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?”
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?”
