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About This Game

There are cracks in the world. They’re slender, dark, and often cold, but they are the only things that keep you hidden. Keep you alive. They are the shadows of the world, and they are where you live. You are a shadowrunner, thriving in the margins, doing the jobs no one else can. You have no office, no permanent home, no background to check. You are whatever you make yourself. Will you seek justice? Sow seeds of chaos? Sell out to the highest bidder? It’s up to you, but this much is certain—if you do nothing, the streets will eat you alive. You can survive - even flourish - as long as you do what it takes. Sacrifice part of your soul for bleeding-edge gear. Push the limits of your will learning new and dangerous magic. Wire yourself into the Matrix, making your mind one with screaming streams of data. It’ll cost you something - everything does - but you can make it worth the price. Welcome to the Sixth World.

Game System

Aberrant

Status

Active
  1. What's new in this game
  2. Echo scowled deeply behind her helmet as she tracked what Jenny was saying. It scanned. She wasn't detecting heat signatures or ultrasound contacts that were consistent with all those eyes...and that implied either an illusion of some kind, or something beyond the touch of mortal tech. Either way, it was trouble. She said, "No heat or solid contacts yet." Then Echo put her lighter gun back in the armslide mechanism and retracted it, and produced the larger Savalette pistol; a real piece of work. It was loaded with ammo designed to punch through body armor, but she hoped it would work as well on magical beasties. From hard experience she knew better than to pull her punches on something like that. It was a lesson you didn't get to learn twice. Moving to one side a bit to let Jadzia come up alongside her, Echo then followed Jenny into the black.
  3. "Well then." Mycroft set up his cyberdeck for optimized data searching. Fisher had a SIN, and if she was like the average wageslave, would be blasting out personal information on the Matrix like it was popcorn on Free Theaters Weekend. "Let's start with her then."
  4. "Something is here." Jenny said, her voice a low throaty contralto that could almost be called a growl as she sensed the paranormal threat. "Something not natural." She quickly checked the positions of the others, her gaze finding Jadzia. If this was a spirit, then the mage would be invaluable. She glanced at Echo, nodding towards the malevolent constellation of red eyes ahead of them, and moved to one side of the narrow corridor, raising both her gun and the flashlight to probe the darkness ahead as she moved forwards in a slow stalk. "Elf. Keep an eye on the flooded room. Watch our backs." she said to Piper, terse as always, aware that moving towards the entity meant putting whatever might be lurking in that water behind them.
  5. "Well," Chunin relaxed his seat back and reclined. "Apartment is too obvious. He knows he's screwed, let's call it like we see it. Great place to pick up clues as to where he could have gone. Bookie, well he'd have to work him over, he probably has hired help, so that's a recipe for a drek souffle, or a kinky night out. Your call. However, the bestie and the ex... you want dirt on someone? Wanna know their secrets?" "The Ex." Mycroft finished the human's line of thought for him. Chunin smiled. "The Ex."
  6. Mycroft knew this was going to be a headache. Chunin was one of those inveterate snarkers, who would not stop making remarks about everything. From the confined space of Mycroft's Honda subcompact - which fit him fine and was affordable and quite serviceable thank you - to the music Mycroft tried to put on, to the brief burst of gunfire that occurred as Mycroft was making a turn to bring them to the shady spot. It was just a brief flare-up between gangers, and for once blessedly, Chunin had shut up and demonstrated a quite strong sense of alertness. Until it was clear it wasn't going to affect the two runners, and Chunin went back to making stupid comments. "All right, cram it." Mycroft finally told him, in no more mood for this. "Business time." He slotted the datachip into his comlink, entered the password, and projected the contents on AR display for Chunin's benefit. Crowne's picture showed a reasonably handsome human, but nothing to write home about. "We have Crowne's address and apartment number: in not too bad a part of town, but cops are going to take their sweet time if some noise happens." Then three more pictures. "Associates: Trevor Evans, friend from work. DJ Dewinter, Crowne's bookie. And Laura Fisher, an ex. No further info, but I'm sure I can track down where to find any of them. Your thoughts?"
