The following story was written as part of my second SR5 campaign. I was missing a session and still wanted karma so the GM said, “Write something.”
I did.
Introduction
Call me Peleg. John “Peleg” Bosleigh isn’t my real name. All you need to know is I worked in Russian Intelligence and had a few… misunderstands. Nothing too bad but it’s best to let my old friends calm down, you know?
Anyway, from Russia I spent a few awkward weeks in Japan. Nice enough people, but they don’t appreciate tourists. Didn’t take me long to realize there wasn’t much future in the House of the Rising Sun.
Circumstances reminded me an old buddy of mine got promoted into a research post in Evo’s Seattle division. A plan formed.
It started when I found an ametueur smuggler from the Confederate States of America who was, as they say, all hat and no cattle. New cargo in hand, I bribed the First Mate on a megaship headed to Seattle, got passage for two and the cargo crate filled with guns.
My lucky traveling companion was an alcoholic Japanese man I befriended at a karaoke bar after watching him literally shove a man’s head into his own ass. I still have the video. One keeps an eye out for talent.
Lining up a buyer in Seattle took a bit more work than I expected, ended up hawking the whole crate to a scary motherfucker named Lucifer. Runs one of the biggest gangs in the city. An all-elven gang called the Ancients.
It’s been six wild months since then. I think I’ve finally got all the ducks in a row. I’ve got a red-hot team of operatives, a ladyfriend who thinks I’m a business consultant for Evo, and plenty of feelers out. Just a matter of time before the bites start coming in…
High Society Surprise
I hate fancy parties. It’s not the boring people, the wasted money, or all the spies. Life is filled with boring waste and spies. It’s the exposure. A successful appearance at one of these makes enough of a splash to get you remembered in the light you wanted.
An unsuccessful appearance at one of these events could get you blacklisted or dead. At least, that’s how it was in Russia. In Seattle… I don’t know. This town is schizophrenic. The left nostril doesn’t know what the right nostril is doing and the hands are might be trying to kill each other.
But, I digress. I’m walking in on a five-thousand dollar suit I didn’t pay for. Any spy worth his Double-0s knows clothes may not make the man, but they give him his chance. It’s almost hard to remember I’m not here on business. The Lady on my arm is Francesca Meier. We met a few months back when I crashed a fund-raiser her father was throwing to support victims of Tsimshian Terrorism.
I’ve only really met two kinds of rich kids. There are the ones who look at their family’s wealth as their ticket to fuck around forever. And then there are the ones whose family wealth is a challenge to be overcome. It doesn’t usually take long to know which you’re looking at.
Francesca was different. She had the look and manner of a party-bunny but every so often someone would say something worth knowing and her eyes would narrow a bit. A few minutes later, perhaps, she’d find some reason to talk with whoever perked her interest in private.
She’s rejoin the group wearing the cutest cheshire cat smile you’ve ever seen.
Yeah, I’m attracted to intelligence gathering. It happens more than you’d think.
So I made a few moves, said a few interesting things, and made sure she knows I know I could have kissed her and chose not to. Blah blah blah, we’re living together now.
And so, a few months later, she’s dragged me to a bridal shower for the niece of a woman whose company my team is robbing as we speak. Heh. She rented out the ballroom at the Laubenstein Plaza, a savvy choice. Still high-class, it’s cheaper than the Westin or Lucas Palace while appearing to be for the aesthetics.
All this is running through my head while I’m providing friendly small talk with some of her college-age friends. After a minute or two, I’ve spotted all the visible security around, masquerading as valets or waiters. There are a few overt security guys too, for what it’s worth. I’ve never been to a wedding shower with 200-some guests.
It only takes me a moment to spot Karen King, directing a half dozen things next to the table for presents. Francesca parades me around like her new toy and I play my part. At least until I spot something which catches my eye.
I excuse myself to refill our drinks and slip into the crowd. Most wedding showers are intimate get togethers where avoiding attention is tricky at best. Luckily, this mammoth party makes it easy.
Which is good, because I spot Travis Shay wearing a bad wig and some decent make up and a rental tux. This is bad because Travis is a middle manager of something called, “Resource Development” over at Horizon. What the hell is a Horizon Johnson doing here?
Oh, Heh. He’s looking for someone. Of course, he’s here for some kind of asinine meet. He really does need to get better at setting his own terms. What the hell, I’ll say hello.
“If you’re looking for someone at one of these, it pays to check the food tables.” Before he can reply I walk away, dropping him a message via AR. Thank Svarog for datajacks.
—Peleg> Whoever sold you that wig isn’t looking out for you.
—Travis> What the hell!? You almost blew my cover.
—Peleg> No one is looking at you. Unclench. No one here looks like they have a care in the world.
—Travis> Fine. What horrible mess has dragged you here?
—Peleg> The worst. I’m on a date.
—Travis> Figures. Dating up again?
—Peleg> Only choice some of us have, omae.
He doesn’t respond to that, which is just as well since it takes me about that long to make it to the open bar. I order myself some gin and juice and one of those fancy drinks Francesca likes.
Before I could return to my waiting lady, a shrill scream echoed from the other side of the hall. Before I could even tell what happened at least six security guards were clustering around someone.
It took a few moments for me to realize they surrounded the space where Karen King’s niece Moriah was holding court. Moriah King stood staring down, shocked, about to cry. Her expression undermined both slender beauty and designer dress.
A convulsing woman lay by Moriah’s expensive heels. Her dress screamed Bridesmaid.
Seizure induced by poison? Before I could slink across the room another two people, wearing EMT clothes, charged in and begin examining her with a medkit. Nothing to do but stare. Best let them work.
I turned to find Francesca and almost walked into Karen King. Aunt of the lucky lady and the boss of a man my team was on their way to kidnap. Of course, I smiled and apologized.
