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>>1535915
At your side is a suppressed pistol, its wide frame meant to accommodate 5.7mm rounds, and it's loaded with SB193 subsonic rounds optimized for a sound suppressor. You also have a single magazine of the “duty load”, which can comfortably penetrate light body armor if things go completely sideways on you.

In addition to your military ID issued by the Colony Transit Fleet you're carrying one other important document, tucked away in one of your jacket's pockets: a search warrant for documents and other evidence connected to the activities of Senator Lucius Hawke. The man's a notorious hardliner, former military, suspected in a number of illegal financial activities and quite possibly your best lead on SNRI's unusual boldness.

Maybe a bit much for a bookie, don't you think?

“It's the kind of bookkeeping he does that worries me,” you point out to your sister as you step out of the car and quickly head for the door, glancing about to see if anyone's noticed that you're armed and armored. “I mean if this was a movie he'd probably be sitting up there with a shotgun waiting for me.”

Point taken. That sounds less like a movie, more like how things actually go for us sometimes.

You ease the door open slowly, carefully listening for any sign of an ambush as you walk quietly down the hall and into a center stairwell: the apartment you're looking for is up two flights, number 5. Given the numbering it seems like this flat doesn't face onto the street where you've parked, so that's good at least. With no ambush in sight you move cautiously up the stairs, hand at your hip and ready to draw, until you reach the door.

There's a sense of tension on the inside, but you're not certain whether it amounts to a waiting gunman or if this person's just naturally that way... either they have some serious anxiety issues or they're a particularly cool customer when it comes to impending danger.

>Knock like a normal person.
>No knock, get inside and secure the apartment.
>Declare that you have a warrant.
>Other?

>>1535922
>Knock like a normal person.
But don't position yourself directly in front of the door for the first knock. Maybe a little off the side in case the fellow decides on a "shoot first" policy.

>>1535922
>>1535945
This is good

Okay, feels like this is all we're gonna get.
>3d10, DC 17, Crit 20, best of three

Rolled 4, 7, 2 = 13 (3d10)

>>1535998

Rolled 1, 10, 10 = 21 (3d10)

>>1535998

Rolled 5, 7, 10 = 22 (3d10)

>>1535998

>>1536033
You just had to one up me, anon...

You decide to take this a little more cautiously than usual, knocking on the door and waiting to see what happens. There are a few moments where someone inside stirs and approaches the door with light, careful footfalls, though they don't open it right away. You get the feeling that they're checking the peephole, and you can't hide your armor so he sees clearly that you're ready for a fight.

Then, after your second round of knocking, the door opens.

“Yes?” an older man with thinning gray hair and half-rim glasses asks you with a frown. “Why am I getting a visit from a scary young lady in body armor?”

“I'm here to ask a few questions,” you begin, withholding for now the fact that you have a search warrant. “Mind if I come in?”

“You wouldn't be here if you didn't have a warrant,” the man muses, almost to himself. “So I suppose I have little alternative. But don't hold out any hopes for tea and biscuits.”

“That's fine by me,” you reply calmly, hand still resting instinctively on the grip of your sidearm as you pass him by. He doesn't try to do anything, so although you're absolutely ready to counterattack you don't have to.

The inside of the apartment is perfectly comfortable, neither ostentatious nor messy. The entry hall runs left to a bedroom and right to a living room, while the kitchen is directly in front of you. You think you see a bathroom at the end of the hallway past the living room, but that's fairly unimportant at the moment. The living room has two couches and a large television, with a desk set up in front of a trio of windows, and next to the television there's a series of shelves built into the wall.

The top shelf is dedicated to whiskey bottles in various states of emptiness, while the four shelves under it are filled with an array of folders and books, mostly of the latter being reference books for tax codes and other laws.

“Definitely a bookkeeper's house,” you comment at the sight of the shelves.

“So you said you had questions for me?” the man asks, ignoring your comment and taking a seat on one of the couches. “Ask away.”

You don't sit, instead positioning yourself carefully so that you're not standing near any of the doors or windows.

>Ask him about his clients.
>Explain what you're here to investigate.
>Come straight out the gate with the warrant.
>Ask about Artesia's contact.
>Other?

>>1536071
>>Ask him about his clients.
>>Explain what you're here to investigate.

