# Countdown: 2060 (Shadowrun D20 Campaign; sorta updated 3/27)



## Andrew D. Gable (Jan 28, 2003)

*RASTA*
Real Name: Thomas Smiley
Occupation: Mercenary
Birthplace: Kingston, Jamaica, Caribbean League
Race: Troll

*GHOST*
Real Name: Jonathan Kelly
Occupation: Hermetic mage
Birthplace: Seattle, UCAS
Race: Elf

*PLUNKETT*
Real Name: Unknown
Occupation: Mercenary
Birthplace: San Francisco, CFS
Race: Ork

These three characters will be players in my upcoming game of my own conversion of Shadowrun D20, played with Spycraft rules.  It’ll be a series of mini-campaigns loosely connected to each other.  From a little preliminary run I did for the PCs, it seems they’ll be most interested in being involved with crime in some manner, mostly gangbusting and smuggling.


----------



## Andrew D. Gable (Jan 28, 2003)

*The Modern Northwest*

The Northwest of 2060 is very different from the one you all know.  For starters, the Seattle metropolitan area is a massive "colony" of the United Canadian and American States (UCAS).

*Major Historical Events:*
2002-2008: The Resource Rush, in which the last reserves of natural resources held on national parkland or Native American reservations are purchased by private corporations.
2009: The Sovereign American Indian Movement (SAIM) captures a Shiloh launch facility and intitiates the "Lone Eagle" missile attack.  In response, the United States signs the Re-education and Relocation Act and Canada signs the similar Nepean Act.  Both these laws inter thousands of Native Americans in the following year.
2011: A phenomenal number of unusual births (giving rise to the dwarves and elves) this year sweep the globe.  On December 24, Daniel Howling Coyote, an apparent adept, leads a rebellion in the Abilene Re-education Camp.  
2014: Howling Coyote declares the formation of both the Native American Nations (NAN) and the Sovereign Tribal Council (STC).  He also claims responsibility for a series of volcanic eruptions across the country, which he says were caused in the Great Ghost Dance.
2014-2018: The Ghost Dance War.
2018: Finally admitting defeat, the US and Canada sign the Treaty of Denver, in which the NAN lays claim to much of western North America.  The NAN nations are comprised of the Athabaskan Council, Algonkian-Manitou Council, Pueblo Corporate Council, Salish-Shidhe Council, Sioux Nation, Trans-Polar Aleut, Tsimshian, and Ute.
2021: "Goblinization" creates orks and trolls.  First recorded case of HMHVV infection.
2029: The Great Crash.  The world’s computer networks are disabled.
2030: The US and the remainder of Canada unite into the United Canadian and American States (UCAS).
2034: Another round of secession.  This time, several Southern states secede, forming the Confederated American States (CAS).  Southern Florida further secedes and joins the Caribbean League.
2035: The southern Sinsearach elves of the northwest form Tir Tairngire, and secede from the NAN.
2037: Tsimshian secedes from both the STC and NAN.
2039, February 27: The Night of Rage.  Anti-metahuman riots flare across the globe.
2057: The great dragon Dunkelzahn, who had interfaced quite often with the media, is elected president of the UCAS. On the night of his inauguration, he is killed by an unknown assassin. A magical rift appears where he died.  

My campaign is taking place in Seattle, and here’s what that area is like in 2060.  The city itself is huge, the majority of what are currently suburbs being gobbled up by the urban sprawl.  The city is a "colony" - although seperated by the NAN countries from the rest of the nation, it officially belongs to the UCAS.  The current governor of the Seattle Metroplex is Ivar Lindstrom.  Several corporations maintain a presence in Seattle.

- Ares: The pre-eminent arms corporation and maker of the legendary Predator handgun, Ares does quite a bit of business with the UCAS government. Their security branch, Knight Errant, has been steadily on the rise since cleaning up an infestation of insect spirits in Chicago problem (for the most part).
- Aztechnology: The big baddie of the corps. Aztechnology, for the most part is synonymous with the Mexican (actually, Aztlaner) government - or rather, the other way around. Nobody much likes Aztechnology, although their jobs tend to pay well. Their compound in Seattle is a huge building resembling an Aztec pyramid.
- Cross Applied Technologies: A newcomer onto the scene, Cross was a local corporation in Quebéc for years. After President Dunkelzahn died, Cross made out like bandits in his will. Competitor to Ares.
- Mitsuhama: A computer corporation, Mitsuhama is known as one you really don’t want to mess with: they’re rumored to be involved (practically controlled by) the yakuza.
- Novatech: Another computer corp. Previously Fuchi, but I’m kinda fuzzy on how it became Novatech.
- Renraku: Yet another computer corp.  Renraku is best known for the Renraku Arcology, a massive construction project it was undertaking in downtown Seattle.  In a massive PR letdown for the corp, the Arcology went into a complete lockdown state in late 2059, trapping hundreds of people (including former Seattle governor Marilyn Schultz) inside.
- Wuxing: Owned by the Chinese and based in Hong Kong, Wuxing is involved in magical research (IIRC).  Rumored to be allied with the Chinese Triads.
- Yamatetsu: The biotech corp.

There’s tons of others (Lone Star, Gaeatronics, Shiawase, Universal Omnitech) but these are the big ones.

Seattle is enveloped on all sides by the lands of the Salish-Shidhe Council. Here’s the major players there, and the lands they control: Cascade Crow (NE of Seattle), Cascade Ork (E of Seattle), Nootka (far north, bordering on Tsimshian), Makah (N Olympic Peninsula), Salish (S Olympic Peninsula), Sinsearach (S of Seattle).  Once again, there’s tons of minor tribes not listed here.  South of Seattle (present-day Oregon) is the xenophobic elven nation of Tir Tairngire, ruled by the reclusive Lugh Surehand.


----------



## Andrew D. Gable (Jan 28, 2003)

Here's a map of the northwest of 2060.  Kinda rough, but you get the idea.


----------



## Andrew D. Gable (Jan 30, 2003)

*First Session: Part One*

September 5, 2060
11:35 PM

The ork growled to himself as he stepped down off of his Harley-Davidson Scorpion. Taking care to conceal his weapons carefully, Plunkett and the dreadlocked troll he’d hooked up with upon arrival here in Seattle, a big bleeder who called himself Rasta, approached the front doors of the club. Dante’s Inferno was reknowned as the premier hangout of shadowrunners and their agents. The ogre bouncers working the door gave the two runners only a cursory pat-down and then ushered them through the doors into the club.

"How you s’posed to find any’un here?" asked the troll. Plunkett gazed up to the form towering over him - which was saying something, when Plunkett himself was nearly 7 feet tall - and shook his head.

