[The Grid] Chatper 1: Hardwired

Kase


"Anywhere but here, Kase," Bob replies. He outdistances you and lunges for the elevator, which was already starting to close. It lands on his arm and slides back, while he darts in. Behind you, Athena waves for you to keep going. The other people in the hallway aren't paying too much attention to you, concerned with their own worries and fears, and several of them are going for the elevator as well. Athena waves you again, and tells you to hurry. She looks concerned.


Somewhere behind you a door swings open, and a slav rushes out into the hallway. He's holding his severed forearm with his good hand, and has a belt cinched tight around the stump. There's a crazy look in his eyes, like a religious fanatic, and he sweeps the hallway for you.

Ah, no worries. Sometimes I get too sneaky and then no one can figure out what's going on. This way you've got some good clues to go on and can start figuring out what's happening behind the scenes.
 
Kase looked from Bob in the elevator and the people starting to flock it to Athena, telling him to run. He didn't want to leave Athena here, there was just no way he could leave her here. Somehow, Athena was important to him, and with two psychos on the loose here, it was akin to damning her.


One of them burst in through a door, aiming for him. He was missing an arm, but he didn't want to take a chance. Not with Athena.


So he grabbed a nearby trolley from against the wall, lining it up with the slav. With a mighty yell (or at least something akin to it), he sent it skimming at him, hoping to buy a few seconds as he doubled back, grabbing Athena.


"Come on! We either leave with you or not at all, and you can chastise me about it later!"
 
Brennick chuckles.


"He's in our custody for the moment and our department cooperating in an ongoing external affair is really not up to me, since I will never see his file on my desk... so to me he's my suspect, and a case for our department.


If you want more from him than I can give you, you'd have to see with my hierarchy.


As for the accident itself, it's like I said in the report... we were going uphill, and then god knows why he turned the wheel around and probably lost control of the car - it's quite a beast if you must know - and ended up in the dunes."

spending wp to resist the compulsion... it's an ego thing, after all that poor bastard put me through, I'm not letting someone else taking him away ! :twisted:
 
Patrick O'Connell


Not much later you roll into the auto shop and park in front of the mechanics bay. There doesn't seem to be anyone around. The bays themselves are empty of people, but you notice a Stingray up on a lift in one. Slipping in you poke around, just in case someone's inside the engine compartment or something, but no success. Car looks nice, though. Needs a new suspension, but otherwise in great shape. Fortunately, there is a suspension sitting on a table next to it, carefully broken down to component pieces. You leave, and finally find someone in the lobby.


Like most shops, this place has a little receiving room. There's a couple of dirty chairs, an old Coke machine, and several ash trays. Against one wall is a counter with a cash register and credit card machine. Around the walls are various glamor shots of restored cars, but most of these have been annotated directly onto the glass with a pain marker. There's a Ford Coupe from the forties, and its bumper has been circled as well as arrows being drawn to the side paneling. Next to that is a shot of an Edsel. That one's been lined and marked until it looks like a hunk of beef, waiting for the butcher. More and more fill nearly every bit of empty space. Over the counter is a claymore; the sword not the mine.


Behind the counter is one of the dirtiest people you have ever met. She's about five foot nothing with green eyes and hair the color of grease with ATF highlights. She's wearing a work shirt that had once been blue and jeans. The girl is staring intently at a disassembled clutch box on the counter and probing around within it with a screwdriver. With her is a complete array of wrenches, several more screwdrivers, and a mace.


The girl looks up when you arrive. "Morning. Is it still morning? Either way, the sun's up, so it's morning to me. I'm Lace. What's up?"
 
Erin


Without much more discussion you leave. Tony offers you one of the company cars before going back to snickering with Dan. He's not a bad guy, he just has a horrible anti-social condition: he thinks he's hilarious. The rest of you don't necessarily agree.