>>1536071
>Come straight out the gate with the warrant.
>Ask him about his clients.

>>1536071
>>Ask him about his clients.
>>Explain what you're here to investigate.

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>>1536071
“So you have a lot of clients then?” you muse, glancing at the folders before turning your eye back to the bookie. “Are they all as high-profile as Senator Hawke?”

“Of course,” he replies succinctly. Apparently he considers the fact that Hawke is one of his clients to be an open secret. “You see if I can attract a certain quality of clientele I don't have to work nearly as hard to maintain a comfortable lifestyle.”

“I see, that actually makes a certain amount of sense,” you nod earnestly. “In fact I could almost get behind it if I had fewer morals and less of a sense of justice.”

The old man chuckles, seeming genuinely amused. “Well, the straight arrows usually don't have such a sense of humor about it, so this is rather refreshing. So tell me, why the scrutiny?”

“There've been a lot of things going on recently, if you haven't watched the news recently,” you explain, tone suddenly regaining its stern edge. “We want to know how it all fits together...”

“And you're following the money?” the old man asks, still wearing that amused smile. “God, how quaint! Don't look at me that way, I mean it in the best possible sense... nobody ever does it that way anymore. Takes too long, you see. It's easier to erode support out from under the powerful by drawing attention to every gaffe and scandal that presents itself, let them do the all the hard work themselves. Or, if you're truly lucky, they'll do something more obviously illegal and you can nail them on that.”

“But legitimate detective work?” he muses. “That's rare. It makes my sort of business rather safer than it used to be.”

“Right now all we have is the paper trail,” you admit without revealing any specific details of your investigation so far. “Mostly trade in information that we've traced between involved parties.”

“Well I have none of that,” the man shrugs. “It's like I told the last nice lad who knocked on my door looking to talk, all I have is the financial data, and a lot of that is recorded in a way that only makes sense if you know who the various accounts belong to and what they trade in.”

>We have quite a few other sources, thankfully. It's a kaleidoscope of details.
>We also have a warrant for any information pertaining to Senator Hawke.
>That “nice lad” had black hair? Brown eyes? Texan accent? He's dead.
>Other?

>>1536166
>>That “nice lad” had black hair? Brown eyes? Texan accent? He's dead.

>>1536166
>>That “nice lad” had black hair? Brown eyes? Texan accent? He's dead.

>>1536166
>>We have quite a few other sources, thankfully. It's a kaleidoscope of details.

>writing

>>1536243
“That 'nice lad' you're talking about,” you reply cautiously, already seeing where this is going. “Black hair, brown eyes, and a Texan accent, right?”

The old bookie nods quietly. “Yes, that all sounds familiar. I take it you both work for the same organization?”

You shake your head. “Totally different. Also, that guy's dead.”

“Dead?” the bookie asks, no longer smiling. “If this is a murder investigation then things have changed.”

“We have no reason to suspect that you're directly responsible,” you reassure the man carefully. “But the fact remains that he was investigating the business dealings of one of your clients when he was killed.”

“Hawke?” he asks.

You nod. “Hawke.”

The man seems to think to himself for a few moments before getting to his feet. You sense no aggression from him, so you respond to him producing a pocket pistol by merely loosening your own pistol in its holster while he hits the magazine catch on the bottom of the grip and ejects a round. Then he sets the weapon on the coffee table.

“Please follow me into the other room,” he tells you, walking out into the hallway and turning the corner. In what seems to have been intended as a second bedroom you find a study with a computer and a wall of books next to it, these being written on all sorts of topics.

“I don't keep any physical records,” he tells you, “aside from those for my own finances. I store all of the data in here, on this machine. It has no ability to connect to the internet, and at need I can use it to cleanly wipe the hard drives. It's not a totally effective system of course, but it serves to assure my clients that I take their data security very seriously.”

“So does this mean you're producing the data I need?” you ask.

He nods sternly, booting up the computer. “Indeed.
>1/2

>>1536340
“If someone is dead then there is a high likelihood that there has been a breach of contract,” the man explains as he begins pulling up dozens of files from multiple destination folders. “Also, if you do have a warrant and searched my system my other clients' privacy would be violated.”

“Thoughtful,” you grumble.

He takes a moment to correct you. “In my field we call this professionalism. I'm sure you're familiar with it as well.”