"I dunno. Ask, maybe?"

The two walked up to the bar. The bartender/owner was known to be friendly towards shadowrunners, and grinned as he recognized two of what were sure to be frequent customers at the Inferno. "And what can I do for you chums?" the dark-haired man asked as the rather intimidating pair strode up to his bar.

"Any work for us ‘round here, mon?" the troll in his accented voice.

The bartender studied the pair. "Well, the best agent I can recommend for beginners such as yourselves is ol’ Gunderson, over there." He gestured with a cybered arm towards a dimly-lit booth.

The middle-aged man in the booth was balding and somewhat overweight.  He wore a threadbare, pea-green suit that was the ugliest thing either runner had ever seen - and growing up in ork and troll communities, that was saying a lot.

"Hoi, chummers!" said Gunderson in an oddly-accented voice as the runners walked up to his table. "I can always tell when potential new clients are about! I have an eye for them, you might say! Har!" He cackled as he made a pointing gesture from his eye to the runners. Great, thought Plunkett. Not only gross but annoying, too. "You look for work, eh? Well Gunderson has the goods for you, as you might say. I have been contacted by a news organization of some sort, they have a job they wish to have done." He scribbled a note onto a bar napkin. "The client, he waits for you in Hell. Take this and show it to those bouncers over there, and they will show you the way to Hell. Now go!"

Plunkett and Rasta exchanged glances as they wandered over to the bouncers Gunderson had pointed out. They cautiously held out the napkin, and the bouncer - the biggest non-cybered human either of the runners had ever seen - grabbed it in his pudgy fingers. "Let them through," he spoke into his headset. Then he stepped aside, the way open for the runners to advance down a set of wrought-iron steps. After about 30 feet there was another checkpoint and another gang of bouncers. These stepped aside, and the runners proceeded down more stairs into a huge room.

It looked much like the dancefloors in every other club they’d ever been to, except for the fact that they couldn’t see into any of the booths. It was as if the booth was totally cloaked in shadow. "You’re the runners Gunderson sent?" said a small voice at Rasta’s shoulder. The massive troll spun on one booted foot to stare down a tiny (in his eyes) human. Among humans, he was probably a good-sized guy. "Ahh, I can see you are. This way."

The human led them through the throngs of other runners to one booth in particular. He lit up a cigarette and offered the runners one as he passed into the darkness. "It’s safe," he muttered, sensing their hesitation. The two runners sat in the seat opposite the man and a woman, obviously his joygirl for the night. Well, Plunkett sat. Rasta stood. 

The man pressed a button on the table. "White noise generator, to thwart any eavesdroppers. My name is Kyle Weatherstone," the man said between drags on his cigarette. "I work for NewsNet, you may have heard of us. We’re investigating the Renraku Arcology shutdown. North America’s just dying to know what’s going on in there. What we’d like you to do is help us out." Another drag. "Hunt around, see if you can find out what’s going on there."

"Sounds easy enough. What’s the pay?" Plunkett asked.

"3,500 nuyen."

"’kay. We’ll do it," Plunkett replied after consulting Rasta. 

"Excellent," said Weatherstone. Find a Sarah Weisman at Club Penumbra, across from the Arcology.  She may have information of use."

The two runners nodded and left Weatherstone’s table.


As they were walking to their bikes, the two heard sounds of a scuffle ensuing in an alleyway beside the club. They investigated to find a small gang of three orks beating an elf senseless. 

"Who’re you?" snapped one of the orks, looking up to see the two massive forms. "I don’t know yous, so frag off!"

"Huh?" Rasta said, cracking his ham-sized knuckles. Plunkett held up his hand to stay the troll. "Why the attitude, brother?" he said, appealing to the orks’ sense of brotherhood. 

"Dis ain’t none o’ your concern, chief, so go blow, eh?" the apparent leader of the orks said, yelled rather. "If ya gotta know, we thought we’d get us a little extra cash, ain’t that right, boys?" The other two orks guffawed. "Or are ya some kind of elf-lover, ‘s that it?"

"Not at all," Plunkett replied, walking over towards the elf’s body. "In fact," he said, heaving him up - the orks prepared for a fight here - "he owes me money too!" upon which he delivered a massive blow to the elf’s solar plexus. The ork gangers guffawed at this action.

Rasta, meanwhile, had pulled out a shotgun and blasted one of the orks. He fell in a red rain as his head practically exploded with the force of the blast. A switchblade-wielding ork ran at the troll, while the leader, swinging a length of chain, advanced on Plunkett. "Thought ya pulled one over on us, did ya?" he growled, smacking him upside the head. "Well ain’t nobody pulls one over on ol’ Joey F.!"

By the time Plunkett recovered fully from the blow, Rasta’s Mossberg shotgun had sounded again, leaving another dead ork in its wake.  Only Joey remained. Plunkett pulled out his Smith & Wesson Thunderblast and let loose a burst into the ork. He fell, bloodied.

The two helped the elf (who introduced himself groggily as Jonathan Kelly, AKA Ghost) to Plunkett’s bike and high-tailed it out of there before the cops arrived. Even now, they could hear approaching sirens.


----------



## Dungannon (Jan 30, 2003)

Ahh, corporate intrigue & senseless street violence.  I miss Shadowrun.   Where's Mr. Johnson, though?


----------



## Andrew D. Gable (Jan 30, 2003)

Dungannon said:
			
		

> *Where's Mr. Johnson, though? *




Ach!  My screw-up.   Weatherstone is Mr. Johnson.  I have him using his real name because this isn't a "high-profile" run.  I generally use Mr. Johnsons for the megacorps (which NewsNet isn't).  He'll be showing up later, though.


----------



## Andrew D. Gable (Jan 31, 2003)

*First Session, Part Two*

September 6, 2060
1:00 AM

The roadhogs squealed to a stop along the curb out front of Club Penumbra, the nightspot where Weatherstone had told them to meet Ms. Weisman. On the trip over, Ghost had become more lucid and had formally introduced himself as a hermetic mage. Fine with Plunkett - Ghost would provide the astral cover, he and Rasta the gunmetal to back it up.

The three runners entered the club and asked around for Sarah Weisman. Eventually, they tracked down a thin girl with lank hair so blond it was almost white. She looked up at the runners as they approached with shaded eyes, nervously glancing away. She had all the telltale signs of a junkie.

"Sarah?" Plunkett asked.

"Yeah?"

"Weatherstone sent us. Said you had info on the Renraku deal you could share."

She nodded. "Mebbe I will. But I need ya to do something for me, first." She turned towards a back exit into an alley behind the club. "Follow me."

The four exited the club into the alley and almost collided with a street bum, who narrowly avoided running into the massive Plunkett only to run into Rasta’s chest. After staring up at the troll - who would make almost two of him - the bum ran off screaming. 

