[IC] Shadowrun: Moldbylur

[Tessaract]

A C T 1

Vesturbær, New Reykjavík, January 20^th 2075

The eight hour sledgehammer of Shanghai jetlag slammed into Cait O'Dwyer’s head as she woke up in Vesturbær.

It was early in the morning, too early for actual comprehensible thought. Brain scrambling to bring itself to life only managing fitful sparks calling for sustenance. She ignored them as lay sprawled, stomach first, atop the white sheets that still smelled faintly of Yver. A fact which might of registered as noteworthy considering Yver had left for Boston nearly a month ago.

Yver was a quick fuck that had turned into a much better intellectual sparring partner. A dwarf that worked in the highly lucrative, but often mysterious world of marketing. He owned several as what he would describe as “convenient domiciles” in more cities than Cait has killed people. They were free of use for friends and questions of use weren’t in his specialty as long as you cleaned up after yourself.

Cait reluctantly pushed herself into a sitting position. Optical implants adjusted immediately to the early morning light as she groped for her clothes. Soft clicking as body armor fit into place atop of synthetic flesh, if she could have her way she would stop there, but in interest of not drawing too much attention it was followed by more traditional outerwear: a men’s white t-shirt, a dark grey sweatshirt, part of a new Ares’ line logo in darkened orange upon the chest, and a simple pair of worn in jeans.

The apartment has been designed in a rather conventional neo-modern style. Everything besides the dark maple floors was projected in stark whites and grays, even the paintings in the hallway leading from the bedroom to the combined kitchen / living area. She turned on a French sink, to fill a German kettle to bring Icelandic water to a boil. As she waited she eyed the bags of coffee coordinated by color in neat little rows along the cabinet, trying not to think how Yver reached any of it when he stayed there.

Minutes later, she sat at the counter-top, coffee in hand, the briefest of thoughts bringing up a projection of UMBRA. She signed in. There in the sleek black interface highlighted in yellow it stated ONE ACTIVE COMMUNICATION.

She sighed. She’d better get going.

---

“AND in the weather....There will be a blizzard warning in effect starting later this evening”

The monotone drone of the weather service rambled into silence, intermittently interrupted by the occasional clattering of a glass, or rough laugh of one of the men at the bar. The Fljót was a small combination of bar and seafood joint located in the Skildinganes. The interior was decorated extensively to look like the confines of an old whaling ship, portholes and all. In the evening, the tables were pushed away and it became a rather hopping nightclub serving the student crowd from the nearby university, but at the current as the sun still hung in the sky it was relatively empty saved for a sparse few patrons most of which sat the bar.

Cait didn’t like it. As a runner that had worked for as long as she had empty spaces made her skin crawl more than anything, they made her feel vulnerable and yelled of ambushes. It wasn’t like she had much of a choice though. She was supposed to meet the Johnson’s contact here to give them a better briefing of the situation, as well as her partners for the run. They had talked over UMBRA, of course but this would be the first real time meeting them. She wasn’t too excited.

Another axiom she’d learned over the years. “Don’t go relying on teams, they just go and end up getting killed.” The unseen consequences of her line of work - did drek all for your social skills. But it paid well. So that was that.

She checked the time. Took a drag from her second cup of coffee for the day. The others would be arriving soon.

[HeySeuss]

Outsider

---

The plane a suborb, not a semi-ballistic because those were spooky for the Awakened, but fast enough; four and a half hours in a cramped, supersonic jetliner with a cabin so narrow that it had two seats to each side of the aisle only.

A quick scan of the other passengers confirmed sararaiman types for the most part, and he'd dressed in a casual turtleneck and suit arrangement that was fashionable and made him blend right on in with the 'locals' who were engrossed in their augmented reality interfaces for the most part. Spreadsheet shit, probably, and one dude that should have gotten a subvocal mic implant as he talked business, though just about everyone had the means to tune him out thoroughly, except the stewards.