It's a beautiful day after leaving the office. The sun is still over the ocean to the east, and there's a sea wind blowing the smell of salt into your nostrils. The dune grass is long and thick. The last few weeks have been full of rain, and every growing thing is thick with life. Gold speckles on green, and it is easy to forget the odd image of silver leaves. It must have been a day dream anyway. Gulls fill the air, raucously cawing to each other, and generally making noise. Some people think they're a nuisance because of the constant racket. Other people like to see things moving through the air. Now they flap around, fighting with each other over bits of food, and strutting around in the long grass with great self importance.


Ms Whitfield lives in a wide house that's too far south to be a prime tourist rental, but has direct beach access in the back. That means money. The house itself is up on stilts with a wrap around veranda. It's a wide thing, mostly one story with a detached garage near the road. Towards the right side the deck breaks off to lead across the dunes to a cupola, and there's probably a stairway leading down the back to the beach. Painted white and kept in good condition, the house looks pleasant, and could probably hold a large family or a dozen vacationers. Ms Whitfield answers the door herself, dressed in white.


"Hello. Yes, I am Stephanie Whitfield. Pleased to meet you. Are you from the law offices of Anthony Gads?"
 
Erin

Miashara said:
"Hello. Yes, I am Stephanie Whitfield. Pleased to meet you. Are you from the law offices of Anthony Gads?"
Click to expand...
Erin nods and smiles, extending her hand. "Yes I am, Ms. Whitfield, and the pleasure is all mine. My name is Erin Hagens, and I've brought some papers for you to sign. It shouldn't take long."
 
Kase


Athena stumbles into the elevator with you as gunfire lights up the hallway. Now the worried patients panic, yelling, screaming, and diving for doorways and waiting rooms. A few bullets pass through the closing doors, but they're high and central. You and Bob are both ducking next to the walls on either side, and nothing comes close. Then they shut, and you descend.


Athena crouches by one of the walls, and rather casually sticks a finger into a hole in her pants. She has two bullet wounds in her right leg, but one is a through and through. With a focused expression she roots around for a couple seconds, then pulls out a bloody bullet. She looks at it carefully and then discards it. "Nine mil. How very Western of them. Nxet tmie dnot wiat," she finishes in another language. The tongue is familiar though, and you can make out most of the meaning.


"Not my call. The boy likes you," Bob replies, amused. "But why is Buchaveress itaiintnig clpomex aioctn awnyay?" he finishes, shifting from English midway.


"No signature. Anyone can hire a couple gunmen. Neither of those two know anything," Athena answers. She squeezes her thigh through the pants and stares at the wound. It isn't bleeding any more, and her black slacks camouflage the blood well. There's nothing to be done about her hands, which are dripping with it. "Congratulations, Kase, you've just survived your first attempted murder. This was personal, not political, so it isn't an assassination. You'll probably start collecting those soon enough."


"Wait until you get your first attempt at regicide. Then you know you've made it," Bob adds.


The elevator slows. Athena lurches onto her feet, and Bob hits the 'door closed' button to buy a couple seconds. "I'll take point. The car is parked in E lot, out the main doors, down the hill, on the right. The car is a black S Class. I have the keys, but if you need to, break a window. The alarm's deactivated and the spare keys are in the glove box. Outside the elevators we make a right, and go around the main waiting area. Don't run and try to be inconspicuous. Ready?
 
Brennick


For a brief instant, irritation flashes across the suit's impassive face. He looks annoyed. Very, very annoyed.


"Detective Brennick, I do not think you are being as helpful as you could be. Without your assistance, all charges from this incident will be inadmissible in federal court. With the double jeopardy clause, it will be impossible to file two sets of charges, meaning the perpetrator will effectively walk after all of your efforts. I assure you he will be tried in federal court, so only by helping me will you contribute to his conviction. You do want to see him convicted, do you not?"


While speaking he disentangles his fingers from their steepled position and opens a thick manila folder before him. He opens it, and reveals that the first part is a interdepartmental copy of the incident report. You don't need to read it to know that everything in your copy of the report is there. Omitting things is foolish, and can get people in a huge amount of trouble. Beyond that are two sub folders, each one labeled with one of the two perp's names. Chase's folder is thinner, while Jordan's has some heft to it. Based on thickness alone, you'd assume Jordan has at least one prior conviction and probably did hard time.