  7. They made their down the musty, dank concrete hallway. The scent, whatever it was, seemingly moist feces and decaying garbage, only got stronger as they made their way through the tight passageway (which only two people abreast could fit into at a time). This was the life... dank basements, abandoned sewer tunnels, haunted crypts... there wasn't much Shadowrunners weren't asked to do and most days, besides a payday, the best thing you could hope for was a shower and some booze to wash the day away. [Magic, Astral Senses] The air down here was heavy, moist, but damp... but it was also... something else. It was saturated with something unnatural and while it had no scent or taste or appearance... it was still there. That feeling down along the spine that one felt as a ghost passed through the living. A chill. A hunch. Something was down here. The laundry room wasn't too far from the stairway. Off to the left there was a thick, brick trabeation that lead into the laundry room. It was a room that you entered after going down two small concrete steps designed to keep the rest of the basement from flooding if the washroom flooded. Unfortunately... it was flooded. Lumpy, black stagnant water rippled in the laundry room as the washers and dryers were all stacked across the walls and a two by two placing down the middle of the room. [Perception] By looks of it it was about knee deep, but nothing within the room seemed out of place aside from the water which had long one stagnant and nasty, possibly polluted if any of the laundry chemicals had been left behind and soaked into it and the reasons for the lumps became obvious... it was filled with hundreds, if no thousands of dead rats! [Perception] Down, into the shadows where the light failed to reach they could all see it... where the corridor become onyx and unknown... there they were... like a demonic night's sky... the perfect square of the coridor's darkness was lit up with hundreds, if not thousands of of tiny little red eyes blinking in in random patters from floor to ceiling...
  8. Jenny's first instinct when the basement door had slammed shut had not been a healthy one: she'd almost Shifted at being trapped without warning. Glowering in the darkness at the elf, she'd fought hard to repress a growl as Piper explained the situation. She wasn't completely debilitated in pitch darkness, of course - the Astral overlaid everything with it's faint ethereal glow, highlighted by the vibrant life of her companions, the rats and the dim phosphorescence of micro-organisms that enjoyed basement living. Not unlike some Deckers she'd met. But this was another lesson. More thought needed to go into her gear if she was to become successful. A low-light flashlight such as the one Echo had provided her unasked would be useful for those times when one couldn't rely on regular senses. The stench down here was... Well, Jenny resolved to breath shallowly and through her mouth, grateful that she wasn't in her four-legged shape right now. Not that breathing through her mouth was much better - she could taste just as well as she could smell. Perhaps a breathing mask would also be in order - it rankled her to be cut off from such an essential sense as scent but, right now, she'd happily be a nose-blind monkey. How the drek did they allow themselves to live like this? She'd be sick too, living above and drawing water up from a place that smelled like this. "Thank you for the light." she said tersely, moving to take point as Echo had suggested. Holding the flashlight up and sweeping it over the floor and walls, she headed with her usual silence in the direction Piper had indicated, her Ruger held low and her Astral eyes likewise scanning for anything larger than a rat.
  9. Jadzia's budget had been sparse, and with her repayments, she had the cheapest of the cheap. Which at this time did not include a proper flashlight, to her current detriment. Making use of the light produced by Echo's flashlight by proxy of Jenny, and Piper's, she hoped she could find a way to remedy her situation before it would become critical. She could always perceive Astrally, but that lacked detail and would make her stick out on that plane. Using a summoned spirit's elemental aura to produce the barest minimum ligth was possible, but that would cost precious reagents...stalking behind the others she pondered her options.
  10. Echo fished into a slit in the hip of her armor to where a pouch was hidden under the ruthenium polymer. From within she pulled a flashlight remarkably similar to Piper's. They must shop at the same Stuffer Shack. She held it up by her head, directing the dim beam along her eyeline as she looked around. "Piper, which way's the laundry room? We'll start that way, clear to the end, then come back and clear the other way." The elf pointed and waved her light. "That way?" That's about when Echo noticed that Jenny seemed bereft of visual aid, and didn't get a flashlight of her own out. She stifled a groan. Typical 'shadowrunner.' Spend all your nuyen on a big fucking gun, completely forget you have to see to hit anything with it. "Hey. Jenny." When the dangerously beautiful woman turned to face her, Echo held the flashlight out, the base first. "Here. I'll want it back when we're done with the sweep." She then reached up to touch the contacts on the side of her goggles with her trodes and selected the ultrasonic sensor built into them, nestled between the two lenses. It charged with a barely-audible, high-pitched 'fweeeeee' and then began pulsing in frequencies only dogs or bats could comfortably hear. Her vision overlay switched over, painting the room in shades of grey. Solid shapes stood out clearly, showing the walls, ceiling, floor, shelves, and obstacles. Surface details were less distinct, and of course anything like text or print was lost completely. It would be enough to fight with, if it came to that. An adjustment laid the thermographic data over it...handy to tell a mannequin from a living body, which might otherwise be tricky if someone held still. "You take point, Jenny. I don't want to be anywhere in front of you when that hand cannon goes off."
  11. The stairs, at one point in the last century, had been concrete poured into sturdy metallic framework. At some point those collapsed, were gutted and wooden were built. Those probably collapsed a few times too at some point, because these new steps were certainly not the most finely crafted. With the exception of Jenny, every step made a low, long creek that seemed right out of a horror trid. This wasn't grandma's basement... this was the basement of a large apartment building. It was brick and cement and several passages that led off to laundry facilities, a boiler room, electrical and plumbing... the basement was, to say the least, huge. Then... the door closed and they were all left in the pitch black of the eerie basement. In the pitch black everyone spun about to face the door (to the best of their memory). "Relax, relax..." Piper offered in a low whisper, clicking a flashlight on. Those with low light vision winced slightly. "...They're locking it up in case something is dangerous down here. We're fine. Jerry is by the door waiting to let us out if we need to make a quick exit, but they're worried for their safety, so we had to compromise." She shined her light down the steps, of which she was already half way down. "Well, c'mon, lets get this over with... I have no idea where this thing is, I've never been down here..." From where they were nothing seemed out of the ordinary as Piper's red light scanned the area. It was cold and filthy and something down here stank. Stank bad. A small plague of rats scurried away at the shuffle and noise of the four ladies arriving. The floor was damp and scattered puddles seemed to dot the hallway that stretched out before them... ...this was going to be a long night.
  12. Closing up the rear, Jadzia felt a small twang of jealousy at the - obviously nicer - gear that the other two ladies had brought with them. Drawing her Streetline Special from its concealed holster she knew that it was more for the comfort of holding on to something than actually being useful. She promised herself to do some imagination-shopping in the catalog next time it arrived in her account. Her lowlight vision gave her just enough to go by, as she stepped down the stairs carefully. Even without perceiving Astrally, she was very sensitive to the roiling of forces on the Astral plane, and she'd know if something magical were to come their way.
  13. There was a click-whirr from Echo's right arm, and a mechanism hidden up her sleeve inserted a small pistol into her hand. As her fingers closed around its grip, she saw the HUD on her field of vision update to include ammo count and type, and a reticule appeared to show her where it was pointing. She fitted her helmet over her head, then snapped her goggles down over the eyepieces. A moment later the options for optical overlays added onto her HUD. She had a heavier gun than this, but the Ares had cheaper ammo. At 900 nuyen, she could come out at a loss if she fired off a mag or two of the expensive stuff. You save your good china for the high quality guests after all. Moving quietly then, Echo followed Jenny down the stairs, switching her goggles to thermographic mode to scan for heat signatures down below.