Chopsticks in a regulated breathing-heartbeat-muscle relaxation routine managed to make the time go by just fine. A cursory check of the astral showed a greater than usual number of awakened, but that was to be expected. Still, as far as he could tell, corp hermetic mage types or similar. The whine of the engines dulled in the astral, where the glows came up. There wasn't much spirit activity in a plane cabin, but there was a view below, through mist and energy, of the landscape on takeoff and during approach for landing.

Iceland had a very different look and feel to it, a new and unfamiliar vibe. He was sensitive to the rhythms of the land, even if he was no shaman, and the first footfall felt heavy. The trip to Reykjavik from Cheyenne was a straight shot; from the Sioux Council to the Trans Polar Aleut Nation. But while Reykjavik was part of the NAN, Iceland was its own cultural entity, and extremely alien. The Sioux passport got him through with a lighter scrutiny than outside the NAN, but it wasn't like they gave each other handsigns or whatever crap the vids portrayed it as. The customs agent was not blonde, but she was blue-eyed and definitely Nordic, and so were a lot of the others.

--

The last three days were spent in a small resort town soaking in things on Iceland like the hot baths; mud up to the neck and a little bit of booze, the devil drink was socially disapproved of in Cheyenne and the rest of Sioux lands. It wasn't merely an exercise in relaxation, but a good excuse to get a sense of the locals, the land and the really fucked up day-night cycle. It was cool to see the starry sky from geothermally-cooled pool and otherwise get bearings. He was treated like an outsider, but it wasn't so bad -- Frisco, when Saito ran the place, and even before, growing up, was fucking hostile, down to the Hell Night on Liberation Day, when the Chinese gangs sniped at Japanacorp personnel and the corps sent out security goons to collect metahuman ears.

The place looked nautical, which sort of reminded him of Frisco. University types, the usual Nordic bunch. But he didn't really stick out -- no feathers in the hair, no warpaint, and he went with a pair of jeans and a good, warm coat to keep the freeze out. He could pass for someone doing their postgrad here, a little older than some of the other students, but plausible. College bar, according to research pulled down from the grid, not some hardened runner joint. Chopsticks wasn't complaining about a daylight meeting in a fairly innocuous part of town with some university types.

He'd never gone, though both his parents had. It looked a bit like the Silicon valley his mom inhabited when she was alive, a place full of garage-hackers punching out software for the corps on contract, dangerous bleeding edge stuff. They partied, but not wildly and dangerously, because a lot of the local University types were on their way to employment...probably with S-K, the big one around here.

Through the years, he'd learned that wired reflexes could be installed with a switch to take them offline, and street sam that had that switch swore by it, because the alternative was to live constantly wired, a slave to your reflexes. Throwing people over things before you even realized you reacted, keeping the back to the wall to avoid being surprised into knee-jerk action. What he had wasn't the same way, but he'd all the same learned to appreciate the magical equivalent of learning to do that, to let it all go. So he sauntered in, rather than rolling with some sort of ethereal grace and stick out like a sore thumb; dangerous runners and college bars were incongruous.

A bunch of runners were meeting here, sure, but that didn't mean they had to stick out more than they already did.

So he ordered the local piss and had a seat near the street sam with a nod. They all had dossiers on each other, but that didn't tell the whole tale. The brutal scouring of humanity left him cold on the instinctive level. The dossier info was basic, but first eye contact was instructive, even as he forced a semi-friendly nod. He'd come minimally armed to this, because it was supposed to be a nice, civilized meeting, but he found himself wondering if he'd come underarmed. With corpsec types keeping an eye over the place and the local cops showing strong signs of S-K influence, he didn't want to push the envelope.

[Lasrever]

---

Alex had always been an early riser, but being awake was very different from being ready. While she'd packed her equipment the night before, there was still the important matter of getting dressed. And deciding how to get dressed.

