2071 First Quarter Results (Main Thread - Part 1)

Razor stumbled out of the smoke towards the ruined bodies of the women and turned to look at Stache. Her left arm was clenched around her midsection which was stained bright crimson and full of tiny holes.

"You...gonna owe me...some...fffffffucking whiskey for this one,"

she slurred. A trickle of red ran out the side of her mouth and down her chin to drip onto the floor, joining the blood from the gut shot. It spattered the floor like a Jackson Pollock painting.

The world sped back to regular speed as the synthetic nerves turned off. He heard the heavy boots coming up the stair well. It was time to get out of dodge.

He looked over at Razor stumbling her way towards him. He pulled her into cover before the remaining bodyguards could get some shots off on her.

"Sure. What's your favorite vintage?" Stache asked as he checked on his own wounds.

Blood had ran down his shirt and all the way down his right pant leg. They were grey once upon a time now they were crimson red. The inside of the All-Weather jacket was also coated in blood. Good thing it cleaned easy. Wasn't the first time he was shot wearing it.

He sent off a message to the rest of the team.

@SuperDawnFan69 Oh, shit, looks like she fucking ate it from the feed. Don't wanna be here when security comes down. Anyone know a quick and safe way out?

He then reloaded the Ithaca 37 Redux and the Colt Warsmith. Best be prepared.

Blade turns, his cyberdeck representation blurring into a bow again, and he looses a neon-blue arrow at the panther construct. The arrow strikes true, burrowing into the cat's skull, and quickly disintegrating it in a cascade of light, returning to the data source from which it was spawned. The intense moment of action almost distracted him from Stache's message.

@DawnofLight I'll check, give me a second.

Done with the building services for now, Blade stalked his way out of the jungle, no longer trying to hide his nature. The bright blue samurai look stood out in the pastoral green of the arcology's systems, an aggressive intrusion. The next goal was the building security node, guarded by the mass of Red ICE bird constructs, to help his team get out alive.

As he makes his way to the Building Security Node, Blade notices that the door to the Root system has vanished, replaced by a solid wall. Ahead of him the pristine garden representing his destination begins to pale and fade. The Arcology's systems are being locked down. Soon, all external connections will be cut. He only has a few moments left to act.

Saito growls out a curse under his breath, then starts running towards the security node. If they were locking down the Matrix it would only be a matter of time before they locked down the building itself. If his team were to have any chance of getting out, he'd need to move fast. Unheeding of the ICE protecting the node, he runs through the garden paths, and dives into the Shrine at its center. Quickly, doing what he can before the ICE attack or his access is terminated, he flips every security gate, door, window and other opening to open, locking them that way for as long as possible. As he does so, he responds to his team.

@LightofDawn Security is locking down the Matrix. Trying to keep everything open for as long as possible. Get out, I won't be able to do much more

As finishes sending his message, Blade notices another avatar in the Shrine. A buddhist monk, in a mix of robes and Resilience uniform, that was tending to an altar. The monk jumps to his feet, leaps next to the hacker and punches Blade, who goes flying through the wall and back onto the path between nodes. As the garden disappears from view and Blade gets back to his feet, the monk steps out of the disappearing node, a bo staff materializing in his hands.

"Cool avatar, black hat. Let's see how you can handle it." He twirls his staff and goes into a long front stance.

Blade clambers to his feet, sword moving into a defensive stance and his attention focused on the counter-hacker in front of him. "Not today. Another time, perhaps." A quick motion with the katana, representing an attempt to sever his connection to the Arcology and return to meatspace, and the quickly disappearing Arcology snaps to the dingy, dirty motel where he had set up shop. Disconnecting his gear and packing it up to get the hell out of the flophouse, he sends another message to the team.

@DawnofLight I had to jack out. They have muscle in the Matrix. Get going.

With the crowd of fans panicking, Paz concludes that the shit got real. Strapping himself into the pilot seat of the Lucky Needle, Paz starts to drive quietly away from the entrance.

