[Dark Heresy] A Subtle Hand

[Inquisitor]

=][=

You sleep.

You dream. The sleep lasts hours, but it is not peaceful. You dream of dark ships with cavernous holds, filled with wails and screams and dreadful scenes all throughout the night. You dream of billions of souls stacked a top one another in steel crates, crushed under the weight of millennia. You dream of brother turning against brother,  of the unknown and hideous creature that waits patiently in the shadows to strike out and capitalize on your demise. And yet, still, above it all, you can hear the faint sound of gnawing, gnawing at the very thing that holds the essence of your dreams together, gnawing that seeks to cry out and obliterate all that dangles by a fraying thread.

You sleep.

=][=

Intios Grendel, Lekk, “Sawney” Jaghatai
The Brasshand

For three months, you have traveled deep within the belly of an immense freight ship. It's a miracle that  you were only stuck there for such a short time. Your time hadn't been pleasant – you were quick to find out your ship wasn't just an old-fashioned dried goods and crates of supplies type of hauler. Oh, no. Much to your chagrin you found yourself on what best amounts to a slaughterhouse that lazily lilts across the stars. The Halls reeked with the scent of blood, and the cries of animals as their lives were ceaselessly ended. Lakes of rendered fat, pools of coagulated blood, and piles of discarded bone...

Most of you had decided that the trip would best be spent in the comfort of each other, in a small, cramped room you managed to find to house just the three of you. Note that you were lucky to find this spot; that does not mean it was pleasant. The three of you were cramped atop one another, with only the barest amount of room to read, write, or perhaps play some simple card games or games of chance. Thankfully, after nearly two years of dedicated service beneath the same Inquisitor...The workers on board were a drab bunch who worked long shifts and then drank horrid grog until it was time to sleep. The 'officer' class was little better.

But your trip came to an end, finally. You exited warp and it was announced through the ship's vox systems – Sigurd IV. Finally, your time to stop and leave this wretched ship!

Your trip down to the surface was, thankfully, uneventful. You took all your gear – all of it, strapped to your backs and bundled into your arms – and joined the unclean masses in a mass trip down to the surface of the world. From above, you can see the planet's  brown surface, traced with lines and circles of gold light – the glittering essence of a Hive world in full production, billions of humans slaving away on the surface. Curiously enough, a layer of sparse white seems to cover the glittering 'jewel' of a world...You pass through the geostationary orbit of the planet, passing through tonnes of ships just like your own. A curious attraction as you pass by is the massive Imperial cruiser moored here – it glitters gold, red paint adorning it's massive adamantium prow. Smaller craft orbit the five kilometer long warship like wasps to a hive; you pay it no mind, feeling the ship break through the atmosphere.

It won't take long now. No, not much longer. Soon, the doors are thrown open and a cold, foul wind whips into the cargo bay you've been unceremoniously packed into. Fresh, tainted air. For some of you, this is home sweet home.

The Brasshand, as it's jokingly called, is a poor replica of Scintilla's grandiose Goldenhand. It's an open air port; ahead, you see the various spires of Hive Golgotha rising all around. Golgotha is a sprawling city; it reaches up to swallow you at all turns, and yet, falling over a guard rail would perhaps be an even worse fate. The air is foul with the smell of exhaust, smoke, and pollutants. The air whips up around you and an even stranger sight startles you – snow. It's falling, quite heavily, though it sticks nowhere near the landing pad you stand on. The spires of the hive turn snow capped at the top; you fancy you can see the frosted glass from here.

”Move! Move, you dogs! Clear the pad, we needa get this slop moving!” A scarred, harsh-nosed man shrieks over the din, as workers mill about, grunting and grumbling as servitors advance on your position.

Mordechai has been here already. He's expecting you. You've got a bit of money in your pockets; it should be enough to find the tram...

