The Edge The Edge. Not quite the wastes, not quite downtown Night City, but its own little hell nonetheless. The Edge was home to all the sorts of underground filth the rest of the city wanted to forget - the nomads, criminals, and grifters. Still worse than the Edge were the civilian designated 'combat zones' where a bullet made a fine meal and the worst of the worst settled into a constant firefight with rivals, scattered police forces, or private security teams for the occasional travelling corporate. It was hell, but it's where the jobs were, too. Not the white collar, desk-jocky type of jobs. These were the ones that were marked in hidden files. The ones that were morally questionable. The ones that the media would latch onto for weeks at a time. They were runs. Most sane denizens of the Edge went about their lives never once questioning the ever present temptation of a run. They worked their ever-changing day jobs at quiet stores, decrepit warehouses, and janitorial positions - the scraps of the work force. But there were always the oddballs. The sort of person that was out of their element without the throb of adrenaline and the feeling of a gun in their hands. These oddballs made up nearly the entirety of the corporate counter force. These oddballs also were the ones that hardly ever made it beyond thirty-five years, with the average lifespan of a runner capping out at fifteen years 'on the job.' That was even ignoring the countless unrelated gang shootings, cybernetic surgeries gone wrong, and assassins' bullets. Count all of that in, and all of the sudden a runner's prospect for life dropped down to a whole six years. Of course, that's what divided a runner from the rest of the work force. Sure there were the professional criminals, the 'progressive' ones who built empires under the heel of another, but in the eyes of a runner they weren't fulfilling life's purpose. They weren't risking it all for a few cents and a name with some weight around it in the corporate world. Then there were the desk jockies, the delivery boys, the high-and-might execs, and all other colors of bland, tasteless work. The Edge was defined by runner teams, and not a single one can pretend like that's not the case... The Sunken Ark The Sunken Ark was one of the few high-end clubs in the Edge. Fourteen years previous, it had been owned by one of the most ruthless crime lords before one company or another saw it could be turned into a paradise for the poor, an icon that meant class and influence. It was purchased not six months after its debut as a connection-only club, the Sunken Ark changed into the symbol it was - hope for the hopeless. Beyond a heaven for the richest of the poor, the Ark doubled as recruitment grounds for the types of jobs you didn't mention outside the Ark. Neomi Carrick sat nestled in a corner of the Ark, an e-cig dangling from her mouth, vapor trailing lightly from the glowing blue bulb at the end. Sprawled across the table was an unloaded revolver, shells standing in a line next to the unloaded chamber. Her eyes scanned through the crowded club, first left, then right, systematically looking for the contact. First touch had been nearly four hours ago, now it was a matter of waiting at the contact point. Technically, the contact was late by three minutes and twenty two seconds by Neomi's count. Her hand tugged at her holster, tightening it and loosening it over and over again. It was force of habit, something that wiled away the tedium of days like this one when a job had yet to be had, yet she was still 'on the job.' Every minute or so, her eyes would dart to the chrono she had placed on the table opposite her revolver. Her foot tapped impatiently at the floor. Then her fingers tapped in rhythm with her foot. Fifteen minutes. Twenty. Twenty-five. The sound of a chair scraping against the floor jolted Neomi from her trance. A man sat himself across from her, dressed in a faded jacket and torn jeans with his black hair slicked down to his head. Wrinkles creased his forehead, which jutted outward into a crooked nose beset by two dull brown eyes. His thin lips opened and closed several times in some preparation to speak. "You are Carrick?" He questioned, voice steadfast and strong, wholly unlike his appearance suggested. Neomi nodded, sliding the chrono from the table back to her wrist with a click. She didn't doubt this was the man; if every corporate out looking for a job went in suit and tie, the secrecy of the whole business would quickly become common knowledge instead of rumor and speculation. "I do apologize for my lateness." The man continued, taking a quick glance behind his shoulder. "There should be three others arriving within the hour, however, what they do is none of your job description." When no reply was forthcoming, he proceeded. "We have a particular executive inside the confines of the building that would not go...Unnoticed if he were to cease to have jurisdiction in the department he is currently employed for." He slid a data reader and drive over to her. "Information is in there. Everything that is public record and a hint more. When the others arrive, I will see to it that I fill you in on the rest." Cease to have jurisdiction in the department. Can't be straight, can they? "Will there be any monetary benefit to my involvement in this displacement?" Neomi countered, inwardly smiling at the look her contact returned. "I will see what I can do for you." He said, tugging uncomfortably at his jacket's collar. From there it was just a matter of waiting...And waiting...And more waiting. Neomi's foot began to tap. Vanlith had no intention of walking to the table. He'd been there, seen Neomi sit down, wait for hours on end for the contact to come. When he finally had arrived, he had seen - and heard - the conversation that took place. If he had to be completely honest with himself, he didn't give two shits if some exec needed another exec dead. The big fish ate the little fish and he kept in tempo with it all. No, the only thing that disturbed him was the gaijin that sat across the greasy man. She unsettled him. He'd read her profie after the exec greeted her. Six accounts of murder, not the kind one was hired for, the type that involved drawing on someone else just for the joy of it. She'd been a JoyGirl for three years as well, with three accounts of illegal prostitution on record. He'd also attempted to run a facial scan on the exec as he turned around, but either it was too little too fast or he simply wasn't registered in the systems. Probably option two. No, definitely option two. Of course, he needed the job. If he didn't land this one, he'd end up eating kibble and living in a coffin for the next three months while another opportunity waited to make it to his front doorstep. Grimacing, Vanlith unhooked himself from the Net and stood up, glancing left and right, hand resting on the butt of his two-shot 'lady's pistol.' It wasn't for the gaijin. It was for whoever else might decide to have a little fun. A hand placed itself on Vanlith's shoulder. Quelling the sudden jolt of terror, he turned and faced the hulking man behind him. Not man, he realized, android. The machine ran its pupils over his form, resting its gaze on his eyes after a moment. "You are Vanlith, Tobias." It blurbed out in an electronic monotone. "You are on the waiting list for the Militech job. You are to wait for the others to arrive before meeting with your assigned contact." Shit.