This one? No, too scruffy. That one? No, too official. Alex sighed. It wouldn't make much difference how she turned up - In her experiences with Shadowrunners, they tended not to appreciate the subtleties of the job. 'Shoot first, ask questions later' had to be the most irritating, off-mark idea she'd ever encountered, but it was everywhere. At least the reputation meant people were more willing to concede without anyone dying. After a few more seconds deliberation, she decided to just throw on a hoodie and jeans. Her clothes were durable enough, and there was always magic if she needed something to look smarter for whatever reason.

Probably better not to waste her energy for now. And it would be easier to decide what angle to take once she'd arrived and had an idea who she was working with, instead of over-committing to an idea. Chances were, it'd be a mixed bag anyway, but she could only hope they'd be reasonable. Constant cynicism really took the spice out of life, and at the very least she could be hopeful until she got there.

Shouldering her backpack, she sighed, heading down the stairs. After arriving in New Reykjavik, she'd managed to work out a deal with the owner of a particularly sketchy bar. The state of her face had stopped shocking her a while ago, but it never failed to get a look from the odd patron. At least, the ones that weren't regulars - Some of the regulars gave her entirely different looks, which she generally ignored. It wasn't worth causing a scene over, and dealing with a few people leering at her was a small price to pay for a roof over her head without questions being asked.

Dealing with them wasn't difficult anyway and besides, at least she knew they'd be easy to wrap around her finger when it became necessary. As for the owner herself, well... Ada was accommodating enough.

"Isn't it a little early to be drinking?" Alex laughed lightly. Motherly was the word that best described the older woman, a fact which Alex had been quick to pick up on. Sensitive, caring, and perfectly willing to give room to a poor broken youngster with nowhere else to go. Provided she could pay the rent, of course - And Alex even added a little extra to each payment, in return for a tip on any interesting gossip. "I'm out on a job, so if you need anything just tell me and I'll deal with it later. "

Alex appreciated it when the bar was closed like this. It was good not to need the ditzy act for a while, but she'd have the mask back once she reached the meeting point. After all, there was a lot of value in being underestimated. Besides, she'd worked out a little bit of an understanding with her local friend. Anyone that would see through that mask, that came by asking about her, would get the same reply. Alex, Katherine, or Icarus, whatever name they chose: Ada would swear she'd never seen the girl in her life.

---

Well, it could have been worse, Alex supposed. The place was nice enough, and she recognised it from a couple of night visits. She tended to avoid most of the students around here - Too much corporate association, and the risk of recognition, while not huge, was still there. With such lovely consequences as being split open by white-hot metal still a little too fresh in her mind, it didn't seem worth it for a few cheap drinks. Plus, being picked up without an SIN wasn't a good plan in any situation.

There were some downsides of being legally dead, she supposed.

It was a little annoying to do so, but in the spirit of caution she'd kept her hood up on the way over just to avoid drawing too much attention. Frankly, she hated doing that. Her scars weren't something to hide, and they never had been, but they certainly drew some attention. Mostly because she refused to do anything about them even with all the resources available in this day and age, but that was her business. Hiding them at least made it easy enough for her to blend in with the student population and look like she belonged. Pretty natural to carry herself like a corporate hopeful, after all; Not too long ago she'd held their same ambitions.

As she entered the bar, she glanced around with a yawn, before taking a seat at one of the tables. Too early for seafood, really, but she hadn't had breakfast before leaving, and lining up one-by-one at the bar was always going to look a little suspect. After ordering the cheapest thing on the menu, she lay her head down on the table, pretending to be half-asleep. The picture of your average student with too many deadlines to deal with and not enough rest to deal with them.

Her hood still obscured most of her face, which suited her fine for now. It made it much easier to keep one eye on the people around her without drawing attention. Better that she get an idea of the whole situation before making any kind of move.

[ML]

For his first job in the darkness, Arn had hoped to find work on a grand adventure. A massive scheme with a massive payoff, far away in the realms of Vienna or Hong Kong, or even Hollywood! As time passed, and the big heists remained just barely out of his grasp, Arn had lowered is standards slowly. First it was anywhere out of the country, then it was anywhere in the country. Then anywhere in his own damned city.

