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[Shadowrun] Seattle Calling (Chp 1 Completed 1/25/2009)
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<blockquote data-quote="Zen_Pollo" data-source="post: 4577940" data-attributes="member: 11404"><p><strong>Chapter 1: Slone's Story</strong></p><p></p><p><em><p style="text-align: right">London calling to the underworld</p></em></p><p style="text-align: right"><em>Come out of the cupboard, all you boys and girls</p><p></em><p style="text-align: right"></p> <p style="text-align: right">--The Clash, <em>London's Calling</em></p><p></p><p><em>Setting</em>: The waiting room outside a corner office in the Areas Macrotechnology complex. An RFID tag on the door projected an ARO reading “Eric Jordon, Senior VP”</p><p></p><p>Looking about as comfortable as a Brahma-bull wearing a cheap-suit and smartgoogles, Slone sat in a chair in the office’s waiting room area. The chair was really just an aesthetically pleasing modern interpretation of a chair – predictably, the situation appeared as though the troll was taking a “wide-stance” to pass a high-fiber meal after three days of constipation.</p><p></p><p>Slone sat across the room from an administrative assistant seated at a fine cherry wooden desk with the grains in the wood bio-engineered into Ares Macrotechnology logos. </p><p></p><p><em>You only call ‘em secretaries if you have to cover for the boss with his wife</em>, thought Slone.</p><p></p><p>But unlike the furniture, Shelly was not a trophy-piece. Slone knew the administrative assistant was very efficient at her job, which was why Mr. Jordan retained her services. For that matter, efficiency was the same reason Mr. Jordan retained Slone’s services. In fact, Slone was pleased with his work situation. Few trolls made it into corporate ranks, even as a body-guard.</p><p></p><p>Still, Slone admired the Shelly’s youthful appearance. Shelly had the exotic look of someone from….wherever…</p><p></p><p>Slone’s mind wandered to the “Service” he had performed for Shelly. Slone remembered having to pull the man’s teeth out of his knuckles afterwards…bloody chucks of calcium in the convenience store sink…</p><p></p><p>Slone’s enhanced audio earpiece cued him to the footsteps approaching the door to the office from the other side; one set of footsteps was as familiar to Slone as his own, the other set reminded Slone of someone he could not quite place.</p><p></p><p>As the door opened, Derrick Silverman walked out. As Derrick walked out from the office, the piezoelectric nano-fibers in the carpet turned the floor into a giant screen flashing corporate messages, videos and other useless data – all personalized to Derrick’s personal area network(PAN). But few no one was looking at the floor.</p><p></p><p>Slone groaned to himself, <em>Dammit!</em> The human’s bandaged, broken nose and bruised features appeared worse than the last time Slone had seen him. The other figure was Eric Jordan, Slone’s boss, mentor and, occasionally, apologist.</p><p></p><p>The corporate razor-boy gave Slone the stink-eye as he glided past. Slone secretly envied Derrick’s speed and grace. Derrick had the mega-nuyen gait that only black-market tech and extensive surgery could provide. Of course, Derrick’s speed hadn’t helped him much during their scuffle.</p><p></p><p><em>Who brings a cruise missile to a fist-fight, anyways?</em>, thought Slone as he smirked at Derrick walking by with a cloud of messages trailing on the carpet behind him.</p><p></p><p>“Slone, come in, I wasn’t expecting you, didn’t you get the email?” said Mr. Jordan as he hurriedly ushered Slone into his office. Slone thought Mr. Jordan looked nervous as the boss glanced at Silverman’s departing form.</p><p></p><p>“What email?” said Slone as he ducked into the posh corner office. As Slone entered the room, a slew of AROs crowded the view from his smartgoogles – everything from the readout on the temperature control unit to the automated coffee maker telling him it was time for a refill of NovaCaffe. </p><p></p><p>Brushing aside the AROs, Slone admired rest of the décor in the office. The office had the spare modern look of a man whom could afford the best corporate interior decorators and the moxie to flaunt it to his coworkers. Unfortunately, the best-corporate-interior-designer-money-could-buy had strange notions of the appropriate size of furniture for troll body guards, so Slone chose to remain standing in front of the sleek desk which was a larger version of the one outside. </p><p></p><p>Swirling around his feet were carpet messages describing the virtues of the corporate weight-loss program. <em>Guess the carpet can’t figure out why I weigh so much</em>, thought the over 350 kg troll.</p><p></p><p>Mr. Jordan moved around the desk and sat down with his back to Slone. As Mr. Jordan sat down he sighed, “When are you ever going to check your email, Slone?”</p><p></p><p>“Shelly prints it out for me,” replied the troll matter-of-factly.</p><p></p><p>“Well, what about this one?” Mr. Jordan waved his hand over his head and an ARO appeared in the air above the desk in the display of Slone’s smartgoogles.</p><p></p><p>“United Way Golf Tournament?” questioned Slone, “I don’t golf.”</p><p></p><p>“Slone, think of this event as an opportunity to advance in the organization. All manner of executives will be attending and you’ll get to network with them.”</p><p></p><p>Slone stated flatly, “Networking.” </p><p></p><p>Sighing, Mr.Jordan turned around to face Slone across the desk and said “Look Slone, this is best I could do for you. After all, it was the cafeteria.”</p><p></p><p><em>Here it comes</em>, thought Slone.</p><p></p><p>“Did you have to break his nose AND put him through a table?” an exasperated Mr. Jordan queried.</p><p></p><p>“YES,” stated Slone. As he placed both softball-sized hands on the desk the pseudo-wood groaned under his mass.</p><p></p><p>“Easy there, big guy,” relented Mr.Jordan, “Perhaps it is best if you lay low a bit till things cool down around here. Derrick has friends in high places who are clamoring for your head on a platter. Now, it was all I could do to get you placed on this special assignment.”