ambush - Or because he was bored.

With boredom came a slight simmer of anger, anger that the Flux State had not succeeded in defending itself long enough against the enemy, anger that at the end of the day, mutual aid and co-operative networks of defense weren't enough. That the Corpos had won just like they always had. That he had to work for them in order to stick it to them; irony of ironies.

And underneath it all was the memory of torment. Of years in Saeder-Krupp's clutches and being subjected to their sadistic whims. But he was no edgelord, not yet; he'd put up a brave face for his fellow Runners, smile and nod and try and be friends. Like them, so he can be liked in turn.

Then maybe there can be some redemption for him, redemption for his failures and that time when he had accepted his captors' power over him, that they had broken him.

That was something he did not want to acknowledge had ever happened.

@Theyra

CAPTCHA reclined in a chair, one hand lazily resting atop the seat controls whilst the other rested over her eyes. By all appearances the woman had drifted off to sleep shortly after the flight had left the ground, and while in a sense that may be true it was not totally so. Her body lay still, but her mind wandered afar. It ranged across the matrix, hopping from grid to grid with only the slightest speed bumps of data trail intersections slowing her down. The Global Grid was always a mess, and being so high in the air meant that general distance noise and altitude chatter was interfering with her Persona-- even so, leaping across the globe via the Matrix was a simple affair and CAPTCHA knew where she was going.

Shifting onto the Seattle Metroplex Grid was effortless, her persona's subscription key being recognized opening the proverbial gates to the city for her as soon as she reached for it. From there, locating her downtown apartment was child's play. She ranged through the security cameras, pulling up data feeds from her hasty exit a few days prior. With the speed granted by raw data contact with her mind, she fast forwarded through and overlayed multiple days of visual feeds at once as she hastened through the week of time since she left. Four days after her exit, three days before the present, the door to her apartment suddenly exploded inwards as smoke filled the room. She waved her hand over the virtual stream of the data, switching the feeds to thermal imaging-- only to find that the smoke was heat-laden, smothering even the thermal imaging feeds. CAPTCHA digitally chuckled and shifted into a separate device in the living room.

The motion sensors installed in the floor paneling of the high end apartment's walls combined their datum feeds with the cameras, granting outlines of forms within the smokey visuals. Heavy footsteps, a stooped figure, lumbering gait- a heavily armored troll. It had put the boot to her door and come in first. At the troll's back came a diminutive figure, some dwarf variant if the gap in footsteps was anything to note, and finally footfalls that barely registered. She brought up the MAD analyser in the doorframe and noted that the dwarf and troll were carrying heavy cyberware, but not the third figure who came into the room.

Next came the audio feeds. Three omnidirectional microphones- the doorhandle, which was giving fuzzy feeds after slamming into the wall, an obvious game station setup on the home entertainment station below the trid, and the final one a concealed skimmer drone above the chandelier concealed in a light fixture. The trio of data feeds provided a complex overlay of accurate positional data and completed the previously obscured image for CAPTCHA.

"Slitch is gone." The troll barked, sweeping into her bedroom. "Recent, too, soykaf's still on the nightstand."

"Quiet." The dwarf- a woman- hissed in a shrill voice. "Any sign of her, Slant?"

Slant. She knew that name, that explained the third figure. Slant was bad for business. The thick southern drawl of an ork spoke, finally concreting the position of that lightly-stepping third figure;

"She's long gone, two steps ahead."

"What now?" the dwarf sounded exasperated.

"If the hen's not at roost, then she's on the range." Slant clicked his tongue. Already the smoke was beginning to clear, and she could make out the infuriating stetson hat of the tall ork through the clearing feeds. "'Sides, you really think this was gonna be this easy--"

The sound of a shotgun erupted from her bedroom, and CAPTCHA chuckled to herself as she watched the scene of chaos unfolded. A troll, wrestling with a Doberman drone toting a double-barrel shotgun. Said troll lifting the drone and hurling it out of a window, causing an alarm to trip. The dwarf drawing two machine pistols and hitting the dirt as a multi-armed serving drone in the kitchen whirled to life and began to throw a series of knives into the living room. Slant narrowly avoiding a cake knife by casually leaning to the side. The blazing sight of a fire spirit as it appeared before him, its flaming hands grabbing the serving drone and melting its limbs to slag even as it continued to flail its appendages. The dwarf firing two streams of bullets through the glass of her coffee table, a series of micro-explosions ripping into the sentry turrets that had just deployed from their housings in the roof. The troll barreling into the living room with an Ares Duelist on its back, a sword-arm thrust deeply into its lower body while the other tried to coil around the troll's neck. The troll twisting in its sprint and leaping, slamming its back- drone, blade, and all- into the concrete support beam in the corner of the living room. His howl as he ripped the blades from his body and slammed the barely-functioning Duelist into the floor, then crushed its pilot-housing underfoot.

"Mm. Torch the place." Slant drawled, turning to stride from the room. On the way out the door he kicked a hairbrush deftly off the ground and into his hand. He paused at the threshold, lifted the brush to the nearest camera, and lifted his head to let his red eyes pierce into the camera feeds. "...Be seein' you around, CAPTCHA, can't run forever."