She didn’t hear me, so I moved off to the side and sized her up. She had a look I’ve only ever seen in two people before. On my spycraft mentor and in the mirror.
The look means, “Something has gone wrong and someone will pay for this. But like hell will I let a damn person know just how angry I am right now.” The tell is in the eyes. Focus. Ice.
Not a natural expression.
The risks vs reward of interacting with her here versus avoiding here are… on my side for a change.
“Ms King.” I said, with enough force to get her attention, “I don’t mean to distract you right now. I heard some rumors from a couple of loudmouth ex-lone star cops about some secret project coming out of Ares. Give me a call when you get a chance.”
I offered her a business card which she took, half distracted and I walked away. I spotted Francesca, nodded to Ms King, and walked over to share the bad news.
After catching her up on the play-by-play, sans poison, we walked to Moriah and I stood by while they consoled eachother. It turns out Younger King and her now unconscious friend had play-fought over a piece of dessert intended for King. Her friend won, ate it, and almost immediately collapsed.
Damn.
And Karen King expected something like this, or those EMTs wouldn’t have anti-toxin on standby
Why poison Karen King’s niece?
The party’s energy, kneecapped by the screaming, built up again. Lots of details were poking around in the back of my mind, churning and getting nothing.
What the hell was going on?
Francesca slipped away from her friends and we rotated through the room chatting with her friends, old and new, alike.
And then I got that damn phone call. I stepped away to a corner without people, told my AR to route through my sub-vocal mic, and heard a voice trying to sound calm.
“We have a Mantis Scout in custody. We had to run it over with the Roadmaster.”
There are times in this strange affair we call life when a man hears something so outlandish he loses himself for a moment.
“… What!?” which I did NOT subvocalize. I brushed off the glances and found a service hallway to talk. Our hacker/medic Oni clarified:
“A mantis scout that is an upper level exec at Ares.”
I couldn’t speak. Here I was not 50m from the woman in charge of Ares’ Seattle operations. Ares. One of the ten largest megacorps in the world. With the third largest private military on the planet.
I must have made some kind of noise at this point.
Oni continued, “The target turned out to be an exec at Ares Everett who is a Mantis possessed man/woman”
“… did you get the data we’re getting paid for?”
“No, we captured what we thought was an easy mark. It’s the guy I researched. Only He is a She and possessed by a mantis Spirit. She is unconscious and laying inside the van.”
“Yes. I get that now. Strap it down. Do whatever you can to restrain it. Toss some explosives on it for good measure. Then get the data. I’ll see if we can find a buyer.”
My brain was spinning back up.
“Bag it and tag it? Do we interrogate it/her/him?”
“Fuck no. Gag it a few times. It’s an obstacle. I’ll see if we can turn this into some kind of profit. Freaking bug…”
“Yeah boss. I will keep Sparrow from killing Lilith. Oh joy.”
The fragile state of my brain rejected even thinking why our sniper adept would be trying to kill our magical support. There were more important things. Things about bugs. Bug spirits, I mean. What was it about bug spirits?
“Wait, is it one of those, uh, good merges?”
“Other than He is a She, it’s a flawless human merge.”
I spew an audible string of russian profanity. The shock wears off as I finish.
“Alright. I’m going to make some calls. Get the data.”
“That will require going back to the house or hacking its brain. A bit beyond our scope, boss.”
“Wasn’t hacking the house the original plan? Hell, if you can get… its commlink that should be enough. All we need to do is get on Ares’ servers long enough to find some damn proof this project exists.”
I was a little surprised I even needed to say this. Oni’s a solid leader and knows her trade well.
“His Comm is clean, boss. I get nothing. This thing is either really fucking smart or somebody is watching.”
“Doesn’t even have his login for the Ares systems?”
“First thing I checked. This stinks to high heaven, Boss. It’s too clean and he just moved here 6 months ago with a new elf wife who doesn’t even exist in the matrix before then.”
My mouth swears in russian for a few moments and I feel as clear as I was before I took this awful call.
“You sure you can’t break into his house?”
“Magically warded. We already know it has a mantis spirit living there. The wife is an unknown. If we walk in there blind? Fuck my life. Sparrow just pulled a gun on Lilith. What do you want to do? Shit is getting crazy.”
“We’ll deal with Sparrow later. This thing is our only goddamn lead and it’s already blown to hell. Stop at a stuffer shack and pick up some bug spray. The strongest shit you can find. Then drive south, stay as legal as you can. I’ll call back in a few.”
“Roger. Talk to you soon.”
By the time I’ve ended the call, I idly notice the mystery of who tried to poison my girlfriend’s ladypal reframed as irrelevant.
But I’m back in control. Breath steady. I take a moment and check my pulse. Steady.
I slide the commlink back into my monkey suit and walk back to the party, catching a glimpse of my face in a mirror. My delicate features are a mask. The only tell is the ice in my eyes.
I make a list of things I need and a list of who I need to call. By the time I return to the hall, I’ve fleshed out the first steps of a plan.
I followed the ARO marker back to Francesca, gave her a kiss on the cheek, only to have her shoot me a stink eye and say, “You’re leaving?”
“Duty calls, dear. There’s a train in my office and it’s about to jump tracks in front of an orphanage.” I stroked her cheek with my forefinger, “You wouldn’t want the kids hurt because I wasn’t able to peel myself away from you, right?”
She fake pouted, sighed, and, “Fine. But you’re going to make this up to me.”
I didn’t even need to fake a smile for that one, “My lady, I hadn’t even considered the possibility of doing anything else.”
She gave me that look.
And with that, I turned and walked away. It wasn’t even noon yet and this day had already gone straight to hell.
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