Unsettlingly, there's a third personnel folder behind either of theirs. Its labeled, 'Patrick O'Connell.' He pushes that one to the side and turns his attention to the first two, as if it is of trivial importance.


"Now, Detective, I am prepared to share the federal dossiers on both of these two with your department. While Mr Reilly is incarcerated now, his ally Mr Smythe is not. Of course you understand this leaves him free in your community. We have annotated all his methods, means, and likely forms of illicit occupation. Meanwhile, Mr Reilly's folder will be quite advantageous in your interdepartmental reviews and performance reports. The full details on him will greatly assist your station get excellent ratings. But if you want these reports, you must further clarify your own statement."

I'm switching to Nox from Invisible Castle.

Suit rolled the following in his 12 dice:
5, 7, 9, 2, 9, 7, 1, 8, 2, 7, 7, 6


Using 7 as the target number, the roll resulted in 7 successes.
Click to expand...
That will beat your MDV, especially with the intimacy penalty. If so, Brennick will be compelled to explain his offensive driving tactics, and his suspicions about the source of the bullet that went through his car. This would be a good time to do something to significantly raise your MDV.


Nox is here, but it's probably going to move soon. If you want to check the roll logs, search for 'Suit' and they come up.
 
Brennick looks up to the captain, looking for a familiar twitch confirming the "don't give them an inch" previous statement.


While he feels strongly inclined to give up the Reilly case, Smythe is still out there, and he must be found, and they are wasting time here right now...


Still something was not right here, obviously the Smythe guy has more interest for them, judging by the size of the file.


The usual alcohol haze is not here today and so Argos has all his eyes opened.

waiting on the captain call to give the Reilly guy away or not giving an inch and trying to read the agent's motivation:


8d10 → [4,7,6,9,1,4,6,1] = (38)


http://invisiblecastle.com/roller/view/2692404/


oooh that's one crappy roll ! :|
 
Patrick


The Stingray gets an interested look as Patrick makes his way through the work bay; while he appreciates them (especially Split Window Coupes), Patrick has always been more of a Mopar man than Chevy. Although Pontiacs aren't bad...


Heading into the receiving room, he looks around and makes note of the pictures, paying special attention to the Edsel. Meanwhile, the sword merits a raised eyebrow - it's not exactly the kind of thing one finds in an auto shop, after all, and, noting the type of sword, Patrick's mind makes a few pop-culture connections with a twitch of a smile on his lips as he turns to speak to the ball of grease - er, lady - behind the counter.


"Yeah, it's morning. I think. Was a pretty long night. G'morning, Miss Lace. I'm Pat - ah, Patrick O'Connell. I called earlier about my '74 Challenger needing some work?"


He pauses.


Then really can't resist.


"You know, that's a pretty nice sword there. I wasn't aware there was a body shop in town run by Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod."
 
Patrick


Without a moment's hesitation she replies, "We use it to keep ahead of competition. After all, there can be only one." Then she looks up and smirks at you.


"You had the '74? What're you running in that, the 360 or the 318? And what did you do to it? No, don't tell me. I'll see soon enough. Let's go look, shall we?" Still smiling she steps around the counter and indicates you should show her to the car. You head out the grimy glass doors of the lobby and into the parking lot, where the beast sits in noisy stillness. With much of the internal cooling systems tanked, it ran very hot on the drive over, and now, even with everything off, it rattles to itself as the components cool.


Lace stares at it for several seconds, observing the exterior dents and minor bumper damage, before making a slow circuit of the machine. By the time she's finished her walk has turned into something of a sidle, and when she finally approaches the car itself she's blatantly sauntering. "Would you pop the hood? I need to see what he's got under there."


You have the oddest feeling the mechanic is about to seduce your car.
 
Erin


"Excellent. Please come in." She takes your hand and shake it firmly before holding the door open so you can enter. As you go by you notice a fleeting expression of curiosity flicker across her face, but that's gone before its even there.