And the last thing in the data stream was Slant and his crew making their exit as that fire spirit spread its arms, flames growing as if bidden from the floor itself, and engulfed the entirety of the apartment in.

CAPTCHA yawned, sitting up in her chair as she thumbed the seat controls and sat up. She rubbed her eyes and stretched her arms, her legs trembling as they mimicked the motion. At last she smacked her lips and rolled her neck, sitting up straight in the chair. Without even opening her lips, she spoke to the others on the plane in a private manner;

Hoi there chummers, having a nice flight? CAPTCHA introducing herself properly at last.

The message would seamlessly, and simultaneously, flow into each member of the team's commlink-AR field. It would be visible as a benign scrolling message in cybereyes or as a simple text message on the physical device itself, but as an addition to her message the trid screen before Tenno and Bomoh would distort its news broadcast as CAPTCHA projected her Living Persona onto its screen, lounging on the news table and counting the flowers in her bridal bouquet. The equally attractive, though distintly corpse-ish, figure on the screen winked at the two in front of the trid display in a coquettish manner.

I don't know this J well, but international work is always messy. Just glad that I could fit the Excalibur on the plane. I run recon and matrix support primarily, but in a pinch my babies can act as fire support too. Don't be a stranger, I don't bite.

---

---

Harmless text scrolled slowly across the contacts that Nadya wore. A friendly greeting that sent a shiver down her spine. She was wary of the Matrix. She didn't understand the Matrix. Not really. Not like she understood magic. Not like she understood violence. She didn't trust the deckers, riggers, and technomancers that lived there. And she didn't appreciate someone, even a teammate, beaming text across her eyes uninvited. She buried the small frown that followed beneath a gentle smile. Feeling her claws shifting expectantly.

Barely looking up from her cards, Nadya stretched a hand protectively over the growing pile of bottle caps, nicknacks, and small objects that were piled on the table in front of her. A collections of winnings she had acquired piece by piece from the large troll sitting across from her over the unfolding hours. Makeshift chips that they had hastily assigned Nuyen values to in a smattering of Vietnamese slang, insults, and rude gestures.

"I'm Wildfire," Nadya said, turning a steady glance towards the three strangers scattered around the cabin. Polishing off the glass of vodka she had been nursing, she offered another serene smile, "I'm the muscle."

She nodded towards Frost, "And that's Frost, she's the charmer."

Behind her mask, in the looming distance, Nadya could feel her nerves fraying. She hadn’t slept since they had accepted the job and the calm of meditation could only do so much to stave away the weariness that ate at her bones. The soft, cushioned seats offered her no respite. Comfort and class didn’t leave her with the space to relax among a rag tag group of walking uncertainties. She had eaten lightly, picking at small cuts of meat and cheese, deciding that poison or a sedative was unlikely. The puffers of Bliss she had tucked into one of the concealed pockets of her flight jacket sang their familiar siren song. Later she promised herself. When she and Frost were alone. She trusted the troll more than she trusted herself. She knew that she would keep her safe.

Picking up a Lightning Cola bottle cap in her left hand, Nadya rolled the garishly bright bottle cap across her knuckles. Holding the glowing neon disc in front of her as if examining some precious object she winked playfully at Frost, tossing it to her in a sudden flash of motion, "We said, these were worth 50¥, no? Your stack is growing unfortunately sparse, my dear sister. At this rate, I worry that you will not have any funds remaining by the time we reach Lisbon. Maybe poker's just not your game, Frost. We can always play something else..."

---

Frost's eyes barely flickered up from behind her cards as Nadya introduced the two of them to the rest of the assembled runners. A shaman, another adept and a technomancer. A motley crew if she'd ever seen one- though then again most assembled runner crews were. At least they checked most of the necessary boxes of a crew. Frost preferred running jobs with just Nadya and herself, cleaner and less corners to watch, but such was the nature of freelance work outside of their usual circles. She was used to it, if still not somewhat grumpy about it.

"Da." Frost grunted in agreement, with Wildfire, her own way of an introduction. Her voice was a low, gravelly, but still feminine baritone. "Pretty as picture."

Frost shifted in her seat, her boot lifting to rest on an impressively large duffel bag of presumably gear. Beneath the fabric, untold pounds of metal, plastics and composites jingled and clacked against one another. "People seem to stay on my good side wherever I go. Guess I have a way with words."

Frost chuckled a bit to herself at the poorly disguised joke, the rumble quickly dulling as she took a look at her hand- or more specifically the tiny cards within it. She dipped her hand forward, a thick hand backstopping the flying chip and lightly dropping it into her own, quickly diminishing piles of caps and tchotchkes.

"I'd be doing a lot better if you hadn't dealt me the same hand four games in a row." The troll grumbled, setting the cards down and standing up, finally frustrated enough to give up on the game. Her horns almost scraped the top of the plane as she stood to her full height. "How much longer until we land?"

Frost looked back and forth, seemingly displeased with how little space there was to walk around in on the plane before sitting back down, this time next to her adoptive sister instead of across.

"You need to rest." She urged quietly. "Can't watch my back if you can't keep your eyes open."

Intan flipped his coin one more time before catching it mid-air despite the mini scare of the text that CAPTCHA sent him. He was not expecting it and would have preferred she just say something. The Matrix is not his area of expertise, and he is more knowledgeable about magic and medicine. Still, it's nice to know that they have someone who is skilled with the Matrix. Since Intan has noticed that they do not have a Decker, they have everything else but that. Hopefully, having a Technomancer is enough.

Still, now that everyone has introduced themselves, it is only fair that he does as well. So he turned down the TV and spoke in a friendly tone. "I am Bomoh, and I am a Shaman. I will be the one healing you guys with magic or with first aid. Though I am not so good with cyberware... healing the flesh is my strength, not the metal parts." Sounding a bit sorry in the last sentence.

A shortcoming he knows too well, but he was trained to be a doctor and not one that dealt with cyberware. Intan does know someone that could be a help in that department but she is doing her own thing at the moment. But the team seems solid enough to the eye and no one has done anything that is a red flag to him.

"I think that we are landing soon?" Intan sounded unsure as they had been in the air for hours already and they should be close right? That was his thought really. So Intan turned his head to their Mr. Johnson and asked, "Are we landing soon?"

Mr. Johnson, barely looking at Intan or the group from his tablet, simply replied, "Yes" in a monotone voice, and his eyes went back to the tablet.

"Okay, soon, so that is good, and well, if anyone wants to watch something on the TV, just say something, otherwise, I am going to leave it here." He put the remote down on the armrest next to him and went to lay back in his chair. The flight had been comfortable so far and it is rare he travels by private jet let alone for a job. But, the client is really not sparing expenses, it seems, and now he just wonders what may happen if they fail. Though he soon dismissed the thought, not time to be thinking of failure. Especially, when they have not even landed yet.

However, just to be sure of one thing before they landed, Intan asked the group this. "So has anyone here been to Lisbon before? Just curious if anyone has any experience with the city that could help us in finding the girl. I have never been there so I can not help much in that regard."

"Never been." CAPTCHA replied easily, her voice ringing aloud. "Been to Berlin, been to London, been to Hong Kong, but never been to Lisbon."

She rises out of her chair and stretches in a languid manner, yawning as her eyes flutter awake fully. CAPTCHA's next steps took her over to that trid screen before Bomoh and Tenno, which she rapped her knuckles upon lightly. Her Matrix Persona mimicked the action and danced to the 'front' of the screen to meet CAPTCHA's fist with the digital equivalent of a fist bump. CAPTCHA winked at herself on the screen, and the corpse-bride half of her brain blushed before racing off-screen.

"I'll see what I can dig up on the quick." CAPTCHA ran a hand through her hair in an almost lazy way as she leaned against the screen and shut her eyes. "We're closer now, noise isn't so bad..."

And before their eyes she digitally grasped the trid screen with her mind, claiming it for her matrix display. Within a few moments a map of the city projected from the trid screen, growing increasingly more detailed and complex as CAPTCHA rested against it. A strange limpness overcame her body and she seemed to sag against the device, her voice coming from the screen itself rather than her body as she next spoke;

"I hope you all like a rowdy place." her voice sounded playful and amused. "Corporate parliament, standard fare after the Eurowars, but there's a lot of SK bankrolling going on in the high level investments. Not gonna dig into that, just means there's eyes on the place. Wuxing is bound to be active in the port, I can't imagine them not having their golden fingers in the pie somehow. Conjecture, no time to verify, just spitballing how I see it. Lusiada is the ruling corp, and there's been a couple recent declarations about trying to combat the piracy and smuggling in the port. That tells me we'll have some shadows to work with, this sprawl isn't the shiniest. So long as we have good intel from Mr. Johnson over there, I think we'll be able to squeak through the cracks of this place."

The map focuses in on the port for a moment, detailing the unholy expanse of man-made islands and shipping lanes, and how the district appeared almost like an inflamed cancerous growth on the rest of the city that was bleeding into the ocean. The map shifted, momentary blips of traffic data flaring up as CAPTCHA raced her mind across the city-

But she hissed between her teeth, her eyes fluttering open. She wetted her lips and pulled away from the monitor, turning to back away from it as she studied her handiwork.

"And that's all GOD wants me to have today, I won't be able to jump onto a local grid until we land so unless we need more data in a pinch I'm taking it easy on the deck-work for now. I saw a few other headlines, but I don't think a mystery about a string of serial murders is going to be relevant to us. Once we're on the ground I'll get eyes in the air, but I'll be most comfortable if we can secure some wheels- particularly a van, otherwise I'll be trying to sneak Excalibur up alleyways."

By now she's backed to the rear of the cabin to flit her gaze down towards the ongoing series of poker games. She shifts her hips, sliding back easily onto the table to lean over the pot of 'gambled goods' and lean really really close to Wildfire and Frost. She raised an eyebrow as she studied them, then smirked for no discernible reason at all.

"Yep, I've got a good vibe about this crew. You all might be younglings, but that's no issue for me at all."