Mordechai Wollsey
Golgotha Midlevels, Apartment 724CX

The bell rings. It rings incessantly – in a loud, sharp sound that rouses you out of a fretful slumber. You slept in. That's not like you, Mordechai – an Arbite who's not on the ball, alert, and ready to judge at all times? Perhaps you're letting your work get to you a little too much.

Drab, dirty light filters into your 'apartment'. You were lucky, they said – you had a closet with a stained mattress, with a single window that looked out into the mesh of metal that surrounds you in all directions. The bell rings again; you rise out of bed and clumsily dress, before entering the main room. You'd been expecting someone today, hadn't you? How many drinks did you have to 'help you sleep' last night?

The main room, too, was a rare luxury. A small box that was split to also contain a small kitchenette, you were at least equipped with a couch, a few chairs, a table, and, even, a small wooden shrine. Two light bulbs burn incessantly to keep the room well lit – papers and a few bottles spread about the dirty, dingy room, making it look lived in. As the rest of your Cell traveled to Sigurd IV, you've already been here, lying in wait. Your superior, Interrogator Markonin, had briefly made contact with you here and there – telling you of a few people to watch, a few names to look out for. Generally, though, you feel like an Arbite once more. You've been tracking criminals, keeping ties, and making 'friends'. Undercover, of course.

“Open up! Open up!” You hear a voice through the door, and then the buzzing again. You know the voice – you've heard it before. Hadn't Markonin left you a curious case filled with thrones, and now...ah, yes.

You open the door, and in walks a man who looks more then a bit perturbed with you. “Took you long enough.” In he walks, lho wrapped around smoldering grinweed. He takes a deep inhale and offers it over to you, before walking in and making his way to sit on your couch like he owns the place, dropping a bag down on the table. It takes a second, but you recognize this man – 'Verbal'. Verbal Gazog. A tall, dark-skinned man affiliated with one of the local narcogangs in the area, tatted up and with the hair and piercings to match.

“Had too much last night? I've got everything for you, right here, just take a look.”

[Xachariah]

"Sawney" Jaghatai
The Brasshand

    Finally, the time in the stellar abbatoir is over. Finally, he's not cramped in a closet. Finally, he can move again. Sawney stretches briefly, hearing his joints pop; he groans in relief. Fishing for his pack of lho-sticks, he slings the battle-scarred autogun in his hand across his muscled shoulders; the old weapon seems awkward in his hands. As he slips a lho-stick between his thin lips, he eyes his surroundings; it's never a bad idea to get a good handle on what's around you. A lesson hard-learned.

    Cracking his knuckles, he glances at his compatriots, eyeing them with his cold blue eyes; there was something in those eyes that just seemed... unpleasant. Perhaps annoyance over the time in the ship; such cramped quarters could annoy anyone. Perhaps it was cabin fever. Either way, he just needed to move, and move he does, working what stiffness was left from the travel from his eager muscles, a limb at a time, as he lights the lho-stick in his mouth. His hand falls absently to the hilt of his sword, pulling it an inch or two from the scabbard and letting it fall back in; it wouldn't do to be surprised by a sticky scabbard. The subtle, nearly automatic motion is repeated on each of his blades. It's obvious where his expertise lies.

    He moves toward the tram, quiet footsteps carrying him onward.

I'll probably roll Awareness checks pretty much whenever Sawney enters a new area, but it's up to the GM whether there's actually anything to see. If there isn't, just ignore them. Also, if Sawney would be asked to roll Awareness, the GM can do that if he wishes - it would probably be better to, as it would keep things going. ... well, as long as he doesn't roll like he does as Pater, in which case we'll be lucky if we see a wall before we walk into it. 8 D

Anyway, short summary: Sawney Jag does a whole load of unimportant shit and then heads toward the tram; gonna wait to see what the other players do before he hops on. If they get on, he gets on.

[CBK]

Intios Grendel


Intios is likely right behind Sawney in getting out of that bucket they call a ship. The cramped confines had been a bit much to take for that long. The air may not be fresh, but it smells like home, so he takes as deep a breath as he can manage as he stretches himself out. Joints pop into place and he gives a generally satisfied sigh. The simple pleasures in life had to be exploited.

