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About Xochitl

  • Rank
    Veteran Cyberpunk
  • Birthday 07/05/1976

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  • Location
    The Antipodes
  • Interests
    Obscure Japanese martial arts, grammar, RP, making stuff up in a communal setting, surfing. Also, surviving my PhD.
  1. I'll bite. Place: Penthouse apartment Antagonist: regional corp Goal: incriminating photos Place: Disused underground train tunnel Antagonist: xenophobic locals Goal: retrieve lost dataphone
  2. Kananjari Omesh, underwater welder, some knowledge of structural engineering. Also, I completely agree that a specialist medic would be extraordinarily useful. Also also, YAY PORCO ROSSO! EditToAdd - I'm also playing Mass Effect 3 (yes, I'm aware of the controversy over the ending), so I sort of get that space frontier feel from that, too.
  3. All right, sent off a rough character. Underwater welder with SCUBA rescue skills attached. Mal, I have a soft spot in my heard for design F, but I love them all!
  4. Exactly what I needed to know. Cheers!
  5. Hello, all -- paper is done, but now I'm at work, where Ill be tied down and without access to books for the next eight or so hours. So stats will have to sit by the wayside for the moment. (Unless there's an online SRD for CP; I should look for that.) Comp, how likely is it that a SAR team may have to face hostility of some kind given the fluid sovereignty of the places we'll be serving? I ask this as one of the most un-gun-bunny people I know. I've got an angle into the team, too; someone with a solid science background who's an expert on local weather patterns. Sounds like a useful thing for a maritime SAR team to have. If someone's already working on that angle, say no more -- it's not the only idea I have. Cheers!
  6. I'm in the middle of a PhD paper of DOOM, so my submission will be a few days off. If I'm lucky, I might get to it tomorrow night the soonest. I don't mind filling in gaps left by fellow players, either. I quite like the background; still mulling over whether my char is an indentured servant from Earth or if she was born on Joie.
  7. That's disappointing, but RL trumps RP any time. If/when things calm down, I'd be happy to join in another game with you. I hope things settle down for you soon--the past few years, I suspect, have been rough on all of us, somehow. Take care, and we'll catch each other on the boards, yes?
  8. Merrell takes a good, deep breath. Oxygen helps the thought process, and it helps buy a bit of time. "If Mr. Jones is right, Mr. Sedekian is unaware of the trouble he may be in. Which means he won't necessarily be hostile by default. If he's running in underground or street circles, having a real name won't be as immediately helpful as it might seem. But we may have other ways of finding him. "It looks like all we have to do is verbally deliver a warning that people may be out to kill him, and then offer up this passphrase as proof that we're not just making stuff up. If it triggers any kind of response, he'll ask us questions, and we'll tell him everything we know. Which is nothing," Merrell says, smiling, glancing at Mr. Jones. "We were hired for a tidy sum by a Mr. Jones to deliver this information. No more, no less. "The physical descriptions will help, but what's key here are his 'aptitudes.' Some kind of driver, and someone who can hold his own in a conversation. And can probably talk his way out of traffic tickets. Quite functional. What's your take?" She offers Mr. Jones a look that indicates she's aware of the question he's asked, and will answer it shortly.
  9. This is some seriously tricky shit. One page, hospital records. Real name, which will be a bitch and a half to track down on the streets-- And then Merrell's eyes freeze on those magic four letters. She glances up at Len, into those unfathomable lenses. And with deep meaning, she taps her finger over the statter-stripes and on RFID. It's a longshot. An enormous longshot. But Len's got a mystery van and very high resolution shades. Maybe this is the kind of thing he can do. Hell, if he finds the guy in 24 hours, she's willing to give him a fraction more than half the earnings. Merrell nods. "It's not much, but it's some serious detail. All right, Mr. Jones. Now we're going to arrange the double blind drop. How familiar are you with the northwest side of town?"
  10. (OOG: Sorry! Holiday sideswipe.) Shit on a stick he gave me $650. I was meaning $500. The hell I'm saying anything. Using the simplest and plainest motions she knows--a holdover from her days in interrogation rooms to put twitchy people at ease--Merrell takes the envelope with a flat hand and opens it up, letting that strange name rattle around in her head. Scanning her eyes over the contents before taking anything out, she's actually covering for a moment of thought. Len is in on this now, fully and completely. He's been present for contract, he's not said anything to the contrary about working with her. Presumably he needs cash as much as she does, for whatever the hell it is he does aside from look kind of strange and have an internet connection 24-7. It's got to be something useful to have a rig like he does, though. Incompetence won't allow for the kinds of things he sports. And drives. She gestures to Len to come over to the desk as she begins pulling out contents, carefully, piece by piece, putting items in distinct places on her desk--much as someone would do when dissasembling a weapon in order to keep track of parts, and then put it back together.