Remembering his earlier scouting, he drives around the arcology to a dirty service alley. Both self-driving delivery trucks were still there, which was good. Paz parks between them as they make perfect cover.

“Alright, alright. Time to inform the team.”

He picks up is phone, and texts: “Alright guys, I’m in place, use the trash chute."”

Somewhere in the back of her mind Razor heard the thumping of boots on stairs. She knew she had to get out. But not without a souvenir. Lunging away from Stache, she stumbled over towards the remains of Dawntaneity, and grabbed for an inert hunk of metal--a camera drone, now silent and dented on the ground. Leaning over was agony, but if she wanted to turn a profit, sacrifices must be made. Her pellet-scarred arm snaked out and grabbed it, clutching it close.

She heard the scrape of a boot and looked up. One of the bodyguards was visible through the thinning smoke, raising a pistol towards her face. Some quiet voice in the back of her mind told her that there would not be time enough to move.

Behind her, the door to a stairwell burst open. Several heavily-armed corporate security team members poured into the room, the lead one yelling at the top of his lungs.

"Resilience Security! Everybody down!"

The bodyguard hesitated. In that moment, Razor felt a tremendous weight crash into her--Stache, tackling her out of the way. Gunfire, hesitant at first but growing to a crescendo, began to fill the room as the guards opened up. The bodyguard disappeared into the smoke, seeking cover as lead, sparks, concrete chips and dust filled the air. Razor and Stache half-rolled and half-ran towards the construction trash chute, death dancing around them like an angry cloud of wasps.

Stache and Razor scrambled to the construction trash chute as the security team slowly advanced cover-to-cover, their initial bravery tempered somewhat by the carnage on display. The two operatives managed to put enough distance between them and the Resilience guards to only have to worry about ricochets.

"Come out with your hands up, all the issues are covered!" yelled the team leader.

Stache helped Razor into the chute and climbed down after her. They managed to get halfway down the dusty plastic cylinder before hearing: "They're going down the trash chute! Grab some of that debris. Let's crush them like bugs!"

"Madre de dios, it never ends!"

muttered Razor. Bracing herself against the side of the trash chute, she gave it a kick, and then another. The polyurethane gave a little, but not much, and every kick spattered a little bit more of her blood against the inside of the tube.

Gritting her teeth, she fished out a throwing knife and drove it into the orange plastic, punching a hole and starting a tear in the side. With as much effort as she could muster, she began cuttting an L-shaped rent, hoping she would be fast enough to make an exit before cinder blocks started coming down on her head.

“Ah, why not,”

“For fuck's sake ...”

Strapped in, Paz makes the Lucky Needle spin around like a lovely dancer. Moving back in the service alley to get in a position to see the top of the chute, Paz deploys the Lucky Needle's 50mm machine gun, and through the megaphone, he roars:

“HEY, LITTERERS! YOU BETTER STOP THAT BEFORE I TURN YOU INTO A FINE RED MIST! ASK YOURSELF IF YOU’RE PAID ENOUGH FOR THIS!”

With a mental command, the turret jerks into motion, signaling he isn’t kidding around.

Seeing the machine guns pointing at them cools the Resilience security guards enthusiasm. They drop the cinder blocs they were carrying and hurry to take cover out of sight. Razor and Stache climb down the chute and climb aboard the Lucky Needle, smearing the hovercraft's bright red paint job with the darker hue of blood.

Over the sound of Paz gunning the engine, they can barely hear the steady whir of helicopter blades. As the last lights of twilight dim across the sky, the operatives can see the dark shape of a SB>5 Defiant Air Assault Helicopter emblazoned with the BRS logo bearing down on them.

Stache slid into Lucky Needle crashing into the far wall. He barely registered the pain caused by it.

He took off his All-Weather jacket and his shirt. Both were drenched in blood. However, the man didn't seem to show pain on his face. The fading of color from his vision though was worrying. Blood loss was starting to kick in and if he didn't remedy it soon it was going to be bad. Looking over at Razor she seemed to be in the same boat.