Even that had borne no fruit. Fate made to laugh at him in his misfortune: he had but just begun to despair when a friend of a friend of a friend contacted him about a job. He had agreed almost too eagerly, his usual cool analysis being suspended by a fiery desire to finally do something.

It had been easy to convince his father that nothing was amiss. Einar was used to his son's strange ways. The boy would often spend days at a time out on the streets, usually bringing home some manner of Nuyen, food, or medicine. At first, Einar had demanded to know where his son had obtained such things, but as the struggle to put food on the table continued, Einar gradually came to accept his son's contributions to the family as if they had always been there.

His mother was hardly around anymore, and his grandfather spent most of his time asleep or staring out the window, and so Arn merely told his father that he would be gone for a while, grabbed his coat, packed his bags, and walked out the front door.

He waved to Skuggi as he passed the chair on which the cat slept. Skuggi yawned, revealing pointed, sharp teeth, and then vanished, meeting Arn on the road outside with careless grace. They turned in unison to briefly admire the family home. It was no mansion, but it was spacious, comfortable, and--most importantly, and perhaps miraculously--was owned entirely by Arn's lineage. No corporation or government could lay claim to the little plot of land.

It had somehow remained untouched for years by anyone except Einar's family. Arn's mother had once told him long ago of a powerful protection which lay upon the land, granted thus by a dragon, or an otherworldly being who had favored Arn's family. Arn was more of the opinion that the land had simply...proven particularly difficult to take over. Whatever the mystical reason for the land's independence, Arn was glad to have it be his home.

He hunched his shoulders against the cold. A blizzard was stirring as the sun fell. Not that Arn minded much. He held a flame in front of him as he walked, Skuggi perched on his shoulder. Between the heat and the cloak, Arn felt more comfortable than he had any right to, and it took him little time to make his way to the meeting place.

Why had the Johnson insisted on The Fljót? It was a dud pub, if he did say so himself. Sure, some of the fish was fresh, but the alcohol was as likely to give you VITAS as it was to get you drunk. He knew that VITAS couldn't actually be spread through drink, which in Arn's opinion made it even more of a risk to drink at the place. Better to go to the Öldungur down the street. At least there you were guaranteed to have a good time.

Naturally, Arn had visited the Fljót more times than he could remember. He nodded to the man at the counter. Sure, the beer was mind-rotting, but the atmosphere was unbeatable. He stepped toward one of the empty tables. Then he saw two vastly different people sitting at one table and changed his mind.

"Hello there," he said, sitting down at the table and lowering his hood. Skuggi settled around his shoulders and blinked twice, then began to clean its paws.

Arn said nothing else, simply motioning for the barkeep to bring him a drink. Something nonalcoholic. Soykaf was cheap.

[snake153]

Hopping a ship wasn't much different from hopping a train, Elysia reflected as she sat wedged between two large shipping containers, legs folded tightly against her chest. Security was light at the docks, just a small team of guards who made regular rounds, mostly to keep the troublemakers and transients out. The crew members were either too busy supervising the loading of the containers or too drunk from a night at the bars. All in all, nobody noticed her board the ship or perhaps, in the darkness, simply assumed she was part of the crew.

Despite the size of the ship, the containers packed neatly in rows left very few secluded places to hide. As Elysia sat in a crevice between two stacks of containers, each several times her height, she understood why the guards didn’t bother catching stowaways. It was simply miserable on the ship. Not only was her hiding spot cramped, the metal containers became blisteringly hot during the day. It wasn’t much better when it rained; getting wet was the least of her problems. When it rained, the oceans grew agitated and the usual gentle, rhythmic sway of the ship became violent and erratic. The only consolation was that the ship would be arriving at port soon. Only three miserable days of travel. Next time, she decided, she was taking a plane like a normal person.

