Bertram Connelly
Bertram rubbed at his eyes and leaned back in his chair. He just received word from Jones, something along the lines of third in command of the Security Division and the one delegated the likely very dull task of directing visitors to the councilmen they would like to speak with and make sure they stay in control and don't attempt anything. Speaking with the convened council all at once is next to impossible and currently under Jones's watch it is completely impossible. A skinny man who lives outside the boundaries of Sector Three in the City proper has come talking about the very large Cache to the north.
Normally he was not impartial to delegating Retrieval work to outsiders and generally he tried to keep amicable, as opposed to a great many of the xenophobic Sectors farther away in the City, but given the growing tensions between the two Sectors he was afraid of being misinformed of the full size of the Cache in order to accumulate a large number of important items, or a double-cross at the hand of the freelancer in question if he or she believes the Cache is worth more to another Sector, or, if Jones's over-analyzing security measures are justified, if the kid throws a knife into his chest.
But beggars can't be choosers, and he was fairly sure that he'd worked with this one before. Not too many wanderers or groups of wanderers have come up to talk about Retrieval work. A handful have scavenged and then pawned off the scavenged items, but Retrieval is one that the repeat visitors who didn't die within their first few missions because they were used to a moderately comfortable part of the active City Bert could barely reach double digits counting. No, he had to set the terms there and then. If the man broke the terms then he'd lose quite a bit of potential work in Sector Three, and in any case he wasn't planning on just sending the kid.
When the wanderer came in, he motioned to one of the three chairs in front of his desk- what were essentially dining chairs refurbished for office use and still on their last legs, so to speak- and then Bertram crossed one leg over the other. He looked behind the wanderer and saw Jones standing within five paces of the doorway to his office. He looked to the box on which were mounted all the transceivers between the deployed Retrievers. They were currently being transmitted to someone else, another Council member with not too much on their plate at the moment. He didn't risk people listening in on Retriever locations and Cache points. Also, it was just rude. Bertram crossed his fingers and, secure that all precautions had been taken, addressed the Wanderer, who he was fairly sure he had seen in his office before. Bertram began, officiality in his speech and dripping with as much persuasion as he could muster, not yet giving the man time to speak until all the terms were on the table.
"It's very clear you've noticed the Cache up to the north, and judging by the amount of activity the City had been giving off in that time, it's a big one. Now I think you know that currently this Sector is having tensions with another Sector to the west, so you're aware that I have to take every precaution to make sure you don't sell out, no offense. And besides, I'm going to make a big enough offer that you can go and probably buy a number of the items back if you want. The highest I will possibly go is 3,500 Cells. That's the most I pay anyone, and usually I only pay it to caravans. No, this isn't a normal fee, but this isn't a normal case. I'm going to be sending you with at least one other person if I can, for the sake of insurance and also to keep up appearances to Sector Three members possibly in the area. You're just leading someone on a guided tour. Now of those 3,500 Cells, 250 is telling me if you learn anything from any potential Sector Three insurgents, and 750 is making sure that at least most of the items are listed and accounted for. 2,500 Cells is still big, but not as big as it could be, and it's the difference between a few months of rations and half a year of rations. And that's quality rations. Now, if I don't hear back from you within a day or two of radioing in, and I don't hear from the person I'm going to put you with and the Cache has suddenly gone empty, there are going to be very justifiable jumps to very justifiably negative conclusions, you understand, and those justifiable conclusions mean that it'd be safer for you to head down south about as far as Sector Five. I'm sorry for the precautions, normally I'd be fine with you taking a few choice items, and if there's anything you want from the Cache and if you bring it back to me first by all means you can have it. It's just dangerous times right now, and it's difficult to fight in a war that you aren't prepared for, combat or mentally. But you do this job, you do it with your partner, and you come back with the stash, you, and your partner in one piece, and not only are we kosher but you've earned yourself at least a couple favors with us once the war is over. Our way of saying thank you for putting up with the red tape and getting things done."
Bertram paused, for a moment, both studying the Wanderer's features and running his mind through the possible people he could partner with the Wanderer and then added, "Do you have any questions, Mister...?"