"’S okay," Sarah said. "We don’t get many trolls out this way is all. That guy’s used to humans and elves mostly." She reached into her leather jacket and pulled out a test tube of some bluish liquid. "I’ll need you guys to run this to Fast Freddie’s, under the fish restaurant down on the pier. I’ll wait for you in here."

Sarah went back into the club while the runners went to their bikes, the shadow of the Renraku Arcology looming overhead as a constant reminder to them. The red neon along the outside of the Arcology illuminated the street as they sped towards the piers. 

They parked their bikes at the base of the pier and walked around to the back of the fish restaurant, a ramshackle white building and to a metal door. A microcamera up above whirred to meet the runners. "We bring news," Ghost shouted at the camera. "Leatherface is dead." The password Sarah had told them.

The door slid open and the runners were ushered inside by a doctor in a blue medical getup. "Follow me," he said as he led the runners down a hallway lined with all manner of cyberware to a door marked C. MAIJALLA. "Dr. Maijalla?" he said to the black woman inside. "Some men to see you."

"Ah, yes," she said. "Do you have the vaccine?" When the runners nodded, she held out her hand. "Give it to me." Plunkett handed over the test tube and Dr. Maijalla handed him a small optical chip in return. "Give this to Sarah," she said. "She’ll know what to do. And here’s some money for you. You are mercenaries, after all."

"What is that?" Ghost asked, pointing at the vaccine.

"This," Dr. Maijalla answered, holding the glass tube up to the light, "is an experimental compound swiped from a Yamatetsu lab. It’s meant to lessen the trauma caused by the implantation of cyberware. Supposedly, it works pretty well."

Ghost nodded and the three runners left the bodyshop, taking a swift ride back up the strip to Club Penumbra. About midway there, Rasta was bathed in the glow from the headlights of a box truck behind their cycles. As they moved to duck down a side street, they were cut off by an approaching limo. The limo and truck slowed and halted, and out of the vehicles issued several Japanese men clad in red and black - the colors of Renraku security.

One of the Japanese men spoke up in the halting English of a businessman used to dealing with other Japanese. "We understand you’ve been looking into the shutdown of the Arcology."

"Of the what?" Rasta asked.

The Japanese man narrowed his eyes. "I would suggest that you do not play stupid with me," he said.  Ghost looked downward - the man’s hand resting on the handle of some pistol or another told him that it would really be suggested. Plunkett followed the elf’s eyes and saw the gun handle and nodded briefly.

"Not looking too deeply," he said. 

"Who is your employer?" the man asked. Taking the runners’ lack of an answer as confirmation of his fears. "It is not the media, is it?"

"Maybe."

The company man looked ready to spit bullets. "We would most cordially ask you not release any information you may uncover, unless it is to us. You see-"

"Yes?"

"-you see, we have no more idea on what is going on in the Arcology than do you. This could prove a bad thing for our company, no?" The runners looked nonplussed. "We will double the price your employer is paying, should you help us." 

The runners thought about this and eventually agreed. "Excellent," the man said.  He and his driver got back in the limo while another of the men plugged some contact information into the group’s minicomputer.

"Stay in touch," the man said as he and his squad re-entered the truck.  Both truck and limo departed, leaving the runners standing in the street.  Confused as hell and in a not-so-great part of town.


----------



## Andrew D. Gable (Feb 6, 2003)

*Session 2: 2/5/03*

September 6, 2060
4:15 AM
Once back at Club Penumbra, they sought out Sarah. When they found her, Plunkett dropped the datachip into her hand. She nodded and motioned the runners to follow her as she once again ducked out the backdoor into the alley and entered into an apparently deserted building next door.

"The folks at Fast Freddie’s are mixed up with some runner types, in case you hadn’t noticed. This chip here has a set of Matrix coordinates on it. Procured by a fellow decker named RipperJack. 

"When the Arcology shut down, it went into full shutdown mode. And I do mean full. All entrances and exits were closed up with blast doors, and even the Arcology’s LTG was disconnected off the Seattle grid. There’s been brief traffic between an Arcology access node and the grid.   

"These coordinates are for the sector of the grid that’s getting traffic. RipperJack says that there’s some heavy, heavy security around these coordinates, implying there’s some heavy, heavy paydirt in there. Let’s take a look see."

She pulled a small electronic recorder of some sort out of a pocket, flipped the top and popped in a miniature CD. Sarah inserted the datachip into the other end of the recorder, and jacked herself in.  

"Miniature Novatech Hyperdeck, satellite uplinked," she said.

The three runners kept an eye out in the alleyway as Sarah scanned the Matrix. After a few moments, she came out hurriedly. "Tell ya what, boys," she mumbled, leaning back against the wall. "Jack wasn’t lyin’. There’s some major, major IC on there."

"You OK?" Rasta asked.

"Yeah. I managed to swipe a bit of info for ya." She pointed at her minideck. "Just lemme catch my breath."

Sarah closed her eyes and it seemed like she had fallen asleep. But then, after several moments, she awoke. "Like I said, I got some info. Scan this." She punched a few keys on her minideck and white text appeared on the miniature blue screen. "This looks to be a tech readout," she said, telling them all about before they could read it. She glanced back and forth before she continued, in a soft voice. "Tech readout mentions a Renraku employee, a Dr. Daniel Kaminsky, who was apparently a major player in whatever’s happening."

"Apparently a printout of a summary of the Arcology’s computerized security systems. And…and while I was in there I saw some things. Moving things, ‘living’ things. But it wasn’t IC.  It didn’t move the same way, that’s the best I can put it."

The runners nodded and followed Sarah back into the club. "I’m hangin’ here," she said. "You go on. Find Dr. Kaminsky."

September 6, 2060
3:15 PM
When the runners finally awoke the next day (a hard night of drinking and violence will do a number on you) in the abandoned warehouse they had appropriated, the first thing they did after their morning run to the Stuffer Shack for some eats was to get to doing some research on Dr. Kaminsky.  

Ghost’s fingers danced across the keyboard of the public computer access terminal. A brief scan of the Matrix turned up the information that Dr. Kaminsky was an employee of Renraku, although the site they found (on a private grid or PLTG, the equivalent of a website) wasn’t clear on what exactly he did other than computer systems design. The same PLTG also held an address up in the Queen Anne’s section of the city. 

Tonight’s run would be infiltration of Kaminsky’s home. And maybe they could finally get to the bottom of what was happening.


----------



## Horacio (Feb 14, 2003)

More, please 

Time for an update...


----------



## D'arc DeWinter (Feb 14, 2003)

Great Story Hour so far!