He ripped up the shirt into strips and began began wrapping them around his waist to try and staunch the bleeding as best as possible. He threw the All-Weather back on as the whir of a familiar helicopter filled his ears. A SB>5 Defiant AAH.

Stache moved to the back of Lucky Needle and grabbed his HK-Berreta G44 he had stashed away. He tapped into the internal comms of the hovercraft.

"That might be hard to outrun." He motioned his assault rifle at the silhouette of the helicopter.

He then called up Blade. "Hey, matrix wiz, we got an aerial pursuer. Could use all the help we can get."

Razor crumpled more than sat in the back seat, eyes closed and left arm clamped about her midsection. Her breathing was ragged, but even. Her right hand was still clutching the knife she had used to cut herself free of the trash chute. She coughed red and loosened her grip and it clattered to the floor.

Still cradled under her arm was that drone she had snatched up on the sixth floor.

"Gonna...owe you an...upholstery cleaning. I...hope you paid...for the Scotchguard."

“Buckle up, people, BRS doesn’t seem to understand the concept of cutting their losses.”

It was time to go. Pushing the engine as much as he dares, Paz throws the Lucky Needle onto the streets of Miami, hoping to outrun the enemy chopper before it got too close.

Paz comes around the arcology to find a large crowd slowly making its way out. It seems that Resilience is evacuating all the visitors from the lower levels and only letting residents stay inside. He weighs his options, but driving through the crowd seems like a bad idea. Wouldn't want to ruin the Needle's paint job more than it already had been.

He pulls on wheel and brakes, doing a 180. then slams down on the gas, roaring back the way they'd come. The crew sees the BRS helicopter do a low pass over them, but clearly they'd been expecting a chase going the other way. The chopper banks, coming around as the Lucky Needle slips out a service access road.

They can hear the whir of the helicopter's blades growing louder as it gives chase. Stache turns in his seat, aiming his rifle at their pursuers, but he's rocked violently as Paz emerges onto a busy street, cutting through traffic to the tune of blaring horns.

The Lucky Needle dives between Miami's high-rises, cutting and weaving between the other motorists. The chopper begins to sound distant, then just an echo, before finally fading into the rest of the city's bustle.

Stache very much underestimated Paz's driving ability. Out doing a helicopter was no joke even if it involved holding on for dear life.

He still had the line open to Blade. "B, lost our pursuer. If you can keep tabs on the local cops and BRS security that'd be appreciated. I suspect they're not going to give up looking for us anytime soon."

"If you know a good street doc it'd be appreciated." Stache said to Paz before he finally let go of fighting to stay conscious. His rifle dropped into his lap and he slumped down into his chair unconscious.

"Our top story tonight is the brutal murder of rising star Dawntaneity in Miami last night. The influencer recently made the news when she signed an exclusive deal with BRS to design and release a new clothing line for the multinational corporation. Dawntaneity was visiting the Sidney Poitier Arcology when she was ambushed in what authorities are calling a professional hit. Reactions on the Net have been fraught with emotion."

The face of another influencer appears on the screen, labelled R@1nBeau, a multicolored haired young man in trendy Glitz clothing. He looks sad and solemn. "People used to say, Dawntaneity and I were rivals, but you can't have a rainbow without the sun. I'm going to miss her, and I welcome all of you sunshines looking for a new home. Together, we can make sure no one ever forgets her light."

Aasiyah Lowe, star of TDC's Beachside: "Dawntaneity was one of the most genuine persons I ever met. A rare thing in our business. She really reminded us to live life to the fullest, you know?"

"In response, BRS has issued the following statement:

The tragic events of last night have reminded us all of how fragile life is. Dawntaneity was a beacon of light and hope for millions around the world and, thanks to the technological age in which we live, she will get to shine on and never be forgotten. That positive influence is something we know she would want us to preserve. In honor of her passing, BRS will be rebranding her line as PHOENIX, because just like the dawn, #WeAllRise.