-----
Meshach Kalas
Meshach was looking for spare cash. It wasn't clear how many people had died to Afflicted on his watch, or other, rare beasts that haunted the City, but he was getting quite the stigma for it. He simply didn't care. If they proved to be worthwhile enough to want to save, then they got saved, and the creature came down a few minutes faster, with the wanted help. But it's not like he couldn't do it on his own. He'd been doing this from a young age, as a Wanderer in the service of a much more dangerous and antagonistic mentor than, currently, any of the bourgeois of Sector Three were. There was slavery, there was talk of experimentation, and there was a bit of a classist air that hung around those who were born in the Sector. They got cushy jobs, they were immediately stuck with decent pay and better deals and honestly, that got to Meshach more than the slavery and possible experiments. He was very open about his beliefs, and he was very open to the merchants who gypped him due to his ex-slave status and the blue-blooded Councilman in charge of the Hunters, who used very, very choice words whenever Meshach let one of the "pure ones" in his Hunting team die. Meshach didn't bother saying that he did, in fact, warn them, and they disregarded his warnings using many of the same choice words. He used to, but all that happened was set the hypertension in the Councilman's veins into overdrive till it look like his temples were fit to burst, and began talking about Meshach's inferiority in a manner reminiscent of black-and-white vids he watched on the vidmachines with some kind of general addressing a few thousand people marching in formation, right down to frantic pointing and gesturing. Meshach always wanted to let the Councilman know, but he was pretty sure that would outright kill the man by sending him into veritable apoplexy.
The Councilman for the Retrievers, on the other hand, was far less obtuse and far more open to giving him work, but Meshach was a creature killer. That was his lot in life, fighting things with acid and teeth and horrifying memetic effects and, in one case, the ability to grow hands that it controlled. Hands literally everywhere. That was a fun time. He wasn't used to fighting people with guns, he rarely took the time out of his life to fight a Shadow Grapher or a piece of the Flock. But he was running low on money. Hence why he was entering the marketplace, with a veritable sack filled with moldable chitin from an Afflicted that could be accurately described as either a lobster shaped like a tree, or a tree with the skin and head of a lobster. Either way it was painfully simple.
He went to the general merchant and hoisted the sack of chitin onto the counter. The merchant, old and with lines from years of fretting and scowling, opened the flap of the sack and peered inside quizzically, then shutting it back again, his eyes wide. "Well, shit." It was an involuntary reaction once he fully grasped who Meshach was, and his scowl deepened to near anatomically improbable levels, like one corner of his mouth had gone limp and sagged down to near chin level. "What am I supposed to do with this crap?"
"You could get some good deals off of selling it to armorsmiths."
"Ain't worth my time, ain't worth the effort. Nobody wants armor made out of..." he peered into the sack again, "Crab."
"Lobster," Meshach replied.
"Yeah, yeah." The merchant eyed Meshach distastefully, then, after a bit of thought, said, his scowl lessening. "Alright, sixty Cells, no more."
"Sixty?!" said Meshach incredulously. "Do you know how much--"
"Sixty. Cells." The merchant replied, his tone flat, enunciating each word. "No more."
Meshach groaned and accepted the offer. The merchant took the sack of chitinous shell and then reached behind him, pulling out sixty Cells, counting to make sure it was the correct amount, and handing it to Meshach. Meshach couldn't dislike the guy. He was a hard-ass on everyone. If the upper class of Sector Three didn't outright voice their contempt to anyone and everyone on the Council up to and including the Councilman in charge of the marketplace, the merchant wouldn't be so unnecessarily hard on him. Only about as hard as he is on everyone else, and that's as close as the man could get to amicable.
Meshach's stomach growled, and he looked over to a nearby wall where a young woman was loitering, finishing off an apple. He asked the merchant, "How much for an apple?"
The merchant glanced over as far as he could, noting the face of the woman eating the apple, and growled, "Five Cells."
Meshach felt there was something off, but accepted it and laid the five Cells on the counter. The merchant, grinning, took the five Cells back and put an apple on the counter. It would do. He walked across from the merchant's stall and crouched down, almost sitting, back barely touching the corner of a housing complex, and began eating the apple. He wanted to wait before talking to the Councilman of Hunters. He didn't want to hear him have a conniption just yet. He had time.
