Official Tensided Cyperpunk RPG Campaign

[Arthur_Tuxedo]

Please do not post in this thread unless you are a player with something game-relevant to say. Requests to join, off-topic comments, and other material should be posted in "RPG Campaign Poll" in the G&C forum or delivered to me via PM.

Setup: This will work quite differently from the other RPGs I have witnessed being run here on SDN. Players will each make a post declaring what their characters are doing, and I will process and give the results of these actions when I am online and once everyone's posts are in and not a moment before. This will not be an STGOD style torrent of posts.

I expect that one or two turns per day will typically be executed during the weekday. Turns will be executed on the weekends in the normal fashion, but I will often not be here and I don't expect anyone else to be either.

The campaign takes place in a violent setting, populated by violent people with easy access to powerful weaponry. Unsurprisingly, it will be a violent campaign. It will not, however, be akin to a D&D style hack-and-slash. Conflict without meaning and stakes behind it gets boring fast, and there will not be many meaningless battles (especially no "random encounters"). The Tensided system can be configured so that player characters almost never fall in combat or configured so that they drop like flies. For this campaign, I have chosen to use low HPs, enable Action Points, and use location based damage. This makes it fairly high lethality. I will generally avoid putting the characters in battles they cannot win or retreat from and avoid killing the characters if it's not story appropriate, but use real world logic to approach situations, not garden variety RPG logic. Bullets are dangerous no matter who you are. Remember that and you should do fine.

Rules: Anyone who knows in advance that they will not have access to the Net should PM me and designate someone to make their decisions for them in the interim or leave it in my hands. Holding the game up for everyone will not be tolerated under any circumstances. I am not a patient person, and much less so when others are being hurt in addition to myself. If two days go by without a post or notice, the character will be suddenly seperated from the group or get an urgent family call, etc. until the player returns. Consistent flakes will simply be permanently removed from the game.

Off-topic questions or short comments should be seperated out with double parentheses. Eg: ((Lol)). Please keep this to a minimum! This thread will balloon quickly enough without a lot of off-topic banter. The "RPG Campaign Poll" thread can be filled with as much OT crap as desired.

As mentioned at the top, if you're not a player then please don't post in this thread. Requests to join, etc. should be PMed or posted in the "RPG Campaign Poll" thread. I'm not telling you, I'm just asking as a fellow SDN citizen to respect our desire to run a game free of clutter.

As far as I know, there are no loopholes in the game system and it is pretty much impossible to powergame under Tensided. However, if a way to powergame is discovered, please do not make use of it. Powergaming in this case refers to exploiting loopholes in the system to power up a character much faster than would normally be possible. Do not worry when creating characters or playing normally whether I'll interpret something as powergaming. If there's any doubt, it's not powergaming.

Violence against other player characters is allowed. You can shoot, stab, and blow each other up if it's appropriate. The only exception is if someone is trying to settle a personal gripe inside the game world.

Stay tuned for opening post!

[Arthur_Tuxedo]

New York, October 21st 2030, 1:26 AM: A middle-aged man in a tenement apartment drifts off to sleep. He wakes suddenly with a yelp as stacatto gunfire breaks through the monotonous traffic sounds of the city night. On the street below, two groups of young gangsters rush to take whatever cover is available as they unload their magazines at each other, the two-way hail of automatic gunfire claiming half the combatants in the opening seconds.

The middle aged man goes to the window, watching the display of death with detached interest, like a child with an ant farm. Other residents are just as apathetic. The old women next door simply puts cotton in her ears and attempts to go back to sleep. No one bothers to call the police. They wouldn't have come anyway. In the end, one of the street gangs is routed and hunted down, violence having taken the lives of many teenagers, some born with the spark of intellectual curiosity who could have become something great if they had only been given a chance.

The old man chuckles as he gets back into bed and goes into a coughing fit. The choking smog would gurantee that his battered lungs would probably cause him to asphixiate and die in his sleep within the next few years. If that didn't get him, a workplace accident at his dangerous industrial job would, or maybe he would be stabbed by a mugger with a heroin addiction. The only gurantee is that when death comes for him, he won't give a shit.

