<span style="font-weight: bold">@ KavenBach (Santi):</span>The first of the youths passes you, not seeming to take interest.  His pack identifies him as a student, but a college level, definitely.  Among them, it's clear the pockets are too baggy to immediately discern which holds a reward and which is empty, save for the last one passing; a gawdy-dressed male with the group, identified so by the lustrous bangles and recognizably expensive brand of cologne.  Unlike the others, who probably carried wallets, he wore a more traditional mens satin cash-purse hanging into a loose pocket, sealed with silk and gold-trimmed string.  Walking around looking like exotic foreign royalty in this end of town was usually safe, this close to the border in the market area.  It wasn't, however, smart.<br/><br/>This was made apparent about twenty minutes later when the loudly dressed upper-middle class cocksucker reached into his pocket and found it empty.  Empty one sleek satin purse and thirty Oziran credits.  Perhaps he'd learned today?  ((OOC:  One Credit = $2.50 US equivalent in Velle / Ratio economies today.  The monetary system here is integrated like with the Euro, and old Velle and Ratio coinage is rare, outdated, and often collected.))<br/><br/>You, however, find little satisfaction in your new acquisition, as a moment after they've passed without notice of your sleek little lift, you realizes someone else had seen – a man, crossing the street in your general direction, in sunglasses.  Brown coat, dusty, nondescript; he doesn't speak a word, but a cocked eyebrow sends a tingle down your spine.  Your inner sense, instinct after years of life on the street – you know he knows.<br/><br/><br/><span style="font-weight: bold">@ Ome (Stella):</span>“Ms. Limia, Stella?”  A voice from the other end rings out, then you realize it's a voice mail; perhaps the call had come from near the wall, sometimes devices acted up that way...  “This is Carlton Hope, general manager of the Continental Combat Commission.  I received your contact information from your most recent employer on the Velle fight circuit after one of our scouts told me he was thoroughly impressed with your skills.  I'll be out of the office today due to some business complications, but tomorrow night we'll be in our second night of celebrating the new coming millenium with the continentally-broadcast “Tearing Down the Wall” fights, Ratio and Velle fighters going head to head in the spirit of competition.  Once a millennium!  This is big exposure, Miss Limia, and we need a good opponent to go toe-to-to with the Firin' Oziran.  If you could call the office back promptly at frequency 3202-7474-8891 extension A, my secretary could get you arranged, or if you're near two-oh-five Haynes street at the wall, the general office is right there.  It would get this cleared up quick, and we pay top credit – newcomers are guaranteed five hundred a match plus possible performance bonus.  I apologize for such short notice, Miss Limia, and hope you'll join us for this remarkable, once in a lifetime event.”  *Click.*<br/><br/>The Firin' Oziran... one of the many Ratio middleweight combatants on what was no less than Ozira's equivalent of the WWE... save for that this was real.  The trash talk and drama was there, but most Velle and Ratio television didn't bother with the eight seconds of edit delay time offered unless someone said something really bigoted.  It was real, visceral, hard.  It was opportunity knocking.<br/><br/><br/><span style="font-weight: bold">@ TaciturnTiger (Jori):</span>As you enter the office for yet another slow day at Virgil Insurance Co., the secretary, a blonde human in her forties, gives you a brief wave before calling you behind your back.  “Jori!” She stands, shuffling over to you with a remarkably irritating grin, teeth that could snow blind you.  “I almost forgot.  Boss says we have a little issue with the Hammond case.  The ones who lived near the wall and claimed their house was burnt down in a magical flux?  Higher ups think it might be f-r-a-u-d, and they're sending you into the field today to investigate.<br/><br/>You would recognize this, normal procedure for investigating possible fraud.  Against bigger entities, like small businesses and rich folk, you'd go with a partner, put on the social pressure.  Normal homeowners, though, you'd merely interview before shuffling through the remains of the wreck.  Get stories straight, make notes, write a report.  “Before you head out, here's the investigation permit and the keys to company vehicle two.  You can talk to them first, or check out the lot where the house was.  Your assistant said she left the homeowners statements on your desk.” She adds, before the peeking sunlight strikes her hideously perfect teeth and forces you to blink several times in stinging pain.<br/><br/><br/><span style="font-weight: bold">@ Glaive:</span>“Your town?  Ha-HA!” He claps his hands.  “Forgive me, I had no idea I'd find you here!  I was in fact on the way to contact someone – oh, nevermind.  Please, please, if we could have a seat.” He steps in anyway, drawing from his cloak pocket a small black booklet.  “Yes, you're... Glaive, if this photo is right.  Top notch in your work, so it says.” He pulls back his cloak, revealing a handsome face, black eyes set in tan under raven bangs.  Half-human, half... something.  The fangs gave a lot away.  “Call me Marcus, mister Glaive.” He sits down and smiles comfortably, as though you're both best pals.  He pulls out a chit, an encoded one, made out to no one, but definitely encrypted.  All chits were heavily encrypted, and if left blank, required a hell of a passcode to deposit in one's account.<br/><br/>Set in the clear plastic sealing the coding foil, the numbers stood out like a lightning rod.  One-hundred thousand credits.  “I was wondering if you could help me.”  Marcus continues.  “You see, I need something very valuable stolen.”<br/><br/><br/><span style="font-weight: bold">@ Chiro (Onyx):</span>There was a faint spirit indeed in there – faint in the sense that all corporeal creatures stood out less than spirits manifest.  One, and oddly familiar... a single person, and even as you sense this, the door swings open, and your rugged carpet is stained as hot coffee leaps from a mug.<br/><br/>“Jesus, Onyx!  Scared the living bejeezus outta me.” You'd recognize that three-day stubble of a beard, gravelly deep voice anywhere; professor James, who'd been leading the search for said crystals for a long time now.  He runs the organization you work under, and he's an audacious bastard.  Nice, very nice, but with a bad tendency to just help himself.  “Oh, right, your door was locked but not clicked shut.  Better get that checked out.” He suggests, and knowing him as long as you have, it occurs that could possibly be read as “I picked the lock.  Hope you don't mind.”<br/><br/>Of course, such skills came in handy when you were breaking into mob-run buildings, looking for crystal shards, or running around illegally in cities in Id, which is damn near impossible to get into or out of in the first place.  Professor Dakota James, so he admits, has been there thrice.  The Velle government called it a national security risk.  Professor Dakota James called it a “sabbatical.”<br/><br/>“Well, come in, my boy.” He smiles, as though inviting you into HIS place.  “I've got something to talk to you about... dire business indeed...”<br/><br/><br/><span style="font-weight: bold">@ Arsony (Amsar):</span>The handsome youth dragging two purses has cleared his pursuers – they're just not physically able to keep up.  Laughing, a block ahead of them now, he's seemed not to notice you.  On the other hand, maybe he didn't care; in cities like this, most people tend not to involve themselves with anyone potentially violent.  “Not my problem” was a common rule that manifested in such places.<br/><br/>Only when he sees your thumb running up the edge of that vicious whip does he pause, no one else in sight at the moment.  His cute face contorts from an excited grin over his quick grab, to a plotting smirk.  “That getup.” He laughs.  “Velle girl.” He draws a derringer, threatening.  “Don't fuck with me, I'm not gonna get thrown in the slammer by some hooker.  Your magic won't avail you on THIS side of the wall.” He speaks true, at least, about your magic.  Technology was the paradigm, the law here.  Which left you at an interesting disadvantage, or so it seemed on the surface.