"Van would be good. Or Box truck." Frost agreed, her eyes half-heartedly scanning the map that CAPTCHA had set up for them. "Between the drones and the guns, I'd rather not be arrested for domestic terrorism." She and Nadya hadn't been this far west in a while- and had never been to Lisbon either for that matter. The streets looked cramped, but crowded and rowdy suited Frost's needs better than quiet and clear. It was easier for someone of her size to blend into a crowd when there was a crowd to blend into. A van would at least allow them to stow gear without getting stopped by cops every few steps.

"We'll need to set up a safe house. I'm not sharing a truck bed with this one." Frost grunted as she jabbed a meaty thumb at her sister. "I'm not sure how long we plan on staying in Lisbon, but if we're looking for a needle in a haystack, chances are we'll be here a while."

Being on the plane for so long and with so little information was more irritating than it was relaxing, and short of pacing up and down the plane cabin, Frost's aggravation was subtle, if still noticeable. She wasn't a fan of sitting around idly, and without any further information from their Mr. Johnson, all they were doing was basically twiddling thumbs and shooting the shit until they landed.

Leaning over, Frost reached over towards the plane's bar cart sitting conveniently close by- the two sisters having already raided the minibar for all its worth and grabbed a bottle of their acquired whiskey and a handful of tumblers. Their hosts had told them to make themselves at home after all. With surprising deft, especially given the relative size difference of her hands versus the glass, Frost quickly poured out a set of drinks and gestured for everyone to take one.

"Drink." Frost commanded, picking up one of the tumblers and downing the amber liquid instantly. "There are two types of people- those I shoot at, and those I drink with. Decide."

Reinhard 'Tenno' Martin

"Sure," Tenno said as he walked over and took a large sip of the burning alcohol from one of the glasses; he was a Mystic Adept; he can take this. Besides, it took him all he had not to lose himself in alcoholism when he found himself not just free, but with enough nuyen to buy... Drink.

Either way, he let the others plan; he had lost faith in his own intelligence and genius a long time ago. After all, nothing had saved them from the fall of the Flux State and the torment that had followed. An entire nation that claimed not to be a government; a state that was not a puppet of the corpos or a force for stasis. Good things never really lasted in this crapsack world, didn't they?

Without prompting, Tenno took another sip, then another, then yet another, before saying glumly, "The Flux State was a good thing. And it's never coming back. Not as it once was; the Corpos can leave Berlin tomorrow and it won't come back. No hope, no light, nothing besides hand-to-mouth survival in this fallen world."

He perked up, trying to regain the apperance of hope, "Well, that and the Nuyen; sorry for being a debbie downer - Let's enjoy ourselves! Did that mini-fridge have food?"

The hollowness of those words would be ignored by his team-mates; he was convinced of that. It didn't matter; he was determined to pull his own weight. Nevertheless, he started planning for if the 'Lost Heir' didn't actually want to be found, didn't actually want to succeed her father, or if her father was lying and had bad plans for his own flesh and blood. Should he bring it up with the rest? Would they agree to betray their contracts out of morality?

The answer to that was no, so Tenno would not tell them his suspicions. Besides, he was only one person, best not to rock the boat; he had learned his lesson in Saeder-Krupp's 'facilities'.

He was only as useful as those in power saw him as.

Enough! Just eat; maybe the mini-fridge had something with actual sugar and cocoa - That ought to actually lift one's mood!

---

---

"Here’s to not getting shot," Wildfire said, downing one of the glasses Frost had filled, with a gulp, and heavy exhale.

"By Frost or anyone else," she teased.

"Don’t worry adept," She added, "We’re just here for a payday, no need to concern yourself with the past. What’s done is done and always was."

Leaning against the drink cart, Wildfire twirled her empty glass, spinning it around as if it was some old Western revolver, rather than a fragile glass that would break if she dropped. Beaming with a smile that she felt thanks to the heat of the whiskey, she winked at the Technomancer, grateful for the show and distraction to keep Frost busy and off her back, "Rowdy sounds good, dirty sounds better, and you had me at cracks big enough for us to slip through."

Waving at the laconic Johnson, her voice was laced with sweetness, "Johnson-sama, what’s the budget for a ride? And somewhere to stay? As my sister so kindly pointed out, it would such a bother for her if she had to share a small bed with little ol’ me."

"I will take a drink in that case," Intan said as he got off the chair and grabbed a drink. Giving it a long sip before going back to his chair with drink in hand. He does not normally drink while on the job or almost on the job. But Intan had a feeling he should play along and not rock the boat. Plus, one drink should be fine. He is not a lightweight.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

As soon as Intan took a second sip, Mr. Johnson got up and addressed the group with tablet in hand. "Okay, so we are close enough to Lisbon, and it is time for the briefing." He sounded very professional with a hint of calm. "As you know, the client has recently learned that his dead daughter may still be alive, and if it is her, then bring her home. She supposedly died along with her mother in an accident about six years ago, and if it is her. Then she should be around 22 years old. Her name is Abigail Tower, and here is a picture of what she may look like based on what we have." Mr. Johnson holding his tablet so everyone could see, and it was on full view, so it was easier to see it. He then sent the picture to their commlink-AR fields.