This is life for the majority of residents of the once-proud city of New York. From the blasted remains of the Statue of Liberty, to the rubble that used to be skyscrapers, to the wispy roiling smog, it is clear that the soul of this city has been as thoroughly crushed as the soul of its inhabitants. In stark contrast stands the rebuilt skyscrapers and gleaming sidewalks of the corporate buildings. The only way to get ahead in this town is to have been born into a corporate family or to claw your way up the ladder of organized crime. Either way, you can kiss your humanity and compassion goodbye.

((What I expect from everyone at this point is an opening post with a little on where his character is, what he's doing, and how he got to where he is. Take your time, but remember that it doesn't have to be spectacular or super detailed.))

[Alyrium Denryle]

Dr. Lennox sat in a squalid boiler room of an apartment complex, his used(but still in good condition) motorbike propped against the wall. The sounds of gunfire roaring in the background. Like so many others, he simply didnt care. He was doing the one thing that he enjoyed, reading.
He lay on a stolen cot on the floor, curled in a fetal position, the hanging light casting just enough light to illuminate his copy(one of the last remaining)of "Demon Haunted World" He longed for an enlightened society where he could live in peace... but such a society did not exist.

He was wanted, that much was true. But it wasnt as if the locals could divulge his location, lest they become targets themselves... And it wasnt as if he coudnt make them forget who he was

[Gerard_Paloma]

The roar of the Hemi under the hood of Dirk Harrison's '68 Charger competed with the automatic gunfire echoing through the city. He had passed the city limit sign a few miles ago, and was now entering the city proper.

New York, huh? I've seen worse... Dirk thought to himself. It was late. He was tired, and hungry. But more than anything, he needed a drink.

[Marcao]

He had to admit that he missed Cuba. The air was cleaner, the population density was lower and by and large one was not reminded of how the mighty had fallen. Cuba had never really managed to make it big into the world stage, but the memory of once American greatness lingered in every corner of New York City. That had been a different time, a time before he had been born when the mighty United States of America had for all intensive purposes ruled the world. Now, most of New York City resembled a garbage dump. No, that was not true. Only the non-corporate parts of New York City had lost their grandeur, which was most of it. Aside from the nostalgia, he had to admit that the trip had bore with it some benefits. The work was steady here. He was as popular here as an Engineer in Berlin, or a whore in Taipei.

He had managed to find himself a decent place, a one bedroom crash-pad in the border of a corporate sponsored neighborhood. It was a rather ironic position to be in, considering that south of his location the area was rowdy, dangerous and loud. It was a place that he felt comfortable in. It was a world where life and death meant little, and only the strong survived. He had seen dozens of would be tough-guys and the occasional woman lose their lives over something as trivial as appearance. The rules of the land were simple, travel at your own peril. The truth was that everyone had a gun, and something as simple as a 9mm did not overly care who you were. The corporates knew this, and they stayed away from the streets, living in their own sterile and heavily patrolled suburbs or designated areas. Of course, he did not overly like corporates. No, that was not true. He loved corporates, simply because they had the money to pay him. His work in the good old US of A had revolved around corporations. One corp. trying to fuck another, while he and a few others ended up being the instruments for that. Needed someone killed? That can be arranged. A rival corp. stumbled or developed a product that you did not wish to enter the market? That product can be retired too or stolen if you prefer. The universal truth of the world was simple. Everything can be arranged, for the right price and that price was negotiable. He preferred currency, but women, guns and the proper booze could substitute too. Hell, he would kill just about anyone for a bottle of Craggenmore.