  14. Without a word Jenny drew a pistol that wouldn't have looked out of place in an Ork's hand from the folds of her lined duster. A six-shooter, but there was little quaint or Olde Worlde about the Troll-killing handcannon. Not the most technically-inclined, the hunter liked revolvers simply because they didn't jam, and if you got a misfire due to a dud round you just pulled the trigger again. Additionally, it was suitably intimidating that most street life scurried away from the bore as though they were cockroaches from a flashlight's beam. That was good - it saved her having to show them why they really shouldn't bother her. She moved past the mask-wearing mage and peered down into the darkness, her eyes penetrating the gloom. "Stairs is old. We go one at a time, moving careful, da?" She started down the steps, somehow managing to set her feet so lightly that she made no noise, even the creaking stairs seemingly not registering her passage. Pausing at the bottom, she glanced back at Echo and Jadzia, the dim lighting in the hallways causing her eyes to shine once more with that eerie flash, before turning and peering into the darkness of the basement.
  15. "Eccellente," Mr. Johnson said calmly. "Do try to be discreet, but I know the nature of the job all to well. I trust your discretion. Do this, and I may have more work for you." As he was finishing his sentence two dancers apprached the table with devilish smirks on their faces. "Now, if you'll excuse me. Ragazzi, vedete fuori il signore." The two bodyguards turned to the table and gave the message, very clearly, that business was concluded. The runners left without incident, the guards weren't handsy and remained professional. They moved through the crowd of people and dancers and servers, and within a few moments were out in the streets of Downtown. It was dark and wet and the rain poured down from the sky like heaven's bath tub had the drain pulled. They stood under the cloth over hang leading to the club's entrance. People weren't exactly lining up to get in this place tonight, so they had a few moments. "Name's Mycroft." The dwarf offered. He extended his hand, and the men shared a classical gentleman's handshake. "Chunin." Replied the man. "The hell is a Chunin?" He asked in typical dwarven gruff. "The hell is a Myrcoft?" Retorted the strange human. "Fair point." The dwarf shrugged. "What say we go find a shady spot and talk business. We'll take my car, since your genius self decided to ride a motorcycle in the rain." "How did you know that?" Chunin asked. "That I rode a motorcycle. It wasn't raining when I get here a bit ago." Mycroft throaty 'harumph'. "I'm a dwarf, boy. We drink and we know things. Car's this way." He nodded off to the side and began walking. "I'm impressed," Chunin said, fiddling with his commlink as he followed the dwarf. "But, I have ground rules. I don't go all the way on the first date. Non-negotiable. Heavy petting, that's all you're getting." The dwarf grumbled under the sound of the rain. This was going to be a long night.
  16. Half turned away from the others, Jadzia rummaged around in her messenger bag and took out an old, beat up mask that looked like it had been cut, shot at and burned. A deep breath, then she removed the rebreather from her nose and quickly slid the mask onto her face. The core of it must be modern, as evidenced by the hissing noise as the thing fit on her face, but the outside had that rough look of carved bone. It had clearly seen better days. As she put it on and its systems connected, there was a faint Augmented Reality Overlay running across the mask that was visible for just a second before a mental command suppressed it. Curved lines in blue, maybe something nautical. Might remind someone of one of those ancient nautical maps when they still found their way using the flayed flesh of trees. Then they were gone. With its lowlight engaged, at least she could see before setting her feet in something nasty. "May I suggest we be adaptin' our posturin' to the more cramped area beyond? Punchy people up front, bullet hozes next, precision shooters final, and all dat jazz?"
  17. "Ditto," replied the shaggy human. "After all, I put on my good shirt. Might as well enjoy the evening." He smiled. The server came by the table again and his face lit up with joy. "Hey there. Hi. Let's touch commlinks and be fiends." She laughed and shook her head. "Sorry, hun. I'm working. What can I get you?" "Nothing for me, thanks, unless you're rethinking that 'be friends' angle." "I'm off at three," she laughed and stepped away from the table. "Two fifty-nine, got it." Chunin looked back to his employer. "So, you want this man gone, fine. Quietly, or made an example of?"