Sawney isn't the only one you gets a good look at their surroundings, but it's unlikely Intios is as good at it. And it's unlikely that Sawney can look in just the way the psyker can. Being back in a hive definitely puts him somewhat at ease. Familiar surroundings and all. Eventually his mind catches up to that thought, and he forces the complacency away. Time to get on with the rest of the mission. Before moving he's sure to check and make sure he'd grabbed all of his gear, and that it was all in functioning order. Autopistol is set on a hip, with the others stowed for the moment. Shouldn't be needing it right away.

Once he's sure he's all together and fit to go, he trudges on after the glare-eyed acolyte on their way to the tram. He doesn't say anything, really, because he doesn't need to. Surely they don't need words to know what the plan is for the moment. So. To the tram.

(I'm with Sawneeeeeeey on this. Intios will probably roll some awareness, and I don't exactly know how psyniscience works..but, uh, that too if it works like that. To get a feel for the place and shit. And just like Sawney, if Intios is asked to roll Awareness, you can go ahead and shoot for it, GM. Moves everything along just fine.)

[sinistar]

Lekk
Golgotha    

     Lekk is glad to be free of the confines of their 'ship'. Even a hive world seems like leagues of freedom after that trip. She glances around herself as the three of them move off toward the tram, making short, jerky stretches to optimize movement without knocking into any of the drab workers or quiet companions around her. After her years in 'civilized' worlds, the crowds no longer bothered the feral woman as much as they once did.
     "That's a trip that's worth having over with," she said as joints popped. She didn't expect a reply; she wouldn't be surprised if the words were dry in the others' mouths. Three months of each others' companionship would do that to a person.

I'll probably make Awareness rolls along with Sawney, in which case I guess I retract my statement about wanting to make rolls myself--Awareness rolls are a-okay for DM rolling.

[Ketch]

Mordechai Wollsey
Golgotha

Mordechai steadied himself the table as he checked the bottles for any last mouthful. Eventually finding something to dissolve the dry, pasty coating that clung to the inside of his mouth, he took a sip and savoured it momentarily before swallowing and turning to Verbal. He sighed and leaned over the bag as he opened it.

"And a good morning--" he yawned, checking his chrono quickly to make sure he hadn't made a liar out of himself, "to you, Verbal. A pleasure to see you up and about, and in such fine form." Mordechai took a moment to glance up at his guest, his vapid expression belying the sincerity of his words, before turning back to the contents of the mysterious sack.

[Inquisitor]

Initos Grendel, “Sawney” Jaghatai, Lekk
Trainyards – Mid-level Slums

You move down with the tides of people, heads craned up (the psyker shows much more ease at home here, lifting a finger here and there and pointing in the correct direction) and shifting through the vaulted metal walls. It takes a maybe fifteen minutes to find your correct platform – crammed in beside a few hundred people waiting in cramped, noisy halls for a train to haul in.

It takes only a handful of moments for the train to roar in and come to a stop in a sudden halt, a bell sounding as the doors open and people pour out. You fight your way forward into the car and grab support where it’s available – maybe even being lucky enough to squeeze into a few seats. Thankfully, the trip is, thankfully, very brief. The doors open and you know you’re at the right place, slipping out of the train cars and taking your first look around the mid-level hives.

You crane your necks up, and sixty stories of rockcrete and plasteel tower up high over head, glass windows shining bleakly out. A great step of stairs leads you down into a teaming city of rockcrete walkway, amidst the immense din of such a city. Shouting is heard constantly, the sound of an Enforcer’s patrol car. A man pitches food to you – cheap, greasy, hunks of fried meats. The streets are littered with debris – bottles, lho stick butts, confetti and other such party favors. The air holds the musky smell of smokes, while up ahead chimney’s belch out smoke and pollutants. Home sweet home, indeed.