Her possessions lay besides her, folded away inside a military rucksack. Elysia sighed as she at the glanced at the stock of the Ares Desert Strike extending out of the pack, which was the reason for her current situation. You could buy an assault rifle or a shotgun anywhere as long as you found the right people. It was much more difficult to find military sniper rifles on the black market, as the supply was carefully controlled. Perhaps it would’ve been wiser to leave the sniper rifle behind and buy an assault rifle instead in New Reykjavik, but she was reluctant to part with the gun that had served her faithfully for seven years. Hence, Elysia found herself cursing her decision in the midst of the Atlantic.

From the slowing speed of the ship and the activity of the crew members, Elysia could tell that they were about to approach land. She rechecked her rucksack, confirming that everything was secured and stretched her cramped muscles as much as space would allow. The sound of container cranes beginning to unload the shipments signalled that it was time to move. Seeing that there was no one in her immediate vicinity, Elysia dashed towards the side of the ship and tossed her bag onto the docks before taking the leap herself. She hit the ground feet-first, and immediately tucked into a roll, moving forwards short distance. Her body protested the rough treatment, but there was no time to lose. She could already see the flashlights of the dock security heading to investigate the noise. Grabbing her rucksack, she took off into the night, taking random turns as she sprinted down the streets. After a while, fairly certain that she was not being followed, she slowed down and took a look around.

Her mad dash through the streets of Reykjavik had taken her away from the main downtown areas and into the poorer regions of the city. Not quite the slums, as the buildings still stood upright and didn’t look too disreputable, but they clearly showed the passage of time. It wasn’t the best first impression of New Reykjavik, but at least it wasn’t the city jail. Finding a small inn nearby, Elysia paid for a small room for several days. Savoring the feeling of having a bed to sleep on, even if it was hard and small, she quickly fell asleep.

---

Elysia woke to the darkness of a cold northern morning. Though her body still ached from the night before, she could move and if things went south, flee. After a moment's consideration, she left her rucksack in her room, taking only her pistol along. It wasn’t particularly discreet, but it was better than walking into a bar fully armed, announcing to everyone that she was a shadowrunner. She left the inn several hours early to find her bearings and scout out the area.

As Elysia entered the Fljót several minutes before the meeting time, she wondered why she even bothered with discretion. The Fljót was a surprisingly normal bar, albeit a bit empty due to the time. In fact, it was too normal; against such a normal scene, Elysia stood out like a sore thumb. She took a little comfort in that she wasn’t the only one who looked out of place. Several others in the bar marked themselves as shadowrunners, whether it was due to the chrome they had or their wary gaze that seemed to say the normalcy of the bar was just a facade. Ordering a soykaf, she sat down at the table of three, greeting the others with a nod. Silence pervaded the atmosphere and she saw no reason to break it.

[Tessaract]

A metallic digit ran easily over the edge of the cheap ceramic mug, coffee swirling with the consistency of loose sewage. Forty nuyen for this drek. It was real coffee though, type her dad used to make at home, none of that soykaf bullshit that everybody drank these days. Caffeine was one of the only foreign intrusions that Cait’s body didn’t automatically filter out these days, if she was going indulge herself it would be with swill that at least she could tolerate.

As the rest filtered in they did little to assuage her earlier fears. They were so young, a fact whose bitter irony wasn't lost on Cait considering her own past. Those though, at least she told herself were different times. It was a lie of course, but it was a lie that she was used to telling herself. One of a select pedigree that she had fostered over the years m

The outlier of course was the phys adept and he looked at her like she was some monster. She never liked adepts, cause cheating with magic was so much better than what she did.

They didn't talk much as they waited. It was a phenomenon that Cait would describe as “professional courtesy”. Instead they sat in silence, helped sell whatever image they had left - afternoon drunks at bars weren't the most talkative bunches in the world. Cait directed her eyes to the window, silently wondering how they kept them frost-free in climes like this, watching as the snow grew heavier.