His living room was sparse, having within just what he needed to work his trade and allow him the few comforts he desired. It had a couch and a rocking chair, a table with two folding chairs and a picture of Fidel Castro before the corporate bullet had gotten to him. His bedroom was not much better; it was a matter of need. He did not need the pleasantries that the average corporate stooge craved. He had his tools and this place; it was really all that he needed. Well, not quite. There was always the desire for better tools. He had grown up using Russian equipment, and then graduated to American. Now, he craved European arms. After all, if you were going to play with the best you had the pack the best. He stood from his rocking chair and walked to a nearby closet, retrieving from within his revolver. It was a Raging Bull .454, a weapon that he had originally thought was American but a little digging had discovered had been built in Brazil. It was a weapon built for intimidation as much as killing, as the local gang members had discovered. Living in a city was all about knowing where you fell on the pecking order. The nanosecond he had moved into this apartment, he had a visit from the local collection agency. The gang had come to his door expecting a gringo ready to kow-tow to their demands. Instead, they had run straight into him. Negotiations had lasted a bare thirty three seconds. After their leader fell over with half his forebrain missing, they broke and ran. He had not heard about them since, although he still did not allow himself the luxury of feeling safe. Complacency was a sin in this world.

He took a deep breath, sighing softly as the loud sounds of music seeped through his walls and assaulted his living room. His ears were augmented, and they immediately compensated for the sounds lowering their volume almost instantly. It was still an annoyance but he could deal with it. He knew those four gringos, and they were decent enough people. If they would put up with his salsa, he would put up with their rap. His pistol was holstered, his eyes closing for a moment as he mentally reminded himself that it had been two weeks since his last job. He needed to get himself back in the game. Maybe this time, he could afford one of those fancy H&K sniper rifles he had been wanting for quite sometime. Hell, if all went well he could maybe even pickup one of those .50 caliber anti-materiel rifles. If nothing else he had to keep his car up to standard. The 1965 Mustang was older than god by now, and it had a tendency of breaking down at the most inconvenient times. It needed a new radiator. Fuck, it needed a new everything, but it was secondary to his tools. He needed the best possible tools for his task. In that manner, he was no different than a surgeon or a doctor. The crucial difference was that they cared about life or they were supposed to. In truth, there was no difference. It was all about money and talent. A surgeon could save life, it was what he did. His talent was ending it. He opened his eyes, standing up and walking towards his small kitchen. His rice and beans should be ready. Afterwards, he would place a few calls and see what kind of work was about.

[Utsanomiko]

Stavis Reinheld has spent the last two hours loitering both inside and outside The Third Degree, a sleazy nightclub on his typical street for loitering. He'd been talking with the club regulars, local hookers, and resident passersby, but mooching had generally been fruitless. He was now pondering over his chances with cracking into the 1990s-era payphone around the corner.

Afterall, who could turn down a handful of quarters? Plus it was still a bit too early for car-jacking. Stavis decides to slink further down the block and at least have an inconspicous look at the change mechanism, and wait a few minutes for the passersby to clear down a bit before he decides to give it the ol' 'pliers + screwdriver' routine (no point in wasting all that effort in getting cash if all the onlookers want a slice, eh?).

[CorSec]

Now see the sharp-tailed beast that mounts the brink.
He passes mountains, breaks through walls and weapons.
Behold the beast that makes the whole world stink.

You tell 'em, Dante. You tell 'em. Blaine mused to himself having cracked his worn copy of Inferno to what he thought was an appropriate page. You see, Canto XVII opens with our hero, Dante, and his guide Virgil descending to the seventh level of Hell. That's where the violent and bestial sinners go after they're done with this life. That's where a lot of who I see will end up, unless I miss my guess.

Blaine looked up from his book to scan the crowd again. It was no use trying to find someone who stood out or who looked peculiar - everyone stood out and looked peculiar at The Third Degree. This was certainly nothing like his cushy corporate gig. There, the most he had to worry about was spilling coffee on his shirt. Here, it was like a circus. No, more like ten circuses and none of them had a ring master. Save for the few brave idiots like Big T, Little T, Mike and Blaine himself. They were paid to keep an unmanagable crowd managable - by whatever means necessary.

Tonight was Blaine's easy night. He got to play doorman. That meant checking ID's and letting everyone in (fake ID? <shrug>). Despite all of the crap that's happened in this city, people still line up just to pay for overpriced drinks and listen to crappy music (and kid themselves into thinking it's a party).