You walk, unsure of things and misdirected for now, towards where you know the Arbite waits. You find yourself slipping down more stairs and finding deeper walkways, before coming across the austere hab block you know is the right place.

A tall, dark-skinned man eyes you with uncertainty, before lighting a lho-stick and disappearing around the corner. You hit the buzzer.

Mordechai Wollsey
Apartment

Obscura.

You’d recognize it anywhere – you’ve worked in the Justice department on a hive world for years. Blocks of powder, wrapped in clear plastic into tight bricks lining the bottom of a bag. It takes a moment, but you remember it all now, as the morning’s grogginess begins to fade away. You’d paid Verbal the night before – but only because you’d received message wafers from Interrogator Markonin. You were provided with the proper thrones to purchase a rather healthy amount of obscura. Not exactly the highlight moment of your career. But Verbal had known someone, and you had passed the money on. Phase one out of the way, you now have what you need.

Verbal stands by and watches silently, waiting for confirmation from Mordechai, before he gives the man a grin and shakes his hand. “I don’t know what you need with all that shit, man, but have fun. I gotta get out of here though – more sales to make. Be safe.” And just as he had come, he’s out the door and to the streets.

The bag sits open on the table as you stand in the center of your apartment.

You are the only one on world now – but Interrogator Markonin had told you the others should be arriving any day now. You’d been given thrones – more for rent, a little for food, and the most to do what was asked of you. The Interrogator had demanded that you find a way to get a connection to a suspect drug cartel in the area, the Saints, and you were to find a way to buy in. The Interrogator had also provided you with three forged cognomens for the rest of your group, to better disappear into the surrounding hive.

There’s another sharp, impatient buzz a the door. You have more guests.

[Ketch]

Mordechai Wollsey
Golgotha - Apartment

Mordechai stared at the pile of drugs sitting on his table for a moment before turning toward the door. It probably would have been prudent to cover up the Obscura, but he really couldn't be bothered. The only people who could conceivably be pressing that buzzer right now, after all, weren't going to care, or if they did they weren't going to be able to do anything about it.

Opening the door, Mordechai was faced with what he quickly determined were the three acolytes he was going to be working with on this job. He'd always preferred to work alone, for the most part, and this was especially true now that he was working with the Inquisition; anytime he was forced to work with others it was because whatever they were doing was particularly dangerous or vile. Unfortunately, there was precious little he could do about that; the Inquisition says jump, well...

"I can already tell, this is going to be one of those days." He stepped aside to allow the others to come inside.

[Xachariah]

Sawney Jag
Slums to Apartment

    Sawney keeps his eyes open, looking around alertly, though he seems incapable of not glaring at anything and everything, once you take a better look at him. Maybe he's just got an unfortunate face. He keeps a hand on the hilt of his knife the entire way to the destination - paranoia cut into him, perhaps, by one too many ambushes in similar mazes of corridors. And then... they are there. It might even be surprising that he's the one who hits the buzzer - and that he didn't use a knife to do it.

    The door opens. Sawney glares, though it really is such a permanent feature of his expressions that he could probably look angry at kittens frolicking. He's at least aware enough of it that he attempts to not look so angry as he nods to Mordechai, grunting a monosyllabic greeting. It's likely the most he's said all day.
   
   "Hail."

   He slides into the apartment carefully, glancing about out of habit; one never knows when they'll be ambushed. He leans on the end of the couch, seemingly reluctant to sit so soon after getting out of that nightmarish tin of sardines they called conveyance.

[sinistar]

Lekk
Golgotha

       Lekk nods to the man who opened the door of the apartment. She takes a place, or perhaps a place-and-a-half, with her muscles, at the other side of the couch. Not leaning, not sitting, not relaxing her guard. Never relaxing her guard. Her hands thrust into her pockets are the only sign of ease. She turns her eyes to their host.
       "I'm Lekk."

[Inquisitor]

I believe our Psyker will be mostly absent for the weekend - feel free to talk amongst the group a bit, the next update should come Monday or Tuesday.

