Shadowrun is Awesome
Last night's Session 0 started out a little slow, as players trickled in, and our trusty Storyteller was gypped out of his Dr. Pepper. But once the character sheets were (mostly) filled out, and the battle mat was rolled out, it was time to run the shadows.
In the dystopic world of 2059 Seattle, it almost always starts with a phone call. The Johnson wanted to meet in a hurry, and he had all the goods: pass keys, ID badges, even a map of the location with guard stations noted, and a simple instruction:
Find the cyberware prototype.
This was going to be easy.
We walked right through the door and checked in with security without incident, and went about our duties... checking every room while we search for the prototype.
Trash cans were searched, and a note was found: The prototype has been installed in the subject, and seems to be working out.
Computer terminals were (almost) hacked.
And then I walk into the lobby and see two guards. One glances up from his magazine. He takes note of us, sees that we seem to belong here, and goes back to his book. The other, though. This guy sends a shiver up my short dwarfy spine.
He's jacked in to the security system. He is watching as my team rifles through trash cans and fiddles with computers. No one seems alerted, so perhaps he hasn't noticed yet, but it's only a matter of time. If we don't take him down now, when we find the prototype, he's going to alert the whole building, and CorpSec may not be tough one one one, but a whole mess of them will ruin a day.
I quietly mic for someone to bring a tranq patch, and one of the infiltrators comes in, wandering up to the guard station and slapping the trauma patch on the back of his... head? oh, chummer... time for plan B.
I set fire to a trash can.
The book guard just looks confused, trying to figure out why a trash can is on fire. The rigger comes running to put it out. Which is a huge surprise, since he was the one in the system. When he's focused on the can i activate my Doberman, which rises out of the clean cart and fires a quick tranq into the guard's neck. He drops like a sack of simsoy.
The infiltrator pulls a tiny pistol from seemingly out of nowhere and fires at the remaining guard. The noise is deafening in the spacious lobby, and I can't imagine no one else heard that. The bullet must have hit the flask of whiskey in the bookie guard's pocket, because it seems not to have affected him. He draws his Baretta and fires back at the infiltrator, who attempts to take cover, but instead takes a shot in the shoulder.
I spin my drone and fire another tranq - the bookie goes down.
With that, it's over. The guards are down, and the security rig is unjacked.
I grin at my Doberman, "Good boy," and head for the security desk.
To Be Continued...
