NOTE: This is going to happen in parallel to your main story threads but don't worry about the timing of this interferring with the other stories you have going on...unless you want them too.

Downtown McHughs was a busy place in Detroit. For the most part the customer base were a mix of tourists from the outer suburbs wandering the downtown hub combined with the blue collar service workers that kept the city running but didn't get a fancy pay check to match.

The end result was a AR play area bursting with rugrats and exasperated parents just hoping their kids will keep it together for them  to shove a Mr. McBeefy down in peace alongside haunted looking cleaners and cashiers simultaneously hating their jobs but also fearful that some new robot is going to come out tomorrow and put them out on their hoop tomorrow.

The lines were long but moving fast as the kitchen area looked like a bee hive with young teenagers and college kids (and the occasional middle-aged burnout) were turning soypaste into the most "bottom denominator" food products known to mankind. They were cheap, they were crappy, but they were consistently cheap and crappy and had brilliant chemical engineers pouring millions of nuyen into research the exact flavor profile to somehow make everyone crave what should be the cheapest food on the market.

Even the crunchiest of hippie vegetarian would get a pang of a craving seeing a Double Bacon McBeef W/ Cheese put in front of them.

Even when it's moving fast, a long line is inherently more annoying than a short one.  A thumb tucked into a pocket casually is also pressed against his link as proof against pickpockets in a crowd like this.  The switchbacks in the line are at least a little handy as an excuse to look around, trying to spot his contact.  Of course, if he's here before them there's no chance of that working.

After a wait that's much shorter than it feels, he reaches the register and places his order in a bored voice.  "A number three, number twelve, number six and number eleven."

After paying and getting his reciept, Ash moves off to the side to wait for his order, leaning against a wall that's starting to look a little faded from all the people who've done so in the past.  It offers a good view of the counter where they hand over the food, and of the rest of the restaraunt.  The other person waiting there gets a noncommital shrug, the place is crowded and there's only so many places to stand after all.

Looking at the menu this is a Double McHugh Bacon Burger, a Grilled Chicken Rancho-Tastic Salad, an Nu-Apple Pie and a Strawberry Milkshake. The electronic display makes a big deal of proclaiming that the milkshake uses authentic strawberries (for a limited time only of course).

Geist shifted uneasily, hands in her coat. Definitely not her usual stop, though whatever sensory layers they were putting on top of the ads - it was uncanny, she was planning to get some Goan street food from a place she knew after the meet, but clearly she needed to order something not to seem out of place, right?

"Small order of fries."

She was throwing a few nuyen into the ketchup dispensing unit when she heard what she was looking for.



As soon as the man was out of the line, she grabbed the plastic cup of ketchup and sidled up a few feet away from him.

"Strange selection. Why not in numerical order?"

"Meal, dessert, meal, dessert"  He answers with a shrug, glancing down at the short-for-an-elf woman with the glowing hair.  "Doesn't seem all that strange to me.  Asking someone about their order order, that's a bit strange."

If she's the contact, she's definitely a strange one.  Doesn't seem the type to eat here or she wouldn't be so skinny.  So why not somewhere else?  Or was she 'invited' here too?

"You're telling me. You ordered with what I'm slowly coming to realize might be my unlucky numbers, and I didn't even know I had those. Week's been cursed enough as is."

She looked over at the menu board for a moment, unsure of how to proceed.

"Well, if that's your usual order, then take consolation in the fact that I'm likely not even in the top ten of weirdoes you'll meet at a McHughs. If there's another reason, though..."

She turned back to the tall human, wondering if she looked as crazy as she sounded.

Ah.  Or whoever it is could have multiple people primed for the same data.  "Couple entries short for unlucky numbers, lotto's six.  Unless you're used to something with fewer people and higher stakes."  He shakes his head.  "My luck's been glitched this week too, but I don't think luck has anything to do with those numbers."

Turning his head to look at her again, he lets his eyes slide halfway into the astral, taking a closer look at her aura.  Cyber hair and cyber skin...  That's a pretty telling combo.  "So what makes them unlucky for you?"

McHugh's would not be Winter's first pick for a meal either. Just looking at the adverts for their greasy you-won't-believe-it's-not-real-meat burger is enough to make her think of her arteries clogging up. But then from her place in the line she overhears the familiar numbers: #3, #12, #6, #11. And as she waits her turn (pretending to be examining the menu and not eavesdropping), she has her earbuds filter out this particular conversation out of the noise of the place.

Once it's her turn she makes the same order as well: "Double Bacon Burger, Grilled Chicken Salad, Nu-Apple Pie and... a Strawberry Milkshake." Strawberry, ugh. Well, maybe the salad is edible at least. Maybe.

She looked around conspiratorially.

"Someone sent me them after... issues at work."

Johnny, despite his rumpled clothes and the cigarette dangling from his lips, looked very out of place. Maybe it was because trench coats only seemed to be popular with very wealthy businessmen, or spree shooters. Maybe it was because he looked like he hadn't slept or showered for a few days. Or maybe it was because he was looking at the menu like it had personally insulted him.