A vigil will be held tonight outside the Sidney Poitier Arcology."


Mr. Pérez wore a brand new Glitz suit with a PHOENIX tie showing a glorious sunrise over the ocean. It shone brightly in AR, sometimes showing birds lazily gliding before it as if basking in its warmth. It contrasts wildly with the coldness of his smile. He gestures for you to sit with him at the same rusty, flaking table near Pepsi beach.

"Good to see you again, my friends. Even under such tragic circumstances. The sun does feel a bit dimmer now, doesn't it?"

Razor winced a little bit; the bandages under her clothes were still quite tight and it hurt to breathe.

"Yes. Truly tragic."

She sat stone-faced behind her mirrorshades, still looking a little pale. Sweat beaded on her forehead and she wiped it away with a gloved hand. She looked at it for a moment and saw a tiny bit of metal still stuck in the palm; shrapnel from Stache's shotgun blast.

She teased it out with an index finger and flicked it carelessly into the beach sand and then turned back to Mr. Pérez.

The street doc did a decent job. The nanobots were hard at work regrowing tissue and restitching the skin one molecule at a time. It itched and burned like a son of a bitch but the pain was welcomed.

Once again Stache did not sit. His cleaned and patched All-Weather jacket was unzipped for easy access to the Warsmith. He was ready for trouble from either Perez or someone else.

"The sun doesn't dim. It has only gotten brighter over the millennia. Kind of similar to BRS' stock since Dawntaneity's tragic end."

Razor did float the theory this was an inside job. Now Stache was sure of it from Perez's appearance. Someone at BRS saw this as a money gaining opportunity. Every life examined on how much money they could make the company make or lose. For them they were nothing but numbers to be manipulated.

Cold eye's scanned over Perez from behind mirror shades. His right hand was steady. He could easily kill him as his did Dawntaneity. He might even feel a little joy from killing the corpo.

For the first time, Mr. Pérez's smile briefly seems genuine as he turns to look at Stache.

"Yes, you have to admire the efficiency of their marketing department. To turn such an embarrassing tragedy into an opportunity takes true genius," he says excitedly.

He sighs, smoothing down his lapels as he regains his composure. "My employers were impressed with BRS' response." His smile shrinks a bit as he attempts to look saddened. "I wish I could say they felt the same about your performance. They asked for one item and you delivered three, maybe four, if Resilience's claims of a 'workplace accident' are false. I'm afraid to say they were ready to walk away." His smile grows and he opens his arms wide. "But fear not, my friends. I take my job as an intermediary very seriously and always see to the interest of all parties involved. I have managed to negotiate a reasonable compensation which I'm certain you will find satisfactory."

He hands you his NeoPad. The number on the screen is about two thirds of the initial offer. Enough to cover your expenses and more, but still under what would normally be paid for a target with Dawntaneity's visibility.

meta:

Razor gritted her teeth.

"Accidents are sometimes an unavoidable part of life."

She opened her mouth to continue but thought better of it and pursed her lips, looking away towards the ocean. There were children out there, playing in the surf. Children who doubtlessly had rich parents who could afford the beach fees. For now.

She looked down at her hands, palms up and open, and sat there, just thinking. Her thoughts wandered far away from Miami Beach.

Mr. Pérez nods. "Indeed, they do. And they have consequences." He places four credit chips on the table in front of you and stands. He puts on his hat and tips it to you. "A pleasure doing business with you, my friends. Don't hesitate to call if you find yourselves looking for employment again."

He walks away, quickly disappearing around the corner of a BRS stand selling Blue Standard tourist shirts and caps.

Razor reached out gingerly and took one of the credit chips. She turned it over in her palm, just looking at it.

"Did we win, or did we lose?"

Stache picked up his credit chip and pocketed it.

"There isn't any winners or losers in this line of work. Just survivors."