  18. "Beleg!" She clapped her hands and bounced up from her place on the steps and walked past the ladies. She motioned for them to follow her. "Afad-nin. Uh, I mean, follow me, sorry." The Sperethiel seems more common to her than English, but she didn't dwell on the ceremony of mixing languages long enough for it become a topic of conversation. Not far from her little closet, down the hall to the right was a single door that, for the most part seemed pretty unassuming. It was old, torn to shit and smeared in graffiti, but it seemed like it was solid and sturdy enough. The series of locks and bolts, plus the bar across it, made them all wonder if they were keeping a herd of ghouls down there to feed the local Shadowrunners to... but hey, Redmond... that'd be par for the course. After what was almost a comedic bout of unlocking and unbarring of the door Piper open it and stood aside. They'd all seen this trid before... a sinlge creaky staircase that led down into the pitch blackness. The light from the hallway, which was already weak to begin with, barely reached far enough down the steps to show the cement floor at the bottom for maybe a couple of feet. What was beyond was all darkness. "So, um," Piper chimed of in a quiet whisper. "I have no idea what's down there. The well was here before I moved in, so uh... we're kind of on our own."
  19. Jadzia felt comfortable knowing that the only symptoms so far were throwing up and queasiness. "Wouldn'a be surprised if dere be a Devil Rat down in dere basement, rollin' around in da water. Dey gets up to all kinds a mischief and 'fore ya know people gets sick of da Basura dey be draggin' in. I be comin' along as it sounds like it be fair pay for a fair job." She was keenly aware of the others' mildly uncomfortable shuffling around each other. "Well den, it be lookin' to be a girls' night out, ey?" She turned around towards the hallway where they came from, both to keep an eye out for any listners-in and to make a bit of headway towards the inevitable stairwell leading to the basement.
  20. It would have been false to argue Mycroft's hands were clear of blood even when he'd been a law-abiding (certainly in the eyes of Cross Applied Technology) citizen. He'd been a security spider, and sometimes assigned to the places where corporate policy positively demanded hitting digital intruders with black IC and similar biofeedback attack programs. So Mycroft had never subscribed to 'thou shalt not kill.' Obviously, if you got into a shootout with security guards, the same principle applied. Hazard of the profession, albeit from the different end now. Wetwork was different, just as obviously. Mycroft had his distaste for it, as many runners did, but the nature of the shadows meant sooner or later you had to take one of those jobs. The question would be: was the target one you could stomach killing? Thomas Crowne, according to the Jackpoint buzz, had slept with the fiance of a mob boss' heir. Massive disrespect, and anyone who willful made that kind of decision had signed themselves up for the firing line. Mycroft wouldn't have come if he hadn't concluded that already. The issue that left here was, why wasn't the family doing this themselves? From what Mr. Johnson was saying, Crowne had important enough friends that a small-time family couldn't go after him. Not directly, anyway. The chip would obviously say more about Crowne's buddies. Of course Mycroft couldn't get the info without signing himself up for the job. So would fifteen hundred be enough to take the leap? Probably. Cat O' Nine said this was usually easy work from this Johnson. If this run would be the exception, well no way to find out until after all was said and done. Mycroft slowly nodded. "I'll accept."
  21. "Looks like you got it right that time," Echo replied blandly, giving Jenny a nod. "Hell, I'm here. May as well take care of it." Nine hundred wasn't much, but it'd cover the tram fare out here and back. Echo wasn't as sure as Piper that the pipe wasn't the problem...all it would take was a re-organization of water flow to make potable water into sewage outflow, right? But that was way beyond the remit here. "Secure the basement, let you get access to the well. I'm in."