Bertram rubbed at his eyes and leaned back in his chair. He just received word from Jones, something along the lines of third in command of the Security Division and the one delegated the likely very dull task of directing visitors to the councilmen they would like to speak with and make sure they stay in control and don't attempt anything. Speaking with the convened council all at once is next to impossible and currently under Jones's watch it is completely impossible. A skinny man who lives outside the boundaries of Sector Three in the City proper has come talking about the very large Cache to the north.
Normally he was not impartial to delegating Retrieval work to outsiders and generally he tried to keep amicable, as opposed to a great many of the xenophobic Sectors farther away in the City, but given the growing tensions between the two Sectors he was afraid of being misinformed of the full size of the Cache in order to accumulate a large number of important items, or a double-cross at the hand of the freelancer in question if he or she believes the Cache is worth more to another Sector, or, if Jones's over-analyzing security measures are justified, if the kid throws a knife into his chest.
But beggars can't be choosers, and he was fairly sure that he'd worked with this one before. Not too many wanderers or groups of wanderers have come up to talk about Retrieval work. A handful have scavenged and then pawned off the scavenged items, but Retrieval is one that the repeat visitors who didn't die within their first few missions because they were used to a moderately comfortable part of the active City Bert could barely reach double digits counting. No, he had to set the terms there and then. If the man broke the terms then he'd lose quite a bit of potential work in Sector Three, and in any case he wasn't planning on just sending the kid.
When the wanderer came in, he motioned to one of the three chairs in front of his desk- what were essentially dining chairs refurbished for office use and still on their last legs, so to speak- and then Bertram crossed one leg over the other. He looked behind the wanderer and saw Jones standing within five paces of the doorway to his office. He looked to the box on which were mounted all the transceivers between the deployed Retrievers. They were currently being transmitted to someone else, another Council member with not too much on their plate at the moment. He didn't risk people listening in on Retriever locations and Cache points. Also, it was just rude. Bertram crossed his fingers and, secure that all precautions had been taken, addressed the Wanderer, who he was fairly sure he had seen in his office before. Bertram began, officiality in his speech and dripping with as much persuasion as he could muster, not yet giving the man time to speak until all the terms were on the table.
"It's very clear you've noticed the Cache up to the north, and judging by the amount of activity the City had been giving off in that time, it's a big one. Now I think you know that currently this Sector is having tensions with another Sector to the west, so you're aware that I have to take every precaution to make sure you don't sell out, no offense. And besides, I'm going to make a big enough offer that you can go and probably buy a number of the items back if you want. The highest I will possibly go is 3,500 Cells. That's the most I pay anyone, and usually I only pay it to caravans. No, this isn't a normal fee, but this isn't a normal case. I'm going to be sending you with at least one other person if I can, for the sake of insurance and also to keep up appearances to Sector Three members possibly in the area. You're just leading someone on a guided tour. Now of those 3,500 Cells, 250 is telling me if you learn anything from any potential Sector Three insurgents, and 750 is making sure that at least most of the items are listed and accounted for. 2,500 Cells is still big, but not as big as it could be, and it's the difference between a few months of rations and half a year of rations. And that's quality rations. Now, if I don't hear back from you within a day or two of radioing in, and I don't hear from the person I'm going to put you with and the Cache has suddenly gone empty, there are going to be very justifiable jumps to very justifiably negative conclusions, you understand, and those justifiable conclusions mean that it'd be safer for you to head down south about as far as Sector Five. I'm sorry for the precautions, normally I'd be fine with you taking a few choice items, and if there's anything you want from the Cache and if you bring it back to me first by all means you can have it. It's just dangerous times right now, and it's difficult to fight in a war that you aren't prepared for, combat or mentally. But you do this job, you do it with your partner, and you come back with the stash, you, and your partner in one piece, and not only are we kosher but you've earned yourself at least a couple favors with us once the war is over. Our way of saying thank you for putting up with the red tape and getting things done."
Bertram paused, for a moment, both studying the Wanderer's features and running his mind through the possible people he could partner with the Wanderer and then added, "Do you have any questions, Mister...?"