Scav Jones did his business out of a large warehouse down by the South Miami marina. It was always a pain to get to because it required two water taxi rides, but Razor didn't mind overmuch as it always gave her time to think over what she was going to say and how she was going to say it. Scav drove a hard bargain but he was not known for screwing people over--or at least, Razor hadn't heard any cases where someone had been set up or murdered on his property. It was said that Scav worked with the corps from time to time and the corps didn't like blood unless they had explicitly sanctioned it, so it was easier for all involved to keep their feuds away from Scav's 'Emporium'.

Officially, he was in the "import/export" business, but the particulars were vague and it was an easy cover story for the kind of business he did with people like Razor; he was the gray market that could get black market goods (with an appreciable markup) or launder and fence the sorts of things Razor acquired.

Razor stepped into the warehouse office past three different safety scanners. They picked up her knives and her HK-B, but those were small potatoes compared to what Scav worried about; if your munitions were under 50 caliber and not sheathed in tungsten-carbide then they weren't going to cause Scav any problems.

The front office was festooned with racks of electronics, automotive parts, and other machinery bits that were well past their freshness date--officially, they were overstock or unsold merchandise from the shipping business that the warehouse did. Together they lent the room an aroma of engine oil and burnt silicon. A maze of racks led to a large counter that sat between a full foot of ballistic glass. A woman lurked behind this barrier, hunched over a keyboard and tapping away at it while she frowned at a screen in front of her. She wore a kind of transparent AR visor over her eyes (a Neo-Cyclop Augmetron model 224-D, noted Razor) that projected images and data directly onto the retinas. Even when she looked up at Razor she wasn't really seeing her--she was seeing the projected data that floated over and around Razor like unquiet ghosts.

"Welcome to TransLogisTech Shipping Solutions. My name is Virginia. May I help you?"

Her tone was formal and wooden; it was possible that she had a behavior modification chip somewhere in her cerebral cortex that regulated emotional response. Hopefully it was the kind she could turn off when she got off shift, but one never knew for sure with these kinds. Razor didn't recognize her--she must be new.

"I have something for Mr. Jones. I believe I have an appointment, under Ms. Argentina."

Tap tap tap.

"Yes, I have it here. One moment, please."

More tapping. After a moment, she stood.

"Mr. Jones will be right with you."

'Virginia' stood and turned stiffly and walked out of view behind the armor plate-reinforced wall that surrounded the ballistic glass. Razor idly tapped her fingers against it while she waited, eyeing a few of the pieces on display. Most of them were a few years old, but a few were old enough to be called 'retro' in electronics circles and 'classic' in the automotive world. The heavy machinery parts were just sad and unwanted.

A few minutes passed before Scav came into view. He wore a tailored white suit with a red tie and mirrorshades under close-cropped hair; the entire ensemble accented his dark skin immaculately. He looked good and he knew it.

"Why Miss Espinosa, what a pleasure to see you again."

A very wide grin with very white teeth. Razor scowled.

"Spare me, Scav. We both know why I'm here and not anywhere else."

"Well I imagine it must be because I always offer you the very best of deals for your special goods, Miss Espinosa."

The grin had not faltered. If anything it had widened, and it was beginning to look a bit like a shark's maw. Razor rolled her eyes and unslung the BRS Blue Messenger Go-Satchel that she'd been clutching the whole way from Little Havana. Upon opening the flap, a fist-sized hunk of metal and plastic rolled into her open palm--the drone she had seized on the sixth floor of the Resilience arcology.

"I certainly hope you can offer me the very best of deals for this, Scav. Particularly considering its...sentimental value to a great many people."

The corner of Scav's mouth twitched as he saw the drone. "I thought the wanted feed looked familiar," he muttered. He turned his head to look around, making sure no one was near.

"The problem is with, uh, sentimental value, is that it only holds interest for a select client base. Items of this kind also require special care and accommodations. As always, I'll offer you the best deal that I can, considering the limitations imposed by the nature of your product."

He thought for a second, stroking his chin. "I know you're a busy woman, and I'm sure you'd rather not bother with the paperwork needed for a cred transaction. We could do a trade and I can adjust my inventory on my side. Is there anything you're looking for?" He grinned widely.