It was a usual night, meaning that there were a few rowdy people who were 'escorted' to the back, but the majority of the crowd was here to have a good time and blow off some pent up rage. Blaine never thought he'd get use to the music they play here. A good way to make sure that happened was to tune it out, which he did. Given that his ears were modified that made it easy. He didn't like that it made other things hard to hear but he figured that it's for the greater good. Without that extra input, he made sure to keep his eyes moving, alert for something different - considering the company.

Earlier, he'd kept tabs on a lanky kid who was loitering but not making a nuiscance of himself. The Kid would chatter to some customers and then watch a while, repeating the process somewhat randomly. Blaine knew enough that he was up to no good. He'd lost track of him after Stacey Alvarez walked through. Of all the gin joints in all the world, why'd she have to walk into mine? Blaine muttered as much to himself as he dared. He watched as Stacey was absorbed into the crowd and when he turned around, the Kid had either walked down the street or disappeared around a corner. Good.

"ID, please?"

[Arthur_Tuxedo]

((We'll start here. Hotfoot, anarchistbunny, and The Dark can make their opening posts whenever they want.))

"ID, please?" Blaine Richards looks up to see a rather grizzled man wearing army fatigues and camouflage. This puts Dirk Harrison in a bit of a spot, as the ID swiper will run a quick check and discover the murder, desertion, and other sundry charges if he hands over his card.

* * *

When no one is looking, Stavis Reinheld makes his attempt at the payphone. Difficulty = 15, AT = 13. [1d10+13]=4+13=17. MoS=2. # of quarters = MoS * 2d6 = (2 * 3 = 6). There was only $1.50 in the phone, but it's better than nothing.

Unfortunately, a squad car rolls up just as the quarters roll into Stavis' cupped hands. Over the megaphone a voice intones "Hey you! Stop right there!" Whether he's talking to Stavis, Dirk, or a variety of nearby individuals is uncertain.

* * *

Dr. Lennox is interrupted from his reading by a loud, aggressive pounding on the door. "This is the police, open up!"

* * *

Ernesto Vega's phone rings as he goes over to make some calls. The phone identifies the caller as a Mr. Andy J.T.

[Utsanomiko]

Stavis puts the payphone back into its original setting and casually slides his tools and buck-fifty into his pockets. He then takes a quick glance over his shoulder to see just who the cops are yelling at. Always wait for the snoids to tell you what they think you did; that's just common etiquette, Stavis mused.

[Gerard_Paloma]

Dirk ignores the police officer's shouting and narrows his eyes at Blaine.

"ID? Do I look like some fucking punk kid? Just let me get a drink, for chrissakes."

[Alyrium Denryle]

"Shit" Dr. Lennox said to himself as he closed his book and put it in the pocket of his trenchcoat.

"Hello Officers. Um, what can I do for you" he said from inside the boiler room

" You know what, I really am not worth all the trouble you are putting yourselves through. Wouldnt you rather be home alone or with your family? Why not just leave me alone and do what YOU want to do for once"

(Suggestion impantation, coupled with Persuasion) [Suggestion roll 9+17=26.. difficulty for ths has a +0 modifier due to my appealing to an existing thought, even though the target probably doesnt like me)

[Persuasion roll 8+12=20]

[Marcao]

His kitchen was small, cramped but neat. It was arguably the cleanest part of the house with the possible exception being the closet where he stored most of his tools. His rice and beans were ready, and he searched for a plastic plate in order to help himself to his meal. The truth was that he hated doing dishes. It was not something a man did. He could have bought a dish washer but his funds were channeled into his necessities and a dish washer was not one of them. It took him only a few minutes to gather the food into his plate before he helped himself to a Heineken. Americans had never been able to produce a decent beer, and his stock of Presidente had run out.

He sat down in a folding chair and took a bite out of his rice with a plastic fork, his facial expression narrowing slightly. Shit, a definite improvement but he was never going to match his mother’s cooking. He sighed softly, nostalgia creeping slowly up his spine before it was ruthlessly repressed. He was not in Cuba and odds were he would not see its shores for sometime. He had accepted that, so why was it that as of late he had begun to feel slightly uneasy? This was still the land of opportunity, and he planned on milking that opportunity as much as he could. All that he needed was a couple of big hits. After that, the ball would start rolling on its own. He frowned, digging into his rice and beans with a bit more effort after each bite. He reached for the beer, gulping down about a quarter of its contents before the phone rang.