-----
Meshach Kalas
Meshach was looking for spare cash. It wasn't clear how many people had died to Afflicted on his watch, or other, rare beasts that haunted the City, but he was getting quite the stigma for it. He simply didn't care. If they proved to be worthwhile enough to want to save, then they got saved, and the creature came down a few minutes faster, with the wanted help. But it's not like he couldn't do it on his own. He'd been doing this from a young age, as a Wanderer in the service of a much more dangerous and antagonistic mentor than, currently, any of the bourgeois of Sector Three were. There was slavery, there was talk of experimentation, and there was a bit of a classist air that hung around those who were born in the Sector. They got cushy jobs, they were immediately stuck with decent pay and better deals and honestly, that got to Meshach more than the slavery and possible experiments. He was very open about his beliefs, and he was very open to the merchants who gypped him due to his ex-slave status and the blue-blooded Councilman in charge of the Hunters, who used very, very choice words whenever Meshach let one of the "pure ones" in his Hunting team die. Meshach didn't bother saying that he did, in fact, warn them, and they disregarded his warnings using many of the same choice words. He used to, but all that happened was set the hypertension in the Councilman's veins into overdrive till it look like his temples were fit to burst, and began talking about Meshach's inferiority in a manner reminiscent of black-and-white vids he watched on the vidmachines with some kind of general addressing a few thousand people marching in formation, right down to frantic pointing and gesturing. Meshach always wanted to let the Councilman know, but he was pretty sure that would outright kill the man by sending him into veritable apoplexy.
The Councilman for the Retrievers, on the other hand, was far less obtuse and far more open to giving him work, but Meshach was a creature killer. That was his lot in life, fighting things with acid and teeth and horrifying memetic effects and, in one case, the ability to grow hands that it controlled. Hands literally everywhere. That was a fun time. He wasn't used to fighting people with guns, he rarely took the time out of his life to fight a Shadow Grapher or a piece of the Flock. But he was running low on money. Hence why he was entering the marketplace, with a veritable sack filled with moldable chitin from an Afflicted that could be accurately described as either a lobster shaped like a tree, or a tree with the skin and head of a lobster. Either way it was painfully simple.
He went to the general merchant and hoisted the sack of chitin onto the counter. The merchant, old and with lines from years of fretting and scowling, opened the flap of the sack and peered inside quizzically, then shutting it back again, his eyes wide. "Well, shit." It was an involuntary reaction once he fully grasped who Meshach was, and his scowl deepened to near anatomically improbable levels, like one corner of his mouth had gone limp and sagged down to near chin level. "What am I supposed to do with this crap?"
"You could get some good deals off of selling it to armorsmiths."
"Ain't worth my time, ain't worth the effort. Nobody wants armor made out of..." he peered into the sack again, "Crab."
"Lobster," Meshach replied.
"Yeah, yeah." The merchant eyed Meshach distastefully, then, after a bit of thought, said, his scowl lessening. "Alright, sixty Cells, no more."
"Sixty?!" said Meshach incredulously. "Do you know how much--"
"Sixty. Cells." The merchant replied, his tone flat, enunciating each word. "No more."
Meshach groaned and accepted the offer. The merchant took the sack of chitinous shell and then reached behind him, pulling out sixty Cells, counting to make sure it was the correct amount, and handing it to Meshach. Meshach couldn't dislike the guy. He was a hard-ass on everyone. If the upper class of Sector Three didn't outright voice their contempt to anyone and everyone on the Council up to and including the Councilman in charge of the marketplace, the merchant wouldn't be so unnecessarily hard on him. Only about as hard as he is on everyone else, and that's as close as the man could get to amicable.
Meshach's stomach growled, and he looked over to a nearby wall where a young woman was loitering, finishing off an apple. He asked the merchant, "How much for an apple?"
The merchant glanced over as far as he could, noting the face of the woman eating the apple, and growled, "Five Cells."
Meshach felt there was something off, but accepted it and laid the five Cells on the counter. The merchant, grinning, took the five Cells back and put an apple on the counter. It would do. He walked across from the merchant's stall and crouched down, almost sitting, back barely touching the corner of a housing complex, and began eating the apple. He wanted to wait before talking to the Councilman of Hunters. He didn't want to hear him have a conniption just yet. He had time.