"Also, while she was last seen in Lisbon, specifically in the São Domingos de Benfica district." The group could hear a hint of annoyance in his voice. "There is currently a gang war happening in Lisbon, and the São Domingos de Benfica district is currently being fought over. So your task has gotten harder than it has already. But the client is paying you well for this, and if it is his daughter, then expect a bonus for your efforts for her safe return. And for your questions, Wildfire," Again, you could hear a hint of annoyance in his voice. "While the client has been generous so far, this is where the client's support ends, unfortunately. I do, however, can send you some recommendations for places near the São Domingos de Benfica district that should be safe and as for fare. You have to use your own money, but the client has authorized me to send a portion of the pay to you all as a forward payment to help with your task."

Mr. Johnson's voice then sounded calmer, and he sent the information about the recommendations for places to stay to their commlink-AR fields along with their forward payment. Now, do you have any questions before we land?"

---

Max was content to relax on the private jet, the dapper decker holding a glass of amber whiskey in his hand as he remained as silent and stony as his graphite suit. He was content to observe, consider his new co-workers for the time being. He recalled Wildfire, who was pleasant enough to work with for a couple jobs in Cannes and Barcelona, if a little unpredictable. Her “sister” Jack was also quite professional, so at the very least he was confident that he could rely on them when things invariably escalated.

The flicker on the corner of his AR feed gave away another one of his new companions. Quite the avatar, ethereal and possessing a dynamism that the seasoned decker identified immediately. Those silver-grey eyes would regard CAPTCHA. His own persona was not very different from himself, a digitized blurry figure in a black trenchcoat and mirrorshades. A technomancer was not a common sight, even in his line of work, but he would need to keep his eyes open and his firewalls secure. It wouldn’t be the first time curiosity killed the cat, but he’d prefer to avoid the need.

Of course, his own digital eyes might come to wander eventually as well, and commlink networks at this point were frankly beneath his capabilities. Of course, he was able to make guesses and figure out working theories of each of his companions quickly based on their appearance and choice of words alone. That was the art he practiced, and every new team was social puzzle to solve, every life one to learn and, if necessary, take advantage of.

He would swirl his glass, a knowing half smile crossing his face as he listening to the flightiness of the less-experienced runner waxing poetic about a political web he could not hope to grasp. The wonder of youth left some pain in the older man’s heart, he felt no need to quash dreams. A short draw of firewater was good, the burn in his throat going a long way to improve his mood.

The Schmidt was straight to the point, a welcome thing. Maxwell had thought that a client wealthy enough to use a private jet would be grandiose enough to bore him. He was capturing every image of this woman, letting his agents build out a 3d composite and beginning to scour the net for the name, first from obituaries, then find relationships from there. He had standing procedures earned through experience, success, and failure, and he’d be able to sleuth out any detail. Step one was always to know the target, and while the Schmidt wasn’t too open, he had enough to work off of.

Lisbon was outside of his usual playground. Even now he had sent an encrypted message over to his handler for potential contacts in the area. He wasn’t confident he’d get a response, let alone a timely one, but he needed to keep doors open and parallel paths moving forward. From the drop of the hat the decker was already building out what he could. The lack of further support was unsurprising, they had their tools, and if they could not live on the streets, they had greater problems than locating a dead woman.

“What was the supposed cause of death of the target?” He would ask curtly and cooly, his accent apparent over a smoky voice.

Reinhard 'Tenno' Martin

"What do you know about the gangs?" Tenno was the next one to ask as he pointedly ignored the man in the suit for the time being. "The ones fighting over that district? Names, methods, armament and tactics? Also, there's a nonzero chance that the person we're looking for is part of one of the gangs; what do we do if that's the case? Are we permitted to negotiate and not just be violent? For that matter, what is the acceptable level of violence again?"

Long ago, Tenno was a curious child. He still was on some level, despite the years of abuse from his Saeder-Krupp enslavers/captors/owners during the dark days of his captivity. So when allowed to ask questions, this all came off as a barrage. Nevertheless, he made sure to keep an eye on Whetstone for the time being.

Pausing to receive his answers, Tenno waited a second, then another, then another, before looking at the suited Shadowrunner, "I don't trust you, but I know well enough we're going to need you if the Corpo heir still maintains some marks of her Corpo upbringing. You are our face, right? What's your alias, anyway? Grindstone or something?"

He instinctively activated a spell; Analyze Truth - He was keeping it on for as long as possible in order to make sure that Whetstone did not stab them in the back too soon. Nevertheless, something stopped him from picking too much of a fight; memories of 'obedience training' flashed through his mind, cowing him almost as soon as he spoke. His eyes opened a little wider, looking like a hurt puppy's as he continued.

"Well, I'm just in it for the money now. Saeder-Krupp taught me that they cannot be disobeyed, that they cannot be opposed; that they can only be avoided or obeyed," Tenno said in a strained tone as he tried to seek some flicker of empathy in that man's eyes - Big mistake. "But don't worry; I can still pull my weight."

He hated it. He hated the fear and the submission and the memories of everything being taken away from him - Everything. He wanted the world and people to care but they didn't. No one cared and no one ever will now that his family was gone. It was only two years ago when his younger brother, a Technomancer, had been killed in that artillery bombardment, and he knew that was a mercy compared to what the Corpos planned to put him through.

Turning towards CAPTCHA, Tenno tried for one more statement before he exhausted his band's patience, saying, "You know, you remind me of my little brother; he was killed in the final days of the Flux State just two years ago - Artillery shell. Sometimes I feel that was lucky; that he avoided a fate worse than just dying. So if you're okay with it, I'll protect you..."

Assuming I do not forget, assuming I do not fail.

CAPTCHA raised her glass and took a deep drink. She let out a content sigh and giggled-- interrupting herself as Frost continued and spoke.

"Ah, drek, refill me then. I'll cheers to not getting shot. Kanpai!"

She held her glass out to be topped off from the bottle, then let out a cheer as she leaned back on the poker table and threw her head back in a display of professional alcoholism and downed the glass in a swift, mess-less, gulp. Her cheeks grew warm from the back-to-back shots of liquor, but her eyes did not lose their cunning edge nor did her coy smile diminish.

"Bah!" CAPTCHA chimed to Tenno's initial lamentation. "Flux state-- coming back-- It's not about the once-was, but the will-be. Chin up, omae." She dazzled a smile as the atmosphere seemed to grow more comfortable, and her posture shifted into a demure lounging on the table. She looked down and placed a finger on a playing card, flicking it with her middle finger to spin it in place. The Johnson had risen, it was time for biz. And yet, her attention wasn't on the Johnson. Not solely. Her meatspace eyes may be lingering in the J's direction, but Whetstone's augmented view was blessed by the corpse-bride Living Persona manifesting itself overtop CAPTCHA's physical space, a spectral being of digitized presence that superimposed itself atop her. As her meatspace gaze and ears heeded the briefing, her Resonant senses had faded from the visual Trid feeds and focused on Whetstone for these few passing moments.

As Tenno began to speak, CAPTCHA sent a message into Whetstone's display;

Hoi chummer, this going to be a friendly matrix relationship or are we both showoffs?

Her digitized distraction and seeming curiosity with a smudge on the bottom of her glass means that Tenno's initial subtle spellcasting washes over her without notice. She sits up more fully as the atmosphere becomes more serious, a look passing over her face that obviously lamented moving away from the comforts of alcohol and jokes and flirting with the troll. Her eyes slid to Tenno and her smile became less coy; instead a relaxed, easy-going, stress-free calmness claimed her lips as she let him ramble onwards.

"Omae, you're a chatty one for a youngling. Most kids these days go for the dark and the brooding and the mystery, but you're refreshing [Truth]. I may remind you of a little brother, but I promise you that it's seriously likely that I'm older than your mother [Truth]. Relax, I can take care of myself [Truth]- but I doubt I'll even need to. Look at this absolute beast of a woman over here!"

CAPTCHA swings an arm out to Frost, gesturing broadly to her...entire existence.

"Nothing can go wrong with muscle like this on the team [Lie]. I haven't seen a crew as confidence-instilling as this in some time [Lie]." Her lips twisted into an amused grin as she spoke. "Besides, we all know the rules..."

She wriggles her eyebrows provocatively as she surveys the team.

"Watch your back, shoot straight, conserve ammo, and never, ever, cut a deal with a dragon. Let's keep this simple, Tenno; I've enough eyes for all of us, myself included [Truth]. You're a peach, though."

"I will start with your question, Whetstone," Mr.Johnson replied with monotony to the previously silent shadowrunner. "The target was supposedly killed in a car accident, a bad one where the bodies were badly burnt and were only identified with dental records."

Now the Johnson, turned his gaze towards Tenno."The two gangs fighting over the district are the Forgotten Greens and the Vultures. The Forgotten Greens are a mainly orc and troll gang, and the Vultures are a human gang. However, my sources do not have any more information about them unfortunately, and in the very unlikely case that the girl is a part of one of the gangs. While the client would prefer the girl be unharmed during the retrieval. You are authorized to bring her home by any means but limit the physical damage to her."

Mr. Johnson sighed and paused for a moment before continuing. "Please remember to take care of the girl. The less damage to her, the more likely the client is willing to pay for that bonus for taking her back home." The Johnson sounding calmer now, "Now, are there any more questions?"

---

The decker regarded Tenno as he was addressed, that gaze unchanging even as his rumination was disrupted, alongside the compiling he was doing on their mutual target. “Whetstone. I would suggest if you want to make money in this business, and more importantly keep your head, you should take a look at who you will be working with before a job.” He would propose, his tone genuine. The gooseflesh under the ballistic-weave suit informed him of what he could guess, that the young man was a mage. He could almost admire the audacity, but his visage suitably conveyed his disapproval.

“I can speak for us if you all would prefer it, but I think my skills will be more valuable in locating our target.” Whetstone's voice resonated with truth as he used his free hand to make a flicking motion, sending the 3-D shaped head based on projected aging alongside found obituaries and school records to each commlink in the plane cabin. “I don’t care if you can pull your weight; if anyone here couldn’t, they wouldn’t be on this plane.” His words were like iron as he spoke, yet not a word rung as a lie from his lips. “I care if you can be a professional, and not let your personal life get in the way of the mission.”

