Location:<strong>Roof of the Afterlife Club, Marina District, Night City</strong><br/>Time:<em>0220, December 27 2044</em><br/>Conditions: Snow, -2 degrees C.<br/><br/>The sky looked like television static; snow falling against the bruise-coloured purple grey of neon underlit cloud. The Fireman sat in a pool of yellow light under the overhang formed from heating ducts and pipework. The light gave his skin - already discoloured from cheapest-possible government contractor skinweave - an unhealthy, bilious tinge, his natural eye closed, but the over-large Soviet-chic cyberoptic's baleful red glow in constant scan-mode. He wasn't exactly dressed for the weather; whilst most of the locals were rugged up against the unseasonably cold weather, he seemed to relish the cold.<br/><br/>"Sit" he said simply, gesturing to the other side of the rickety once-but-no-longer stainless folding table. The table itself was already cluttered with the detritus of a busy night; several data shards, the remains of a noodle box, still steaming slightly in the cold air, and the heavy-duty military-issue high-calibre revolver - the standard US-military issue sidearm during the SouthAm conflict. There was something in the squat brutality of the weapon that spoke to the man himself; functional having had luxury and comfort stripped from it. The hand was likewise the bare metal of apparently cheap cybernetics, fingers clacking metallically against the corroded metal surface.<br/><br/>The Fireman had a reputation of having connections; not quite the same league as people like<em>Rogue</em>or the other big fish that held court in the bowels of the building. It wasn't clear if he chose to conduct his meetings up here on the roof as a sign to those who dwelt in the darkness below, or it was as close as Rogue would let him to her precious bar. His previous haunt, the<em>Forlorn Hope</em>, had been in the blast radius and it - along with most of its other regulars - probably glowed in the dark. Regardless, he'd survived the last 25 years of pain and hate that the city had thrown at him. Unlike most, he'd not only survived but also prospered. He was rumoured to have platinum-level connections with a dozen corps, including some of the majors, not to mention ins with most of the major gangs.<br/><br/>"One thing you never really forget about Val Verde and the whole clusterfuck down south is the heat. So days like this? Well. The cold reminds you that you came through that green hell alive. I don't know you, but someone in your crew vouches for you; someone else that came back from the South - that carries weight with me. You've told me the sort of thing you want to do. I have a list of people I think are going to help you get it done. Questions?"