“Fair, I guess,” you sigh.

“Whatever it is you do, do it well, do it with pride, and do it for as much money as you can get,” the man recites, as if it's a mantra.

After a few more minutes the man hands you a portable hard drive. “This is all the data I have recorded on Senator Hawke's finances, but it's especially oblique. Many of the source and destination names make no sense.”

>dice+3d10, best of three

Rolled 8, 5, 3 = 16 (3d10)

>>1536373

Rolled 3, 8, 10 = 21 (3d10)

>>1536373

Rolled 4, 9, 1 = 14 (3d10)

>>1536373

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>>1536397
Solid.

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>>1536403
“And this is all of the relevant data?” you ask, raising your visible eyebrow. “Are you sure?”

“All I can think of, yes.”

That's not the whole truth. There's something else, something not in the data.

“You know, I don't have to play nice with you,” you observe carefully, locking your eye with his. “You're concerned with your professionalism, I can understand that. But you were right, I'm a professional too. And I can sense when someone is holding out on me.”

“Can you now?” he replies, seemingly dubious about your claim. “And just what makes you so certain of yourself, miss?”

“I know that there's something you're not telling me,” you continue. “Something that's not on any of the records or spreadsheets, something you know... or rather, something you expect. Something that makes you uncomfortable, as if you've violated your own rules.”

The man looks increasingly uncomfortable, but holds his ground. “Pure speculation.”

“Your heart rate says otherwise,” you press. “Your nervous habit of stroking your thigh where your femur broke years ago when you're under pressure, the way you move your eyes, the lines in your face when I call out one of your half-truths. Maybe your average person would overlook these things, but to a newtype your reactions might as well be a double-entry notebook they're so easy to read.”

A long, deep sigh. “I have an unabiding hatred of war. Not only is it bad for business, my daughter and son in law were killed in the initial battle for Loum.”

“I'm sorry to hear that,” you apologize, somewhat uncomfortable yourself. You weren't directly involved there of course, but you were part of Zeon's early territorial advances all the same.

“I swore that I would do my best to stay out of the weapons business, and I suspect that I have not been altogether successful.”

“And what makes you think that?” you press.

“Are you familiar with the initials SNRI?”

>Very much so. Thanks for confirming our suspicions.
>We may need you to testify under oath at some point.
>Speak to no one about this.
>Other?

>>1536505
>Very much so. Thanks for confirming our suspicions.

>>1536505
>>Very much so. Thanks for confirming our suspicions.

>>1536505
>>Very much so. Thanks for confirming our suspicions.

>>1536505
>>Very much so. Thanks for confirming our suspicions.

>>1536505
>>Very much so. Thanks for confirming our suspicions.

>>1536560
>>1536533
Whoops, dropped my trip...could've sworn I'd already voted...

>got sidetracked for a moment, writing

>>1536585
“Unlike you I'm fully involved in that business,” you admit, “so yeah. I know exactly what SNRI is. What do you know that's relevant to it?”

The man takes a book off the shelf, and pulls out what looks like a small pamphlet that's been tucked away inside it.

Talk about old school.

“This is a list of bank accounts I've found that I suspect are linked to SNRI business,” he explains carefully. “At very least they're all linked to people who work for SNRI. I was suspicious about Senator Hawke's reputation.”

“This is what you told the last guy, isn't it?” you ask.

He nods solemnly. “I did, yes. Though I doubt that is what killed him.”

“Oh?”

“I'm not in the habit of reporting my contacts to anyone,” he tells you. “And this was no exception. I get requests for information and contacts from would-be sleuths all the time, and to my knowledge none of them have ever been subsequently murdered.”

“Then you think someone else reported him?” you ask. “Do you know who might have been responsible, then? Did he tell you anything about his investigations?”

“No,” he shakes his head. “He wasn't particularly forthcoming on the matter, though I'm certain you don't need to be told that there are far more unsavory people in my sort of business than myself.”

Fair point.

>Well then, I think I need to move on to my next lead. Thank you for your cooperation.
>I should report back in to my crew. Thank you for your cooperation.
>You should be prepared to give an official statement, assuming I can build a case.
>Other?

>>1536698
>>Well then, I think I need to move on to my next lead. Thank you for your cooperation.