Not even an attempt at a lobster roll. Savages... he thought sadly, shaking his head.

"Gimme a Soykaf. Lots of cream, lots of sugar," the lawyer grunted at the cashier, resentful of the few Nuyen that the Soykaf was dragging out of him.



That made his ears perk up. Taking a sip from his cup of hot drek, he casually glanced over his shoulder at the two very obvious Shadowrunners that were chatting, and had loudly proclaimed very particular series of numbers.

The same numbers that he had been given.

"I don't mean to butt-in to what is clearly a private conversation  for two, and I don't want to presume from appearances what your chosen vocation is, but from the sounds of things, you were unexpectedly called to this location for unknown reasons with a series of mysterious numbers? Now, I find myself in the same boat. That says to me that we should either scatter immediately because something bad is about to happen, or someone with a LOT of pull has arranged this unlikely grouping. Does anyone else concur? Also, for the love of Lofwyr's balls, please get better at double-speak. I'm pretty sure the pimply-faced teenagers could crack your codes," the criminal/attorney asked mildly with a friendly and welcoming smile.

"I listened for the code I was given, it's not my fault if whoever wants us here didn't bother with sound encryption."

She looked over, her eyes narrowed in frustration.

"And if it's not you, then you're in the same jam as the rest of us."

The place is pretty full given the time of day and the location. The downtown McHugh's is jammed but as the four lingering around one another (or in Winter's case just eavesdropping in close proximity) get close suddenly a group of four paramedics at a booth all stand up, grabbing their food, shoving it into bags and dashing out at full speed.

Where there had been a completely full restaurant before, now there was an empty table for four right near the group...

The moment she picks up her order, Winter heads straight for the empty table. She sits down and starts examining her food (or close approximation of food, anyway).

Everything ordered is as expected: the cheapest ingredients scientifically engineered by a megacorp for perfect consistency and raw biological appeal. It would be hard to differentiate the chemical effects of a bacon cheeseburger from McHughes and a designer street drug.

But hey, supposedly the milkshake has real strawberries in it. Frankly speaking unless you're dining at a upper class restaurant this is probably the closest anyone in the restaurant would get to a real strawberry, perhaps in their entire lives.

Geist bites into a fry with trepidation before mowing through a significant portion of the bag, almost unconsciously.

"I should have gotten a drink. So much salt..."

Having tasted the best soykaf this dump had to offer, Johnny tossed his cup of sadness into the nearest bin with an open look of disgust.

"So, staying. Not fleeing. Fair enough," Johnny grunted, half to himself and half to the others that he had approached.

Still, if something was going to happen, it better happen soon. Or he was going to bounce. Blackmail didn't matter much if the blackmailer didn't pull the trigger.

"Fleeing wouldn't even help."  Ash comments, taking a seat with the others and his meal(s).  "You're welcome to have some, no reason not to if the extra's late."  Unwrapping the not-technically-a-burger, he takes a bite and chews it for a few moments as he looks around the place again, looking for any other clues about who or what arranged this.

"Whoever it is, they know who we are, even if we don't know each other.  They know our jobs.  We don't know any of that about them.  If we bail, they can just keep trying."  Not to mention that they've already proven they'll resort to blackmail as their first move, but the others may not know that yet.  "Might as well hear what they have to say."

He walked in to the place, trying desperately not to show any of the several emotions warring inside of him. He tried to look casual, like just another normal person looking for food. He felt naked and expose, without his mask. Vulnerable without his normal 'attire' and in the meat world.

But he was angry too. He didn't like being blackmailed, threatened or hunted. In general, he just didn't like being fragged with. But he was trying to stay calm and logical.

He waited in line for a long time, shuffling forward when people moved ahead of him, pretending to ponder his choices looking at the menu. But when he reached the counter, he knew exactly what to order because he'd already been told to.

He pretended to draw out some of them like he was trying to decide on the spot. "Let's seeee...a number three. A numberrrr twelve. Aaaaaa number six. Oh, an' I shouldn't but an eleven too please!" He shook his head at his 'splurging'.
This message was last edited by the player at 06:19, Sat 14 May 2022.

Winter completes the autopsy of her meal. It's food alright, but not the kind we know it. Now, she's no stranger to processed soy - she's nowhere wealthy enough for that - but at least it doesn't have to take form of cheap fast food as well. This feels like imitation of an imitation of food to her. And yeah, she's still not a fan of strawberry flavoring. But, since she is stuck here, she selects the salad as the least offensive of the items in front of her and digs in, pushing the rest of her order to the side.

If possible, she'll go back to order a soda as well. Make that a diet soda, they can't possibly screw up something that has no nutritional value anyway, can they?

I assume the rest of the (future) team is also at the same table?
This message had punctuation tweaked by the player at 18:26, Sat 14 May 2022.