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/tg/ - Traditional Games

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>As usual Shadowrun Storytime doubles as Shadowun General
>Obligatory disclaimer about where I've been and why I'm so late
>All threads except 3 at http://suptg.thisisnotatrueending.com/archive.html?searchall=shadowrun+storytime, et cetera, I've been keeping you guys for like half a year so let's get to it shall we gents?
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It's here

It's here at last!

Thank God Almighty, it's here at last!
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You've made my day already TwoDee.
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When we last left off a long-ass time ago, the team had just experienced Runner Christmas, which is like Christmas but with a lot more pipe bombs. Our story picks up in the past...


The laser sight danced on the skull of liberal politician Kyle McHauser, recently outed on the State media as Rinelle ke’Tesrae, a Spire rebel. Special Agent Peter Colby was prepared to do the job clean; he hung upside-down from a vent above the target, who was sitting at a computer terminal, sending out messages of revolution and class uprising onto the Matrix. Colby had breezed his way through Hauser's security; a tranq dart here, a slap patch there, an autohacker mashed onto a camera. The bunker was an old, outdated model, intended to survive an invasion by the Russians back in 20Cen; it was actually the Japanese who had ended up invading the West Coast, but Colby had been smart enough to get out of San Fran when THAT shit hit the fan.

And here was this man, this slimy middle-aged Socialist, this agitator against the monolith that was the Princes. A caller for democracy in a monarchy. An adherent of racial equality when elves were scientifically proven to be superior. A dedicated follower of endangering freedom.

A dead man.
My god he looks gay.
He's a magical, pacifist, hippy elf. Of COURSE he looks gay.
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You may proceed
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"You're a spy," said Colonel Jordan Formic through his earpiece. "You can do anything. And you can especially put a bullet in the head of a known terrorist." Formic had the James Bond act down; he'd spent his life fucking off to various parts of the world, doing classified work to protect the Tir's interests. Colby was more like James Bond junior.

"But he's not a terrorist," said Colby, "not really. He's just a scared Lib hiding in a hole."

"And liberalism is dangerous," retorted Formic. "Especially when we've already got dragons and Indians barking down our doorstep. Not to mention the Japs. Take the shot."

"But why?"

"Soldier, it isn't your place to ask why, and if you keep thinking it's your place you're getting court-marshaled. This is a matter of state security."

Colby disengaged, pulled back up into the vent, and made slowly for the bunker's locker room. As he neared the surface, the sounds of rain above went from sporadic whispers to a steady hiss.

"State security? You mean I'm buying the Princes another damn month before we inevitably become a democracy?"

"That's dangerous speech, Colby. You sure you want to go down this path?"

Colby dropped down into the locker room, using his sonar scanner to crack one of the bodyguards' lockers.

"It's a path we're all going down, sooner or later. The Princes can't delay a revolution forever. All this killing…we're putting kiddy band-aids on a gunshot! This is the absolute WRONG way for the Ghosts to be going about this! We're a subterfuge agency: we should be seeding the population, changing attitudes at a grassroots level. Instead, we wait for an agitator to become a martyr, and then we obligingly martyr the bastard!"
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> that little fashion sense
> gay

So, a friend of mine is looking into getting into shadowrun, and his idea is basically 'Warmachine from Iron Man minus the flight'. Is this a good idea or a bad idea? It seems a little un-subtle for shadowrun.

(first time live for this thread! yay!)
It's fine if he knows where to use that shit

Ganger turf warfare? Go nuts
Assassination run in a Renraku arcology during a gala? Buy a tux
I envy you son.
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>images brought to you by this one guy on the internet who just does cyberpunk-appropriate pixelart all day erryday


Formic's unflappable tone turned into one of bitter sarcasm over the radio, dropping the "emotionless superspy" facade.

"Might I remind you, Special Agent, that we're spies? It's not our job to enjoy our work, it's our job to do what the government wants--what the government NEEDS. We're not people, not anymore. We're tools. We're the silenced sniper rifle of the state, the hand behind its back, gripping a knife. And guns and knives do not QUESTION. Guns and knives shoot and stab and wound and maim and kill, and they leave the rumination about morality to civilians. Finish the damn job."

"No," said Colby. "No more." He cracked the locker and found what he was looking for; a leather jacket, jeans, a trucker hat. Street clothes. If he could stall Formic for a little longer, he could get out without being picked up by his handlers.

"This is going to be treason," said Formic, darkly.

"It's not treason," scoffed Colby, "it's resignation. I failed the mission, and I resigned. That's all this has to be. The question is whether you respect me enough to let me have my resignation in peace."

There was a long pause as Colby surfaced out of the bunker, hopping over the comatose bodies in the house above before slipping into the streets of the town.

"…Alright, Colby. I've called off your handlers. Your resignation papers are due tomorrow morning. But I'm sending in cleanup. Consider it on your head."

Colby huffed, bowing his head to let the bill of his trucker cap keep the pouring rain off his face. He didn't even glance to the side as a black SUV roared by him, stopping in front of the house, and men in body armor with submachine guns poured out. The dull slaps of silenced gunfire merged and danced with the pitter-patter of rain.

The sign taunted Colby as he growled and continued to walk away:

...missed you too, Bubbles, you scary ass son-of-a-bitch...

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Peter Colby or, rather, "Sean Falstaff," sat in the hydroponics room of his hippie commune in Snohomish, on the phone with his youthful girlfriend, Emily. A marijuana joint slowly burnt down towards his fingers. He hadn't really taken to the drug, but it was part of fitting into the community. And hey, it helped with the PTSD.

"Emily, I swear, I'm getting out of the business as soon as I hit the big leagues. We're already Prime runners, we just haven't had our datasteal yet. We haven't' hit the big score that turns it from a job into a hobby."

"I don't want to lose you, Sean. You were in serious danger during that whole Universal Omnitech thing. If you think your life is threatened, I want you to break off."

"It's not that simple, Emmy," sighed Bend, pulling the joint to his lips, thinking about it, and then grinding it down on the tile counter. "I have loyalty to those guys. It's like a brotherly thing."

"And I'm your lover. You're going to have to choose eventually."

"Not if I have anything to say about it. Look, I just finished a really simple milk run. I'm going to ask Brianna to give us something big for the next run, then I'm out, OK? But I'm doing that run, start to finish. I want some retirement funds."

There was a long pause.

"…Okay. I love you."

"I love you too. See you this weekend."

Bend hung up, pocketed his comm in his ragged thrift shop jeans, and climbed the ladder up to the surface of the compound.

Oh, TwoDee, how I've missed you.
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The first thing he saw was a blinding spotlight, then the outlines of gun barrels. The other hippies in his commune were face-down and cuffed, shouting at the pigs.

Knight Errant. Knight Errant had raided the compound.

Working on reflex, Bend took the shape of a seagull and shot into the night sky, zipping past the Knight Errant security teams and alighting on a rooftop outside the compound. A man with a loudspeaker at the entrance to the compound announced,

"Sean Falstaff! You are wanted for possession of an illegal substance, unlicensed mercenary work, larceny, grand theft auto, and child murder! Show yourself immediately and we will not use force!"

Taking the form of an elf once more, Bend grimaced.

"Child murder?"

Not wanting to find out what Knight Errant did to kid killers, he dropped his clothes, donned his tacsuit, and somersaulted into the alleyway behind the building before melting into traffic. He called Wildcard and got no response. Then Dervish, no response again. He thought for a moment, sucked it up, and called Locke.

"This number is not in service right now. Please try again later."

Although it was not an unusual feeling for an infiltrator, Bend realized that he was completely, totally alone.

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Mrs. Johnson was a nervous housewife, sitting in a trendy Spanish Fusion restaurant that she did not look to be appreciating. Or, more specifically, Mrs. WELLERS was a nervous housewife, sitting in a trendy Spanish Fusion restaurant that she did not look to be appreciating.

"Look, Mrs. Johnson," said Locke, peevish that he'd had to waste his suit on an obviously amateur Johnson, "your name for the purposes of the verbal contract is 'Johnson.' By identifying yourself as 'Wellers' you're compromising the security of both halves of the operation."

Mrs. Johnson trembled. She was dressed in a conservative dress with an old antique analog watch on her wrist. Evidently she didn't get out much.

"I'm…I'm sorry. I needed you to know that I was Mrs. Wellers so that you knew that I was having you rescue my children, not that I was some stranger kidnapping children for some godawful purpose."

"So the job is the retrieval of children from their guardians, Mrs. Johnson? We don't differentiate between good or bad. Your moralizing is irrelevant. We just need details and a sum."

Tears welled in Johnson's eyes.

"My…my late husband and I worked for Ares during the interdepartmental conflict last year. During the conflict, Shadowrunners…they kidnapped my children, Madeline and Timothy. And they didn't give them back during the reunification."

Locke sighed with exasperation.

"So you want us to rescue them?"

Johnson nodded frantically up and down, sobbing into a handkerchief.

"Mrs. Johnson, do you have any leads? If your children are just 'somewhere' then I'm afraid we can't help you."
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>Knight Errant
Everyone's getting raped.
Nah, that's Firewatch. Knight Errant are just the normal Seattle cops in this story iirc.
Is it worth it?
What about when you have 6 arms? Is hex-wielding worth it?