Ms Whitfield leads you through a short foyer to a large room. At the center is a good sized drafting table covered in schematics and wiring diagrams. Interspersed with them are AutoCAD printouts of nearly fractal complexity. Two entire walls are covered with white boards bearing tremendously complicated equations. Minimalist lamps stand here and there, switched off, for the walls not lined with mathematica are set with wide windows, and through these pours sunlight. After driving behind the darkly tinted windows of the Mercedes, the light in the room almost hurts your eyes. There are several computers set against one wall, two of which are vigorously compiling code. Next to the drafting table is a second desk, also minimalist. Really little more than a sheet of glass supported by crystal legs, the papers seem to hover over open air. Unlike the table, this desk is nearly barren.


"Coffee?" Ms Whitfield offers as she approaches a stainless steel urn standing unobtrusively in a corner. It's one of those economy sized jobs, the type that makes a gallon at a time. Ms Whitfield pours herself a cup, a small thing of white porcelain, and lifts another. She glances back at you, waiting for your response.
 
cyl said:
Brennick looks up to the captain, looking for a familiar twitch confirming the "don't give them an inch" previous statement.
While he feels strongly inclined to give up the Reilly case, Smythe is still out there, and he must be found, and they are wasting time here right now...


Still something was not right here, obviously the Smythe guy has more interest for them, judging by the size of the file.


The usual alcohol haze is not here today and so Argos has all his eyes opened.

waiting on the captain call to give the Reilly guy away or not giving an inch and trying to read the agent's motivation:


8d10 → [4,7,6,9,1,4,6,1] = (38)


http://invisiblecastle.com/roller/view/2692404/


oooh that's one crappy roll ! :|





The agent is a mystery. The earlier flicker of annoyance is gone, and he might as well be carved from stone.


Extending the roll to your chief, you can see he's swayed. Now this is odd, because your chief can write a performance review that would get you a medal for valor from an parking ticket incident. But looking back at the old man's eyes, you can see a peculiar hunger in them as he looks down at the two folders. He wants them. Bad.
Click to expand...
 
Erin


Erin glances around as she enters the room, but briefly. All of that light makes her head ache suddenly, and she's never been much interested in mathematics anyway.


"No, thank you," she says, in response to Ms. Whitfield's offer of coffee. "I'm afraid I'm in something of a hurry. We really do need these papers filed today. It's kind of you to offer, though."
 
Erin


"Of course, of course. Business first." Replacing the cup she'd been on the verge of filling, she draws up a seat for you at the desk and takes one opposing. You take the folder out, and present the papers. Neither of you speaks for several minutes except to exchange instructions, and basic, work related communications. After going through the first sets of affidavits, which consist of nothing more interesting than assurances everyone involved has received their paperwork, you move on to the next segment. It's the bulk of the contract, effectively hiring the your law agency to represent Ms Whitfield in court. She stops to read it, but reads quickly. The room is very quiet, and the sound of the ocean is faintly audible. It rolls through the open windows as your client turns the pages.


With the rolling waves comes the first of the spring mosquitoes. Its faint whine is audible over the distant ocean, and it flies in and bobs around the room. With nothing else to look at while you wait for your client to finish reading, you absently pay attention to the bug. It flits, it floats, it suddenly goes silent.

Perception + Awareness or Per + Melee, please. There's a threshold at 1 success, and another at 3. You can use the same roll for both.
 
Miashara said:
"Vicodin," he pronounces. If anyone would know, it would be Frank. He adds, "Where'd you get the Vicodin? And when did you go shopping!? Dude, how much booze did you get?" suddenly getting more excited with each word as his eyes widen to the size of saucers.
Click to expand...
Robert Maudeville


Vicodin... It's not mine man


Although a few Vicodine would probably ease the pain of his foot. Robert looks Frank over curiously.


wait a second... shopping? I didn't go shopping I thought you guys bought this.


Rubbing his head he tries to remember what happened after he got back the previous night. He had came in and immediately hit the booze that he remembers, but after that a blur.


Shit man... Frank what did I do when I got back last night?
 