Those steely cybereyes would keep the digital wraith in his periphery. CAPT's message would be met by his own, the courier typeface reading almost as dry as the whiskey in his hand.

[I'd be glad to coordinate with you. I run silent and stay that way.]

As the Schmidt replied Max would give a slight nod, asking no further questions. The scenario rising in his mind as he continued to scour public databases for more information. He had faked a few deaths in his time, falsified dentals were a classic method. It wouldn't be hard to make a convincing scene, even through forensic technologies and magic. The real question rattled in his mind as he took another draw of whiskey.

Who helped Abigail fake her own death?

He was certain that any rest he would get would be shrouded by this central question, and he would have to dig deep to theorize. He would not be quick to feed this information up to his handler, for all his corporate loyalty, there was a shifting feeling he felt beneath his skin that this was something more than a lower-key job that he has gotten himself into.

---

Frost's eyes dulled a bit as they got into the nitty gritty of the who, what, and where. Ultimately she was here as a triggerman/woman/troll, not a schemer. They didn't pay her the big bucks to connive and plan, they paid her to shoot things- not that she didn't plan on adding her own opinions to the mix. The job itself was appropriately vague: find a girl by whatever means they deemed necessary and bring her back- willing or not, the client didn't seem to care. If the girl was still alive, she'd have already spent her life without her family, Frost doubted she'd want to go back, but well, they weren't being paid for their ethical concerns. Dirty business, dirty money, dirty work-the three core tenants of this lifestyle.

Their resident mage-adept seemed to be the chattiest of the bunch- outside of maybe Nadya, and also seemed to have their emotions firmly fixed on their sleeves, expressing his vocal distrust of Whetstone- someone both Frost and Nadya had worked with before. A lack of trust didn't bode well for team cohesion, but it was to be expected with a seemingly grab bag team of runners, and at the very least it was out in the open. What she found more amusing was Tenno offering to protect their technomancer, CAPTCHA, and knowing how elves aged, had likely been in the business longer than the kid had been alive.

"If I didn't know any better, I'd think you were teasing me." Frost shot back, a harsh scowl on her face. "Maybe you'll need the kid to watch your back after all." A faint grin cracked the otherwise imposing glower as the troll began to chuckle, letting go the facade. "You're better off watching your own back kid. Guarantee you she already figured out how to kill each of us before we even got on the plane. Whetstone too."

Leather seats crunched down as Frost took a seat next to Whetstone- relatively anyway, as to not get in his personal space- an admittedly difficult task for a troll that already took up a considerable amount of space.

"Though, if it makes you feel any better, I trust ya, Whetstone." Frost remarked sarcastically, knowing that whether or not she trusted him probably mattered very little to the decker. "Sis and I still owe you for Barcelona, so maybe we'll square ourselves this go around."

Trust is a big thing in being a Shadowrunner, and while Bomoh knows none of these people. He is getting good vibes from them and it seems that some of them know each other, which is a good sign that working together will not be a problem or at least for right now. " It is nice to see us getting along, and nothing like one job I had where it was... well, I'd rather not talk about that one. Still, nice to have a team that clicks," showing a soft smile. Bomoh hopes things will be fine, but he knows things can change fast for the worse and he feels like this job may take a while.

---

The Mr.Johnson seeing how there are no more questions, spoke up. "As there are no more questions, we should be arriving at the Lisbon Portela Airport in an hour, and once we land, there is one last thing I need to say." Mr.Johnson sent one last bit of data to everyone's commlinks, with a name and a picture of their appearance. "This is Chercheur, a last-minute hire. He is a human mage, and he is waiting for you at the airport near the exit you all will be sent to and after you meet him. I suggest heading to the São Domingos de Benfica district first and tracking down the girl. The client is paying you well for this, and once again, try not to harm the girl, and everyone will be happy." Finishing it with an odd half smile and he went back to his seat near the cockpit.

---

The plane would land at the busy airport and stop near one of the terminals with the sun still up in the sky. Now, the disembarking shadowrunners will be headed by a bus to the airport's backdoor, sort of speak, a place well out of sight for and perfect for shadowrunners. An entrance in the northern part of the airport which drops them off at the local street in a less crowded area near the airport.

While the luxury of the jet was welcoming, this would change once entering the bus for its genericness. For despite the efforts of the corporation that runs the airport, Lisbon Portela Airport has lost what luxurious nature it has in the past. Still, it is a safe place and not as bad as other major airports in Europe.

Waiting for them near the backdoor would be their last team member, Chercheur. A human mage and, from there, the rest of the city is open to them and where their target was last seen in. The time is only an hour past noon, so there is plenty of daylight left in the day to begin their investigation. Still, once they have picked up Chercheur, the mission will start, and their tracking of Abigail Tower will begin. But, what they do to achieve this is solely on them.