Anyone played a Hex-Gunner?
It'ſ court-martial, omae.
I was talking about whats going to happen to the Hippies but please tell me more of these Firewatch bastards. I can barely get through the fluff for the general state of the world so i won't make an idiot of myself in chargen so i probably skipped that.
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Johnson continued to nod and slipped a piece of E-paper forward. It detailed an apartment complex in an Ares neighborhood.

"I did…I did a lot of searching on social networking sites. Two of the runners retired, and kept the kids…they're Madeline and Timothy Robbins now!"

Legitimate rage showed in Mrs. Johnson's eyes through the tears.

"They renamed my children! They named my children after them!"

"Mrs. Johnson," said Locke, tentative, "are you ABSOLUTELY SURE that they're your children? That this isn't a false positive?"

"There are too many coincidences," sobbed Mrs. Johnson, shaking her head back and forth. "Knight Errant won't help me. They treat me like I'm hysterical."

The team settled back into their seats awkwardly. Wildcard stared at his burrito, making flawless eye contact with two jalapeño slices. Bend repeatedly poked his salad with his fork, stirring it around but not actually eating any of it. Dervish whispered to Wildcard if he was going to eat the rest of his burrito.

Locke finally broke the silence.

"How much are you asking, Mrs. Johnson?"

"Just…anything. Anything. I want my children back."

"Well…we usually don't go below 30,000 nuyen."

Mrs. Johnson's expression turned steely.


Wildcard winced a little bit. The etiquette was to bargain down from the high price and find a happy middle. They'd just stiffed Mrs. Johnson hard.

"Alright…" Locke shook Mrs. Johnson's quivering hand. "We'll get little Timmy and Maddy back. Where's our drop-off?"

"I'm staying at the Raddison up the street from the civic center," Mrs. Johnson said. "Room 206. You can come in through the window?"

"Yeah," said Locke, demure. "We can do that."

Mrs. Johnson sobbed her thanks, and then ran off.

As soon as she was out of earshot, Wildcard noted,

"I feel like a horse's arse for cheating her like that."
> dead post
Back in the Trout days, TwoDee mentioned that in the setting where his game was, Lone Star was a subsidiary of Knight Errant...

They are fucked...
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You were already beaten to the punch by >>24325784
He forgot a few lines the first time.
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I reposted with about four lines put in that I had accidentally missed.






Dervish shrugged.

"It's what she gets for not reading up. Besides, we're doing the right thing during this run, right? We get to play white hat, so it doesn't matter if we cheated her or not. Right, Bend?"

Bend sighed loudly and pushed his salad over to Dervish, who promptly began to shovel it into his mouth.


The building, Ares Arms Apartments (everyone groaned at the pun) was lightly defended, more a home for low-level employees or families coasting on cushy staff positions than contracted mercs. There were the obligatory Knight Errant ultracops patrolling the neighborhood, but they were comparatively sparse. That didn't mean, of course, that they wouldn't come pouring out of the woodwork if the team fucked up, so Wildcard did the same thing that TwoDee had once done and hacked the traffic registry, the better to facilitate their escape in the event of a high-speed vehicle chase.

The mission legwork went quickly. Locke bluffed his way in, pretending to be a visitor, and although he wasn't allowed past the front desk ("no visiting after hours, sir, I apologize"), he did manage to get a list of apartments by name. From there, it was trivial to find the Robins family: a family of four, living on the third floor.

With a window overlooking the parking lot behind the building.
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Let's put it this way:

Dervish, the much loved street sami orc with some serious genetic modifications and weird back story, wears THIS as his main combat armour.

You tell us if thats un-subtle.
The S.A.S or DEVGROUP. Real Commando guys.
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Dervish, in his cloaked armor (recently oiled and fitted with quieter servomotors), sat at the bottom of the building as he and Bend worked to set up a rappelling system at the third story window. Wildcard hacked the building's security system ("like dodging an angry dog chained to a backyard fence post" he chuckled) to turn off the window's alarms, and then let Bend work his magic. Backdooring on Dervish's wideband radar and juxtaposing it with his own sonar and thermo input, Bend was able to identify that they were entering the children's bedroom, that the two kids were sound asleep, and that the "parents" were watching grid in the living room.

A final check on the building's registries confirmed everything: the mother and father were both ex-merc, and the kids were "adopted," not blood-related. The children's family was said to be "deceased in inter-departmental conflict."

"Alright," said Wildcard over the subvocals, holding a fist with a thumb up outside of his car window, "everything checks out. Do it."

Bend nodded (not that anyone could see) and began silently carving a small hole out of the window, just enough for him to reach in and undo the manual latch while Wildcard worked the electronic one.

With a pop, the window opened, and the children stirred. Not wasting any time, Bend stuck a slap-patch filled with sedative onto each of the children's arms, and 12-year-old Madeline and 9-year-old Timothy went limp underneath their glow-in-the-dark-star-covered ceiling. Rainwater dripped off his tacsuit, falling onto the cartoon-character-adorned carpet.

"Dervish. Get ready."

Dervish had been climbing to a halfway point on the second story, and Locke stood below him on a planter in front of the parking lot. Bend passed the girl down first, and then the boy. Locke was the first to notice something wrong, as he held Timothy in his arms.

"Something's wrong. The kid's having problems breathing."
3 doesn't show up because
was spelled as
has all the parts, including 3.

>parents were watching TRID rather, my computer autocorrects misspellings so be prepared for a lot of this
So how bad is it to just have/use Red Samurai armor?
It's shit for recoil.
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Wildcard bolted out of the car, trailing the deluxe medkit he kept in his glove compartment.

"Fuck, it's an adverse reaction to the narco. Someone hold out the kid's arm while I get the succinylcholine."

Bend hissed into the subvocals, as he placed the little cut-out sliver of glass into place in the window once more,

"What's going on down there?"

"Kid's gonna suffocate. Dervish, hold him steady! Locke! Clear his airway, we're going to stick an oxygen tube down there."

Locke gulped.

"Fuck, I didn't know you were this prepared for this, Wildcard."

Rain trickled over the lenses of Wildcard's mask and he wiped the condensation off with his sleeve before giving the limp boy the injection. He placed a respirator over the boy's face before starting the attached inhaler.

"Call it experience. Luckily the dose of narco we gave him isn't going to stay in his system for long, but this is one hell of an allergic reaction while it lasts. We'll need someone to watch him on the way back."

Locke nodded.

"I can do that. I've got the second-most medical training in the team."

Still on the third floor and packing up his rappelling technology, Bend saw the flashing lights and sirens coming from a few blocks away.

"We've got company. Move!"

Locke and Dervish placed the kids between them on the middle seat of the Hyundai while Wildcard revved the engine. Bend practically frog-jumped down the side of the building before sliding over the hood and jumping into the shotgun seat.

"Seatbelts, everyone!"

Before the cops could make visual contact, the silver Hyundai was out on the streets, already headed back to downtown.

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On the freeway, Wildcard looked over his shoulder and pointed at Locke.

"How's Timmy doing?"

"He's breathing. Completely blacked out, though. Not moving."

"We may want to hide out for a few hours before we give the kids back to mum. Let the drug run its course."

"We also don't know if the kids are chipped," retorted Dervish. "Who cares if he's out cold?"

"Wait!" yelled Locke, excited. "Wait! He just mumbled and started grabbing at my hand! He's sleeping normally! He's good!"

Wildcard sighed.

"Jesus, Mary and Joseph. Let's not pull that trick again. Don't want to have any deoxygenated brain-damaged tots on my hands."

Mrs. Wellers awoke to the tapping of fingers on her window. Seeing her two children sitting on the recliners on the hotel balcony, she burst into tears and ran to the window in nothing but a t-shirt and her underwear.

Bend deactivated his cloak and coughed.

"Mission completed, Mrs. Johnson."

"Thank you, thank you," sobbed Wellers. She reached out as though to embrace Bend, and then, seeming to think better of it, walked back inside.

"I'm still waiting on the bank to accept my withdrawal, but you'll have your money tomorrow. Thank you so much."

"Anything to help," said Bend with a smile, before disappearing off the edge of the balcony.
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Wildcard was sitting at his kitchen table, eating breakfast (as you do), when the SWAT team breached. He had considered running when he caught the node signature three blocks away, but then he had found the tacnet of the three snipers watching each of his house's doorways. Better to see what they wanted. He was mobbed-up, and this was hostile territory to the cops; Finnigan turf. If he needed to escape, he could escape later. If he needed to be bailed out, he'd get bailed out.

As the laser sights fluttered over his cheerios, Wildcard calmly asked,

"I don't suppose that you gentlemen brought me orange juice? Because I'm out."

The response was a SWAT operative grabbing him by the back of the head, throwing him out of the chair, and cuffing him.

"Calvin MacIntyre, you are under arrest for possession of illegal firearms, criminal hacking, unlicensed mercenary activity, multiple traffic violations of varying degrees of severity, and child murder."

"Gentlemen, we all know the game. I'm not going to get busted on any of those charges except for the fourth one. And the fifth is just insulting."