Erin


It takes you a moment to realize what just happened, for you weren't fully focused. The bug flittered around the room, buzzing, and went to land on Ms Whitfield when she stabbed it, out of the air, with her pen. It's an old fashioned metal nibbed pen with a sharp, golden point, and impaled through the thorax is the small insect. It twitches a few times before going still and bleeds stolen blood. You almost missed it because Ms Whitfield didn't look up. She aimed either via sound or some other cognitive method. Then she finishes reading and casually tosses her signature onto the final few blocks. Afterwards she delicately flicks the tiny corpse away as she brushes the pen tip into a trash can.


"Now, was there anything else, Miss Hagan?" she ask in her solicitous tone. "I feel remiss having you visit without accepting either coffee. But I understand business is pressing." With a professional motion she taps the paperwork on the desk to form a neat stack and offers it too you.
 
Erin


"Er..." Erin blinks.


The rooster is crowing...


"This may sound like an odd question...but do you fence, by any chance?"
 
Kase


It goes so well.


Bob releases the elevator doors and slips out fading around the wall and walking purposefully along. He's radiating just the right amount of confusion and worry without being excessive, and no one seems to be paying him a bit of attention. You emerge behind him, and walk along, nervous, with the feeling from the first day of high school that implies all eyes are on you. But they aren't. People glance in your direction, but almost immediately glance away listening for the sound of further gunshots that don't come. No one says anything to you. As you go you step slightly away from the wall and Athena insinuates herself into the gap. No one pays attention, and with you shielding her the limp is almost invisible.


The lobby is filled with people, and they're all absorbed in their own concerns. Several are talking animatedly, but there's not nearly as much yelling and screaming as you might expect. These people aren't panicked, though they are scared and confused. Bob rounds a fake wall ahead of you and heads for the rotating door, concealed from the people by a line of decorative fake plants. You follow, keeping your eyes open.


In the crowd, standing near the far are two more slavs. They're also dressed in nondescript dark clothing, with their hands folded in front of them. They look so much like the two killers from before your breath catches. Across the lobby they stare right at you and...do nothing. Disinterested, they look away, towards the bank of elevators and stairs and keep waiting. Athena keeps on walking, and you keep shielding her. No one looks at you twice.


Outside the hospital, Bob is already hurrying down the hill. Athena talks to you conversationally, like there's nothing strange going on.


"The one handed man will have to take the stairs, and he's losing blood fast. He might not make it down. When he does, his first priority will be to escape, so he may not tell his two companions about us. We can't be sure. If the hitmen come after us, remember that their machine pistols aren't very effective at range. Bob is probably going to bring the car up and meet us so just run like hell for the car.


"And keep your eyes open. They must have a getaway vehicle."


And then, with a nigh incomprehensible nonsequitor, she asks, "I don't suppose you know any sword fighting?"
 
Sword-fighting?


Did she slip him more morphine when he wasn't looking? What the hell kind of question was that?


...probably to keep up the act, but hey. He shifts his head this way and that for a moment or two, a sign of him thinking.


"A little bit. There's a fencing academy not far from the college I attend back home, I'll drop by for a lesson or two now and again, but..."
 
Erin


"Oh, yes, my dear. Lots," Ms Whitfield says dryly. She smiles a little, amused at a private joke but too polite to laugh out loud without explaining it.


There is a soft chirp from her pocket, and she removes a black cell phone. The conversation is very short. Afterward she rises and says apologetically, "I'm sorry, Miss Hagan. Several gentlemen who work for me have just informed me they failed to complete a rather simple assignment. You said you were in something of a hurry, so please excuse me if I end our conversation here."


From there she escorts you to the door, offering a couple small polite comments. At the door itself she ushers you out but pauses on the cusp of shutting it behind you.


"On the topic of fencing, I suppose I've been unfairly short spoken. I've been fencing for quite some time now, long enough to recognize the saber callouses when we shook hands earlier. It surprised me somewhat, for I didn't expect many high level fencers in Nags Head. It's somewhat off the circuit," she explains, both interested and apologetic. "I am however always looking for new partners. If you have any free time and desire a friendly exchange, call me. I'm always home."


With that she offers you a card. It small and nondescript, with little more than her name, address, and phone number. There's an email address at the bottom, swhitfield@blackpalace.com. The printing is black ink on ivory cardstock.
 
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