[center][color=Gray][h1]Whetstone[/h1][/color][/center]
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Max was content to relax on the private jet, the dapper decker holding a glass of amber whiskey in his hand as he remained as silent and stony as his graphite suit. He was content to observe, consider his new co-workers for the time being. He recalled Wildfire, who was pleasant enough to work with for a couple jobs in Cannes and Barcelona, if a little unpredictable. Her “sister” Jack was also quite professional, so at the very least he was confident that he could rely on them when things invariably escalated.

The flicker on the corner of his AR feed gave away another one of his new companions. Quite the avatar, ethereal and possessing a dynamism that the seasoned decker identified immediately. Those silver-grey eyes would regard CAPTCHA. His own persona was not very different from himself, a digitized blurry figure in a black trenchcoat and mirrorshades. A technomancer was not a common sight, even in his line of work, but he would need to keep his eyes open and his firewalls secure. It wouldn’t be the first time curiosity killed the cat, but he’d prefer to avoid the need. 

Of course, his own digital eyes might come to wander eventually as well, and commlink networks at this point were frankly beneath his capabilities. Of course,  he was able to make guesses and figure out working theories of each of his companions quickly based on their appearance and choice of words alone. That was the art he practiced, and every new team was social puzzle to solve, every life one to learn and, if necessary, take advantage of.

He would swirl his glass, a knowing half smile crossing his face as he listening to the flightiness of the less-experienced runner waxing poetic about a political web he could not hope to grasp. The wonder of youth left some pain in the older man’s heart, he felt no need to quash dreams. A short draw of firewater was good, the burn in his throat going a long way to improve his mood. 

The Schmidt was straight to the point, a welcome thing. Maxwell had thought that a client wealthy enough to use a private jet would be grandiose enough to bore him. He was capturing every image of this woman, letting his agents build out a 3d composite and beginning to scour the net for the name, first from obituaries, then find relationships from there. He had standing procedures earned through experience, success, and failure, and he’d be able to sleuth out any detail. Step one was always to know the target, and while the Schmidt wasn’t too open, he had enough to work off of.

Lisbon was outside of his usual playground. Even now he had sent an encrypted message over to his handler for potential contacts in the area. He wasn’t confident he’d get a response, let alone a timely one, but he needed to keep doors open and parallel paths moving forward. From the drop of the hat the decker was already building out what he could. The lack of further support was unsurprising, they had their tools, and if they could not live on the streets, they had greater problems than locating a dead woman.

“What was the supposed cause of death of the target?” He would ask curtly and cooly, his accent apparent over a smoky voice.