[Inquisitor]

The Acolytes
Apartment

Welcome home.

The small apartment is now even more cramped with the inclusion of three extra bodies to a room that most people, except those with much experience living on a Hive World, would consider a habitable space by more than a single person. But as far as you are aware, this is where all of you will be staying now.

Introductions are in order, as you meet up with the Regulator Mordechai Wollsey, effectively bringing the Cell together for the first time. You stand in a dirty room lit by stale yellow light that filters in from an open window. Perhaps a hundred feet below, through the mesh of steel pipes and catwalks, you can see people milling about below, going on with their insignificant lives.

On the table sits a rather large bag filled with a rather large amount of narcotics that has not yet been brought up, as well as three thin, plastic cards for the rest of the acolytes...

The cognomens contain false names, but correct pictures for each of the Acolytes. They look pretty legit – freshly made and laminated, with the proper seals and all. You should be able to pass them off as native of Hive Golgotha, at least...

As for Mordechai, 'Verbal' was able to supply you with the drugs from his own narcogang, but as he is, himself, not a member of the Saints, he was of little help here. However warily, he had decided to impart on your a single name of a woman you could find and contact, who should be expecting a shipment like yours very soon. You know her name, Magdela Gol, and her known hang out – a local bar and dive known as “the Joygirl”.

[Xachariah]

Sawney Jag
Apartment

    Sawney eyes the others in the room, understandably less-than-thrilled to be stuck in a small room with three more people. Barely enough room to practice with his blades. At least the screams of cattle are absent, and there's enough room to stretch. He cracks his neck, points to himself with his thumb, and speaks. Whether it's just how he is or if he's actively unfriendly is hard to tell (it's the former, though; he's just so consistently unfriendly that it's impossible for anybody to manage it. He's trying!), but he spits out his name like soured milk.
   
    "Eisen Jaghatai. Sawney."

    Sawney eyes the things on the table; a card with his face, but not his name. He picks it up. A bag full of what looks like drugs. ... he doesn't pick that up.
   
    "... What's in the bag?" He glares at the cognomen he'd suppose is to be his, awaiting an answer.

Sawney just isn't very friendly. He's trying to be, though. Well, kind of. Not very hard.

[Ketch]

Mordechai Wollsey
Apartment

Mordechai resists the urge to go for the bottle again as his apartment is invaded by his new peers.

"A pleasure to meet you, Lekk, Sawney." He glanced at the third member of his new Cell and, without yet knowing why, felt an increased sense of discomfort. He turned back to Sawney and made his way over to the bag on the table. "In this bag is a large amount of highly illegal narcotics which will help me infiltrate a suspected drug cartel referred to as the Saints." He punctuated his speech by digging into the bag and lifting out a brick of obscura and holding it up for them all to see. "I've got a potential contact in the organization," he continued, tossing the brick back in the bag, "with whom I hope to meet this evening in order to assure myself a place among these 'Saints'." Leaning against the table he looked around the room once again at the rest of the Cell. "So I guess the first order of business is to find out what you three know about our case and for you to tell me what sort of skills you'll be bringing to the table."

[Xachariah]

Sawney Jag/Ishmael Nihilius
Apartment

   Sawney tucks the cognomen away, after memorizing the name on it - he'd just end up picking it up in a minute if he put it down.

   "We are here to assist you with whatever our master needs done. We come without badges, or any other identifying gear, and are given false names; it doesn't take a genius to realize that this is to be an undercover mission. Perhaps infiltration of a group. By the way, if you must call me by name, Ishmael Nihilius appears to be my cover."

The most words he's said at a time since they got on the star abattoir! And he keeps going, though he really does seem incapable of not looking angry at the world.

   "As for skills... I get where people don't want me to be, by way of picking locks, moving unseen and unheard, and leaping about. Then I kill them, preferably with blades."

He seems to take far too much pleasure in that particular thought.

As Y'mar, Lekk's player, is having internet issues - her router, apparently, died, with no particular timeframe on getting back on the internet besides 'asap' - I posted to keep things moving between the party members while they get figured out and Sid figures out how to work in Dae.