I too am a fan of the Shadowrun universe, but not a big fan of the system.  I'm interested in how you approached the conversion to D20.  Do you have a web site for the campaign or any conversion notes that you could share?

In particular, how did you convert cyberware?  How do you handle spirits and summoning?

In the meantime, keep up the good work.  I'm looking forward to future updates.


----------



## Andrew D. Gable (Feb 16, 2003)

First things first: an update or two is coming shortly, likely tomorrow afternoon.  I haven't written anything up recently as my week hasn't been the best.  But never fear!  I'd do it tonight, but it's 2am already and I must sleep. 

As to the conversion itself: I must shamefully admit I myself did scant little myself.  Most of it's simply hobbled together from various sources, mostly the fragmentary Shadowrun conversions out there already.  Plus, a lot of the spirits, etc. I'm not worrying about converting until we get to them.  As it is, the PCs haven't encountered anyone with a bound spirit.


----------



## Andrew D. Gable (Feb 16, 2003)

*Deus Rubum*

September 6, 2060
11:30 PM
The three bikes roared up the drag towards Queen Anne’s Hill and Dr. Kaminsky’s house. The lights of fishing boats shone from the black waters of Puget Sound on their left. The houses got nicer as they moved on, the litter on the street was seen in lesser amounts and the practically omnipresent gangers were nearly absent.

"I think this is it," Ghost said as he pulled his bike along the curb.  Plunkett and Rasta followed his lead, keeping to the shadows as they scurried towards the house to avoid the near-constant Lone Star patrols in the area. Last thing they needed at this point was for the cops to get involved. They hunkered down and scurried into a wooded area flanking Kaminsky’s home (or more specifically, his garage) and squatted behind a tiny ridge of earth and trees, screwing silencers and sound suppressors onto their weapons.  Rasta’s cybereye whirred slightly as its lenses magnified the facing garage wall.

"We’ve got a door here," he said softly - well, softly as a troll can - as a Lone Star cop passed by. "Plunkett, you take it." The ork flickered and vanished as the effects of an invisibility spell cast by Ghost settled on him, and he moved across the small strip of lawn to the door. Keeping to the shadows, he examined the door for a moment and spoke into his internal radio. "Looks like there’s an alarm on the door. I’m gonna try to disable it. Keep your fingers crossed." Unlike Plunkett, the B&E equipment he handled was plainly visible to Rasta and Ghost - hopefully, any passing Lone Star patrols couldn’t see them.  After a few moments, the door swung open. The troll and the elf slipped across the lawn to enter the darkened garage.

Once inside, Ghost spoke the words that dispelled the invisibility shroud around Plunkett, as the ork turned to push the door shut.  

"Nice car," Rasta said, admiring Dr. Kaminsky’s black Eurocar Westwind 3000 as they made their way to another door. This door swung open with ease and the three runners made their way into a hall, from which broke off four doors - two on the north wall, two on the south. At the far end of the hall was an ornate foyer.  

One of the northern doors led into a living room, from which a staircase led up. "You stay here and keep a look out for company," Plunkett whispered to Ghost. The elf nodded and put up an invisibility cloak over himself. As his form vanished, the ork and the troll nodded at each other and crept up the stairs.

At the top of the stairs they were faced with a short hallway leading past two doors to end in a third door. Sensing their quarry, the troll and the ork moved to the door at the hall’s end. Concentrating on listening, they detected the sounds of… activities that would distract people from an infiltrating troll and ork. Rasta grinned.

Then abruptly, the sounds ceased. Both of them spun as one of the other doors swung open and a thin ork, evidently of Asian stock, walked out. With his bright red skin and long ivory horns, he possessed a vaguely diabolical cast. He looked at them and smiled. And kept smiling as Plunkett fired a burst from his Smith & Wesson Thunderblast.

In retaliation, the oni shot his arm out and thrust his palm at Plunkett, who suddenly felt as if a wrecking ball had smacked into his chest. He gasped for breath as Rasta unloaded at this newcomer with a shot from his Mossberg. The slugs fell to the ground harmlessly before they ever reached the oni.

Then a frying pan smacked the oni in the head, and he crumpled like a rag doll. The form of Ghost shimmered into existence behind the unconscious oni. "Thing about oni," he said. "They get all hyped up on making themselves invulnerable and forget about the obvious." Rasta grinned as he turned about and kicked down the door. Ghost ran over to Plunkett, still doubled over, and slapped some stimpatches on him. 

The troll, elf, and staggering ork entered into the bedroom. A brown-haired man with a heavily receding hairline sat on the bed, his arm around a blond woman who clutched a sheet to her chest. 

"Dr. Daniel Kaminsky?" Ghost asked. "Of Renraku?"

The balding man said nothing, but simply glared at them.

"We’re investigating the shutdown at the Arcology. We were led to believe you’d know something about it."

Again a stare. This time Rasta spoke up.

"Look, let me tell you how it is, mon," said the massive troll, cracking his knuckles menacingly. "We ain’t on nobody’s side but our own. So if you got info you ain’t sharin’, feel free to do so. We ain’t gonna tell nobody."

The man considered these words - and a nearly 10-foot troll preparing himself to deliver a beatdown is definitely something to take into consideration. "I work for Renraku, yes."

"In what capacity?" Ghost asked.

"A consultant on security systems. Specifically for the Arcology."

"We want to see your computer room," Ghost said.

Dr. Kaminsky threw on a bathrobe and tossed one to the woman. "My wife, Diane. Diane, join us down in the computer room in a moment, will you?"

Kaminsky led them out of the room, pausing over the groggy oni crumpled on the floor. "This is my personal bodyguard, Kan." He spoke to Kan and helped him up. The oni bowed to the runners and went into the bedroom of Dr. Kaminsky’s son.

Kaminsky led the runners down the stairs, through the living room and across the hall to a sealed door. Kaminsky punched a combination into the numbered keypad beside the door, and the maglock unlatched. "It’s a shame I need this sort of security," he muttered. The door slid aside to reveal a room decorated with a heavy Asian theme, the computers in the room giving off a slightly bluish glow. Kaminsky pulled out a chair and sat at one of the desks, and gestured around at other chairs, motioning the runners to be seated.

The doctor asked Diane to close the door when she appeared, and opened a text file. Words appeared in the air above the trideo projector hooked up to the computer. 

"This is the last project I was working on with them. When we began work on Deus Rubum in 2053, it was just a highly secure and top-of-the-line corner of the Renraku grid. Like other security systems on the Matrix, it was self-sufficient to a degree.

"Renraku recruited some heavy talent for the next stage. We added all sorts of other utilities to Deus, integrating administrative software and even systems similar to those used in a rigger’s vehicle interface. We were creating a wholly self-sufficient Matrix construct - an artificial intelligence.