>>1536698
>>I should report back in to my crew. Thank you for your cooperation.
Drop off the recorded data, see if ALICE and Rosse can unravel and make sense of it.

>>1536698
>>I should report back in to my crew. Thank you for your cooperation.

>writing

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“I should report back to my crew,” you nod, pocketing the hard drive. “Thanks for making this that much easier for me.”

“Of course,” the man waves you off. “I do have my own rules and professional code of conduct, remember.”

You head down the stairwell, still careful to make sure you don't end up getting shot in the back by anyone, and head out across the street. Instead of checking the hard drive or calling into the Sericea, which you could certainly do and would be that much faster, you start up the car and pull out into the road.

You seem jumpy.

“Of course, sis,” you agree with a frown. “Since when is it ever that easy?”

You hit the signal and turn onto the main road heading back towards the spaceport, only four lanes due to the relatively small amount of car traffic in a city with such an extensive and fundamentally clean-running public transit system.
>dice3d10, DC 17, Crit 21, best of 3

Rolled 10, 7, 8 = 25 (3d10)

>>1536800

Rolled 9, 8, 5 = 22 (3d10)

>>1536800

Rolled 7, 7, 7 = 21 (3d10)

>>1536800

Rolled 2, 6, 8 = 16 (3d10)

>>1536800

>>1536815
>>1536821
>>1536836
Well, the goddess of Victory is smiling on Carya today.

>>1536861
Its about time! The dice tend to shit on Carya pretty hard. Guess Dom got all the luck.

>>1536974
Gonna try this again in a moment. Revising for clarity.

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>>1536861
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vaYk-lmysEc

You get the distinct feeling that something here is out of place, and glancing in the rearview mirror you notice that the car two behind you was sitting at the other end of the street where you'd been parked. Same color, same make and model, though you didn't catch its plate number the first time around. The driver is being careful not to vary his speed or course too much, not to change lanes at all.

And you find it hard to believe that someone parked just up the street from where you were just happened to leave heading the same way as you at exactly the same time. You pull off the highway and onto a surface street suddenly, without signaling, and you see your tail do the same.

You pull out into an intersection and head around the block, doubling back and heading back for the freeway.

The driver that had been behind you is nowhere to be seen...

Sis! Right side!

You're already in motion even before you hear Catrina's mental warning, bracing for what you know is coming. You stomp the gas just after the nick of time to avoid the oncoming car, a heavily-built four-door, and the force of the blow just behind your rear axis spins your whole vehicle around. Stomping the break and throwing the wheel over means you can spin flat across the tarmac in a symphony of screeching tires and crumpling metal, then you let off the break and correct with the wheel in one hand as you shift into reverse with the other.

You stomp the gas, now going in reverse as the other car's driver corrects after the hit and gives chase.

They're packing a shitload of heat!

“I've noticed!” you roar back, drawing your sidearm in your right hand and aiming over the steering wheel as one of the attackers leans out a window with a submachine gun and opens fire. Bullets leave puckered holes in your hood and bodywork and one spiderwebs the windscreen, but your own return fire finishes the job and shatters it completely into a million polygonal chunks.

Then do something about it!

“Working on it!” you shout, noting with some satisfaction that one of your rounds connects with the gunner's center of mass and knocks him from his perch on the window frame and onto the ground, the car itself bumping ever so slightly as its back wheel runs over the man's legs.
>1/?

>>1536995
Then you do something none of the idiots in that other car expected when they attacked you: you slam the breaks. The driver tries to swerve suddenly, throwing a second gunman out of the other back window and onto the ground to be crushed under the back wheels, and your car is sent slowly spinning to the right. Your shots shatter the driver side window, now aimed at the nearly-stationary occupants of your four-doored nemesis.

They don't stand a chance.

Blood sprays over the interior of the cab as your shots strike home, and you go about the near-impossible task of putting the car back in gear and reloading at the same time. The magazine lands somewhere on the center console as you shift the stick with your left hand, then you reach into your jacket and ram a fresh magazine home. You stamp on the accelerator and thank whatever God watches over newtypes and fools the engine's still in a mood to roar into life.

Hit it! There's a second car coming!