[Inquisitor]

Sila ‘Scarlet’ Valiena
The Brasshand

The roar of an engine and the shaking of the rockcrete beneath your feet warn you that a craft has just set down, shaking the aching, rusting steel structure that you stand upon. Hundreds of feet above terra firma, hidden beneath a dizzying maze of lights, metal beams, and human bodies. You sniff, tasting the bitter air that you've grown so accustomed to in Hive Golgotha. Promethium and sweat, mixed with the churning smell of crematoria and manafactorums.

”Wake up, let's go.” Comes the familiar female voice of your superior, rousing you from your daydream and runaway thoughts. A deep breath to recollect yourself, and you step out of the truck you'd brought all the way up to this particular landing pad. For a moment, you wonder how you even managed to find yourself up here, but the pieces fall together in a moment. In and out of various cells, you had finally been moved by your master here, to Hive Golgotha, with the mission of infiltrating a rising star within the criminal underworld. The Gologotha Saints, a thuggish narcogang turned criminal syndicate, seemingly, overnight. You had been told to keep in contact with certain various people, though more and more they had begun to disappear, only to receive a cryptic message from an Interrogator Markonin, to await further instructions. They haven't shown up yet, strangely enough.

You follow your superior, Magdela Gol. It's been nearly two months now since you started to associate with the Saints, but they still treat you like garbage – you run petty errands, handle small-time crimes, and generally don't get told any lick of information at all. But you'd been progressing slowly, especially after getting an in with Gol. A tall woman, standing just under six-feet, her frame is lithe from undernourishment and long days bounding through the Underhive. She'd worked her way up, and she had the scars to prove it, hidden beneath tattoos and a mass of copper-colored hair.

Flanked by two men working the docks, you and Gol move through the teeming ranks of people and down the pad, as the doors of the lander open, and bodies begin to shift out. Pilgrims, tired masses, men looking for work, three outworlders who peer about curiously, unsure of what to make of this new world. But you have more important things to think of, don't you?

You look ahead to see Gol slip through security and disappear out of sight, before a gray robed adept bumps into you – hard enough to send you off balance for a moment as the adept drops reams of paper, bound scrolls, and thick ledgers. There's a scream and a hundred apologies thrown in your direction within just a few moments, before the adept quickly gathers his things and flees the site. Dusting yourself off, you can't help but notice the manilla envelope the man seems to have forgotten...

You push through the security, looking to find Gol once more, and it's not hard to too. The tall woman has gotten herself into a screaming battle with the foreman, who seems incredibly reluctant to let her through the checkpoint and allow her to have a look over the cargo that's been brought down to the planet. A few thrones change hands, and then Gol is leading you into the holds, finding a forgotten crate. As you walk, she laughs, and tells you the big plans the Saints have once they sell all this obscura you're picking up, and after they find some new bulk-buyers...

You find your box. Instantly, you can see where the metal is scratched. Prying eyes have been here. With a mad dash, Gol rips open the container and digs through it – meat, foodstuffs, clothing, more – before reaching the bottom and finding...nothing.

“Shit. Shit, shit, shit. We gotta go back to the Joygirl. What the hell are we going to do now?”

Normally, you might not put much interest in a document dropped by a hurrying adept. After all, the Imperial bureaucracy probably wouldn't get to that document in a decade, anyway. But when you turned it over, you instantly recognized the symbol of your Master, penned in black ink, sealing the envelope closed. Opening it, when given the option, reveals the name of a man you'll need to meet; your new partner. To your surprise, he's relatively close to your hang out. 'Mordechai Wollsey', with an attached pictograph...

[Daeva]

Sila ‘Scarlet’ Valiena
The Brasshand


The stench and itch of less than fine clothes was familiar and continually disheartening. She watches the spires of Hive Golgotha disappear from view as her shuttle lands. A sign, and it's back to playing the role of some low-life scum-bag with nothing better to do.

