conversations: human
conversations:  The weather was dark and grim, the rain covering up the streets in an ever persistant haze with neon signs barely poking through it. In all honesty the rain wasn't that dangerous, sure there were over a dozen articles from different medical corps proclaiming it to be unhealthy over the long term. The only cure, available through a ten year contract they sold for more than most people owned. Most squatters had grown used to it and gone on with their lives, preferring to deal with the very real problems in front of them.
  
  The time was late afternoon, while corporate citizens were busy slaving away inside self-sufficient giant acrologies the rest of Seattle was reminded just how dead and hopeless the world had become. Despite the futility of existance, some worthwhile individuals fought against destiny, daring to exploit the system and force their existance on to what was left of this world.
conversations: Ghost49X:
conversations: human
conversations:  Frank Castle had just gotten off his last 'job' for his employer, taking care of some low level thugs in the near by Barrons that had apparently caused some issues and problems for him. The exchange for this deal with a small crate of ammo for his various guns that he had purchased from his employer. Frank had brought it into his home using a dufflebag and using his key to enter his small apartment, he walked in through the front door and walked directly towards his second bedroom where he kept all of his weapons and armor and everything else. Frank placed the duffle bag on the ground next to the other dufflebags and then turned around and started to clean his weapons.
  
  Frank always cleans his weapons after a mission if they had to be fired and sadly today they did.
conversations: Sinpoder707:
conversations: human
conversations:  Geyser dropped back into meatspace with a disgusted sigh, looking up at his bare wall with its patched-over bullet holes and single dark waterstain.    Some things can't really be fixed.    He had just spent another half-dozen hours rooting idiot script kiddies' hacks out of the network used by the local gang, earning his protection.  The helpful hints he left for the crackhead who was  supposed  to be overwatch in that network would probably be ignored again.  A muted scream of metal and an echoing    KLANGG    drifted over from the chop shop next door.  The sound didn't rate a glance from the hideous-faced ork.
  
  He checked through the notifications that got past the drek-filter on his lean mean machine of a commlink.  Nothing from the Exchange.  He sighed again; the network gave him something to look forward to beyond another gaz day of exploiting corps' imperfections for personal gain.  After grabbing a glass of tap water (not great, but better than what he'd had to drink four-fifths of his life so far) from the bathroom, he responded to a couple requests on his favorite peer-to-peer, then went back to scan the earlier messages.  Maybe something worthwhile would show.
conversations: Dimers:
conversations: human
conversations:  Michel sits in his clinic watching the door, with the occasional sip of rum. Things were slow right now, bad weather keeps people inside unless it's serious, but there was always the chance something interesting might come through the door.   And between my second sight and 99% of people not being able to tell mind reading magic from diagnosis magic, I am uniquely suited to handling the more interesting cases. If only one would show up.  
  
  There was another chance of something interesting coming up too, if Bagrat had some side work for him. But until Bagrat reached out to him about something, he'd have no idea when or what that would be, so there was no point wondering on it. And with his medical equipment taking up most of his MSP's bandwidth, entertainment on the matrix would be a poor solution to his boredom, so Michel takes another sip of Rum and returns his attention to door.
conversations: jojolagger:
conversations: human
conversations:  Out on the streets was the nightcrawler, Peter G. Fry, the alter ego of a runner simply known as Jane Doe. She was a hard one to pin down, as she often wore a new face every other day or so. While in between jobs, she often ran as Peter G. Fry to get pictures of crime scenes taken as fast as possible. Granted some of those scenes where her own runs, but lately it was quite.
  
  Occassionally she offered a temp service were she'd help someone who was needing a day or two off. She had to get paid ahead of time, but she'd fill in for them during that time, with the wide range of skills she had. Granted, this was something she did more often to get information from those positions, though she wouldn't take anything too complex, strenuous, or expensive that could risk exposing her operation.
conversations: Triskavanski: