Mr Johnson, I Presume

Another day, another struggle for survival on the mean streets of the sprawl. It’s raining, Knight Errant’s running a high-profile “serve and protect” visibility campaign lately, and pickings have been a little lean. Occupational hazard, omae.

You’re awake one night pondering where you’re going to get next month’s soymilk money when a familiar number pops up in the corner of your AR display. Your fixer’s on the line, and that can only mean one thing—a job. Cred. A way to keep the wolves off your back for a couple more weeks—if you survive, that is.

“Yeah, I got a job for you,” the fixer says. “Looks like something you guys should be able to handle. Meet Mr. Johnson at 21:00 at Infinity. The meet’ll be in one of the private conference rooms—tell the elf bartender chica that you’re with the Johnson party and she’ll show you where to go. Oh, and dress like you know what you’re doing, willya?”

Mr Johnson, I Presume

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