"Yes dear, I'm coming." She murmurs as she exits, doing what she could to make herself look as presentable as possible, considering the clothes she was wearing. She didn't want to attract too much attention, or destroy her finer things with a stain or the smell of the Hive. She keeps her head up and follows Gol with her eyes until the woman dissappears past security. A  rough impact to the shoulder sets her stumbling before she catches her balance, and whips around to leer at the adept.

"Watch it, asshole." She spits at the apologizing adept, fixing up herself again as the adept clears off, but leaving a piece of paper behind. Odd. She snags in left letter and tucks it in a pocket before catching up to Magdela. Mag gets them through the checkpoint to the box that's....empty. That's a problem, for the Saints at least. She runs her fingers along the scratch marks, peering at them for a moment as Mag near panics. A moment is taken as Mag heads to go back to the Joygirl, the document checked. The seal is ripped from the envelope, as it could come in handy when identifying herself subtly, the picture glanced at before the lot it tucked away. She catches up to Mag.

"We must have a leak. Who knew about this? Who had access to it?"


----

On a seperate note, basic rolls like awareness and such can be made by the DM, to keep things moving.

[sinistar]

Lekk
Apartment

      Lekk moved through the close quarters to whisk the cognomen with her picture from off of the table. Her eyes flicked over the name. The two-meter-tall, hundred kilogram, heavily muscled woman covered in scars and bristling with weapons raised an eyebrow incredulously.
      "Priscilynna Kingsly?" She shook her head and tucked away the card. "I fight. In theory, I'm 'dumb muscle.'" She shifted slightly in the crowded space, her eyes on the bag of illicit materials. "I don't like drugs. I don't like things that mess with the head. But we're going to have to play nice with these 'Saints' for a while, eh?"

[Inquisitor]

Sila ‘Scarlet’ Valiena
Mid-Levels – The Joygirl

It looks like someone took a prybar to this crate, and this crate in particular. You take a moment to glance around and notice that no other crates in the area were hit – they're all still sealed shut, where as yours has the metal scratched and is missing two nails. Interestingly enough, whoever ran through the crate reached under the material used to disguise the drugs, and took only the drugs, before putting everything back together and taking off.

“Yeah, we got a leak alright.” Says Gol, eying you dangerously. “Shit. That was a big shipment. We're gonna have to find a way to pick something up, fast...otherwise the shotcallers are gonna have my head on a pike.” She mutters a few thousand, colorful curses as she hobs into an autocab and waits for you to get in, before driving down to the little dive they've been using as a base of operations. It's a two-level club – bar on the bottom with some private rooms up top – and it keeps to it's namesake with many blushing young women in the smallest amount of attire imaginable hustling about.

The Acolytes
Apartment

None of you seem too thrilled about the giant bag of drugs sitting on the table, but who wants to turn down such a big pay day? If you were to break it up and take your time selling it, Mordechai's certain there could be nearly half-a-million thrones in that bag...

[Xachariah]

Call Me Ishmael (Sawney)
Apartment

    Sawney leans in, glaring curiously at the bag of drugs. Picking up a packet of obscura, he sniffs it, bouncing it gently in his hand to test the weight. He grins wolfishly.

"This is... a lot of obscura. So, how are we going to get in with the Saints? Sell this to 'em? Sell it on our own, and roll with it when they get on our asses? It's got to be worth a fair bit."

    He drops the package back into the bag, leaning back.

"You haven't told us what you do, either."

[Ketch]

Mordechai Wollsey
The Apartment

"My name," began Mordechai, "is Mordechai Wollsey. Or rather, it was Mordechai Wollsey. From now until our mission is complete, my name is," he paused, glancing at the card with his face on it, "Vicus Mandell. As for what I do," he continued, pulling out his Adeptus Arbites ID and placing it on the table where his new cognomen had been, "I'm an investigator."

