”Ok, let’s go.” said the man as he climbed into the back seat, shedding rain, soaking the leather.

Rafael Werner, an operations director for Proteus AG, visiting CalFree working through a subcontract dispute. The BMW sedan that Proteus AG has provided sits at the northern terminus of Alameda island, in the dockyards on the airfield of the old Naval Air Station.

The station is separated from the rest of Orkland by a large wall.  Constantly monitored by the Imperial Navy’s shore patrol sentries, armed drones and ever present surveillance cameras, this is the sole enduring Imperial presence east of San Fransisco itself.  The shadow of the Imperial presence looms over Orkland’s metahumanity like the shadow of the light carrier USS Hornet, now renamed Suzumebachi, formerly a floating museum that the imperials are upgrading to put into service as a drone carrier under contract of Mitsuhama's Heavy Shipbuilding directorate.

Which is what brought Werner out here into Orkland’s d-zone. Proteus AG has a systems integration contract that is weeks behind schedule. Werner is here to get things back on track.

”Back downtown.” he says. ”To the office.”

@Pacer, @Sidewinder: This is your not too distant past. Your corporate past. You both happen to be on contract for Proteus AG … today is just a routine driver and security gig assigned to the executive protection team. It’s your first outing together. Let’s play a bit to establish a bit of background between the two characters.

"Got it," Pacer said, leg twitching with inaction as he flicked the sedan into gear and tightened his black necktie.  Waiting around was always the worst part of the job.  That, and all the dry cleaning.

As the wheels began to roll, the sound of raindrops on the windshield scored Pacer's thoughts: questions he had about his current employer (Herr? Mr? Werner?  Must be a big deal going on if a Director is coming to Orkland in person?) and his new partner Sidewinder (wonder how they hold up in a firefight, and do I detect the whiff of magic?); observations he had about this contract (this is the smoothest gig I've ever had in Orkland...so far) and the current state of Orkland (this place looks more like a warzone every time I come here...)

Thoughts he knew he'd better keep to himself, at least for now.

So he sipped the last of his cold soykaf and settled for a quick glance over at his new partner Sidewinder, before muttering, "Office sounds good.  I could use a hot cup.  You see anything out there?"
This message was last edited by the player at 23:20, Sun 22 Oct 2023.

Being called away from her research is always irritating, a fact Viktorie Dvořák keeps to herself. The ‘doctor’ in ThD should rightly keep her out of the field. But logic dictates the scarcity of mages inevitably calls for the grunt work of a standard wagemage. Especially since there is no doubt in her mind that her division is the corp’s least profitable enterprise. The fact that she was specifically tasked to a director’s security detail is both a blessing and a curse. If she performs too well, this could increasingly draw her away from her postdoctoral fellowship. If she performs to poorly . . . best not dwell on that.

The driver spilling water about the vehicle is distasteful—unprofessional—but ‘hot cup’ does trigger a momentary twinkle in the elf’s lethargic eyes. She didn’t dare bring soykafe inside a vehicle in the presence of a director—professional—and the trace of a headache is setting in.

“Slower; mildly,” she succinctly instructs the driver without clarification as her lidded eyes droop completely closed and her body slumps against the car door for a few beats. This would grant the most negligible advantage possible, but it at least appears that she is putting a little extra care in answering his vaguely reasonable question. A question posed in Werner’s presence

OOC: Perfunctory sweep with astral projection.