Twenty minutes later an ork sat across from them. Dark wrinkled skin, hair unkempt in such a way that suggested that he slept on it like that, but perfected in such a way that suggested salon work. He wore what Cait could only describe as corporate wear, a finely tailored suit cut in one of many blackened hues, that lay wrinkled at seems. The entire look suggesting a level of casual devil-may-care attitude, but still within the robotic confines of the business world.

The rest of the bar had emptied out. The drunks having vanished back into whatever holes they had crawled through. The bartender a Charlie Croker analog on steroids was still polishing glasses at the bar. Though judging from the way he not so subtly had his eyes trained on their table Cait assumed he had to be on the ork’s payroll, ready to blast them away at a moment's notice.

“You mind?” The ork grunted as he pulled out a crumpled white and blue case of Беломорканал from his jacket pocket.

Everybody seemed to smoke round these parts. Cait imagined it was something to do with the cold. Hearing no objection the ork placed one end in his mouth resting against one of his jutting canines and takes out a small featureless lighter. With a trained ease he produces flame and lights up. The smell of smoke filling the air.

There was a clunk as a briefcase was dropped atop the table, followed by a whirr as the accompanying biometric lock was disengaged. From within the ork produced a plain white cardboard envelope, closed with one of those expensively archaic fasteners consisting of a length of cord and two small black cardboard buttons. Placing the briefcase back onto the floor, the ork centered the envelope in front of him.

He grinded his cigarette out against the wood. “Let's get this over with eh?”

He removed a small bundle of papers from the envelope. Carefully selecting a page from the middle, he slid it across the table.

It was a floor plan, the type of detailed document that you found in a contractor's office.

“The Brockengespenst, home of two former prime ministers, three pop stars and of recently a businessman by the name of Henrik Feuersturm.” Another piece of paper was slide across the table. This one displayed a well dressed middle aged man with auburn hair at what appeared to be some sort of charity dinner. “Next week, Mister Feuersturm will be going to Lisbon for business and taking most of his security retinue with him.”

A final piece of paper was slid across the table revealing schematics for what seemed to be some sort of data chip. “This is what you're after. Should be on the top floor of the estate in a safe in Feuersturm’s office.”

The ork looking decidedly more tired with every progressing second sighed as he folded his arms up atop the table, the wood creaking beneath the new found weight. “Any Questions?”

[Lasrever]

---

As the bar cleared out, Alex raised her head and looked towards the table. Yep, couldn't be more obvious that they were out of place, and it wasn't too much of a leap for anyone to guess that they were runners. Maybe they wouldn't be too suited to the subtle approach - she'd have to keep it in mind. On the plus side, there didn't seem to be anyone left in here that wasn't involved one way or another, so she decided it'd be okay to head over, approaching the others with a soft smile.

"So, this'll be our crew. I guess 'inconspicuous' is out of the window."

She didn't bother trying to look closed-off. If anything, she was careful to make herself look a little too friendly and unguarded; a calculated vulnerability. Better that they underestimated her, really, until she knew she could trust them. Not that she cared about their goals in the first place, but maybe it'd be interesting one way or another.

But then, so were a lot of things. Looking over the group, there was a hint of amusement in her expression, as though she was in on a joke that none of them knew about. After assessing them, she walked around the table and nodded to the orc. "I don't suppose you've got any background on his security detail? Names, families, history... anything that could be relevant. That, and I'd like to know when and how we're leaving."

It would be a bad idea to have their faces known to Feuersturm's people without some sort of leverage. Alex doubted that they would have done detailed research on his employees, but most people had a skeleton or two in their closet. And if somehow they didn't, she could always find some other way to twist things. There was a hint of excitement at the back of her mind, but it didn't show on her face. This part was interesting, watching the events unfold. Dangerous, certainly, but she was along for the ride.

Part of her was curious as to what was on the chip, but asking too many questions was an easy way to annoy a client. Not worth the confrontation, since she'd get no real information on it either way.

