| Outside, the decker and the mage were doing something, which apparently did not involve their jobs or anything that Pearce was currently asking them to do.
Cantria's going to be really, really pissed if I have to get this face changed again, he thought, And where the hell is our medic? Do we even have one? Pearce turned now, and decided against using the radio. After all, back in the day, his Seargent didn’t bother with that sort of stuff. No, he used a tactic much more effective. So Pearce looked back through the penthouse doorway, and screamed. "MEDIC!!!" Only five minutes before, Pearce and Demise had been sitting in the troop area of his TR-55C tilt rotor aircraft. Pearce was meant to be retired now, but he sat in his armoured winterised coveralls, specially kitted out for thermal protection, and thermal invisibility. He'd decided against the ruthenium cloak, too bulky, and by the sounds of the job, not needed. The job itself had been sprung on him only 20 minutes before. It was, prior to this development, a simple transport job. Drop 2 people off at this address, and then pick up four and take them back to the Warrens. Eight grand, extra if they bring the heat down on his plane. No sweat. Pearce's tilt rotor wasn’t a thunderbird, that was true, but it was the next best thing. Powerful ECM suite, and back at the warehouse he had a few drone brains to be put in, once he found someone with the skills to do it. Most importantly, with no military aircraft around Denver, it was one of the fastest aircraft in the vicinity, certainly faster than anything Knight Errant or Lonestar had on hand. Except of course, a missile, but Pearce doubted even Aztechnology would be stupid enough to shoot down a plane the size of the Tilt rotor over the crowded Denver skyline. Or worse, shoot one at it and miss. Probably not stupid enough, anyway. But then the fourth member of this crew hadn't shown up, and Pearce was offered their share plus the transport fee, and well, business had been slow lately. Pearce's other hobby was now getting hard-to-find milspec gear - and assorted equipment he'd always felt was useful in his line of work - acquainted with people who had similar interests and enough cash. But the lack of cash flow lately prompted Pearce to go along for the ride, after having nudged Blitz - his resident squatter, rigger, and stand-in pilot - awake with his boot. At least she was wearing clothes, this time. The job? Apparently, this Demise person already had a decker and mage onsite, hacking the security system to make entry a breeze, and then in they went. The objective was to find the psychotropic Black IC that the Ale'i were suspected to use to indoctrinate members into their fold, get a copy, and bring it out. Preferably with as little damage as possible. Pearce had begun to have misgivings - along with Demise who was quick to explain to the aging ork that she hadn’t told them to do this – when they had managed to get inside radio range on the flight in, and the decker had reported that no, infect, they had not hacked the security system, and were inside the penthouse where the meeting for the cult was taking place, but wasn’t able to talk much. This was not a good sign. A worse sign was, shortly after Blitz dropped himself and Demise on the roof, she had radioed in a group of heavies, security types, entering the building below. So the first team had probably also set of an alarm. Still worse was that, right now, he was standing in the a large room holding 20 rich and influential people hostage, several undoubtedly having headphone cyberware and already having put that to good use, a number of unconscious people who probably had Docwagon contracts, and no IC program, a wounded colleague who needed to be dragged out ignobly, and a mage who he'd asked to watch the culties now starting to wander off with one of them that he was sure had been shot several times. It's amateur night, come one, come all. I think, on further evaluation, its time to get the fuck out of here. "Blitz! We're getting out right now!" * |