Your sister doesn't need to tell you twice. The car peels out with smoking tires before grabbing enough traction to lurch forward, carrying you back towards the highway onramp right at the redline before the automatic transmission changes gears and the RPM finally drops. Now that your'e on a straight course again you can rack the slide and finish loading, just in time to see an old-fashioned SUV closing in behind you from your dangling rearview mirror.

>Get onto the freeway, keep the pedal down and try to lose these suckers.
>Try and maneuver into a position where you can return fire more easily.
>CARRINA CALLS FOR AID!
>Try and run them off the road, even if it means ruining your own car.
>Other?

>>1537063
>>Try and maneuver into a position where you can return fire more easily.

>>1537063
>>CARRINA CALLS FOR AID!

>>1537117
gotta get dat gunship rescue

>dice+3d10, DC 18, Crit 22
>best of four

Rolled 5, 2, 1 = 8 (3d10)

>>1537207

Rolled 4, 3, 1 = 8 (3d10)

>>1537207

Rolled 8, 7, 6 = 21 (3d10)

>>1537207

>>1537239
>dat clutch doh
One more shot to top it.

Rolled 2, 6, 3 = 11 (3d10)

>>1537265

>>1537265
“Catrina!” you shout over the roaring engine. “Can you do it from here?”

You need to get me a bit closer!

“How much closer?” The SUV is closing fast as you slow down to weave through traffic that its heavy front grills let it more or less push aside.

Not long if you can get up to speed!

Shit... you pull onto the freeway itself and thankfully it seems fairly clear of traffic, which means that your lighter car has a slight advantage on the heavy, powerful SUV behind you. Praying to the benevolent goddess of acceleration you mash the pedal almost through the floorboards, practically willing this little two-door shitbucket to move faster.

Unfortunately you only have one eye, and that needs to stay firmly on the road, so shooting back would be nearly impossible. You holster your weapon and pull out your phone.

“Come on, come on...” you mutter, punching in the speed dial for Sericea. “Of all the days to not be wearing a wire...”

“What is it?” Rossweisse eventually responds on the other end.

“Viola! Launch! Now!” you shout over the sound of gunfire striking your car.

“Ah, so that is you we're seeing on the news,” she muses. “Viola's on the launch ramp, just let us know when to hit the button.”

“Oh,” you sigh sarcastically, “now would be nice. We're in range, right sis?”

Probably.

“She just said probably, didn't she?” Rossweisse asks blankly. “Please tell me she didn't.”

“She didn't say that thing you said.”

“You're lying.”

“You know me too well.”
>1/2

>>1537384
After dodging several more cars and trucks you see it coming: the Viola on a full burn, having maneuvered through the giant pressure gate connecting the spaceport and Von Braun's internal living space. It grows closer and closer, then bright lights erupt as it hits reverse thrust and lowers to the level of the highway.

“Well, here goes nothing!”

You jerk the steering wheel as Catrina smashes a gap in the safety barrier for you, and your controls feel oddly light for a moment as the car loses contact with the ground, then you slam into the Viola's giant metal hands.

Catrina does her best to match your velocity, but the impact's sufficient to pop the airbags anyway.

You okay in there sis?

The answer should be obvious since she's still alive, but you humor her.

“Fan-friggin' tastic,” you grumble, pushing down the deflated airbag with your hands. “Let's get out of here, I don't wanna be in the car anymore.”

>>1537469
And that's where I call it for the evening. Thanks for turning out, hope you had fun, and I'll get back to this next weekend.

Archive's up, and I'll check back in tomorrow to see if there are any questions/comments/etc.

Awesome. Your action writing keeps improving. Thanks

>>1537384
>benevolent goddess of acceleration
That's "Our Lady of Blessed Acceleration" to you King. Anyway, thanks for the run.

Think the current info we got on SNRI would warrant a pastebin addition, or is that gonna happen only after we've compiled a comprehensive amount on deducing what the bookie provided?

And conveniently for said bookie, his name was never alluded to.

>>1539863
Thanks, anon. Always room to improve, right?

>>1540226
Deliberate on my part, a classic movie line appropriated by space robot fighter jocks a hundred years and two world wars from now. Carya and Catrina don't even know what movie it was from.

As for Bookie's name, he would never have told you even if you asked. He manages other peoples' secret dealings and personal data for a living, so as far as he's concerned having anything resembling an "identity" just leaves him vulnerable.