"Sherman Huang, CEO of Renraku North America, decided that we should try using Deus to help administer the Arcology project, even though myself and several others disputed this. Why entrust something as big as the Arcology to an unproven system? But Huang was insistent, and soon all plans for any human element went out the window. Deus was to be given exclusive administrative control over the Arcology. 

"When the Arcology was finally completed in 2059, we all know what happened. As to what’s happening… well, I can’t say for sure. Though if I had to take a wild guess, I’d say Deus is mixed up in it."

Ghost gave Dr. Kaminsky a copy he had made of the coordinates chip. "Can you check this out? It’s coordinates to a spot on the Matrix, a point of apparent interface between the Arcology and the outside." Kaminsky nodded and popped the chip into his cyberdeck.

He blanched and jacked out, flinching as the shock of the boot hit him. "Well, I can tell you one thing, boys. It’s definitely Deus."

"What’s it doing?" Plunkett asked.

"Apparently feeding the specifications of itself into a databank on the main grid," Kaminsky said, gradually getting control of himself. "Trying to make copies of itself. Self-propagating. If you don’t stop it, the Arcology shutdown will spread out to the rest of the Seattle grid. The 2029 crash all over again."


----------



## Andrew D. Gable (Feb 28, 2003)

Sept. 7, 2060
4:00 PM
After leaving Dr. Kaminsky’s, the three runners made the obligatory early morning Stuffer Shack run before heading back to their warehouse and crashing the day away.  Before their planned infiltration of the Arcology to shut down Deus once and for all, they had to do some things - collect on some payments, and maybe get themselves some new ones.  They all loaded in the beat-up Ford van they’d appropriated from some drug-runners who weren’t needing it anymore (well, not after Rasta was through, they didn’t) and drove over to Dante’s Inferno.

Plunkett walked over to the public vidphone and punched up the number the Japanese businessmen from Renraku had given them.  The white static on the vidscreen gradually cleared and the face of one of the Renraku execs appeared.  

"It’s done," the ork said flatly.

"Excellent," said the company man.  A pause.  "We will be at your location shortly with the payment."

After hanging up, the ork turned to the troll and elf.  "’Kay.  The Renraku guys are comin’ by here in a few with the payment.  I’m gonna go out and wait.  Ghost, you come with me.  Rasta, you go to Gunderson and collect.  Get us another job, too."  Both the other runners nodded as they parted ways.

The troll wandered over to Gunderson’s usual booth.  The repulsive little man was wearing a threadbare brown tweed jacket and alternated his time between picking at a scab on his nose and punching buttons on his computer.  He looked up at Rasta.

"We be done wit’ the job, Gunderson."

"Good," he said in his undefinable European accent.  "Good."  He punched in a code on his computer and downloaded some cash onto the team’s credstick.  "Here is your payment, Sir troll.  You will be wanting another job, yes?"

"Right."

"Ah, well Gunderson has another job for you.  Mr. Johnson, he wishes that you get some telesma for him, yes?"  So the Johnson’s a mage, Rasta thought.  Telesma was herbs, minerals and such used in enchanting.  "Here is the address where you are to deliver the goods upon receipt," Gunderson said, pushing a napkin towards the troll’s hand.  "The telesma is being held by the Cascade Ork tribe, out in the woods.  You like the woods, eh?  Mr. Johnson, he pay you 3,000 if you do this."

Rasta nodded, accepting the deal.  Gunderson keyed it in.  The troll left.

Outside, he rejoined Ghost and Plunkett, now 7,000 nuyen richer thanks to the Renraku guys.  "Gunderson wants us to do a simple delivery run," Rasta said.  "Gotta pick up some telesma from the Cascade Orks.  Deliver it to this address."  He handed Plunkett the napkin.

The ork looked at the troll, and then the elf.  "Let’s go."

All three of them loaded back into the van, and hightailed it through the rain-slicked streets of Seattle towards the Salish-Shidhe border crossing.

Sept. 7, 2060
8:00 PM
The van sped down the old I-90 - now called the "Eye of Sauron" by some Seattle residents, obvious Tolkien fanatics, who read way too much into the whole ork thing - towards Cle Elum, where they were to pick up the telesma.  

They were fast approaching Easton when a Native American dressed in old U.S. Army fatigues - salvaged from God-knows-where, since the U.S. hadn’t even existed for 30 years - and with a red swath of warpaint across his eyes - flagged them down.  Plunkett slowed and rolled down the window.

"Turn yourself around, Anglo," the paramilitary guy said.  "We don’t want any of your big-city ways out here."

The ork looked nonplussed.  "I thought you guys in Salish-Shidhe liked us?"

The Indian spat on the ground.  "Salish-Shidhe.  Bah!  They would willingly coexist with polluters, with defilers.  Seattle on one side, the damned orks on the other.  This land is not Salish-Shidhe, Anglo.  You trespass on lands claimed by the Salish Reclamatory Front, and we make our own laws.  And we tell you to go back to your filthy city."

Rasta said not a word, but reached towards his weapon - not actually a move to grab it, just to show this Army-wannabe that they meant business.  When the Indian saw this, he ordered the three out of the van.

The three runners complied, with Plunkett and Rasta immediately opening fire, which was returned by the man who had spoken, as well as nearly a dozen others.  Ghost hung back near the van, as a bolt of fire arced towards the ork, and then another - they had mages with them, at least two.  Bullets whizzed overhead.  

"Ghost, a little help over here!" Plunkett shouted as he grappled with an SRF soldier.  

"Coming right up," the elf shouted back as he rose from behind the van, tossing a bolt of green light towards the soldiers.  Two of them immediately started wailing, their flesh beginning to bubble and slough away.

"I’ll cover you," Ghost said, launching another green bolt at the enemy as Rasta rummaged through his bag in the front seat and pulled out a small gray grenade.  He popped the pin and launched it into the largest gang of soldiers.  Plunkett dove over the hood of the van as the grenade detonated, and down went three more soldiers.

The men struck by Ghost’s green bolts were now almost totally liquefied, recognizable only as flesh-colored puddles of goo.  The ork leapt back into the fray, cleanly popping one of the SRF guys in the head and following through with a resounding blow to the jaw of another with the butt of his Thunderblast.

After a few more seconds of the fray, the dozen soldiers all lay dead or dying on the ground.  The runners went over to another van - evidently the SRF’s - and began rummaging through it.  They found a map of Seattle, with Mercer Island - well, Council Island now - circled and a date in red, 11/15, beside it.  

