StormWolf
Elder Member
Diego “Cazador” Murrieta
Nyx’s Warehouse, Watson // ”What’s in the bag?!”
Smirking at Rabbit with an idle nibble on his lip, Diego simply shook his head in a slow but sure agreement. Edgerunners rarely had the luxury of growing old, but those that did were cut of a particular cloth that garnered some respect. Whatever Abuela wanted, Abuela got. It was what made her such a fine Fixer in the biz. A touch of pink prickled darkly at the tips of Diego’s ears, and he was thankful for the low light in the place.
Quirking an eyebrow at Amelie, Diego gave her a slow nod, apparently approving of her alcohol tastes. “Nobody drinks vodka for the taste, chica,” he said with a chuckle and a puff of his cigarette. The cobalt gray smoke slithered languidly from his lips to lang lazily in the still air. A faint creaking drew his attention, spying the young woman - girl? Whomever they were, they were packing iron about as thick around as their wrist, and Diego had to respect the choice. While Diego didn’t reach for his gun in turn, one hand curled around the handles of his carryall as his weight shifted to balance on the balls of his feet. He had been screwed before.
Moving through the musty interior of the warehouse, Diego would occasionally tilt, lean, and shimmy to fit through some of the tighter spaces in the corrugated labyrinth. He moved with a predatory gait, his eyes always clearing corners and cutting the pie as they traversed the interior. Flashing a glance to the catwalks overhead, he chewed on the smoldering nub of his cigarette with a low grumble deep in his chest. His hands flexed on their own accord, as if to limber up his knuckles in the anticipation of trouble.
Seeing the elevator, Diego snorted and snuffed his smoke under a boot heel, “Oye, this just keeps getting better…” he said with a wry chagrin coating his words like venom. Moving to the back wall of the elevator, Diego crossed his arms over his barrel chest, feeling the reassuring bulk of his AMT against his hand. The Nomad was statuesque for the most part; unmoving except for the faintest bounce to one leg. Some part of him was expecting Maelstrom gangoons to burst in and drop grenades at their feet, and the growing bloom and glare of neon wasn’t calming his nerves.
The elevator doors opened to a chic little lair. All it needed was the electronic music to go along with the robotic people inside. Diego immediately clocked the man with the thistledown hair, nodding at him with his chin in the usual Santo Domingo greeting.
One needed to keep their hands free if manners didn’t cut it.
Seeing Nyx as she rose from her netrunning chair like some horror-BD mummy, Diego curled his tongue against the roof of his mouth as the borg’s voice crawled over his skin like a living, writhing thing. With the multi-eye optics glaring red and unblinking, Diego quashed the invasive thought that associated Maelstromers with spiders that needed squashing.
She’s ex-Maelstrom. She’s a good borg-fucker, Diego thought to himself, feeling a cold bead of sweat down his back and a falling sense in his gut when she said to offer up their meal tickets.
Mierda, I got no fuckin’ clue! Diego cursed at himself, grinding his teeth as he watched the others bring forth their tokens, some with flare and flourish, others with a business-like matter-of-factness about it. Should he try and take a peek in the duffel and see? No, there were eyes all over the place.
Diego’s fingers flexed again, blunt nails fretting at the thick calluses of his palm. He had been told to pick up the dead drop sight unseen, and he’d done exactly that. He wasn’t going to fuck it up at the tail-end. That was probably what Nyx was testing, the clever little chromejunkie…
Realizing it was his turn, Diego cleared his throat as he separated himself from the arranged Edgerunners, setting down the carryall with the rest of the goods the others had brought.
“Pulled right from under 6th Street’s noses, a mystery gift from everyone’s favorite NUSA-rejects,” Diego said, unzipping the carryall to reveal an apparatus of white chrome, polymer, and thick industrial plastic. Roughly the size of a household coffeemaker, it had medical hoses connecting it to a rolled up sheath of plastic about the size of a sleeping bag. A canister of viscous aquamarine liquid sat in the machine, which appeared to have the Trauma Team logo scraped off.
“One, ah…” Diego leaned this way and that, until he found a label on the goddamn thing. “MedTech cryopump with three extra canisters of… science goo,” Diego said with a shrug, not finishing as strongly as he would have liked, but he knew those things weren’t cheap. He could trade an Arch for one of those! Fucking figures!