Scav nodded sagely, acting as if he was weighing it up, but it was a bargain and he knew it.

"You're in luck, Miss. Espinosa. I just received a shipment of overstock from Neo-Cyclops. It included an Ohm-34 and some Stytcher Nanos. You should be ready for your next escapade in a few days." He flashed his pearly whites. "Do we have a deal?"

Razor sighed.

"Yes, we have a deal, you old pirate."

A few days after the score, at a FLHSMV service point:
Paz had been waiting for his number to be called for more than 2 hours. No matter the advancement in technology, bureaucracy always moved at its own pace. The radio was playing a tune that had been out of style for decades, and Paz had zoned out a while ago. Suddenly, and finally, his number was called.

Waking up from his trance, Paz gets up, and moves towards the registration booth. A familiar face awaited him there: Good old Stacy. Well… good might be far fetched, she was a government bureaucrat and boredom had killed any passion she could have ever had a long time ago.

“Hey Stacy baby, how are you doing?” Paz said with a warm voice.

Stacy didn’t bother to look up at the window as she tapped on the counter.

After a short but awkward silence, Paz continued: “Nice. I’m here for the usual.” Paz slides the registration papers and an envelope with the usual payment in it

Stacy flips the slot with practiced ease and slides the envelope out of sight. Her fingers tap the desk, hitting the keys of the virtual keyboard projected by her ancient-looking AR goggles bearing the logo of a corporation lost to time. She prints out the new papers and puts them into the slot, which she flips to Paz's side.

"Three months, no sooner," she says simply, denoting when it would next be safe for her to provide Paz with her services again.

Paz pick the papers the papers.

"Of course Stacy. Thank you and have a nice day."

Chapter 2 - Market Competition

The Golden Palace Noodle Shop was a simple counter in the floating market at the base of The Stacks. It had managed to secure a seaside spot and had somehow fought off the encroaching sprawl of boat shops and houses that constantly attached themselves to the growing community. The owner-operator, Mrs. Chen, ran it with her husband and two young children. It was one of the market's best kept secrets.

Mr. Miller was waiting for you, shoveling a number 2 into his mouth with his chopsticks with obvious glee using his Kusanagi DPX-13 cyberwear arm to hold the bowl steady. He crew cut and clean shave hinted at a possible military past. He wore a Sports Plus Miami Dolphins jersey, some simple cargo shorts and dirty, well worn running shoes. He nodded at you as you settled in, still chewing. The job he had posted on the Dark Web had been rather scarce on details, merely requesting subtle contractors with access to a fast vehicle.

"You're punctual. That's a good start. Thank you for agreeing to meet me," he said as he looked at each member of the crew, spending a bit more time on Stache and Razor. "My employers have a two-part job for you that must be executed on the same day. Part one is an acquisition, part two an in-transit delivery. Interested?" He asked, pulling a pack of Nicochew Turbo gum ("For the toughest of cravings", the flexing mascot declared, crushing a handful of cigarettes in its fist), popping 4 out and stuffing them into his mouth. He offered the pack to the crew, one eyebrow raised.

Razor awkwardly slurped down some noodles from her #5 and chewed for a moment, and then carefully asked,

"Will this particular package be expecting, resisting, or indifferent to its acquisition and delivery?"

Mr. Miller smirked as he chewed. "Most definitely indifferent. The people who have it in their possession, however, will not. You can expect some resistance on that front. The delivery will also be in a hostile environment."

Razor continued chewing thoughtfully.

"Well, it's always nice when the package itself isn't actively resisting, in addition to everything else."

Before the meeting Stache passed over the same duffel bag that that used in the last job to Razor. In it was a simple wooden box with a hinged lid. In that was some Apsaz whiskey, 2020 vintage, incredibly hard to get do the low batches they already made and then for that year do to a pandemic. Getting it from the Apsaz/APSAZ (Appalachian Semi-Autonomous Zone) was another story all together.

