Seattle, Washington, UCAS exclave. A sprawling metropolis, covered in glowing neon signs and advertisements. Sex, drugs, overpopulation, homelessness spilled out of the Redline districts into the corp-owned blocks of cooker-cutter offices and overpriced housing. Cars and buses travelled the grid in carefully computed patterns, in between the throngs of drones walking home. It was late, just after clock-out for most businesses.
A cafe on the corner of two lesser-used streets in the north end of town was almost empty, baristas still serving evening soycaf expressos. To most people it tasted like swill, but a few students just shy of the legal drinking age gulped it down while consorting in one corner; in the opposite a well-dressed man sat a table with three available seats, facing the door, the bulge of a large pistol under one arm. He waited patiently, occasionally sipping from his polystyrene cup.
Fenris and (your character's name) had received a message from their Fixers (people who line up jobs for Runners for a cut of the profit), either through their commlinks (the 2077 combination of phone and computer, voice or brain controlled) or word-of-mouth, telling them a Mr. Johnson wanted to meet them at said Cafe, unarmed, and alone. Fenris came in a long coat, intended to cover an outfit made of ballistic threads he'd bought off a street banger earlier that day (basically anti-stab shirt/pants). He disapproved up but followed the unarmed rule. Fenris's Fixer told him this "Mr. Johnson" was trustworthy; he didn't waste much time looking around the cafe before entering. He met eyes with the Johnson, ordered a drink at the counter, then walked over to the table. "Is this seat available?" he asked, faux friendly; the man nodded and said he'd appreciate the company. It was less suspicious to make it a less obvious meeting. "I have other company expected," Mr. Johnson informed him. "I'd like to wait for their arrival to talk business."
A cafe on the corner of two lesser-used streets in the north end of town was almost empty, baristas still serving evening soycaf expressos. To most people it tasted like swill, but a few students just shy of the legal drinking age gulped it down while consorting in one corner; in the opposite a well-dressed man sat a table with three available seats, facing the door, the bulge of a large pistol under one arm. He waited patiently, occasionally sipping from his polystyrene cup.
Fenris and (your character's name) had received a message from their Fixers (people who line up jobs for Runners for a cut of the profit), either through their commlinks (the 2077 combination of phone and computer, voice or brain controlled) or word-of-mouth, telling them a Mr. Johnson wanted to meet them at said Cafe, unarmed, and alone.
Fenris came in a long coat, intended to cover an outfit made of ballistic threads he'd bought off a street banger earlier that day (basically anti-stab shirt/pants). He disapproved up but followed the unarmed rule.
Fenris's Fixer told him this "Mr. Johnson" was trustworthy; he didn't waste much time looking around the cafe before entering. He met eyes with the Johnson, ordered a drink at the counter, then walked over to the table. "Is this seat available?" he asked, faux friendly; the man nodded and said he'd appreciate the company. It was less suspicious to make it a less obvious meeting.
"I have other company expected," Mr. Johnson informed him. "I'd like to wait for their arrival to talk business."