The Heineken was placed down at the edge of the table, the plastic fork and knife joining it a moment later as he stood from his chair and walked to the couch. The phone rang three times before he got to it, the corded phone brought to his ears as he spoke. “Hello.” His voice was neutral and obviously laced with an accent that would suggest the speaker was of Hispanic descent. A heartbeat later, the voice at the other end of the call identified itself as Mr. Andy J.T. He paused, considering for a moment if the name rang a bell. He was silent for three and half seconds as he considered before realization hit home. “Mr. Andy, how may I help you?” The tone changed slightly, becoming a bit more professional and retaining its neutral quality. Andy was not a member of his inner circle. Furthermore, he rarely received social calls. If Mr. Andy was calling him, then a job was a possibility. If not, then they would chat for a moment and he would go back to his meal. He did not give out his number freely. If one had it, then there was generally a reason for it.

[CorSec]

"ID? Do I look like some fucking punk kid? Just let me get a drink, for chrissakes."

I don't care if you're God or his son. I just want to see that you are you, alright? It's not rocket science here.

[Arthur_Tuxedo]

Dirk Harrison, Stavis Reinheld, and Blaine Richards: Inside the squad car there are four cops dressed for a fight. They are decked head to toe in heavy, non-reflective combat armor and are carrying military surplus Colt M5 7x41mm SMGs, with heavier firepower undoubtedly near at hand. The car itself is an armored version of a Ford Crown Victoria. A lazy machine voice intones "suspect confirmed: Dirk Harrison" and begins reading off a list of crimes as the windows facing the street roll down and the two officers on that side of the car begin taking aim. Bystanders scramble for cover.

Range is 7 squares from Dirk, 8 from Blaine, 13 from Stavis.

* * *

Dr. Lennox: ((Neither suggestion nor command implantation will help you here. The former subtly influences thoughts and opinions, and won't work on someone pounding your door down. The latter only works if they don't remember being given the command. I won't count it against you, though. I won't advance to the next round. Just decide on a course of action and we'll pretend that's what you wanted to do all along . Oh, and I roll the dice around here ))

* * *

Ernesto Vega: After a time, the voice on the other end responds. It is a deep, gravely voice. "Just call me Andy. I have a proposition for you, but this line isn't secure. Go outside in exactly 15 minutes. We will talk then."

[Gerard_Paloma]

Dirk looks around for some good hard cover, and if it exists, dives behind it. Otherwise, he pushes past Blaine into the club, attempting to get lost in the crowd.

[Alyrium Denryle]

Dr. Lennox: ((Neither suggestion nor command implantation will help you here. The former subtly influences thoughts and opinions, and won't work on someone pounding your door down. The latter only works if they don't remember being given the command. I won't count it against you, though. I won't advance to the next round. Just decide on a course of action and we'll pretend that's what you wanted to do all along . Oh, and I roll the dice around here ))

((Very well... It was worth a shot can still try the pursuasion.))

Dr. Lennox draws his Glock 18, pockets his book, and turns the cot on it's side, quickly placing it in front of the small corrridor leading from the door to the boiler room. This would slow them down a bit. He then got behind the corner and said.

"Is all this really necessary? I have done nothing wrong" In truth he really hadn't, and he was hoping that the police would listen to the voice of reason.

"Wouldnt you rather be at home, doing something you enjoy? I know I would like a nice house, with a dog and someone to make love to at night. But the government has sort of ruined that for me... MY only real crime is abeing a talented psychologist who refusd to violate someones trust. That trust could have been yours, it could have been that of your child or someone you love! Do you really want to do this, if they get their hands on me, I am as good as dead!! Please, dont make me defend myself, I dont want to hurt anyone! But I dont want to die either..."