Standing up and dusting off the knees of his pants, Diego found a space on one of the couches and helped himself, propping one foot on a nearby table with a loud thud,
“Hola, I’m Cazador, Solo with the Aldecaldos. If it's hot ‘n heavy, guzzles CHOOH2 or spits lead, it’s in my wheelhouse. Guessin’ I’m one of the people here for when things go FUBAR,” he said, nodding to Vi, being the other visible powerhouse in the room. She brought actual fucking eyeballs, after all.
Quirking an eyebrow at Amelie, Diego gave her a slow nod, apparently approving of her alcohol tastes. “Nobody drinks vodka for the taste, chica,” he said with a chuckle and a puff of his cigarette. The cobalt gray smoke slithered languidly from his lips to lang lazily in the still air. A faint creaking drew his attention, spying the young woman - girl? Whomever they were, they were packing iron about as thick around as their wrist, and Diego had to respect the choice. While Diego didn’t reach for his gun in turn, one hand curled around the handles of his carryall as his weight shifted to balance on the balls of his feet. He had been screwed before.
Moving through the musty interior of the warehouse, Diego would occasionally tilt, lean, and shimmy to fit through some of the tighter spaces in the corrugated labyrinth. He moved with a predatory gait, his eyes always clearing corners and cutting the pie as they traversed the interior. Flashing a glance to the catwalks overhead, he chewed on the smoldering nub of his cigarette with a low grumble deep in his chest. His hands flexed on their own accord, as if to limber up his knuckles in the anticipation of trouble.
Seeing the elevator, Diego snorted and snuffed his smoke under a boot heel, “Oye, this just keeps getting better…” he said with a wry chagrin coating his words like venom. Moving to the back wall of the elevator, Diego crossed his arms over his barrel chest, feeling the reassuring bulk of his AMT against his hand. The Nomad was statuesque for the most part; unmoving except for the faintest bounce to one leg. Some part of him was expecting Maelstrom gangoons to burst in and drop grenades at their feet, and the growing bloom and glare of neon wasn’t calming his nerves.
The elevator doors opened to a chic little lair. All it needed was the electronic music to go along with the robotic people inside. Diego immediately clocked the man with the thistledown hair, nodding at him with his chin in the usual Santo Domingo greeting.
One needed to keep their hands free if manners didn’t cut it.
Seeing Nyx as she rose from her netrunning chair like some horror-BD mummy, Diego curled his tongue against the roof of his mouth as the borg’s voice crawled over his skin like a living, writhing thing. With the multi-eye optics glaring red and unblinking, Diego quashed the invasive thought that associated Maelstromers with spiders that needed squashing.
She’s ex-Maelstrom. She’s a good borg-fucker, Diego thought to himself, feeling a cold bead of sweat down his back and a falling sense in his gut when she said to offer up their meal tickets.
Mierda, I got no fuckin’ clue! Diego cursed at himself, grinding his teeth as he watched the others bring forth their tokens, some with flare and flourish, others with a business-like matter-of-factness about it. Should he try and take a peek in the duffel and see? No, there were eyes all over the place.
Diego’s fingers flexed again, blunt nails fretting at the thick calluses of his palm. He had been told to pick up the dead drop sight unseen, and he’d done exactly that. He wasn’t going to fuck it up at the tail-end. That was probably what Nyx was testing, the clever little chromejunkie…
Realizing it was his turn, Diego cleared his throat as he separated himself from the arranged Edgerunners, setting down the carryall with the rest of the goods the others had brought.
“Pulled right from under 6th Street’s noses, a mystery gift from everyone’s favorite NUSA-rejects,” Diego said, unzipping the carryall to reveal an apparatus of white chrome, polymer, and thick industrial plastic. Roughly the size of a household coffeemaker, it had medical hoses connecting it to a rolled up sheath of plastic about the size of a sleeping bag. A canister of viscous aquamarine liquid sat in the machine, which appeared to have the Trauma Team logo scraped off.
“One, ah…” Diego leaned this way and that, until he found a label on the goddamn thing. “MedTech cryopump with three extra canisters of… science goo,” Diego said with a shrug, not finishing as strongly as he would have liked, but he knew those things weren’t cheap. He could trade an Arch for one of those! Fucking figures!
Standing up and dusting off the knees of his pants, Diego found a space on one of the couches and helped himself, propping one foot on a nearby table with a loud thud,
“Hola, I’m Cazador, Solo with the Aldecaldos. If it's hot ‘n heavy, guzzles CHOOH2 or spits lead, it’s in my wheelhouse. Guessin’ I’m one of the people here for when things go FUBAR,” he said, nodding to Vi, being the other visible powerhouse in the room. She brought actual fucking eyeballs, after all.