<div class="floatright">(https://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/e/e3/RoanQuinceCyber3.png)</div>The walk to Roan's destination was brief, interrupted only fleetingly by the occasional rush of traffic at the crosswalks: a good thing, given that the bitter cold seemed stubbornly determined not to lessen as the morning hour lengthened. Neon-lit sidewalks were bustling in spite of the late morning; a smog of heavy breathing and fumes rose up to clutter the skyline.<br/><br/>Were it not for the abundance of homeless lining the street, the Rockerboy might have been distracted by how much richer the neighbourhood seemed to her. Not that her own home provided much competition: the Megabuilding in which she resided was old and ill-weathered, and its appearance was a source of alarm even to its long-term residents. Strange though it was, Roan never minded the worn-down aesthetic: it remained a more homely place to her than what she had come from.<br/><br/>The bang of an engine nearby caused Roan to look up, shaken free from her reverie by the sounds of the city about her. She watched the cars peel off and away; she tracked the meandering shuffles of the homeless who clustered and broke away about her; and she looked, sparingly, across towards the building in which her quarry awaited.<br/><br/>Roan's mind wandered. She thought about what she should like to do once their target was in hand; the imagery warmed her more keenly than any measure of alcohol.<br/><br/>When Vanaheim arrived, the Rockerboy couldn't help but stare: first at his choice of ride, and then at the man himself. It wasn't that she judged him for his preference in either - under most circumstances, she didn't give much of a shit what people chose to fashion themselves in - but rather because he'd seen fit to meet her so close to the target destination in so memorable a guise. No subtly; no tact. Roan didn't know whether to laugh, swear, or club the guy with a nearby, empty bottle.<br/><br/>But if the netrunner's appearance had riled the Rocker, it was nothing compared to the effect his blasé attitude had on her temperament. Fortunately for him, Roan's desire to see her gig through overrode her sudden and considerable desire to verbally bitch slap the man into a state of overwhelming Common Sense.<br/><br/>She realised he was still speaking; she did her best to pay attention to his words and not the tone of voice that accompanied them:<strong>"Without adequate preparation - three days at a minimum, five ideally - I can probably do one of the following. If there is being building security then I can eliminate it - cameras, and so on. No records. Clean in and out. The other option, and I am being very clear that this is an or, yes. The other option is that I can isolate the target from the outside, meaning that I capture all outgoing signals, alarms, alerts and so on, again, no records that any request for outside help was made. That's the trick and time consuming thing - the records, the audit-logs of the records, the meta-data of the audit-logs of the records."</strong><br/><br/>Roan unfolded her arms and pushed away from the wall; she did her best to keep her disdain from her voice as she spoke.<strong>"Identify the on-site security and then eliminate it."</strong>She believed a decent runner would have been capable of achieving both goals, but she didn't want to press her luck, not when the guy's being there was only achieved by Fireman's good-will. Besides, she hoped that knocking out security would mean that no call for reinforcements would be made in the first place. Wishful thinking, perhaps, but she<em>was</em>trading on fumes.<br/><br/>With a jerk of head, Roan indicated the target building.<strong>"That's the place. Me and my crew will aim to hit it tonight, so you have until then to prepare. I'll hit you up when we're ready to move; if you've any reason to contact me before then, you have my burner's number."</strong><br/><br/>Roan did not offer parting words of farewell - her wave was scarcely even that. She moved away from the netrunner in the wake of her instructions and started off down the street, unwilling to waste more time here than she already had. After all, there wasn't much else for her to learn from lingering: she knew that there was no construction site close by, but that the entrance gate to the target's residence wasn't manned at night. The outer wall was high, though not enough that they couldn't climb it if necessary; and, more importantly, it wasn't patrolled, either.<br/><br/>Digging out her burner, Roan began keying in a message, which she fired off to every member of the crew who had provided her with their own<em>deets</em>:<strong><em>Walkabout is finished. Know a decent noodle shop where we can talk biz - address attached. Meet there at 1800. Bring the wheels and anything else needed.</em></strong><br/><br/>The noodle shop in question was a small affair, neatly tucked out of the way of the major streets in New Westbrook. Roan had come upon the place by accident during the earliest days of her taking to The Streets, and made a point to find her way back there again whenever she was in the area. On this occasion, just as all occasions before it, the Rockerboy sauntered up to the bar, ordered a box of noodles, and then carried her food over to a stool in the farthest corner of the room. She turned her back to the wall, angling herself in such a way as to keep the entrance in view. Roan glanced up at the digital clock: 1754 - she'd arrived close to the mark, but earlier than the others, it seemed.<br/><br/><div class="spoiler_container"><div class="spoiler_header" onclick="hideSecond (this);" role="button">Streetslang</div><div class="spoiler_body"><strong><em>Deets</em></strong>: Details.<br/><strong><em>Biz</em></strong>: Business.<br/></div></div>•<div class="spoiler_container"><div class="spoiler_header" onclick="hideSecond (this);" role="button">OOC</div><div class="spoiler_body">Looking to feed into a new scene, as per the Discord discussion.</div></div>