"You have the right to remain silent."

Wildcard sighed, standing up and arching his back to stretch as the cop behind him struggled to grasp his arms again.

"I can also haver on if I feel like it, copper. I'm not going to struggle because that would mean you'd actually have an opportunity to do some real damage."

Wildcard deserved the cuff to the back of the head he got for that, but it had been worth it. As he was escorted out of his front door, he nodded to a crowd of suited mafiosos watching the whole proceeding.

"Take care of the car. Keys are in the knife drawer."
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One of the mafiosos, a generic-looking young man who could well have been a salaryman in another life, made a grunt of affirmation and began walking toward the garage. A police officer activated his stunstick and gestured at the crowd as Wildcard was loaded into the back of the black truck.

"Clear out! This is Knight Errant business!"



An entire brigade of Knight Errant cops stood in perimeter around their pair of APCs and a SWAT tank, nervously eyeing the scattering refugees behind them. They faced a set of double concrete walls topped with barbed wire, behind which was a ruined old office building topped with camo netting and lumber reinforcements. The Captain checked his mic, and spoke through the loudspeaker again as the bomb squad prepped their tools behind him.


A heavy attack chopper circled overhead, shining a spotlight through the broken windows of the complex. Dervish yawned, looked out his window, and sighed to himself.

"Idiots. Making this much noise will just attract the mutants."

As if on cue, a troll covered in horrible lesions and radiation burns came screaming out of a nearby junk pile, wielding an entire stoplight as a medieval polearm.

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With a yelp, one of the riot cops opened up with his gun, prompting the troll to throw the stoplight, smashing the man back towards the APCs like an armored rag doll. The rest of the police quickly organized and put the mutant down in a hail of fire.


Dervish leisurely strolled downstairs, getting dressed and armored, as the cops continued to do battle with the small tribe of mutants that Dervish knew made their home in the wreck down the street. It was about time someone cleared them out, anyway.

Nevertheless, he was curious as to what exactly was going on, so he made his way to the intercom and loudly asked,


The police captain, having scrambled to the roof of one of the APCs, yelled back,


Dervish gave this some thought.



With a blaring noise, the gate of the compound slid open and Dervish marched out, armored up with his shotgun strung up on his back.

"Well, let's get to it, then. I don't have all day."

Ladies and gentlemen, meet my new recurring rival character.
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Felix Ramirez knew that they would come for him eventually. Two of their operatives were moving through the hallway to Apartment 206 now. He could see them through the thin drywall as he hid behind his bed.

The Aztechnology operatives had made one major mistake, and that was that Locke had moved from room 206 to room 207 last Wednesday.

As the soldiers breached his old room, Felix bailed out of the door into the hallway, taking off at a sprint and putting covering fire on the doorway to 206 with his pistol. He turned the corner and heard orders for backup being shouted (in English, curiously). It was at this point that he began to consider that this was not an isolated set of Aztechnology operatives.

He amended his hypothesis to "Knight Errant SWAT" as he turned another corner and found himself face to face with a taser shockwave booby trap.


As Locke spasmed violently and crashed to the floor, the SWAT team circled around him, training their guns on his twitching form.

"Quick, black-bag him! Chief Inspector wants him by midnight!"
It's like a kick me sign, except it's also "kick me and take my stuff", or "kick me and report me to Renraku, who will take having their shit personally".
I love Redmond. I really do.
I love how paranoid Locke is. Everything that moves is Aztechnology operatives coming for him.
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The Chief Inspector of Knight Errant Seattle, a broad African-American human in his mid 40s, sat across a boardroom table from three Shadowrunners in varying degrees of condition. Garret Jordan was the real catch: one of the world's top gunmen (and even better with a cyberblade), a hardcore merc with ties in Lagos, Japan, the UCAS military, and Ares itself. The orc sat across from the Chief Inspector, looking resentful. Next to him, calm and weirdly bland without his distinctive getup, was the operative only known as Wildcard, rumored to be, among other things, the world's best getaway driver. The Chief Inspector had taken the liberty of removing Calvin MacIntyre from the Ares SIN database, as it was almost certainly a fake. The third man, groaning and leaning face-first into the table, was the newcomer, whom a cursory DNA test had turned up as Felix Ramirez, a rogue Aztec mage with a truly preposterous bounty on his head. Notably absent was the former Tir Ghost, alias of Sean Falstaff, who had (predictably) eluded capture. The Chief Inspector hoped that he might be persuaded to come in on duress to his teammates.

On any other day, this would be one of the greatest busts of the Inspector's career: these four were purported to be big shots in the Seattle underground, not runner legend level, but at the top of the game. However, they were untouchable. Their fixer knew the system well, Wildcard had mob ties, Falstaff was a Tir Tairngire citizen, and the Chief Inspector technically had to answer to a former teammate of theirs, and resented it. Which was why this whole operation was going off-record, and he was going to shoot them all in the head himself if they wouldn't play ball.

Just you wait, sir. Just you wait.
What is that curse supposed to be?
>Chief Inspector technically had to answer to a former teammate of theirs

Dues Ex TwoDeeia inc to save everyone in his overblown, pop-culture, ironic way?
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That will pay off for him next run, in the most roundabout and unfortunate means possible.


The Chief Inspector knew that he had a few legs up. Most of them revolved around Ramirez: the party didn't have their face in the best condition to handle negotiations, and in fact Ramirez could be used as leverage with Aztechnology if push came to shove. There was also the fact that, if push came to shove came to a firefight, they had been frisked and were about a man and a half down in the middle of Knight Errant's home office.

"Gentlemen," began the Chief Inspector, "you can call me Mr. Johnson."

"And you can call me Trixie, the prostitute in Halloweentown who trades toothless blowjobs for a packet of novacoke per, but that doesn't make it true," Dervish shot back, his cybereye covers retracting to give the Inspector a better view of his death-glare. "Runners work for money, not threats."

"One of those threats is pretty convincing," noted 'Johnson,' pointing to the groaning Ramirez. "You don't clean up your own mess, he gets deported back to Aztlan."

Wildcard spoke up, his Scottish brogue sounding very alien coming from his generic, WASP-y features.

"Congratulations, you daft boaby. You've mildly inconvenienced us. I can't speak for Locke, who may have more invested in this than I, but I got no want to get skelped on behalf of a paddy of hot-shot Sherlocks."

Johnson growled.

"This isn't a negotiation, this is a demand. If there's one thing I expect runners to do to keep the status quo, it's to clean up their messes."

With a flick of his wrist, Johnson tossed an AR image up above the table. It displayed the autopsy tables of Madeline and Timothy Wellers, their faces contorted into expressions of caricatured terror, their skin bleached white. Wildcard and Dervish both briefly dropped facade while staring in disgust.

"What the fuck," began Dervish, "those are those kids…"

Wildcard finished,

"…that we rescued, yeh."
Let me amend that: chameleon-coated red samurai armor. I mean, how much of a
>"kick me and report me to Renraku, who will take having their shit personally".
do you really expect?
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Fuck no, TwoDee didn't give a fuck about the team at this point. He had what he wanted months ago.


Johnson nodded somberly.

"Well, either you're all fabulous con artists, or my hypothesis checks out. You had no idea you were killing the kids when you did your last job."

Wildcard stared slack-jawed at the bloodless, grey cuts in Timothy's chest, bleached and dry. His considerable medical knowledge was failing him.

"What in the bloody hell is that?"

"Essence drain. Your last Johnson, gentlemen, was a nightmare. A dark spirit that feeds on fear. And you bought into a sob story and gave it two kids to eat. Two Ares kids."

At the mention of nightmares, Locke lifted his head from the table.

"You can't be expecting us to go pop it."

"Pop it?" Johnson gave Ramirez an expression of disgust. "I want you to go get its spirit formula, make a metaplanar jaunt, and kill it. Knight Errant already popped it yesterday, but that's not going to stop 'Mrs. Wellers' from coming back in the long run. Your fuck-up, your redemption."

Dervish stood up, throwing his hands in the air.

"Welp, I'm out."

He was greeted at the door by two armed Knight Errant guards, not that it phased him.

"Mr. Johnson, unless you can turn these two stooges into extadimensional creepy-crawlies out to steal my soul, I'm taking my chances with shooting my way out of here."

Wildcard stayed sitting down, and gestured for Dervish to return.

"What Mr. Johnson means to say is that, given that we're specialists who are considerably higher-tier than the dobbers he's got here in the precinct, he's going to be giving us forty thousand nuyen up front and access to the Knight Errant armory. We're going to be needing heavy equipment to geek a damned demon, after all."
>"Essence drain. Your last Johnson, gentlemen, was a nightmare. A dark spirit that feeds on fear. And you bought into a sob story and gave it two kids to eat. Two Ares kids."

Shit is getting real.
Oh Wildcard. You are so scandalous.

It's times like this run that you kinda wish Gettepo was still around eh?
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Johnson glowered, his eyes narrowing in hate.

"Mr. Johnson, drop the purity act. We're all solids here, and you know it. Yer not appealing to us on a moral ground, and you know that. Fact of the matter is, if any of yer stooges had a chance at taking this thing on, you'd have done it yer damn self, and gone on yer merry way. Yer trying to strong-arm us into this because we're the only ones who could pull it off without a big heapin' bunch of Knight Errant widows mucking up your public relations."