---

---

Practically purring like a cat, Wildfire gracefully bounded out of the tattered bus. She was tired of the jet. She was tired of sitting still. She was tired of being sober. She could feel an itch, a gnawing, frustrating feeling, that coursed through her. Beginning at her fingertips, traveling up her arms, racing over her shoulders until it crashed into her spine, and rocketed all the way up her superhighway-ed spinal nerves. Standing in the midday sunlight, she stretched, yawning loudly as she shook the weariness out of her head. It was go time, not sleep time. She’d sleep later. A couple of minutes and some novacoke and she’d be burning chrome for the next 24 hours.

Slapping Frost cheerfully on the shoulder, Wildfire breathed in the air. She loved cities. She loved the smell of asphalt. She loved the uncountable scents that attacked her nose all at once and threatened to overwhelm her senses. She loved the noise that surrounded them and the bustle that caused it.

Wildfire felt alive. She felt awake. The hunt was on. It didn’t matter. She’d find the girl. She had Frost. She had Whetstone. She knew them. She trusted Frost with her life. She trusted Whetstone to be a professional. She liked Captcha already. The technomancer danced with danger and the warnings that burned at Wildfire only raised her interest. Captcha would not be boring and that was often all that mattered.

The mystic adept seemed to be a live wire, which always meant trouble. But some magical artillery was always worth it. A little bit of idealism never killed anyone that didn’t have it coming. Maybe he’d learn. Maybe he wouldn’t. She’d be chill as long as he did his job.

Wildfire had already forgotten Johnson. He was just another fixer. Another puppet convinced he was the puppeteer. Probably a dime a dozen. Not that it mattered. The Shaman seemed solid, Wildfire thought. Although she had never cared much for the spirits. They were too fickle. They were too demanding. She had herself, she had her magic, and she had her claws.

She studied the figure waiting at the door with a smirk she made absolutely no effort to hide. She didn’t know much about religion. But she could clock a robe with the best of them. She wasn’t sure if the mage was trying to make some joke or if the Johnson had actually found them a dyed-in-the-wool member of the clergy to join the team. She revealed her earlier judgments of the fixer and decided he was some sort of comedian. That or he was insane, but she hoped she was a joker. Laughing was better than crying even in the mud.

"Chercheur?" Wildfire said, knowing the answer already, a smile halfway between a friendly greeting and a challenge played over her lips, "What’s the good word in Lisbon? You're been our man on the ground...for I don't know...some time...Any sweet data you have to share with the rest of us?"

"Wouldja look at that-- chums know each other, that's downright heartwarming."

CAPTCHA's words accompanied her rise to her feet, and her slow yet inevitable path towards the plane's bathroom facilities. She made a show of stretching her body, groaning and creaking as if lounging on the table had been oh-so taxing on her lovely frame. With one final twist of her back- she slumped against the door of the lavatory, and made a gesture of 'whaddya gonna do?' as she shrugged and swiftly disappeared into the spacious, luxurious, chamber. The conversation and questionnaire were dying down, and CAPTCHA made swift work of allowing her mind to mingle with every single device in this corporate drek facility. Her lips twitched, she accessed the Resonance, and her Living Persona manifested in the digital area of the bathroom. Her bouquet extended into the metaphorical air, and the flower petals of the dead roses began to swarm in the room, creating a brief, yet utterly debilitating, localized storm of Noise. No more secret cameras, listening devices, or strange scanners for the moment.

She stepped to the counter, brushed it idly with the back of her hand, and in her next gesture began to pour out and organize an absolutely fat line of Novacoke. An old nail file came out of her pocket next, lining things up just so before the woman leaned down and took a mad rip. She rose back up, snorting once, before pinching her nose and tilting her head back.

"--Oh, frag, that's it."

She stepped forward once more, carefully brushing any remnants of the substance into the sink then humming aloud in a showy tune as one might if they had just finished their bathroom business and were trying to be polite about things. The sink fills, then drains. Then fills. Then drains. Then fills again. And, at last, drains once more. The storm of Noise subsides, returning any such recording devices to their ordinary functionality without so much a shred of a sign of conventional hacking having occurred on their Johnson's plane.

When CAPTCHA emerged from the bathroom, it was moments before the landing and she had a positively wicked grin on her face.

---

CAPTCHA steps onto the bus, joined by the Ares Duelist drone which was half-assedly covered with its own freshly-vended armored jacket. Her other small drones fit onto her person, in a pocket or under the collar of her own armored trench coat, well enough; the Dalmatian, Alondite, had been launched surreptitiously into the air the moment the cargo door had opened, the sizeable drone soaring higher and higher as its sensor arrays came online until it was a nearly unnoticeable dot beyond sight range. The only issue was the Steel Lynx, which CAPTCHA had insisted on having its crate loaded on top of the bus no matter how many extra minutes it would have taken for an industrial powered cart to come by and do so. The bus carries them out the back of the airport, then deposits them to meet their final team member.

CAPTCHA's shit-eating grin mellows into a sultry variant.

"Ooo, man of the cloth. This girl likes the hard-to-get types. Or is this priest the confessional type, because, hoo, have I got some sins to get off my chest." She unhelpfully catcalls as Wildfire tries to actually achieve some kind of productivity.