Given that one of our runs is too hot to talk about, and the other was botched due to competition, I suppose I’ll start with our latest run. I got a call from Silver saying that he had a run for our crew if we were interested. We were told we could meet the Mr. Johnson at a club called Matchstick’s downtown. Being the jazz enthusiast I am, I’ve been there on an evening or two. It’s only lucky an elf doesn’t own the place, or they’d be serving carrot juice. Our Mr. Johnson is an elf woman who gives us the usual spiel about how this is a simple snatch and grab. The group exchanges wary looks when she tells us that the run is going down in the Tir. We listen anyway, and she lays out a plan that seems thoroughly planned and well supported. In fact, I’ve never seen nor heard of the group getting so much intel from a Johnson before. When she satisfies us all that maybe this will be at least “simpler,” we accept, but with a slightly higher fee given that we’re crossing borders and walking into unfriendly territory for us.
The plan involves us all receiving fake ID’s and travelling as landscaping consultants. She writes down an inventory list of everything we think we’ll need for the mission and promises it’ll be delivered once we’re in-country. Just to be on the safe side, we spend the following day tracking down what information we can on our Ms. Johnson. We eventually track down that her streetname is “Banshee.” Seems she used to be a runner herself, but may have retired to the middleman biz. She also seems to have been a singer for some band, although she must not have made enough noise to have recorded anything. We get back to studying the plan, which involves grabbing some intel from a Universal Omnitech facility, and destroying their research lab.
Whoever our corporate sponsor was behind Banshee, they certainly had some pull. We had our fake ID’s and plane tickets in hand the following day. That indicates a whole team of drek-hot hackers slipping background information into key places and what not. We packed our bags and headed for the airport and Tir Tairngire. Security on our side of the plane ride wasn’t terribly noteworthy. When we landed, however, customs pulled Doc and I aside at the luggage carousel. It seems that they do not allow combat fetishes nor armor of any kind. I don’t know what spells Doc keeps on his fetishes that got him tagged, but I was fairly taken aback that they would bother with the armor I brought. These were my every day wear, and frankly the clothing of most corporate types in the ‘Plex. I managed to cajole the customs agent to let me keep my Auctioneer clothing, but they insisted on holding onto the form fitting armor. These elves must keep their back to the wall everywhere they go if they don’t allow armor.
That done, we debated going to the motel that Pariah had thoughtfully booked as a back-up if things went south, but we decided things hadn’t gone wrong yet. We headed to the Rose Branch Inn that had been booked for us by our sponsor. I’m not sure why we had to be here days in advance of the run, but here we were early in the week and stuck waiting for the weekend. Over a dinner at a nearby Elven restaurant, we discussed our next move. With so much time on our hands, we decided to find out more about Banshee, as our trail of information led here. With her having made the move to the corporate world, we went to a hot spot frequented by corporate types where I asked around for anyone who knew her. When that didn’t help, we tried a hangout for medical types since our target was some biotech research – still nothing. Next, we headed towards the slums in search of anyone who knew her from her shadowrun days.