Sept. 8, 2060
10:00 AM
Once the telesma had been picked up and delivered, the runners went partied for a few hours at the Inferno before once again going back to their pad and crashing.  The next morning, they decided to take the annotated map to someone who could do something about it, so they took it to Adam Carnucci, a low-level employee of City Hall who got them in touch with none less than Governor Lindstrom.

Lindstrom was a typical suit - small, thin, decked out in the obligatory neatly pressed Armani, perfect teeth, and just a hint of ruthlessness.  Small talk was exchanged, and finally Ghost - who they all decided was best for this meeting - asked Lindstrom the obvious.  "Is anything important about November 15?"

Lindstrom cleared his throat.  "That’s the date of a special session of the Sovereign Tribal Council, to discuss a possible ouster of Chief John Moses, the Salish-Shidhe’s representative in Seattle."  Here he looked somber.  "The Sovereign Tribal Council.  As in representatives from Ute, Pueblo, Sioux… if this SRF is planning to do something that day, it could be bad… very bad."


----------



## Horacio (Mar 1, 2003)

hmmm, grreat update and maybe a new mission for our runners, that's good...


----------



## Andrew D. Gable (Mar 1, 2003)

Don't you just love it when your PCs play right into your future plans (which they did in this session)? 

*evil DM grin*


----------



## Horacio (Mar 2, 2003)

Andrew D. Gable said:
			
		

> *Don't you just love it when your PCs play right into your future plans (which they did in this session)?
> 
> *evil DM grin* *




Yup, speciallyu in a game like Shadowrun were it's very easy for them to take any other (ie unheroic) path...


----------



## Andrew D. Gable (Mar 3, 2003)

*Behind the Scenes I: And the Plot Thickens*

Sept. 8, 2060
10:30 AM
The man in the dark gray suit hefted his files and entered the building. He scanned the directory of businesses in the complex for the one he was looking for. He’d never needed to visit him at work before… here it was. Brackhaven Investments.

He filed into an elevator behind several other executive-looking men and women. Even among these other members of the jetset, he stood out. His charisma and leadership ability were obvious. Maybe he was a politico, or he might have star potential.

The doors opened into a lobby. Mostly vacant except for some people stationed in leather-upholstered chairs, some reading newspapers, some reading business reports. A black man in a bluish uniform sat in a security station in the middle of the floor. 

"Please sign in," he absentmindedly said. He looked up and hurriedly removed his hat. "Governor Lindstrom! I’m sorry sir, I didn’t realize who you were. What brings you here?"

"Business," Lindstrom said, tapping his file folder. "I need to see Mr. Brackhaven."

"Just a moment, sir," the guard said as he turned on an intercom. "Janice, would you tell Mr. Brackhaven the Governor Lindstrom is here to see him?" A moment later, Lindstrom was met at the doors by an aged gentleman - not too old, maybe in his 60s.

"Ivar, old friend," the man said, clapping Lindstrom on the back. "To what do I owe this visit?"

"We need to talk, Karl," the governor said in a tone that brooked no refusal.

"This way, then," the older gentleman - Karl Brackhaven - said as he turned and escorted Lindstrom through the offices of Brackhaven Investments. Moments later, they stood in Brackhaven’s wood-panelled office. "You could’ve waited until the next meeting, Ivar."

"No, I couldn’t, sir," Lindstrom said, pulling out the file. "Take a look at this." From the manila folder he pulled a page, ripped from a road atlas, one marked 11/15. "A shadowrunner, a-"

"Yes?" Brackhaven said, his eyebrows arching inquisitively.

"-a _metahuman_ one, came in my office this morning and gave me this."

"I don’t see how this concerns us."

"You will, Karl, you will. It gets better." Lindstrom pulled a second sheet of paper, a high-definition printout of some computer image, out. "He also gave me this." Brackhaven took the photo and examined it. "An image capture off of one of the shadowrunners’ cybereye." The image showed an Indian in paramilitary garb, his face done up in warpaint. "Notice the name badge." Lindstrom pointed.

Brackhaven read it. ‘H. IRON SHIRT.’ 

"Surprised, aren’t you? Yes, I can tell," Lindstrom said. "Henry Iron Shirt. Formerly of the Haida National Front up north."

"Do you think…"

"Yes, Karl, yes I do. I’m damn certain Jesse’s involved. He’s on this guy’s payroll now. You saw the communications."

Brackhaven put his face in his hands and then took them away. "This is bad."

"Damn right, it’s bad, Karl! I’m not the one who hired him and then let him walk out on us. I’ve been telling you for three months now to clear up this problem with Jesse! And you just kept dragging your feet!"

"Now listen here! You may be more powerful than me on the legit side of things, but don’t you _ever_ forget that _I’m_ running things here! Me, not you! Jesse’s a very hard man to find, Ivar. There’s a reason we haven’t gotten him yet. Is it dangerous having him as a loose cannon? Of course. But that doesn’t make things any easier to fix." 

"Duly noted. I’m sorry, Karl. You’re a good man."

"Well," Brackhaven said, "we have to get Jesse out of commission by the 15th of November. If he pulls off one of his stunts at that meeting, things could get really bad, cut off from the rest of the UCAS as we are."

"I agree. I have plans, though."

"Plans?"

"Yeah. Here’s what I’ll need done…"


----------



## Dungannon (Mar 3, 2003)

Oooh, nothing like corporate intrigue & shady politicians to liven up a campaign.   The plot thickens, and the story gets even more interesting.  I like it.


----------



## Andrew D. Gable (Mar 7, 2003)

Just letting everyone know: I won't be posting an update this week, as we didn't play.  I might have to break down and do another behind the scenes one, though.


----------



## Andrew D. Gable (Mar 14, 2003)

Sept. 8, 2060
7:00 PM
The runners entered Dante’s Inferno, the familiar smell of the place, a mixture of cigarettes (illegal, of course, but that law was practically unenforceable) and spilled alcohol, billowing out to meet them.  They quickly sought out Gunderson and picked up the payment for the last job they did for him, a little bounty hunt on some ghouls that had been bugging the orks in the Ork Underground.

"Hoi, chummers," called Gynt, the little dwarf who was running the bar tonight. "Message for ya." Ghost walked over to the bar while Rasta and Plunkett went back to get the money. "Someone’s been looking for you guys," Gynt said, polishing a glass. The ork and troll turned their heads, intrigued by this new development.

"Who’s lookin’ for us?" the dreadlocked troll asked.

"Dunno. Didn’t give their names. Big gents. Didn’t look like the type I’d wanna tangle with, if you catch my meaning. Asian guys."

"Are they in here?"

"Yeah. They didn’t want to leave when I told ‘em you weren’t here, said they’d wait. They’re around here somewhere…" Gynt scanned the walls, and jabbed a pudgy finger at a booth on the other side of the dancefloor. "There they are."