Stache didn't have any food but he happily sipped on a cool beer. He waved away the offer of the nicotine gum.

"Who are we picking up from? Who's hostile territory are we transiting through?"

Mr. Miller stashed the gum pack away and grinned as he noted the acceptance in the mercenaries' tone.

"The current owner of the package is William Ma, a retired TDC executive and collector. My employers want you to recover a particular piece of media he owns and insert it in one of TDC's next automated simsense program delivery. They keep it all off the Matrix to avoid potential hacking, so it'll have to be done in person."

"What sort of security does this collector have?"

Razor popped the back half of an egg roll into her mouth.

Mr. Miller shrugs and smiles apologetically. "You're the professionals," he says self-deprecatingly.

He pauses, then chuckles and pulls something unusual out of his cargo shorts' side pocket: a real, paper notebook. He hands it to Razor. "I did a bit of recon, generous man that I am. Ma lives in a gated community near Fort Lauderdale. Mostly autonomous bots. Motion sensors. You know how the other half lives. Nothing you can't handle, I'm sure."

Meta:

Razor smiled, but the smile didn't quite reach her eyes. She did a cursory poke through the notebook, being careful not to get grease on it.

"This is very kind of you. Where is this delivery to be made, again? A specific TDC location?"

"You'll need to intercept a TDC simsense delivery convoy while its en route and upload the package," said Mr. Miller, pausing to chew between sentences. "They're fully automated, so if you're careful and you have a good Hacker, you'll be able to get in and out without alerting security. Try not to do too much damage, it needs to reach its destination."

"Already safe to assume that this convoy doesn't follow any planned route? If it does who's the idiot and where are the hidden machine gun turrets along the convoy?" Stache said before finishing off his beer.

The house was more of Razor's expertise but the convoy hit fell more in Stache and Paz's wheelhouse.

"We might scratch the paint and scare some pedestrians but that convoy will get where it's going. Would be easier to pull an modified LA switch instead of an intercept but you probably don't have the budget or leeway with your employer to go that route."

The LA switch was a tactic used by cargo jackers out in the southwest. A full on replacement replica that had the same codes, look, and tracker as their target. They'd make the switch and take off with their prize and it would be to late to retaliate when the empty hauler showed up. A modified variant was used to deliver malicious cargo without the target being an wiser. No need to intercept and insert anything.

Mr. Miller winced and shook his head. "Won't work. My employer wants you to add a program to the scheduled delivery. One new thing will slip through if the rest of the catalog is as planned." He chuckled. "I mean, unless you want to break in to TDC studios and steal the upcoming releases and one of their convoys. The money's good. But not dying for good. In my personal opinion, anyway."

"You make that sound like that's hard work to do." Stache leaned in letting Mr. Miller's face reflect back at him off his mirrorshades. "You wouldn't know hard work if it hit you in the face. You don't do the work. That's what we're for. Those that know how deal with it. Dying for something for you is boosting you earnings, some stock options, or some one on one time to suck your employer off to move up the chain."

Stache leaned back. "So don't tell me what's worth dying for."

Mr. Miller raised his eyebrows, then shrugged, the ghost of a smile playing upon his lips. "Okay, buddy. Suit yourself." He took his left foot off of the footrest of his stool, slightly pivoting his body so he was facing Razor and Paz. Gesturing to the notebook, he said: "You have Ma's address, the package's details, and delivery destination in there, which should help you to identify the right truck. Any other questions or are you good to go?"

Paz was about to dig into a giant dish of noodles when the question was asked. Looking around the table, he put his chopsticks down, cleared his throat and said:

“Are we sure of the delivery schedule, the itinerary (how much time will the convoy take) and can we expect air coverage? Or is it disguised as a simple delivery?”

Mr. Miller leans back. "The schedule is set. TDC likes to get their new stuff out on time. The destination is set, but the itinerary varies every time. You're going to have to trail them or hack their security to find out what the plan is. Hard to say for air coverage, but it's a good guess that they'd keep eyes on their trucks."