</p><p></p><p>“What assignment?”, grumbled Slone.</p><p></p><p>“Just go to the tournament and you’ll see – it’ll be good for your career – mark my words!”</p><p></p><p style="text-align: right"><em>London is drowning-and I live by the river</em></p> <p style="text-align: right">--The Clash, <em>London Calling</em></p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="Zen_Pollo, post: 4577940, member: 11404"] [b]Chapter 1: Slone's Story[/b] [I][RIGHT]London calling to the underworld Come out of the cupboard, all you boys and girls[/RIGHT][/I][RIGHT] --The Clash, [I]London's Calling[/I][/RIGHT] [I]Setting[/I]: The waiting room outside a corner office in the Areas Macrotechnology complex. An RFID tag on the door projected an ARO reading “Eric Jordon, Senior VP” Looking about as comfortable as a Brahma-bull wearing a cheap-suit and smartgoogles, Slone sat in a chair in the office’s waiting room area. The chair was really just an aesthetically pleasing modern interpretation of a chair – predictably, the situation appeared as though the troll was taking a “wide-stance” to pass a high-fiber meal after three days of constipation. Slone sat across the room from an administrative assistant seated at a fine cherry wooden desk with the grains in the wood bio-engineered into Ares Macrotechnology logos. [I]You only call ‘em secretaries if you have to cover for the boss with his wife[/I], thought Slone. But unlike the furniture, Shelly was not a trophy-piece. Slone knew the administrative assistant was very efficient at her job, which was why Mr. Jordan retained her services. For that matter, efficiency was the same reason Mr. Jordan retained Slone’s services. In fact, Slone was pleased with his work situation. Few trolls made it into corporate ranks, even as a body-guard. Still, Slone admired the Shelly’s youthful appearance. Shelly had the exotic look of someone from….wherever… Slone’s mind wandered to the “Service” he had performed for Shelly. Slone remembered having to pull the man’s teeth out of his knuckles afterwards…bloody chucks of calcium in the convenience store sink… Slone’s enhanced audio earpiece cued him to the footsteps approaching the door to the office from the other side; one set of footsteps was as familiar to Slone as his own, the other set reminded Slone of someone he could not quite place. As the door opened, Derrick Silverman walked out. As Derrick walked out from the office, the piezoelectric nano-fibers in the carpet turned the floor into a giant screen flashing corporate messages, videos and other useless data – all personalized to Derrick’s personal area network(PAN). But few no one was looking at the floor. Slone groaned to himself, [I]Dammit![/I] The human’s bandaged, broken nose and bruised features appeared worse than the last time Slone had seen him. The other figure was Eric Jordan, Slone’s boss, mentor and, occasionally, apologist. The corporate razor-boy gave Slone the stink-eye as he glided past. Slone secretly envied Derrick’s speed and grace. Derrick had the mega-nuyen gait that only black-market tech and extensive surgery could provide. Of course, Derrick’s speed hadn’t helped him much during their scuffle. [I]Who brings a cruise missile to a fist-fight, anyways?[/I], thought Slone as he smirked at Derrick walking by with a cloud of messages trailing on the carpet behind him. “Slone, come in, I wasn’t expecting you, didn’t you get the email?” said Mr. Jordan as he hurriedly ushered Slone into his office. Slone thought Mr. Jordan looked nervous as the boss glanced at Silverman’s departing form. “What email?” said Slone as he ducked into the posh corner office. As Slone entered the room, a slew of AROs crowded the view from his smartgoogles – everything from the readout on the temperature control unit to the automated coffee maker telling him it was time for a refill of NovaCaffe. Brushing aside the AROs, Slone admired rest of the décor in the office. The office had the spare modern look of a man whom could afford the best corporate interior decorators and the moxie to flaunt it to his coworkers. Unfortunately, the best-corporate-interior-designer-money-could-buy had strange notions of the appropriate size of furniture for troll body guards, so Slone chose to remain standing in front of the sleek desk which was a larger version of the one outside. Swirling around his feet were carpet messages describing the virtues of the corporate weight-loss program. [I]Guess the carpet can’t figure out why I weigh so much[/I], thought the over 350 kg troll. Mr. Jordan moved around the desk and sat down with his back to Slone. As Mr. Jordan sat down he sighed, “When are you ever going to check your email, Slone?” “Shelly prints it out for me,” replied the troll matter-of-factly. “Well, what about this one?” Mr. Jordan waved his hand over his head and an ARO appeared in the air above the desk in the display of Slone’s smartgoogles. “United Way Golf Tournament?” questioned Slone, “I don’t golf.” “Slone, think of this event as an opportunity to advance in the organization. All manner of executives will be attending and you’ll get to network with them.” Slone stated flatly, “Networking.” Sighing, Mr.Jordan turned around to face Slone across the desk and said “Look Slone, this is best I could do for you. After all, it was the cafeteria.” [I]Here it comes[/I], thought Slone. “Did you have to break his nose AND put him through a table?” an exasperated Mr. Jordan queried. “YES,” stated Slone. As he placed both softball-sized hands on the desk the pseudo-wood groaned under his mass. “Easy there, big guy,” relented Mr.Jordan, “Perhaps it is best if you lay low a bit till things cool down around here. Derrick has friends in high places who are clamoring for your head on a platter. Now, it was all I could do to get you placed on this special assignment.” “What assignment?”, grumbled Slone. “Just go to the tournament and you’ll see – it’ll be good for your career – mark my words!” [RIGHT][I]London is drowning-and I live by the river[/I] --The Clash, [I]London Calling[/I][/RIGHT] [/QUOTE]
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