Dr. Lennox looked for a way to escape, a ventilation shaft.. anything he could fit his body through quickly and with a reasonable amount of safety.

[Utsanomiko]

Well, it ain't my business, so I better skedaddle.

Stavis makes his way further down the street, away from the firefight that's about to erupt (perhaps go further around the corner, if that's a better exit than just down the street?). He'll try not to get too far, or at least keep an eye out on what happens. A dozen or so meter jog might suffice, depending on how rowdy the fight gets.

It' is his local hangout, afterall, and he'll need to find a place to crash later tonight. Also, it might be interesting to see who gets creamed or if anyone drops any goodies in the panic.

[Marcao]

The pitch and tone of the voice at the opposite end of the phone was of interest to him and as such he listened for it. When the man finally spoke, he was formulating an idea about his caller. The name was familiar but at the moment he could not quite place it. The likelihood that the man was an enemy was possible, but not likely. It felt like a real deal, even if it was not following his usual procedure for hiring himself out. Still, he was not one to waste a possible opportunity. He would simply have to take steps to make sure that it was a safe encounter. “I will be there.” With those words said, he gently hanged up the phone. He had never been one for pointless conversation, and if Mr. Andy felt that the line was not safe, then it was pointless to exchange pleasantries.

He walked back to the table and sat down once more, his eyes glancing down at the watch upon his right wrist. He had fifteen minutes to meet Mr. Andy that was plenty of time. It took him two minutes to plow through his rice and beans, after which the plastic plate and utensils were disposed of. It took him another five minutes to wash his face, slide into his clothes and walk over to his tool closet. He settled for packing his revolver, deciding on packing only fifteen bullets. Five on the gun itself with two speed loaders in case he needed it. Finally, he made sure to pocket a single explosive and WP grenade. That should take care of any unforeseen problems as well as present a credible MAD scenario. All that was left now was to take a moment and see if he could stack the deck a bit more in his favor. In order to accomplish that however, he needed to pay a visit to his fifth story neighbors. He still had six and a half minutes before the meeting. It should not be a problem.

It took him forty five seconds to leave his room, lock his door and dart upstairs to the fifth floor. It did not take him much longer than that to make it to his final destination, room 54 the heavy iron door standing out from all others about. He stopped before the door and knocked on it six times using a pattern that would let those within the room know that there was no need to shoot through the door. He heard the sounds of heavy footsteps approaching the door, a metal slit pushed aside as a pair of angry eyes looked him over. “Hey! Ernesto! How you doin` man?” He smiled slightly, his shades reflecting Jose’s eyes back at him. “Saludos Jose. I am good. Listen, I have a favor to ask you and your boys.” Jose hesitated for a moment, arching a brow before he shrugged. “The usual man?” He nodded. “Si. The usual.” Jose frowned, shaking his head. “Listen mano`, I am about to get me some ass…” He frowned. “Jose…” His tone changed, letting a bit of his irritation filter through. Their relationship was…unusual. Jose was not family, but he was more or less a friend. They were Hispanic, and that was their bond in this place. He asked for a favor here, and he paid it off there. They had a worthy arrangement. They both knew that. “I have gringo coming over in…three and a half minutes. I need you and your boyz, to keep and eye out and see if I need the assist. You help me out, and I help you out. That is the way the world works man.”

Jose hesitated, considering for a moment. It was obvious that he had no goodwill towards man, and from what he could see moving behind him there was indeed a woman or two in there. So he was not lying on that regard. Jose paused, rubbing his jaw for a moment before he spoke once more. “Our usual arrangement?” He nodded. “Our usual, but tell you what. I will throw in a six-pack.” Jose’s eyes lit up at that, his own booze stock had run dry two days ago. “Shit man! Why did you not say so earlier? Presidente?” He shook his head. “Sorry amigo, don’t have Presidente. I got Heineken.” Jose frowned once more. “European mierda mano, I did not think you drank that stuff.” He shrugged. “It’s not that bad. All right, I am running out of time Jose.” His tone was flat and dry as he spoke, his left hand moving to remove his sunglasses and stare at the Hispanic man past the slit. “I will give you a six-pack guaranteed, and I will give you another one if I need you. That is the best I can offer. Other than that, all I can give you is my appreciation.” Jose paused, immediately aware that this was the last and best offer he would receive. “Okay. Okay. You got your back up mano. Me and my boyz will make sure you are all right.” He smiled. “Gracias. I will bring the booze as soon as I can. Until then, keep an eye out and see what turns up.” He nodded, and turned on his heels. His left hand sliding the mirror shades back over his eyes as he began to walk towards the stairwell. He had 75 seconds left.