Waiting for an answer, she finally lowered her hood, revealing firstly exactly how young she looked and secondly at least her scars - only really notable in this group because the young woman had obviously never seen a battlefield. It wasn't as though she was the only one here with a mark, though, the woman with the eyepatch being one example. Unusual. Stood out. And the elf was more machine than flesh. The other two still stood out a little, but at least seemed a little more subtle. In comparison to her companions, Alex looked anything but battle-hardened. Which was good, really. She doubted she'd register as a threat to any enemies they faced.

Anything that meant bullets weren't coming here way was always a positive.

Still, she felt a little relieved to be done hiding her face. Even faking insecurity got on her nerves, not that the idea wasn't convenient. "As for the rest of you, if anyone needs a place to sleep I've got room free of charge." There was an ulterior motive there; Alex wanted a chance to try and assess the people she was working with. But a free room with guaranteed safety would be a good offer either way, considering she didn't exactly present a physical threat to anyone.

Besides, who knew? These people might actually be interesting.

[HeySeuss]

So there was a location, an item and some instructions, but the rest was their own legwork. They'd have to case the place, and carefully orchestrate the way in and out. They had time to dig into that info, but they'd have to get to work quickly. But there was one part that wasn't answered in that Johnson's very brief plan.

"Yes. How do we contact you to arrange a dropoff?" Chopsticks wasn't committing to a location ahead of time, because he didn't want to get picked off by the Johnson if they tried to stiff them. He didn't know the fixer and he didn't know the crew, that meant that they were going to have to keep things contained from the client until they had their item in hand, and they'd need to make sure the pay cleared before they let go. He liked to make sure the runs were planed smoothly, though they rarely went that way. But resources and planning went a long way to handle the things you could see coming and you relied on skill for the rest.

He'd dealt with it before with extraction work in the Free State and Seattle, when the clients tried to twist you or chisel you. He didn't want to rely on the client's information too much, and the first thing they'd do with those blueprints, if he had his way, was check them over just in case. He certainly wasn't going to give the Johnson any timeframe for the work, just that they were going to get in and do it.

Getting into someone's residence meant that they had to work something out with someone and cause a betrayal or they'd have to go in with force. Not necessarily loud and lethal, but with force. He didn't like the idea of that in a neighborhood crawling with heavy police security, to account for the rich and famous.

Loud was bad. But he'd wait until the Johnson was out the door for all that. In the meantime, he kept it quiet and let the others have their say. His question was the one he always worried about; he wanted to make sure they weren't holding the stuff any longer than they had to.

[ML]

So far, so good. Arn was surprised that he hadn't been arrested the second he sat down. If he was being somewhat honest with himself, he had expected to be arrested. These people just stood out too much to not be S-K operatives. It had just seemed too good to be true. But no, it was real. This was happening.

He nearly seconded the scarred woman's offer of shelter. He, too, had a place where the runners could stay. But no, he couldn't offer them refuge. His father would flay him, and his grandfather would likely die from the shock.

Aeon remained silent, sipping from the soykaf paper cup in front of him. It was the cheapest thing the place offered. Worse than water, worse than rotgut, but if you had next to no money, or wanted to keep yourself off the radar, it worked. The Fljót's soykaf was better than some places, and he'd gotten used to the stomach churning feeling long ago.

But the Chinese-looking man bought up something Arn could relate to. "I know where to drop things off," he said quietly. "Around here, there is only one place which any of the street vermin trust. Herra Skáp's place. Lord Locker. There is no better fence in Vesturbær that I know of." Arn glanced around, then clarified. "I have been raised here since I was young. Most of my life has been spent in New Reykjavik."

He tilted his head, and Skuggi leapt down onto the table. The little cat meowed once, then settled down to nap. Arn shrugged. "If you need to know your way around, I can assist with that. However, we will need to work slightly on your manner and style. Many of you are sore thumbs. Les étrangers, lǎowài. We must change that before any missions in this area. It would suck to be captured due to negligence of camouflage."

A hand settled on Skuggi, stroking the feline form. "I am Aeon," he said, to start the flow of information. They would have to build trust with each other to survive this, wouldn't they?