"Thanks for the tip."

The three advanced through the crowd of people, over to the table where there sat two guys who looked like sumo wrestlers, and so much alike that they may as well be vat-clones. After the runners introduced themselves, the two rose in unison, bowed in unison, and introduced themselves in heavily-clipped Japanese accents as Eiji and Inoshiro. 

"Why d’you want us?" Plunkett asked, after he and Ghost took the seats they were offered. Rasta’s 10-foot frame made it necessary for him to stand.

"Our employer, he wishes to speak with you. He says you have worked for us before. You come with us, go meet him?" One of them - he thought it was Eiji - sat with his hands folded, and Plunkett noticed that his right hand was conspicuously lacking a thumb.

"Why can’t he come to see us?"

"He is well-known. And not well-liked. He fears for his safety."

"And this is someone we’ve done work for before?"

"This is what he tells us." Both men inclined their heads slightly. "He specifically requests you, as you have skills he finds useful."

Plunkett glanced at Rasta and then at Ghost. Without their saying a word, he could tell what his teammates’ opinions were. "What can it hurt? I guess we’ll hear him out."

"Excellent." The two Japanese men rose and led the three runners to a car they had parked outside. "The ork and the elf may ride in here," Inoshiro - or was it Eiji? - said. "But the troll is too large, he must ride his bike."

"Suits me fine," Rasta said as he heaved up onto his Rapier and revved the motor. He took off, following the car that carried the other runners.  

******

The car parked in front of a high-rise building, the Seattle Hilton. Plunkett and Rasta - raised in the squalor of San Francisco - appraised the building approvingly.

"Follow us," one of the men said. He led the team into the expensive and ritzy lobby of the place. A yellow-and-white checkered floor - real marble, and polished to a near-mirror sheen - dazzled them. A middle-aged guy looked up from behind the desk. 

"I’ll need you guys to check your weapons," he said, walking into a small closet-like room. "Company regulations." The runners gave their weapons semi-freely - after all, they still had enough concealed stuff to do some damage - and the man buzzed the presidential suite.

A few moments later, the gilded elevator doors opened with a ding. Out stepped a dapper gentleman, an elderly guy in a respectable gray suit. "Greetings," he said, bowing slightly. "Please, follow me." Eiji and Inoshiro nudged the runners forward, and the six men ascended through the elevator.

"You may know me as Mr. Johnson," the man said. Mr. Johnson, of course, being a code used when an employer who didn’t really want himself identified was contacting runners. "I am an employee of the Renraku Corporation." He pronounced this as the elevator dinged past 30. "We’ve heard of your dealings with Mr. Shotozumi, the chief of security. We have people dealing with the Deus situation. I wish to contract you for something more important."

The elevator doors opened onto a room the likes of which the runners had never seen. Mr. Johnson gestured for them to be seated, offered them a drink (which they of course accepted, being semi-alcoholic mercs), and walked over to a hardwood desk - real wood, too. On the desk sat a little truncated pyramid, a squat mesa of black plasteel. Mr. Johnson hit a button on the device and a red holographic form took shape above it, a thin man. A Native American, with long hair and sunglasses. Typical Joe Cool type.

"This is a Mr. Jesse John," the Johnson continued. "Rabble-rouser and provocateur. He was instrumental in the forced withdrawal of Renraku corporate personnel from Tsimshian. We want the man very badly. He infiltrated one of our compounds here in Seattle and made off with a prototype."

"What sort of prototype?" Plunkett asked.

The man paused and licked his lips, and hit the button again. Another holograph, this one depicting a small, box-like machine, appeared. "This is a sub-sonic frequency manipulator, codenamed Gabriel. This is what Jesse stole from our facility." He sipped his drink and went on. "Based on research by Dr. Nathan Tomkins, on the effects of various frequencies of sound and how they affected human moods.

"We’ve heard from our contacts within City Hall that you uncovered evidence indicating that the Salish Reclamatory Front - an organization with which our corporation has clashed in the past - may seek to disrupt the November 15 meeting of the Sovereign Tribal Council. We also have information indicating that Jesse may be connected with the SRF, and we fear he may attempt to use the generator at the meeting. With likely disastrous results.

"We wish to contract you to retrieve the generator from Jesse. Use any means necessary. We would wish to question Jesse, but should you find it necessary to eliminate him, this would be an acceptable loss."

After they heard the exhorbitant sum the Johnson was offering, the runners quickly agreed.

"Good. I’m glad to see we could so easily reach an agreement. Intelligence indicates that a ‘Ben Johnson’, a known alias of Jesse, crossed the border into Salish-Shidhe via the I-90 earlier today. He may be attempting to rendezvous with certain parties within the Ute Nation, in Las Vegas."

The runners nodded and were shown out by Eiji (or Inoshiro). Next stop, Vegas.


----------



## Horacio (Mar 14, 2003)

Hmmm, Las Vegas... I hope the poor runners won't wastetheir future payment in a casino


----------



## Metus (Mar 14, 2003)

Yeahhhh buddy!  I dare say I am Shadowrun's BIGGEST FAN.  I will get to work on this story hour immediately!

Is there a certain website that has D20 conversion rules for SR?  Also, how's it handling when compared to standard SR rules?


----------



## Andrew D. Gable (Mar 15, 2003)

Horacio said:
			
		

> *Hmmm, Las Vegas... I hope the poor runners won't wastetheir future payment in a casino  *




I'm sure they would, provided of course that they survive intact enough to do so.  The Vegas of SR has new things to gamble on... not just casinos (like pitfights). 

Little inside DM joke-thing in the last update: Eiji and Inoshiro, the two Japanese bodyguards.  Their names are derived from Eiji Tsubarya and Inoshiro Honda, the FX guy and director, respectively, of Godzilla movies in their heyday of the 60s and 70s.  I find that sort of pop-culture reference fits the somewhat ironic tone of Shadowrun.


----------



## Andrew D. Gable (Mar 15, 2003)

Metus said:
			
		

> *Is there a certain website that has D20 conversion rules for SR?  Also, how's it handling when compared to standard SR rules? *




There's several websites, but the one I'm mostly using is Grinning Cat's.  Other than stuff like spells, totems, and all that, it's pretty easy to transfer most things.  I've found that SR d20 tends to hold up well - it may seem to lose some of the "Shadowrun feel" in the transition, but if you're a DM really into the setting, it holds up well.  Just be prepared for a somewhat different, more easily survivable game than Shadowrun usually is.  

BTW - I find I can DM Shadowrun a lot better than DnD, even.  I guess my love for the setting shows through.