He made it to the front door of his building with twenty seconds to spare, his eyes darting about his immediate surroundings. Two blocks north was the start of a corporate backed neighborhood. As such, this was a fairly bad place to start a shoot out. This did not mean that it did not happen, but it was a bit rarer than most spots. The reason being that heavily armed and heavily armored corporate guards were attracted to gunfire like flies to shit. It was true that they did not care about who died outside of their patrol areas, but bullets did not care about where they ended up. The last time a shoot out had occurred in the block, it had been due to two rival gangs fighting for turf. It had ended up when a corporate team had intervened and flat lined over a dozen gang members. He took a deep breath, his eyes darting down towards his watch. It was time. His eyes looking for Mr. Andy as well as any other person that could be a conceivable threat. His plan was simple. He was going to make contact with Mr. Andy and work from there. If this was a setup, his friends in the fifth floor and the roof should buy him enough time to get himself out of trouble. If that did not work, he had his two grenades to work with and his .454 revolver. It was as good a plan as any. As such, he waited by the door leading to his apartment building. The door was ajar, allowing him to dart inside if problems arose.

[Arthur_Tuxedo]

((Note to CorSec: Be sure to include in your post whether or not you try and stop Dirk if he pushes past into the club))

[CorSec]

That a cop car was patrolling this end of town was not a surprise to Blaine, nor to anyone else on the street at that moment. That a suspect was called out by name was also a common occurrance. Heck, even the windows rolling down on the tank of a car didn't elicit much, save the bystanders scampering for cover. What alarmed Blaine was that the officers nearest him were taking aim in his direction.

"Dirk Harrison..." the machine voice intoned. The man in front of Blaine shoved past. For a split second Blaine wanted to push him towards to car but for some reason he didn't. Later, he'd rationalize it with I trust the cops less than I do whatever criminals they hunt down like dogs. The good news was that Mr. Harrison might survive a little longer. The bad news is that there is no such thing as an innocent bystander with the corrupt corporately owned cops in this city.

Through his thermal vision Blaine confirmed that there were no fewer than four cops and if their radar signature was any indication, they were prepared for a full scale confrontation. Blaine quickly ticked through his options.

1. Stay in front of the club and die.
2. Try and defend himself in front of the clube and die.
3. Try to run, get shot in the back and die.
4. Follow the infamous Dirk Harrison into the club ... and ...

Well, at least it doesn't end with me dying immediately.

As he backed quickly through the doorway of The Third Degree...

I AM THE WAY INTO THE CITY OF WOE.
I AM THE WAY TO A FORSAKEN PEOPLE.
I AM THE WAY INTO ETERNAL SORROW.
...
ABANDON ALL HOPE YE WHO ENTER HERE.

That's just great. Just fuckin' great! Blaine cursed to himself as a random verse skated liesurely through his head.

[Arthur_Tuxedo]

Dr. Lennox: In the time it takes Dr. Lennox to make his impassioned speech, one of the officers loads a frangible round into his 12 ga and blows the handle and locks off the door as his partner applies his shoulder to it and bursts into the room. Though not decked out in heavy combat armor, these two officers are wearing solid vests and carrying shotguns. A half-trained psychologist with a glock18 and a mattress for cover would be no match against these. Possible escape routes include an open window leading out into the (deserted) street or up onto the roof of the building. There's also Dr. Lennox's dirtbike close at hand to consider.

