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[SUB][H3]A C T  1 [/H3]

Vesturbær, New Reykjavík, January 20[sup]th[/sup] 2075[/SUB]

The eight hour sledgehammer of Shanghai jetlag slammed into Cait O'Dwyer’s head as she woke up in Vesturbær.

It was early in the morning, too early for actual comprehensible thought. Brain scrambling to bring itself to life only managing fitful sparks calling for sustenance. She ignored them as lay sprawled, stomach first, atop the white sheets that still smelled faintly of Yver. A fact which might of registered as noteworthy considering Yver had left for Boston nearly a month ago.

Yver was a quick fuck that had turned into a much better intellectual sparring partner. A dwarf that worked in the highly lucrative, but often mysterious world of marketing. He owned several as what he would describe as “convenient domiciles” in more cities than Cait has killed people. They were free of use for friends and questions of use weren’t in his specialty as long as you cleaned up after yourself.

Cait reluctantly pushed herself into a sitting position. Optical implants adjusted immediately to the early morning light as she groped for her clothes. Soft clicking as body armor fit into place atop of synthetic flesh, if she could have her way she would stop there, but in interest of not drawing too much attention it was followed by more traditional outerwear: a men’s white t-shirt, a dark grey sweatshirt, part of a new Ares’ line logo in darkened orange upon the chest, and a simple pair of worn in jeans.

The apartment has been designed in a rather conventional neo-modern style. Everything besides the dark maple floors was projected in stark whites and grays, even the paintings in the hallway leading from the bedroom to the combined kitchen / living area. She turned on a French sink, to fill a German kettle to bring Icelandic water to a boil. As she waited she eyed the bags of coffee coordinated by color in neat little rows along the cabinet, trying not to think how Yver reached any of it when he stayed there.

Minutes later, she sat at the counter-top, coffee in hand, the briefest of thoughts bringing up a projection of UMBRA. She signed in. There in the sleek black interface highlighted in yellow it stated ONE ACTIVE COMMUNICATION.

She sighed. She’d better get going.

---

“AND in the weather....There will be a blizzard warning in effect starting later this evening”

The monotone drone of the weather service rambled into silence, intermittently interrupted by the occasional clattering of a glass, or rough laugh of one of the men at the bar. The Fljót was a small combination of bar and seafood joint located in the Skildinganes. The interior was decorated extensively to look like the confines of an old whaling ship, portholes and all. In the evening, the tables were pushed away and it became a rather hopping nightclub serving the student crowd from the nearby university, but at the current as the sun still hung in the sky it was relatively empty saved for a sparse few patrons most of which sat the bar.

Cait didn’t like it. As a runner that had worked for as long as she had empty spaces made her skin crawl more than anything, they made her feel vulnerable and yelled of ambushes. It wasn’t like she had much of a choice though. She was supposed to meet the Johnson’s contact here to give them a better briefing of the situation, as well as her partners for the run. They had talked over UMBRA, of course but this would be the first real time meeting them. She wasn’t too excited.

Another axiom she’d learned over the years. “Don’t go relying on teams, they just go and end up getting killed.” The unseen consequences of her line of work - did drek all for your social skills. But it paid well. So that was that.  

She checked the time. Took a drag from her second cup of coffee for the day. The others would be arriving soon.[/indent][/indent]