----------



## Andrew D. Gable (Mar 17, 2003)

Sept. 8, 2060
8:30 PM
The runners drove their van along the beginnings of the I-90, coming eventually to a roofed enclosure bridging the highway - the crossing into Salish-Shidhe, and strangely blocked. Five border guards milled about along the roadway, and a sixth guard had stationed himself in the crossing booth. One of them motioned to the runners to roll down the window. 

"How long have you guys been in Seattle?"

"Few days," answered Ghost, who was driving. "Why, is there some problem?"

"I’ll need you to step out of the car, please."

"What is it?"

The guard rolled his eyes. "We’ve had reports of a low-key viral infection in Seattle. Please step out of the car."

"We’ve heard of no infection."

"I don’t know if it’s an accurate report or not. We’ve simply gotten the reports, sir. It’ll only take a few moments, we need to run some quick tests, and then you’ll be on your way. Ghost looked at the five rifle-toting guards behind this guy, and could see the faces of several more inside a building to their left. Rasta and Plunkett nodded, and the three runners pulled their van into a small lot and exited the vehicle.

"Thank you, sirs. As I said, this’ll just be a few moments. You’ll be on your way soon enough." He opened the door of the building and ushered them inside. "Wait here, we’ll be with you in just a moment." The guard slipped outside and shut the door. Rasta heard the barely audible click-thunk of a bolt being slid - they were locked in.

They looked out the bulletproof window to where the guard who had shown them in walked across the lot to meet the others. He was saying something - Plunkett’s amplifying cyberear picked up, "The UCAS Feds’ll be here shortly."

The ork winced. "They’re bringin’ in the Feds," he said. "We need to get out of here ‘fore that happens."

Ghost and Rasta nodded. All three of them split up and searched the building, Ghost eventually finding a locked door to the outside in one of the other rooms. He deftly used a telekinesis spell to pick the lock.

The three runners pushed open the door and found themselves in a parking lot - on the other side of the border from their van. "Only one thing to do," Rasta said, answering the unspoken question on their minds. And so over the border they went, guns blazing.

The Salish border guards weren’t pushovers - they were quick to return fire with their HK-227 rifles. Ghost sent a dart of fire hurtling towards one of the guards, who screamed in pain as his body was ignited. He ran towards the runners, Rasta blasting the burning man in the gut with his shotgun and sending two more slugs hurtling towards the guards. As Plunkett opened fire, three other guards - hardcore badasses, by the look of ‘em - came out of the forest on the other side of the road.

More fire flew from Ghost’s hands as the elf walked about with eyes closed, using a centering technique. Guards burned and died, lead flew, and in a matter of moments, all the guards lay dead. Rasta held his hand to a bleeding gunshot wound in his thigh. Plunkett ran over to the van and hurriedly retrieved the first-aid kit from under the seat. He slapped some medical patches onto the troll.

After a few moments of rest, the runners made their way to the van, Rasta limping along behind them. They had to get out of there before the Feds came… although they’d like to know just what was happening. They hightailed it out of the border crossing.

When they heard a woman’s voice shout, "Stop the vehicle!". Ghost looked back to see a squad of 10 or 12 agents at the border crossing, some 500 yards behind them. The shout again. The voice sounded as if the speaker was right on top of them, though none of the Feds were. Plunkett slammed on the brakes and pulled a U-turn.

One of the agents was running at them, some others jogging behind. Then it was to be seen the lead runner was a woman. Not just a woman, but so heavily cybered that every exposed surface, save her face, gleamed with chrome. And she’d just run 500 yards in a matter of seconds.

"Don’t bother trying to escape!" she shouted. "FBI!"

An identification badge was thrust in his face. AGENT DELLA COOPER, it read. "Step out of the car," she ordered. Plunkett did. Abruptly, he was pulled down to the ground and handcuffed. The other agents levelled their arms at the van, urging the other two to come out of the van, which they did as well. Soon all three, handcuffed, were led to the front of the van.

"Do you know this man?" Agent Cooper asked as she thrust a glossy file photo of an aged gentleman - Mr. Johnson - in front of Plunkett’s nose. "Do you?" she asked again when he paused, in a sterner tone.

"Yes," the ork replied. "He tried to contract us. But no dice. The job was too high-risk. What’s this all about?"

"Shut up. I’ll ask the questions here. What did he hire you to do?"

"He wanted us to knock somebody off, some guy named Ben Johnson. Indian-looking guy. But we said no."

The handcuffs were loosened. Cooper slammed the photo onto the hood of the van. "Who did he tell you he was?"

Rasta shook his head. "He didna tell us. Just said ‘is name was Mr. Johnson."

Plunkett continued. "Guys who contract us use that name a lot if they don’t want us to know who they are. Or who we’re working for. Now who’s this guy?"

"His name’s Karl Brackhaven," Cooper said. "You may recognize the name as he’s an important figure in Seattle finance. That and his son ran against Dunklezahn in ’56.

"By day, he runs a highly profitable investment firm in Seattle. But he has a double life. The other aspect, the one of interest to us, is that he’s known to be the head of the Seattle branch of Humanis."

Humanis was a big organization, very big, that made its name from hating metahumans. A descendant of the white-power and neo-Nazi groups common in Europe and America during the 20th Century. Humanis formed from a consolidation of many of these groups who in the post-Awakening world transferred their hatred to any non-humans. Humanis had some even more violent splinters, like Alamos 20K.

"All of which makes it unusual to say the least that he even approached you," Cooper went on. "Humanis makes no secret of their ‘humans first’ mentality. I’d watch your backs, if I had to take a guess Brackhaven sees this as a risk of some type that needs eliminated, and he picked you guys cause he wouldn’t feel bad if he lost you.

"Be on your way, but we’ll be keeping an eye on you."

The runners got in their van and thought for a good long while. Then they turned and pressed on towards Vegas.


----------



## Broccli_Head (Mar 17, 2003)

At least the Feds are on their side, right?

hey, glad I found the story! I've never played S'run, but a friend of mine says it's to die for. 

i'm interested in how deadly the game is for you guys. i really didn't like d20 modern or StarWars treatment of modern weapons. T20 with the lifeblood system works the best for me. what do you use?

my friend said that in S'run if you get caught out in the open...you become chunky salsa!

will that be mild, medium or hot!


----------



## Andrew D. Gable (Mar 28, 2003)

Gaah! And wouldn't ya know it... the dreaded beast called DM and player burnout has once again reared its ugly head. And always when I'm in the midst of running a campaign which I'm really into (first it was COC, now this). *Sigh*. So...due to some nasty burnout, I believe I'm going to be resigned to placing this campaign on hold... and as we all know, a camapign on hold is a campaign never picked back up. *Sigh*.

You know, if I could ever actually finish a storyhour, I'd like it.


----------