"I could have you killed this instant!"

Wildcard chuckled.

"And I, you; Dervish is right there-" Dervish grunted in response, "-But getting geeked on either end isn't good for business, and Knight Errant would still have its nightmare problem to deal with, because we're the only damned lunatics you can even halfway trust to pull this suicide mission off."

Veins protruded on Johnson's temple and he balled his hands into fists, but he spat,

"Armory access, so you have a chance. But you're getting twenty thousand. I'm not paying you any more than a courtesy price."

The team looked amongst each other. Dervish grunted.

"Actually go to hell, try to kill a demon permanently, barely any pay, but on the plus side no child murder prosecution and we get to keep our Mexican. Yeah, that works. Bend, you can show up anytime."

A lithe elf in a tacsuit appeared on the ceiling behind Johnson, before dropping to the floor in a catlike stance, standing up, and walking over to the rest of the team.

"As usual, Locke ruins it for everyone. And Felix was totally his real name, I wish I'd made a bet on that."

Dervish used his shoulder to brace Locke, helping him stand up.

"Stop being so harsh on the new guy. He proved his worth."

"Yeah, he did a great job detecting that nightmare. Which is a mage's job, last I checked."

Seeing that Johnson was beginning to make an angry whistling noise as he exhaled between his teeth, the team wisely made for the armory.
>"Essence drain. Your last Johnson, gentlemen, was a nightmare. A dark spirit that feeds on fear. And you bought into a sob story and gave it two kids to eat. Two Ares kids."
I just knew this was some skeevy shit.
Tell me the Nightmare at least PAYED for the kids you fed it!

Also why did it need you to kidnap 2 particular children for it?
Depends on who you drop the cloak in front of. If you're a half-glimpsed armored mirage who appears just long enough to geek the only onlookers, no big deal. If you stand there for all the world to see, people aren't gonna think, "shit, shadowrunner," they're gonna think, "SHIT, Red Samurai!"

Granted you could get around this by repainting the armor, but it'll still have its distinctive silhouette (at least last I checked RS armor had a pretty distinctive silhouette). Get seen by the wrong dude at the wrong place and time and the consequences could range from a bounty on your head to outright ground warfare between Renraku and whomever you were fucking with that day.
So that they didn't get all suspicious? I assume the intention was for the crew to never find out what they did.
It's still the milspec armour of an easily offended elite corporate paramilitary unit, even if it's invisible / not red.

Cue bitching.
The teams reasons for hunting the demon in reverse order:
>We fed it two innocent kids and gotta make good
>We get access to Knight Errants armory for some shiny gear.
I assume they would have acted earlier if she didn't pay up. Which might have been better for her, since they would be completely unprepared against her.
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Dervish's nose twitched as he disengaged his helmet.

"Huh. That's a smell."

"Yeah, I smell it too," sniffed Bend, looking between racks of ballistic plates and spare ammo for the culprit. "Smells like fish."

"Can't say I smell it, but I'll take you boys' word on it," commented Wildcard, plucking a drum of APDS off the wall. "Now down to business."

"Like, seriously, Wildcard," grunted Dervish, with a chuckle, "you have to smell this. We're talking the alleyway behind a sushi restaurant. Doesn't Knight Errant have janitors?"

"Okay, fine, but only 'cause you piqued my curiosity, ya--OH! That is FOUL." Wildcard clapped his mask back down onto his face. "Business? Please?"

"I gotta get some foci from evidence," said Locke, looking nauseous. "Be right back."

Bend immediately gravitated towards the sidearms; holdouts and spy toys, mostly.

"You know, it's a damn shame that only cop corps get access to these," he said, fingering a Ruger Thunderbolt burst pistol. "Ruger could make a lot of runners happy by going public."

Wildcard stomped in in a set of Ares Milspec, albeit a lighter model more on par with Locke's birdsuit than Dervish's man-tank. Locke also returned to the room, now in his full gear (albeit covered in evidence tags). Wildcard eyed the fancy chrome sidearm.

"Ain't the peace and posies route more your bag?"

"Not when we're about to be fighting demons, I'm not. They get bullets."

"Glad to see you coming around," grunted Dervish, as his own set of milspec flexed. Diagnostics were turning out positive on the new hydraulics.

"Still a pacifist. That hasn't changed. How you doing, rookie?"

Locke groaned, cradling his head as he fished an obsidian spear tip from a plastic evidence bag. The tip briefly lit up as it attuned to his magic, then returned to normal.

"Shut up, Bend."

"Felix is growing some balls!" Dervish clapped Locke on the back, smashing him a clear 15 feet across the room into a rack of Alphas. "Oops."
They could have been more lenient on the speed of the payment because they say a poor crying lady wanting her kids and being confused about the Shadowrunning world
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She actually did pay the money, although the team in retrospect was certain that it was all stolen from various mindjacked civilians. Not that that mattered particularly.

This run was mostly about the shiny Knight Errant gear, and we also preferred to risk a brisk stroll in the Shadow Metaplanes than to risk the total wrath of Knight Errant.



Tonatiuh the Sun God, in the form of a great-form Guidance Spirit, stood in a laboratory in the Ares Fabrication Compound beneath Seattle, holding open a portal that screeched and clamored with the voices of the damned. Three men in armor (and one in a skin-tight bodysuit) stood before it. Dervish had turned himself into a walking fortress of invulnerability, done up in red, white, and blue. Wildcard, in something resembling the Judge Dredd suit by way of Rob Liefeld, tapped at his plasteel faceplate and reminded himself to get the plaster cosmetics to reconstruct his signature ASAP. Felix was loaded down with every focus he could muster over his suit of Aztech armor, fully prepared to spend weeks in withdrawal if he made it out alive. Finally, Bend stood behind them with his new guns and a few new gadgets on his belt, looking the most apprehensive of the lot. Locke ran the team through the drill:

"Alright, everyone's updated their wills. Wildcard's server is set to send them to Brianna if we're not out of there in a week. We've all called loved ones--those who have them, anyway…"

Dervish leaned in Bend's direction and snickered.

"Did you really have to give Emily that "Maybe 50 years from now, maybe…yesterday" line?" Dervish made sure to pause dramatically before whispering "yesterday" with kissy-lips.

"Hey," said Bend, defensively, "she asked when I would be back, and it was really romantic. Plus, accurate, what with metaplanar time shenanigans."
>"Bend, you can show up anytime."

Well, Bend's certainly on his A-game this storytime.
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"Let's not have the metaplanar time shenanigans talk again," groaned Wildcard. "Now get your antipsychotics ready, everyone. Shadow spirits feed on emotions, so it'll be best if we all had none." Reaching into the plastic slots on the back of his neck, he chipped a "TABULA_RASA_IV" personafix. Wildcard's eyes dulled and his expression softened as Locke and Bend each donned a rig and did the same. Dervish drew his sniper rifle from a slot on his back, placed the barrel near to his head, and fired, triggering a relapse in the condition caused by his frontal lobe damage. His face contorted with a cruel harshness, and then relaxed. With a monotone that passed "sinister" and drifted right into "downright terrifying," he droned,

"Once more…into the breach"


"Huh," remarked Wildcard, his demeanor muted. "I didn't expect it to look like this." He took the form of an old-school 1920s gangster in full suit and fedora, save for his face, which had taken on a number of aspects of his mask and looked like inanimate porcelain.

"I didn't expect /us/ to look like this," noted Locke, who resembled nothing so much as an Aztec temple made anthropoid, all stairways and fortifications.

"Metaplanar appearance. Based off of inner self. Think 'The Matrix,'" commented Bend, who appeared to be the unholy elven bastard child of Sam Fischer and James Bond, done up like a /k/ommando on Christmas. A single flower in his hair made the whole ensemble a little surreal.

"Interesting," noted Dervish, deadpan. "Back to the job." He looked like…Dervish.
Aww. Dervish didn't become AMERICA-SAN.
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Upcoming: our GM's minor homebrew of hacking in the metaplanes!


The team waded through tall grass in what appeared to be a public park, albeit twisted and of largely relative size. A blasted Seattle loomed above them on all sides, exuding nearly palpable gloom, always in the distance no matter what direction one moved in and yet always at the forefront of the mind. As the team formed a square formation, inching through grass blades the size of palm trees that suddenly shrank and wilted with the slightest touch, Locke stared ahead.

"I've got something. I recognize the spirit from earlier. A part of it, anyway. 50 meters west."

Wildcard moved into position to cover him.


Locke approached a tiny shred of nothingness, hanging in space like a rift.

"Part of the spirit formula. Ares gave us the little shred they had, so I can compare." There was a pause as he analyzed it, his magical senses intentionally blocked from his environment. No one wants to astrally perceive the Shadow Metaplane. "Fuck."

Dervish parted a nearby bush, scanning for movement.

"Define 'fuck.'"

"These are the same size. Well, size by metaplanar standards, which is iffy. Point being, if they're all this size, then we're looking at 5 more."