  11. "All right--all right. Charges will have to be summed differently because of the current situation." Merrell grabs a pencil and starts scribbling stuff on her blotter, entirely ignoring her computer. "Just so you know, and again you can only take my word for it, screwing over clients is bad for business. Not something I usually do." She glances at Len, glances back at her scribbles. Thinks a moment. Checks the calendar on her wall. It's the Taj Mahal this month, or what's left of it after the ravages of weather and pollution. "Right. I'm going to assume three days for this job. That'll total up to $1000. Like we agreed, half now, half afterwards at a safe dropoff. If the job takes longer than three days, that'll be $300 a day per day, unless I find that I just can't get this guy for you, in which case I'll let it go at $1300 total." Merrell waits to see if the client will run. She's pushing the numbers a bit, but if Len actually helps out there's no way she's not paying him. She's been screwed over enough in her lifetime to not have the stomach to do it to anyone else. Unless they deserve it.
  12. Damn straight your attorney would be shitting kittens if he knew you were talking to me, Merrell thinks. The mark sounds like...some kind of former prisoner, maybe, someone easy to experiment on. Potential Client's associates are probably official government types themselves, sadly. Passphrases eliciting programmed responses from psyches. Neurolinguistic programming. Hypnosis. Merrell slowly sits up into a less comfortable position, an old spring digging into the back of her thigh. She believes the Potential Client, but anyone who trucks with that sort of work is dangerous under any and all circumstances; words are very much a weapon. She knows a thing or two about that. She glances at Len when he speaks. "Clearly, we're eager to start," she smiles. "If you're comfortable with us, Mister Jones, then we can move ahead to deeper particulars. Please describe, in as much detail as possible, the mark. Including things my associate's mentioned -- locations, known associates. Ancillary things. Knowing that he's a member of the criminal element points us in a particular direction for approaching him. If you're reasonably certain the mark's in town, that will give us a window of three to five days. I'm hoping to have this done in less than that. "Because of your situation, Mr. Jones, this will be the only time we have direct contact. You will pay a certain percentage of the fees now, and the rest upon completion. The rest will be paid via a drop nowhere near this place that we'll begin to arrange in a moment. At no time will you use your real name with me. You are, for every purpose in this investigation, Mr. Jones. Are we clear?" She turns to Len. "Pull down a chair and have a seat with us, would you? --Oh, and Mr. Jones, so long as it doesn't reveal who you are, can you tell me how you heard of me?"
  13. Merrell listens, then realizes she's being stonefaced and nods. She finds his covert act of compassion rather charming. "Seek out a person who's hard to find, and who's probably cagey, and tell him...his life is in danger. All right. I can do this, but you have to understand there will be complications. Is it absolutely vital that I convince this person, or is simple and good-faith delivery of the information sufficient? Also, how likely is it that the person I'm trying to warn will try to kill me, a stranger sniffing him out? --Or my associates? I'm taking the job, but I have to evaluate risks to calculate charges," Merrell says, folding her arms on her desk. Len giggles for some arcane and obscure reason. Merrell glances at him, then returns her attention to Potential Customer.
  14. Merrell blinks at Len. "Friend of yours?" she asks. How funny and impossible and utterly predictable would it be for quirky not-so-stranger to know potential-client? "Don't mind my...associate," Merrell says briskly--not necessarily to cut Len off, but to make sure A Paying Client does not leave. "If you're looking for independence, you have it. Well, I have it. I haven't had organizational associations since the last office Kris Kringle collection in '12. Off the record and in cash are my preferred methods, so you've happened upon the right end result Homo sapiens. I'd prefer not to write up a contract, but if you feel it's necessary, I've got the Blumberg fill-in form somewhere around here." Merrell eyes Len in a very particular way. She's seen those specs, she knows they do something. Let him earn his toilet/shower time. "Tell me the basics, and I'll tell you what else I need to know from you," she says to Professor Potential Client. "Fees vary according to difficulty and danger of the work, and the number of people investigating." She says those last words with her face towards the prof, but her eyes very much on Len's--well, his specs, anyway--for the briefest of moments, a motion just on the nearer side of subtle.
  15. Lauren Deacon Merrell sits at her desk, feet propped up, turning a highball glass around in her hand. Empty. "Would that I could afford some proper libation," she mutters. Maybe Len will give a bit of conversation on his way out. Talking helps keep things at bay. Memories. Choices made. Mistakes. Not that she would have done anything differently, but the current turn in her life still hurts. The door chimes happily, and she looks up. A man with a voice far classier than his appearance asks her the kind of question that sounds like maybe, just maybe, this might be a job. "You walked in, I'm still open. And yes, I'm a private investigator. Er," she says, then gets up to pull a folding chair off a hook on the wall to hand to him, "have a seat."
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