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

[Andrew D. Gable]

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]

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]

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]

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

 

[Andrew D. Gable]

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]

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]

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]

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]

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]

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.