"Seven shards," commented Bend. "I guess that's meaningful somehow, but it escapes me. Wildcard, can you get a bead on them?"

"I could, but I'm not magic," Wildcard shot back, moving to Locke's position to keep the group in adjacent twos.

"Everything's subjective in the metaplanes. You're the guy we use to track things normally. Try your computer."

"Computers won't work in the metaplanes," said Wildcard. "Negative."

Bend blinked, as frustrated as he could be while still emotionally neutered.

"Not your computer. The /idea/ of your computer. Two totally different things."
He already is AMERICA-SAN
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At this point, he was in the regressive "blank" personality that he assumes when shot in the head. He had therapy for it but, well, when you're TRYING to regress...


Wildcard, as if to spite Bend, pulled out an ancient 1920s rotary phone. Much to his shock, as he recalled the details of his commlink, it formed a weird, half-finished replica of the piece of tech, responding to his search query.

"Now that's unnerving. 5 shards still across the city, at least if…well…Hell-Google has anything to say about it. Closest one's in an office building two blocks away."

As if on cue, the grass fell away and shrank down to normal size, revealing a path to the office building in question amidst blasted cars and contorted skeletons. Potholes formed entire gorges amidst the wreckage.

"The sooner we get this done, the better," sighed Wildcard. "Watch your step."

As the team searched amidst the desks and cubicles of the nameless office building, Locke reached out to touch a nearby skeleton, sitting in a chair, tie still around its neck. It dissolved into dust although, curiously, its shadow remained.

"Anyone else reminded of 20Cen Hiroshima? Looks like a nuke came through here."

Bend nodded.

"When magic first started manifesting, nukes around the world started malfunctioning. Maybe this is where they ended up."

"Can the chatter," grunted Dervish. "Locke. Location."

"Formula's ahead. But it's moving."


With a cry of "SHITE!," Wildcard fell to the floor, clutching a bloody gash in his stomach. His machine gun began discharging, spraying the office with fire.

Wildcards inner classic gangster manifests.
Lockes perception of his ideal magical Aztec....ideals manifest.
Bends perfect spy's ideal manifest.

And Dervish's inner Dervish continues to prove there is only Dervish.
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Dervish dropped into a crouch, scanning the area around Wildcard. "Locke, what was that!"

"It's a spirit," yelled Locke, "an invisible one! Moving fast! Too fast for me to track!"

With a yelp, Locke was catapulted into the air, hitting the ceiling before falling onto a desk and snapping it in half.

"No good," said Bend, before running around to nearby cubicles and setting down sensors. "Keep your PANs on, and shoot when you get movement. Wildcard, network these."

Not willing to question the logic of metaplanar computing again, Wildcard punched buttons at random and the sensors armed. Clutching his stomach, he scrambled to make it to the perimeter.

Slowly, Dervish extended one cyberblade.

Right as Wildcard was about to make it past the sensors, Dervish launched over him and slammed into a tangible force mere inches behind his teammate. He opened up with one cyberblade, and then began freely maneuvering with the others, delivering brutal and unceasing blows to the invisible foe. Finally, a contorted, shadowy manlike figure appeared very briefly, gasping, before disincorporating into another black wisp.

"Shard 3," groaned Locke. "Everyone okay?"

"Peachy," coughed Wildcard, producing his medkit to bandage up his midsection. Dervish moved both himself and Wildcard back into the perimeter for the team to recollect their thoughts.

"Next shard," said Dervish. "Where?"

Wildcard tapped at his commlink, clearly not understanding what exactly he was doing.

"Uh…Downtown. Roof of one of the skyscrapers."

"Sounds dangerous," responded Dervish, his voice empty of thought or feeling. "Let's go."

"I'm never going to get over that," Wildcard commented quietly to Bend.
>phased him.
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>Captcha: shall Operating

Yep, the team was in full operator mode by this point.


Okay, I laughed.



The team found a woman in a wispy funerary gown standing atop the roof of the skyscraper. A raging lightning storm blazed above, periodically striking a mismatched amalgamation of a radio tower, a fire escape, and innumerable humanoid corpses. The tower was terrifyingly thin, and swayed from side to side as its top disappeared into the clouds.

"The tower is tall," the woman commented, "and perilous. Many have tried to reach its height, many have fallen. All lost sight of themselves."

Bend craned his neck.

"Up there?"

Wildcard nodded somberly.

"Up there."


"You'll never make it," the woman said, her voice echoing eerily amongst the metallic debris. "It's too much for anyone. Everyone forgets, unless they give up everything."

"Shadow spirit," Dervish said, raising his shotgun to the woman. "Engaging."

Locke put his hand on Dervish's barrel.

"Hold on. I don't think this is as straightforward as it looks."

"He speaks the truth," continued the spirit. "Sacrifices must be made before the way is clear. Though you be wretches and lost, you have the capacity for sacrifice still."

Dervish stepped up.

"Fine. Assuming the sacrifice is some kind of physical harm, I'm the most likely to survive. State your purpose or we kill you."
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The spirit chuckled darkly.

"Very well. You, faceless man. Why do you stay in the shadows? Why do you hide from the merchants in their high towers, consort with scum and filth?"

"I run for the money," responded Wildcard. "The money and the thrill."

The spirit nodded soberly, and ran a thin, feminine hand over Dervish's chest. The hand was covered in sores.

"And you, soul of peace in turmoil. You could do so much better; why dwell beneath the surface when you could do good above?"

"Good's subjective," commented Bend. "I run to escape from the one time I thought I was doing good. And to provide a more ethical alternative to other runners."

The spirit again nodded.

"And you, cracked temple? Surely your gods will put up with your absence no longer. Tonatiuh begs you face the sun, and instead you hide in cities that are anathema to him and his, places of black clouds and shadow."

"I run to hide from his other servants," commented Locke. "As far as I am concerned I am the only legitimate practitioner of the faith."

The spirit nodded a third time, considering.

"And you?"

Dervish grunted.

"I run for me."

"And so you have the most to give."

There was a moment of dawning realization and everyone had half-raised their guns before both the spirit and Dervish were already gone.

Oh dear sweet mother of fuck, this is going somewhere.
>"And you?"
>Dervish grunted.
"I'm Dervish."
And the spirit stepped back "SHIT SON I AIN'T GETTING INVOLVED IN DERVISH"


Locke reminds me of one of my NPCs in the game I run, an aztec mage who HATES aztechnology for peverting her faith--while still, you know, doing the whole ritual sacrifices and cannibalism thing, though she's not a blood mage. She does it because the sun must rise, and the gods must eat, not for any promise of power or strength. The gods will provide for her, so long as they are provided for.
>"And you"
>"Dervish grunted"
"I run for America!"
And eagles tore the darkness asunder as Blue Angels started to carpet bomb the creature in explosions of red, white, and blue
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Wildcard took a few potshots at where the spirit used to be before Bend grabbed him by the shoulder.

"Don't get emotional! If we get emotional they'll get all of us. We need to get that shard. And look."

Bend pointed upwards at the tower, the top of which was now clearly visible through a hole in the cloud line.

"I'm the best climber among us, so I'm going up there. Both of you cover me."

Wildcard nodded soberly and he and Locke moved into position as Bend began scaling the swaying wreckage. Periodically he had to take small breaks in which to adhere himself to the side of the structure for particularly violent bursts of wind, but he held his own. A few minutes later, and once he was well out of sight, Bend noted,

"I've got the fourth part of the formula. And…uh…"

Wildcard turned to watch the stairway doors. He had heard something in the distance, but wasn't sure where it was coming from.

"I found…this guy."

As the tower began rotating and collapsed down into the roof like a scrap-metal vortex, all that was left standing in its former spot was Bend, and a naked orc wearing nothing but pants, with two experimental cyberlegs from the knee down.

Wildcard trained his gun on the newcomer, but Locke gave him the "he's clear" signal and they both lowered their guns. Dervish looked between his former teammates, his expression one of fear and confusion.

"Who are you guys? What's going on?"

"Dervish," said Wildcard, without a beat. "What's the last thing you remember?"

Dervish put his hand to his forehead and groaned in exertion.

"I…There was a shootout at a Stuffer Shack, and I met this blonde guy…and he…I forget."

"Dios mío," cursed Locke. "The spirit wasn't kidding. At least he's alive. That's what's important. Give him some of your backups."
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Please continue to do this forever and never stop.
Ok I will try.
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Within a few minutes, a very confused Dervish hefted Wildcard's nickel-plated predator, adorned in an armor jacket and helmet.

"You guys…are we runners? Am I a runner who lost my memory? Is that's what's happening? Why does this city look so spooky?"

"Yes, yes, yes," said Bend. "And we're in the Shadow Metaplanes."

Dervish gave him a blank look.


Dervish gulped. Bend looked to Wildcard.

"Where's the fifth?"

"Funny you should mention that," said Wildcard, fiddling with his commlink. "It's incoming."

The entire team ducked for cover (even Dervish, seemingly operating on instinct) as a burst of gunfire shattered the stairway door, the ambient shadows in the gun smoke coalescing into rough facsimiles of armed guards.

"Corpsec wraiths," commented Locke. "Hell has stopped being subtle. OPEN FIRE!"

As the team used cover fire from Wildcard and Locke (manifesting as a thompson submachine gun and a ray of searing light, respectively) to move to the fire escape, the shadows around them began coalescing into new and increasingly threatening shapes. Somewhere in the distance, a helicopter's rotors sounded, although the sound was distorted, imperfect, and wrong, as though belonging to a vehicle-sized creature attempting to merely imitate a helicopter,


Dervish fired wildly at the shadows, periodically striking true and dropping a screeching demon.


>"I found…this guy."

Why was I expecting Cyberzombie Willy?
And you?


(suddenly, Dervish is on a battleship that is being carried on the backs of bald eagles, firing all of it's main cannons with red, white and blue smoke shells, while he rides opun the back of Teddy Roosevelt)
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Minutes had bled into hours, had bled into days. At some point halfway down the building, shortly after killing a hellish tac-team commander and recovering a wisp of spirit from his corpse, the floors had just started repeating, right down to the opposition on each floor.

"This is floor 12 again," gasped Bend, his burst pistol blazing. "3 security guards, 10 office workers. Remember, the office workers will try to claw you."

The team breached the door in a blaze of gunfire, putting down the guards first and then the zombie-like cubicle monkeys.

"This is some kind of rammy we've gotten ourselves into, boys," sighed Wildcard. "It's like Shadowrunner hell, having to kill all the witnesses from your gobshite performance over and over."

"That would be the idea, yes," groaned Locke, moving to the stairway door. "Floor 11. Five guards barricaded behind a table. Grenade."

Bend grabbed Locke, stopping him before he opened the door.

"Hold on. Wildcard, do a search query for the next formula shard."

"What good would that do?" Wildcard leaned against a wall, catching his breath. He was covered in bandages from a half-dozen ghostly small-arms wounds.

"Because for the last I don't even know how long, we haven't been focusing on getting the shards. We've just been thinking of getting the hell out of this building."

Locke nodded.

"So we've been keeping it at the forefront of our minds. Makes sense. Plug in the coordinates."

Wildcard fiddled with his phone, before taking up a breaching position at the door.

"Says it's right through here. Hope this works. Dervish, you're the kicker."
>chameleon coating
Just because the ruthenium polymers NORMALLY take their cues from the chameleon sensors doesn't mean you can't use this as a display-whatever-the-fuck-you-want interface.

Funnily enough, like I mentioned, our first job was to be from a[n allegedly] Renraku Johnson.


Did Ruger not go public in your universe? Because they did in vanilla; it's just that cops ACT like Ruger didn't and treat the Thunderbolt like their property ANYWAY.
>And you?

And Devishes hair becomes amber waves of grain, his eye halcyon skies, his muscles purple mountains of power, and his heart with freedom beats
>"And you?"
>Dervish grunted.
>"I'm Dervish."

And the spirit, with a look for total fear on it's twisted scared face disappeared.
Where it was standing was a shimmering pool, Locke bent down and dipped his fingers in it and sniffed.

"What is it Locke?" questioned Bend looking confused.

Lock turned around with an expression of disgust on his face as he wiped his fingers on his boots.

"It's ectoplasm."


"It pee'd itself at the mention of Dervish."

And they all started at Dervish who put on his second pair of sunglasses and grinned, his teeth having that Colgate twinkle on them as he looked at the faces of his team and gave them a casual thumbs up.
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As the team smashed through the door, they tumbled out and down another short flight of stairs, having been disgorged from a parking lot somewhere in Everett. Across from them stood the shadowy double of the Bunraku parlor from Twodee, Dervish, Geppetto and Trout's early days running, although Dervish, the only one from that time, couldn't recognize it.

A ghostly woman in latex get-up, her face obscured by tangible shadow, stood at the doorway. Numerous doubles covered their smoky, vague chins and giggled behind her.

"Hey, booooys."

"Succubi," Bend, Wildcard, and Locke agreed, speaking simultaneously.

"Suck you--what?" Dervish looked between his teammates, confused.

"Any way we're getting through this unscathed?" Locke closed on the succubi, his LMG raised.

"You'll find that the girls and I have very reasonable rates," said the ambulatory latex suit. "Just a little bit off the top--only an hour of time, really--and the spirit formula's all yours. Wellers is just another name to us."

Locke did some assessing.

"Bullshit. An hour with you would kill any one of us. And our magic would be the first thing to go."

Wildcard grimaced, his mutated porcelain lips widening grotesquely, like a cartoon character.

"What if Dervish and I spent half time each?"

Locke gave Wildcard a look of shock.

"You'd both be crazy fucked up at the end of it. We can't risk it."

Behind him, the succubi giggled, as though this was the height of comedy.

"Better than fighting them," said Dervish, his voice wavering with uncertainty. "I think?"

"He's right," said Bend, somberly. "They'd at least come out of it likely alive, rather than if we fought all of them. You see how powerful those spirits are."

"Delicious," said the lead succubus. "I get those two, then?"

"Thirty minutes each," said Wildcard, walking into the building. "Starting now. Bend, if my biomonitor flatlines, you know what to do."

Dervish clenched his teeth and followed Wildcard.

>thirty minutes each

ooooh those poor fuckers
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Nah, they went public, but fucking with KE isn't worth the trouble.


Exactly one half an hour later, Wildcard and Dervish stumbled outside and fell into a groaning pile, clutching between them the second-to-last fragment. The succubi behind them made kissy-noises and then slammed the door.

Wildcard slumped up against the wall, unable to lift his head. His skin was deathly pale, his breathing shallow. Locke assensed him and found his Essence to be in the fractions. Dervish was doing mildly better, and slowly stood on uneasy legs.

"We got it, guys," coughed Dervish, holding up the fragment triumphantly. "We got it. I don't know what it is but we got it."

Bend patted Dervish on the shoulder, eying Wildcard warily.

"Good job, big guy. We only have one left to go. …Wildcard?"

Wildcard slowly, and with much exertion, lifted his head. The momentum of it lolling over his shoulders caused him to smash the back of his scalp into the wall, drawing blood. His eyes were drained of color, reduced to soft grey orbs.


Bend snapped his fingers in front of Wildcard's face.

"Wildcard, you with me?"

"…Yeah." Wildcard let his head drop again, and limply flopped his arm around with the vague, blind intent of being helped up. "…all things considered…getting' melted by succubi…ain't a bad way to lose a soul…"

"It's not your soul, Wildcard, at least not the whole one. Stick with us, we can get you therapy when you get out of this." Bend braced Wildcard over his shoulder and lifted him. "You think you can find the last shard?"

Wildcard blinked. His mouth hung open, trailing a single strand of drool.

"Huh? Oh…yeah. …Yeah. Here."
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Wildcard mushed his entire hand into his commlink, but the gesture sufficed. The team found themselves standing in a public library, comparatively clean and bright compared to the rest of Shadow Seattle. As they slowly moved into the foyer, four pedestals rose from the tile floor. On each pedestal was a large, blank tome, with a quill pen and ink.

"Some kind of trap," noted Bend.

"Or a puzzle," added Locke. "Let's try writing in them."

"But we're already writing in them," said Dervish.

With a start, Locke and Bend realized the three of them were already standing at the pedestals, having seemingly teleported. Wildcard lay on the floor of the foyer, twitching spasmodically.

"This isn't good," said Bend, panic rising in his voice. "I can't take my eyes off the book, and I can't stop writing. You guys?"

Locke and Dervish were in a similar strait. Both here attached to the podiums by their right arms, which were writing feverishly in the books at a rate far faster than any human had an right to do. No matter how they pivoted their bodies, their eyes remained locked on the books, although they found that they could focus on each other's books as well.
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"PETER COLBY was born in Portland, Oregon, United States of America, in 2018, to Brandon Colby and Caitlin Vance. As a child, he was bullied for his appearance: by the time that he was eight, the oldest metahumans were merely teenagers, and the phenomenon was not well-understood. He was plagued by crippling self-doubts that his parents did not love him because he was different, a state of mind that led to a lifelong pursuit of excellence in the military field, well-known for its strictly hierarchical structure…

"FELIX RAMIREZ was born in Cuetzalan, Mexico, in 2020, to Alejandro and Mariella Ramirez. His parents, both poor coal miners for the Oro corporation, saw his elfin features and magical powers as a gift, despite dark and persistent rumors that Oro's regular medical check-ups were actually experiments designed to "homegrow" soldiers, the implications of which would be that the child was not wholly theirs. Despite the crushing poverty of his childhood, Felix was pampered...

"JONATHAN RED-EAGLE was born in Alamosa, Colorado, Pueblo Corporate Council, in 2024. He at first appeared to be an ordinary human boy before his goblinization, so his unique gene structure went unstudied until his adolescence. His childhood was marked by small incidents of violence common to the transitory times during the formation of the PCC: compared to his peers, he was only a small percentage Native, and his mother was expelled from the fledgling nation early in his childhood…

Bend used his other hand to clutch feebly at his head, his eyes becoming bloodshot.

"What the hell…it's…stealing my thoughts."

A giggling imp appeared, sitting atop one of the bookshelves.