  22. "I take the job. Money paid when it is done, yes." Jenny spoke up from where she had moved to one side of the others. The quiet woman's gaze had not slid far from the mage, but for now rested on Piper as she asked the question, then glanced around the place, pacing to the entrance to Piper's room and peering inside, then back to where they stood. "Need to know." she shrugged, a human gesture she found useful. "What type of sick do people get? Throwing up? Shitting? What is symptoms?" "Nausea." Piper confirmed, with a nod at her. "Just queasiness, some throwing up. Nothing really bad, but bad enough we don't want people using the water." "Fine then." Jenny shrugged again, taking off her green-tinted shades and tucking them into a coat pocket. "Where is basement?" She was all business, obviously wanting to be about the work, collect her money and go. She glanced at the other two, the dim lighting gleaming eerily from her eyes for an instant as she flashed a small smile without showing teeth. "If you come, then come. If not, then more nuyen for me."
  23. "His name is Thomas Crowne," he slides a chip across the table. "Some people want him gone. Stuck his cazzo in the wrong lady and now he needs to pay for it. Unfortunately, everyone answers to someone and the powers that be are telling my employer to leave the man be. So, he can't do it." "But we can," Mycroft politely pointed out. "Esettemente," Mr. Johnson said. "That chip'll provide you with a last known address and a few associates of his that might know where he's hiding. Off him, and we're talking 1,500¥ for each of ya. Agree and I'll slot you the password to the chip."
  24. The human man approached in old cargo pants and a sleeveless shirt, looking like ten pounds of shit in a five pound bag. He hair was tussled and he looked like he'd just rolled out of bed with a five o'clock shadow and sleep still in his eyes. "You don't look like a runner," Mr. Johnson said as the man sat down in the booth. "But you, definately look like a Johnson." The man replied with a sarcastic tone. "Chunnin, Mr. J, Mr. J, Chunin, there, introductions aside let's get down to brass balls. Squeeze them, fondle them, roll em' around... what're we talking about here? Who are we ghosting and when do you need this done by?" "And you don't care why," he nodded. "That's good." "They all tell us why," Chunin said. "Something about dying makes a person want to washboard their soul before they go."
  25. It didn't taste like it should have, but the Guinness the lady delivered was made a bit more tolerable by the smile she offered him as she dropped it off. He and the Johnson talked about Seattle's chances for the season while going over a little of Mycroft's background. The shrewed dwarf was smart enough to only tell him what needed to be heard to get the job handled and be on his way. The dwarf didn't care for wet work, it wasn't generally the highest tier of accolades a Runner could strive for, but every runner at least once found themselves an assassin of some sort, whether they were ruining a marriage, a life, job, a history... didn't matter. All things died and sometimes God worked too slow. "Boss," the ork interrupted in a deep voice. Mr. Johnson gave a nod and the second runner they'd been waiting for, arrived.
  26. "A Guinness, thank you." Mycroft told the waitress, but he knew it was going to be a synthanol knock-off. It always was synthanol. Before the Crash 2.0, Mycroft could get a real cold draft Guinness beer, made of actual honest to dragons grain. Whenever the bosses threw an office party, the drinks were the real deal and even when they didn't, Frank Gordon had earned a high enough salary to afford the genuine article. It wasn't as if he'd had too many other expenses to worry about. Now he had to be sure he pulled in enough nuyen to keep his dismal apartment with intermittent power and water. What a difference the past several years made. Once the waitress (or dancer on her off-shift) left, Mycroft nodded to Mr. Johnson. "So, do you think Seattle's going to make the playoffs?" Given what Mycroft knew of the Johnson and his backers, he didn't scoff or roll his eyes at the suggestion of 'discussing credentials', since it would be disrespectful. But it didn't speak of an experienced client. If the Italian had gone through a fixer, he would have had the fixer's implicit promise the runners he received would be qualified. Hell, JackPoint itself was proof of quality. Only the good shadowrunners got to join. Of course, the job-offering process wasn't quite as organized as the classic fixer-driven process. Still, one would think Mr. Johnson had done his homework, representing even one of the lesser organized crime outfits. Unless this family had less history with runners perhaps?
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