<div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/4/48/Waltz.jpg)</div><strong>Street Name:</strong>Waltz<br/><strong>Sex/Metatype/Archetype:</strong>Male Human Bodyguard/Escort<br/><strong>Attributes:</strong>Charisma and Willpower, Agility and Reaction<br/><strong>Skills:</strong>Social, Combat<br/><strong>Ethnicity/Age/Orientation:</strong>Caucasian, 30's, straight<br/><strong>Tagged:</strong>Findley<br/><br/><br/><br/>Waltz had kept to himself so far, analyzing the place and, even more so,<em>the people</em>. There was Findley, who thought he was on top of the world and everything – and everyone – was his game to play with. Then there was the crew: The bounty hunter seemed to be the straight forward type with both words and the charms of her body. The polite troll-girl who was as awkward and out of place in her human-sized chair as she did in her elegant club wear. Somehow, it made her look endearingly cute - and it was certainly the first time Walter had thought that about a woman who towered over him by almost a foot and who could probably snap him like a twig with her bare hands. Taylor, who pretended to be the quiet nice guy...but if he wasn’t lying outright about his field of expertise, then his skills, by themselves, implied that he was probably more than met the eye.<br/><br/>And then there was Tracy Grimm, the smart one. The girl to watch. Walter listened as she grilled the Mr. Johnson and he couldn’t help but nod in agreement. 1000 nuyen a peep sounded very low for this kind of work. He used to make about a thousand a night, but getting shot at as a bodyguard and escort was the rare exception, not the norm. Not to mention that his work used to be legal. This was something else entirely. One surveillance camera in the wrong place and they could go to prison, and if things went wrong and someone got hurt, then it would be for a<em>long</em>time.<br/><br/>Unfortunately, Walter was new and he needed an entry into a new line of work, not to mention the money, so he couldn’t walk right out on the smiling, womanizing Johnson who seemed hell-bent on fucking them over while he fantasized about fucking the girls around the table. Walter could tell. If he was a professional at anything, then it was at<em>womanizing</em>.<br/><br/>Mr. Findley upped the offer a little, but Walter didn’t feel like biting. The payment was still shit and the ‘gear’ he promised was likely the same. If the run was as easy as he claimed, then he wouldn’t need a team of professionals to get it done. Some street punk would do, which none of them seemed to be: They all could afford suits and evening gowns. Hell, Taylor was even a mage. If he was not some kind of antisocial, incompetent burnout, then he could find well-paying<em>legal</em>employment almost anywhere.<br/><br/>It was time for him to chip in. Walter unbuttoned the cuffs of his burgundy-red dress shirt, cleared his throat and politely waited for the ladies to give him a chance to have a go at Mr. Findley.<br/><br/>“Let us just imagine for a moment that we are not risking imprisonment and, as you repeatedly pointed out, our very lives on this job for you. Even then, I think we are worth far more than a thousand nuyen a night.” Walter paused for a moment and stared at the Johnson in his fancy, troll-sized suit. “Do you like to think in cars, Mr. Findley? You look like the kind of man you likes to think in cars. Then, for the moment, think of us just in terms of the gear and augments we bring to the table. How much work do you think we had done? A hundred thousand each? Two? I admit, there are finer cars on the streets, but we are talking sports cars and limousines here. Now, how much would it cost you to rent such a car for a night? Maybe five hundred, maybe a thousand nuyen, I will give you that. But now imagine telling the dealer that you not only want to drive around in that car. No. What you want to do is to take that car to a street race. Maybe it gets wrecked. Maybe it gets impounded by the cops. But hey! It’s not your car, right? What do you care about what happens to the car. But imagine the dealers face – not to mention his<em>price</em>– when he knows exactly in how much risk you are putting his expensive…” Walter decided to end the car simile here and looked at the assembled runners, turning his head to another one with each word “…gear… augments… training…” he finished by looking at Taylor. “… not to mention:<em>gifts</em>.”<br/>