"And soon I'll have your whole life's stories, and then you'll be finished. I'll manage what all of the others couldn't! I'll end the intruders!"
Dervish, so badass spirits pee themselves when he appears.

This one time Dervish was walking in Chicago and some Insect Spirits saw him. They went to the closest shop and found some bug spray and drank it in front of him. Dervish nodded approvingly and let them die.

Another time Dervish was in the Redmond Barrens and some crazy ghoul jumped out to take a bite from his arm. Dervish started at him until the ghoul ate his own arm off and begged for forgiveness. Dervish kept walking.
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It cheerily flitted about behind each of the runners, carefully avoiding moving into their peripheries to negate any chance of being attacked. Dervish's eyes scanned his book, feverishly.

"I have…two brothers? …And they're both human? And…I'm fifty years old?"

"It's leeching our creativity," Felix yelled, pulling his sidearm with his left hand and firing wildly in the general direction of the bookshelves, missing the imp by a mile, "Every minute we spend writing is more of our soul getting taken away!"

All three teammates struggled, calling for Wildcard to help them. Wildcard stirred on the ground, but lacked the strength to lift his gun high enough to shoot at the Muse.

"…PETER COLBY was fast-tracked into the Ghosts at the age of twenty-five. As part of his contract, his death was faked and his parents were put into protective custody, where they both still live today. He retains no contact with any of his friends or family from before his spy work, leading to intimacy issues that cause him to be drawn to those younger than him, whom he views as more spontaneous and full of life…"

"…FELIX RAMIREZ excelled in the Homegrown Warrior program, attending military school and training exercises throughout his childhood. The other children in his class, disproportionately orcs, took issue with his metatype and magical acumen, culminating in a fight with another boy, Jose Ramos, in the school gym. Ramos was burned to death by a fire spirit, inadvertently summoned by Ramirez, an event leading to Felix's aversion to sacrifice…"

"JONATHAN RED-EAGLE spent many years sequestered in government testing labs, with the PCC's lax cruelty laws exploited by the still-unsolidified nation, despite the protests of his friends and family. However, he disappeared during a terrorist strike on the facility, an act later rumored to be linked to Aztechnology…"
>Jonathon Red-Eagle
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I love all of you.

With a sudden burst of gunfire, the front cover and first few pages of Dervish's book disappeared, shredded paper flying everywhere. Wildcard inched across the floor on his belly, gun held aloft and shaking. He edged towards Dervish on his elbows, struggling to train his gun on the book without hitting his teammate.

"It's useless," crooned the imp. "He'll keep writing until he's all mine, regardless of what you do. And then, when you're done languishing down there, I'll make you write your own!"

Wildcard leaned his gun against Dervish's podium, letting out a sigh of breath as he let go of the weight of it. He clambered up the podium with grasping, claw-like hands, his head lolling back lifelessly. The imp screeched out a harsh laugh.

"You can't take the book away from him, either. His hand is stuck there until he's done writing."

With a low rumbling growl, Wildcard hefted the back end of his gun through the gaping hole in the front of the book, then put both hands on the underside of the cover and lifted it, forming a rudimentary turret for Dervish.

"Oh," the imp responded, with a dumbfounded blink.

One drum of APDS ammo later, and the team were all closing their books, massaging their strained eyes with their knuckles. A final wisp of black energy flowed from Dervish's perforated tome and coalesced with the others into a single, ancient-looking scroll.

"Thanks, Wildcard," said Bend, with a warm smile. "We owe you one."

"M'name's…Dylan Cadbury…m'frum Edinbuh."

"Didn't need to make it a fair play thing, we know you're trustworthy." Bend helped to lift Wildcard again. "Hang in there, we've got all the formula fragments. We just need to kill--"

With a scream, Dervish was lifted bodily into the air and absorbed into a mass of cancerous black shadow with two glaring, red eyes. Bend turned to the nightmare, and completed his statement:

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Without hesitation, Felix manifested a fire spirit and began hurling gouts of burning ash at the nightmare, as Bend dropped behind his podium for cover, spraying bursts of explosive handgun bullets at the creature. Loud banging noises from inside the cloud of inky blackness meshed with screams, suggesting that Dervish wasn't going down without a fight.

Wildcard crawled for cover behind a bookshelf, taking awkward and mostly useless shots with his holdout pistol, only for the whole bookshelf to lift off the floor and go catapulting into Locke, knocking him prone and taking a large chunk out of his armor.

Bend fought like he'd literally never fought before, abandoning his traditional pacifism to unload round after round into the encroaching black cloud. As a tendril of pure shadow wrapped around him, he spent the clip, reloaded, and continued to spray concentrated bursts between the thing's eyes, screaming a wordless yell over the gunfire.

And then, it was over. As if an invisible threshold had been reached, "Wellers" violently exploded, the very force of her personality taking leave and rendering the surroundings blurred and indistinct. Dervish toppled to the floor, the life half-drained from him, cracking the tile (or the diminishing idea thereof). Wildcard slumped into unconsciousness. Bend let out a huff of breath, stumbled over to Locke and, in the almost uncanny silence, gasped out,

"It's over. Get us back home."

His hands trembling, Locke summoned his guidance spirit, which slowly opened a portal…
>With a scream, Dervish was lifted bodily into the air and absorbed into a mass of cancerous black shadow with two glaring, red eyes. Bend turned to the nightmare, and completed his statement:

The nightmare, unable to find anything scarier, decided to turn into Dervish instead.
>Jonathon Red-Eagle
Where have we heard that before?
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JANUARY 13th, LATITUDE 42.22, LONGITUDE -138.5, 2074


"LO SIENTO! FUCK!" Locke clawed at Bend, trying to scramble out of the water which surrounded them on all sides.



"OH FOR FUCK'S SAKE." Bend stripped off his tactical suit and, stretching his shape change power to the best of its abilities, shifted into the form of a giant squid before holding his companions aloft. The giant squid burbled something angry and squeezed Locke, who hastily summoned another guidance spirit.


Sergeant Powers leaned against the water cooler of the Knight Errant armory, putting the pieces of a dismantled predator back together.

"Hey, did you hear about the kids that the Chief Inspector is going on about? Apparently a bunch of runners gave a nightmare some kidnapped kids."

Sergeant Maxwell put his helmet in his locker, eyeing the photo of his own kids inside, and winced.

"I swear, it's criminal how everyone just ignores shadowrunning. Corporate crime, tow the party line, et cetera, et cetera. They're a menace to fucking society. You never hear about how runners are killing your kids, just romanticized counterculture bullshit."

"I'd like to see a good cop movie these days," added Powers, finishing the gun, holstering it, and moving to his own locker. "Search me as to why the crime genre is so popular with the kids these days."

"Well, you have to admit, it is pretty glamorous," noted Maxwell. "You never see runners make stupid mistakes unless it's for drama, so--ABLRLBLBLRRLBBBRRRR"

With that, 4 tons of sea water, 3 runners in full mil spec gear, approximately 25 assorted fish, and a giant squid clutching a tacsuit fell into the armory.

>Giant squid.

>With a scream, Dervish was lifted bodily into the air and absorbed into a mass of cancerous black shadow with two glaring, red eyes. Bend turned to the nightmare, and completed his statement:

They then realised something....

It wasn't Dervish screaming. It was Mrs Wellers.

From the inside of the mass of black tentacles gaps of light appeared; red, white and blue light.

A voice rang out clear and strong over the inhuman groans and cries of the monster "Give me back my bandanna, my suit and give me a taco and we will call it even."

The mass shook up and down, up and down and out toppled a man clad in red-white-and-blue MilSpec armour, wearing an american flag bandanna on his head and THREE pairs of sunglasses. With a taco in his hand.

The shadowy tentacle monster wobbled around and its evil red eyes appeared to show a glimmer of relief as the man took a bite of the taco.

A split second later his fist connected with what could be considered the face of the monster and it shattered wordlessly into million pieces.

"You forgot the cheese."
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"ONE MORE TIME, ONE MORE TIME," yelled the giant squid, as it popped back into the form of a handsome and very naked elf.

"WAIT HOLD ON I THINK THIS IS YESTERDAY," responded the runner wearing a beak-esque helmet.


"Wh…" Powers slowly picked himself up. "…what?"



The team gathered in the Faulty Bar, having been doing their level best to avoid any time loop shenanigans, because none of them were particularly versed in this extensive level of metaplanar time bullshit, and unless every time travel movie was lying to them, fucking with their past selves would cause problems. Thus, despite the considerable advances it would have made to science to experimentally change the past, most of the team had just waited at the bar, then went home after they were sure that they had been arrested.

Wildcard, recognizing that it would make everything easier for himself, was sure to get a few touch-ups done on his face during the regenerative therapy he needed to get himself back to normal, and then went home during his own arrest and retrieved his car keys from his own house.

Dervish found that his memories returned when he was outside of the subjective space of the Shadow Metaplane, and mostly just watched pirated trid and hung out with sensei, who noted that "your meeting with Knight Errant didn't take that long," but otherwise didn't ask questions.

Bend found himself a nice tree, turned into a squirrel, and hid away in that identity for a while.

And Locke went to Wildcard's house and drank all his coffee again, by excuse of "I don't know if Knight Errant put out my information, so my hideout is compromised."

All things considered, things were exactly where the runners wanted them: status quo.

Needless to say, this would change with their last, and greatest, run.

But sir! Sir! you forgot the most important part?
Did they get paid?
They went a few days back in time it appears.
Yesssss, TwoDee! Thank you for making an otherwise mediocre night amazing@

Yes, although in retrospect it made more sense how angry the chief inspector was getting.
Yeah getting a giant squid to the dignity will do that.
Sorry 2D this is a better ending.
>that smell in the armory
>two tons of seawater and fish
...okay uh...fuck, you have an AWESOME GM there.
Truly, then, this is a story of heroes amongst runners. Twodee, I salute you for such a tale.

Although I've had a few tiffs with the GM before, he's damn good at that sort of microanalysis.
Question, Twodee. Did Dervish remember all of the stuff he wrote about himself when he was being influenced by the Imp?
>A split second later his fist connected with what could be considered the face of the monster and it shattered wordlessly into million pieces.
>"You forgot the cheese."
>Needless to say, this would change with their last, and greatest, run.
Does this mean that Shadowrun Storytime 19 will be the end of all this? That's depressing. :(
In how many sessions was this played?

Anon, I'm sorry to say that this is no longer true because another anon just put it on the archives as "Shadowrun Sorytime"

This was about 3 sessions, 1 for the kids and 2 for Hell.
Oh bloody hell. Maybe Lord Licorice could fix that.

Pinging some people on sup/tg/ chat now, here's hoping.
Fucking amazing.
Don't be gone so long next time though, cunt.
Oh and since I haven't been able to tell you, shadowrun storytime basically got my group to play shadowrun, and they seems to be enjoying it, so props.
TwoDee, I would like to thank you for introducing me to The BCASA. (For those of you that don't remember, TwoDee uses the song below for a chase scene some threads ago.)

Today has been a good day. Thanks TwoDee!
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Okay, I'm in contact with Licorice. I'm fixing this thread and 3.


No promises, anon. Also, yay!
I confess to having a massive girl-boner for Dervish.
>"And you?"
>Dervish grunted.
"America-san desu"
And the ground tore open as the Statue of liberty rose with Dervish standing on the tip of her crown
After performing the required poses, Dervish jumped inside SoL's control cockpit and engaged the monster in giant-robot-combat
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I have...an eclectic taste in music.


You flatter me!


Yes, he did. Questions upon questions...


The last run was like 5 sessions long, and will almost certainly take 2 threads. But yes.

After this, I'll probably move on to PATHFINDER STORYTIME, of which I am the GM and not a player, but featuring (in my humble opinion as their GM) equally interesting characters.
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Dervish's player is laughing his head off at all of the Dervish love in this thread.

I've typed this post about four times and none of it's come up to my likelyhood,k so fuck it.

2D, you're a good person and a great storyteller, and this game sounds like it was fun as hell.

You continue to be an inspiration.

Also now I have to figure out a way to throw my players into some metaplanar bullshit, but one of them's an AI and I don't want to leave them out, but at the same time I don't want to break the metaphysics of the setting to much. Conundrums.
I am honestly freaking out over a lot of Dervish's characterization. I had only read the first two threads of Shadowrun Storytime when I made my first Shadowrun character, and American Pan-Nationalist Revolutionary mage, sort of a cross between Bandit Keith and Gob Bluth. He and Dervish are both NAN born, have the same first name, and have similar tastes in loud clothing. It's the weirdest shit and I didn't plan any of it.
ngl I'm pretty excited for your Pathfinder Storytime, too!

You're a huge inspiration to me, and perhaps the main driving force behind my descent into the shadows. :D
i have been waiting this for so long, you made me check tons of Shadowrun material for inspiration to make a story as awesome as this.

just a question, i dont know a lot of shadowrun , but wasnt teleportation and time travel a no no for magic in shadowrun universe? i mean, i know your GM houserules things to make a good story, and just for that single moment it is damn worth, but i have curiosity.
Oh shit, it's been so long. I missed you so much ;_;
Seconding boners of the female variety for Dervish.



I am glad to be an inspiration, dysfunctional player that I am. This is one of the games, if not THE game, that I have the fondest memories of.
Database alignment gives me tingles!
oh no Dervish is losing Essence to a lachcubus

Technically, it's not teleportation that we were doing. We were doing a workaround, namely traveling through the metaplanes for extremely short periods of time. Munchkinny as fuck, but the effort required kept it from being too much of a regular thing.

The time travel thing was entirely the GM, but yes, normally.

In-official-universe, Harlequin can do both, which does set a precedence for both phenomenons but is also infuriating.
All the ca/tg/irls love the Dervish.
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My jimmies were rustled until I went to
and saw Shadowrun Storytime 18 at the bottom of the list.
You also basically caused our group to start playing. Unfortunately, we Stopped Playing yesterday for GM burnout reasons.

I know that feel, bro. Doesn't help that it's a bad system for a new GM to try to learn.
Does this mean that Dervish will use his real name to find out about himself?
i imagined the planar jumping thingy, but the Harlequin time travel is new to me, but as i heard that he is the biggest mary sue ever, so that explain why isnt as common as it could be.
And #3 as well. Three cheers for LL!

You'll have to tune in next time!
...in six months...

Ah, well, you can count on my attendance, then. It's been a good day. I got a growler of ale and TwoDee Storytime, and it's not even over yet.
you squeamy and sexy devil
I still love you, TwoDee. I will have your manbabies.
(starts crying)

In all seriousness though, I don't know when Shadowrun Storytime 19-20 will be, by virtue of it being the tumultuous end of my senior year of undergrad. At the very least I should have some free time in the summer, but that means I won't have a job by then, which is worrying.
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hey, i'm new to these threads, but they're hilarious!

What's with bend, though! Is he a shapeshifter, a shapeshifting free spirit, or just a mage using shapechange? Slightly confused here!
He's a Mystic Adept, which is a combo of a normal mage and an adept.
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TwoDee will forever have my jelly for his commitment to provide quality content for /tg/. I wish I could storytime even half as well as you do.

If you're ever in LA and looking for a game or a pint, I'd be only too happy to provide.
His Archtype is an Adept. Which he uses to help with his infiltrations.
>If you're ever in LA and looking for a game or a pint, I'd be only too happy to provide.

Sadly, I do not live in LA.
However, having been part of a game set in that city, i can only hope its as hilariously fucking awesome as the future version

I'm...always in LA. At least unless I move out for employment soon.
Fuarrrrk. Email's in the field.

Hold on...are you one of the Aero Hobbies guys? Because if you're one of the Aero Hobbies guys...

This can only go great places. Godspeed
We got a good eight or so runs over like six months out of it, including an actual extraction where we also ended up stealing the experimental APC she was working on.

It's just the whole "Guys, rebuild characters. [some changed who they were, some didn't] Use the THIRD [and final] gen method with these modifications" coming and not even getting a run after that before "Guys, we're not going to do this."

Really, though, I think the real burnout was from trying to start an Armorball League run [er...what's the real name...Urban Brawl] as a first-campaign SR...PRIOR to creating/finding rules to do so.
>Aero Hobbies
I have heard of this place. I do most of my gaming in Pasadena at Game Empire, but I've been wanting to check it out.
You're making me wish I were still in the area.

And I've heard of Game Empire! I've especially been meaning to try to find a regular Pathfinder Society venue wherever I end up after grad, be it here or in another city.

Also, I've got to disappear for the rest of the night for an obligation, but I'll hit you up sometime in the near future.
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>Aero Hobbies
>Santa Monica
Damn it, that's too far away from me.
Chuck Norris is a pale imitation of Dervish for real life
Starting a Shadowrun campaign Saturday as the DM. TwoDee, you've given me a desire to learn a new system in every way and I can't thank you enough for it.
Thank you TwoDee, your original storytime made me want to run Shadowrun. Six sessions later me and my group are loving it!
Attention, TwoDee!
I am announcing on behalf of RMH that by next story time, there will be much Dervish art.

That is all.

Dervish will be informed presently. Good to hear that RHM is still around!
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This made my day.
This makes everyone's day.
If I were a drawfag:
We are looking up at the Statue of Liberty from the ground
Dervish is a tiny speck (like squat stick-figure tiny) atop the Statue of liberty, but loudly exclaiming "AMERICA-SAN DESU!", with the speech bubble being all jagged/pointy so you know he's screaming
As you travel down the image, you see the Shadow Spirit, turning to run in wide-eyed terror with a simple "OH SHIT!" accompanying her
God damn it TwoDee you're ruining my immersion.
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My day has been made!

It is sad to hear that the next will be the last Shadowrun Storytime... But I have a feeling in time you'll have more tales worthy to be told.
And with this...I have posted in the same thread as TwoDee
To be fair, you can do that here as well:
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You mean like this?
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I especially like the dialogue flag
Nice touch
The term "magazine" is dead in the Shadowrun universe. Even weapon manufacturers call them clips now.
Sad shit.
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Bubbles, do you have Alzheimer's? This is the third time you've introduced yourself in this thread. Stop circumventing the duplicate image detection.

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