* * *

Dirk Harrison and Blaine Richards: The cops follow on foot into the club. Patrons near the door have gotten wind of what's going on and make a mad dash for the rear and side exits. The music stops and a stampede ensues. The club has a rather large dance floor with raised platforms and a stage that takes up most of the building. There's tables closer to the entrance and a small upstairs overlooking the dance floor. The tables are made of wood and bolted to the ground. The bar is near the door. The other bouncers have turned tail toward the exits, but only so many people can fit through at once and it looks to quickly become a trample-happy mob.

* * *

Stavis Reinheld: Relief at not being caught jimmying the phone proves pre-mature as one of the four cops runs not toward the nightclub, but in Stavis' direction, yelling "stop right there you thieving maggot!"

* * *

Ernesto Vega: As Ernesto walks out the door (right on time), a new Cadillac with tinted windows rolls up. The back door opens and a muscular but medium-built man with cold, soulless eyes motions for Ernesto to get in. He is wearing an expensive suit and has no visible weapons, armor, or cybernetics.

[Gerard_Paloma]

Dirk ducks as low as possible and rushes towards the rear exit. Anyone in his way gets rudely shoved aside.

"Fuckin' pigs," he mutters under his breath. And I didn't even get a goddamn drink.

EDIT: If Dirk realizes that pushing and shoving his way to the exit is an impossibility, he ducks behind the bar and pulls his Ruger.

[Utsanomiko]

Stavis slows down to a fast walk, takes a quick look over his shoulder back at the nightclub, and then shrugs and keeps walking.

Well, no point in assuming he's talking about me, he muses and rationalizes to himself. I'm just the bloke checking for spare change on the bad side of town.

[CorSec]

Dirk Harrison and Blaine Richards: The cops follow on foot into the club. Patrons near the door have gotten wind of what's going on and make a mad dash for the rear and side exits. The music stops and a stampede ensues. The club has a rather large dance floor with raised platforms and a stage that takes up most of the building. There's tables closer to the entrance and a small upstairs overlooking the dance floor. The tables are made of wood and bolted to the ground. The bar is near the door. The other bouncers have turned tail toward the exits, but only so many people can fit through at once and it looks to quickly become a trample-happy mob.

Shit.

Blaine looks around and sees that the exits are effectively blocked by panicking people.

Shit.

He looks over his shoulder to see the cops just entering the club.

Shit.

Blaine makes a mad dash for the bar. In a bound he dives over the bar, in midflight he spies what's left of a bottle of Jack. He stretches his hand out to grab it so that he'll have at least one friend with him before he meets his doom.*

((Can I get a roll to see how graceful and elegant my acrobatics are?))
((*It's tradition for me to make this move in a CP campaign.))

[Alyrium Denryle]

Dr. Lennox: In the time it takes Dr. Lennox to make his impassioned speech, one of the officers loads a frangible round into his 12 ga and blows the handle and locks off the door as his partner applies his shoulder to it and bursts into the room. Though not decked out in heavy combat armor, these two officers are wearing solid vests and carrying shotguns. A half-trained psychologist with a glock18 and a mattress for cover would be no match against these. Possible escape routes include an open window leading out into the (deserted) street or up onto the roof of the building. There's also Dr. Lennox's dirtbike close at hand to consider.

((now the choices come to being trapped on the roof of a building(roofs tend to be variable in height), on the street without a mode of transportation. Or, I can always distract them with painful thoughts as I try to rush past them on my bike... oh decisions decisions.. Ot the window it is. Logic? It is a boileroom of a apartment building. It probably isnt on the corner(please dont smite me with that oh great GM) so it will provide a barrier between him, and the cop car/cops))

Dr. Lennox realized the futility of trying to reason with the police, and he quickly(very quickly) asses his situation. He can either climb out the window onto the streets, where he may be pursued, leap on his bike and try to bull rush past them and not get shot. Or he can always get himself trapped on the roof. Trying bull bull rush them and not be filled with buckshot would be suicide, so he takes option number one and climbs through the window out onto the streets.

He looks for a place to hide the moment his feat touch the ground(and just as the cops have gotten themselves organized after breaking down the door) Be it an open door, a fence to jump, anything to get him out of the sight of the corporate police.