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1
The man behind the table was well dressed and nervous as all hell. His Tres Chic clothing had that slightly worn look to it, like it might be a season or two out of style but well maintained. Wore Zeiss cybershades that I know firsthand cost several thousand nuyen; still couldn't contain the occasional eye twitch. His hands made micro movement across the table, switching positions back to his lap and back to the table again. It was creepy enough that he had paid the bar to remain closed a full hour past opening, but this type of establishment was used to the type of business that took place here, and collected hefty fees for various levels of usage and privacy.
His hired muscle waved the MAD detector over my three potential coworkers as we made entry into the back of the bar. Hoss up front (no clue what the hell that huge ork calls himself) was apparently oblivious of the time-honored pasttime of removing one's implements of destruction before doing business, and was forced to relinquish both his Ares Predator III's and a huge machette that he kept calling a knife. The other two slots see this, and have the smarts to realize that they need to check their pieces. Tinkerbell and Oompa (elven slitch with a pink mohawk and a tubby dwarven prick dressed in an orange jumpsuit looking thing that he calls "fashion") hand over an assortment of better concealed heavy pistols, light pistols and a pink vibro knife. Pink. Wow.
I hand the muscle my engraved Colt Manhunter and a tiny matte black Walther palm pistol. This elicits a laugh from both Hoss and Oompa, to which I shrug and smile sheepishly. I save the real smile for after the obligitory pat-down. No one ever bothers to check your cyberarm for a hidden weapons. Considering the EX explosive rounds that I have loaded into my concealed Walther PB-120, I am eternally grateful that this Johnson didn't bring a chem sniffer as well.
Thoroughly disarmed, we are lead into the empty club. Waitstaff and bartenders alike are making preparations for the Friday night crowd that will be here relatively soon, and pay us absolutely no mind at all. Oblivious and pre-occupied with whatever is on his data terminal, the Johnson is unaware of our presence until our group walks up to his table. His body-jerk reaction to seeing us seemingly materialize out of thin air gives away his tension, his apprehension to being here.
Good. Intimidation at this stage of the deal will lead to a better rate for whatever job he has. Unless one of the three fucking stooges here messes is up.
I doubt any of these mooks would know who the hell the Three Stooges were.
His hired muscle waved the MAD detector over my three potential coworkers as we made entry into the back of the bar. Hoss up front (no clue what the hell that huge ork calls himself) was apparently oblivious of the time-honored pasttime of removing one's implements of destruction before doing business, and was forced to relinquish both his Ares Predator III's and a huge machette that he kept calling a knife. The other two slots see this, and have the smarts to realize that they need to check their pieces. Tinkerbell and Oompa (elven slitch with a pink mohawk and a tubby dwarven prick dressed in an orange jumpsuit looking thing that he calls "fashion") hand over an assortment of better concealed heavy pistols, light pistols and a pink vibro knife. Pink. Wow.
I hand the muscle my engraved Colt Manhunter and a tiny matte black Walther palm pistol. This elicits a laugh from both Hoss and Oompa, to which I shrug and smile sheepishly. I save the real smile for after the obligitory pat-down. No one ever bothers to check your cyberarm for a hidden weapons. Considering the EX explosive rounds that I have loaded into my concealed Walther PB-120, I am eternally grateful that this Johnson didn't bring a chem sniffer as well.
Thoroughly disarmed, we are lead into the empty club. Waitstaff and bartenders alike are making preparations for the Friday night crowd that will be here relatively soon, and pay us absolutely no mind at all. Oblivious and pre-occupied with whatever is on his data terminal, the Johnson is unaware of our presence until our group walks up to his table. His body-jerk reaction to seeing us seemingly materialize out of thin air gives away his tension, his apprehension to being here.
Good. Intimidation at this stage of the deal will lead to a better rate for whatever job he has. Unless one of the three fucking stooges here messes is up.
I doubt any of these mooks would know who the hell the Three Stooges were.