He turned his attention to Sawney and the drugs. "And yes, that is a lot of obscura, and it's worth a great deal of money. It represented a significant investment and promised a great capital return to however bought and paid for it, which was not us. That's why, right now, every single major drug transaction going on in this hive is going to be very carefully watched by whoever was supposed to receive this shipment." He picked up a brick and stared at it. "Selling it as a block sum, all at once, would grab all kinds of dangerous attention, which is why I'm going to go to this meeting and tell my potential contact that I haven't got a thing to sell her." He glanced at Lekk. "And you're coming with me."

[Daeva]

Sila ‘Scarlet’ Valiena
Mid-Levels – The Joygirl

"Don't give me that look, dear. I'm not dumb enough to steal from you." She says dismissively, settling in the cab. She fixes herself up the best she can, making sure her hair was pristine and her make-up not smudged or in need of replacing. She re-coats her lips in a pale red color, and is satisfied.

"I could try calling in a few favors to get a little...but it won't be nearly the amount taken. How much you think you can pull in in a pinch?" She moved into the Joygirl. She did her level best to compete with the girls here in terms of male attention. She didn't want to get shown up by a bunch of low-level hivers in skimpy outfits. She walks a little taller, makes sure the right amount of skin is showing. She'll settle at the bar, unless Gol has other ideas, watching the woman and trying to think what she was going to do about meeting her partner, and keeping herself in Ms. Gol's good graces.

[sinistar]

Lekk
Acolyte Apartment

The large woman nodded. "You think your contact might get a bit out of hand when she finds out you don't have anything for her?" She half-hoped that he might take her for the sake of her 'dumb muscle' persona, rather than as dumb muscle herself--she listened more closely than some might think. Her time in the civilized worlds made her doubtful of this slightly altruistic view.

[Ketch]

Mordechai Wollsey
Apartment

"I can't imagine there will be any kind of confrontation at this meeting," he shrugged, "but if I'm going to be playing the part of an aspiring drug tycoon I'm going to have to look the part, and that means I'm going to have to have some hired muscle following me around everywhere." He directed his attention back to the rest of the acolytes. "The main focus of this meeting is going to be gathering information, gauging how open they are to the idea of recruitment, and how best to use the resources," he paused, indicating the bag on the table, "at our disposal. Infiltrating an organization like this doesn't happen overnight, so it'll probably be several meetings before we manage to convince them to let us in on any information regarding their intentions beyond drug trafficking."

He rubbed his chin and look at Sawney. "Now, rather than have you sitting back, relaxing here while I go and do all the work, why don't you lend a hand. You say you're good at moving unseen? Well then lets put that to good use. We'll be meeting at the Joygirl, a local hole-in-the-wall. My contact's name is Magdela Gol; why don't you show up before us, keep an eye on things, and follow her once the meeting's over, see what you can find out. If you could avoid killing anyone it'd make my job a lot easier."

[Xachariah]

Sawney Jag - Ishmael Nihilius
Apartment

    Sawney nods, listening.

 "I'm to play the shadow for the moment? Very well. I'll try not to kill anyone, if you insist. If things go badly at the meeting, should I stick to the original plan, and stay out of the brawl in order to shadow her if she escapes, or should I try to cut her off? She won't trust us to begin with, and any slip could lead to a confrontation. Having a backup plan would be reassuring, if nothing else." He is a pragmatist, after all.

[Inquisitor]

Sila ‘Scarlet’ Valiena
the Joygirl

The tall, dark-skinned woman sniffs sharply as she steps into the bar, lighting up a lho-stick. Gol doesn't care to sit at the bar - at this hour of the day, it's stock full of manafactorum workers fresh off a shift change - and finds a table at the bacl of the room. A few tattoo'd narcogangers lift their chins in greeting at the sight of the woman, before going back to their own business and leaving the two of you be.

"It's not a problem of getting it, girl. I can get product - that's not the hard part. I'm already screwed out of the money, though. And if we can't get more to hit the streets before the shotcallers notice, we're both going to end up hanging off a wire over the tram..."