From: jfol@carina.unm.edu (joshua l follicks-shields)
Subject: Re: Visser Nights, Part II. 
Date: Fri, 14 Aug 92 04:29:17 GMT
Organization: University of New Mexico, Albuquerque
 
              INTRODUCTION
              ------------

    This space will be used in most chapters to give a small
tidbit of life in Visser. Hope your enjoying it so far. We'll
try to sharpen up a bit as we're on a new WP.

    Most EarthFed worlds have their own "Colonial Militia"
and this is the location that most people who have military
training got it. Also, if you run into Militia, cahnces are it's
all over.       

    However, the EarthFed also has a force of "Colonial Marines"
corporations bid for the honor of equiping these units, a
competition mirrored by those who seek to join this force.
Needless to say, competition is fierce. Only the best
get in, and recieve the best training and equipment currently
available in EarthFed. Of course, one can begin to realize
what sort of missions Colonial Marines might be sent on.

   If you know a former colonial marine, than chances are that
person will be among the toughest SOBs you'll ever meet. If that
person was a living legend in the Marines like Nicky Six, best
to not antagonize them.
 
                      PART II
                      -------

    The bugs behind the bar were not a good sign. It meant somebody was
trying to listen in on a conversation in the Last Chance, and that
meant they were trying to listen in on Teflon-88's conversation.
They probably hired the Nok (Nok is slang for Neo-Ork) to listen
in, but the Nok screwed up and tried to get more, increase
it's payoff. Typically crude, the Nok's cheap bugs, had been
simple to burn out. Barak briefly considered killing the Nok,
but decided that the Nok's employer would probably do that
for him. Barak then considered dragging some information out
of the Nok, but decided the information  would probably be as low grade as the
Nok itself.

    The Nok had been hired by one of two parties, Teflon-88's
potential employer or target. They would want advance information
on T-88's decision whether or not to take the job. If it was the target,
than it was much worse, because that meant they knew about the job,
and the possibility that T-88 would be the contractors.
It could have been somebody else T-88 had tangled with in the past,
but if they were professional enough to have survived, they would
know it would be meaningless and very expensive to do so, while
if they weren't, they were probably already dead.

   Barak did not have to send this querry through
to his partners, he knew they were thinking the same thoughts.
As Barak finished brooding and grinned his sharklike
grin at the Nok, the many chrome monorazored points
glittering up to four vicious looking canines, the
Nok's sallow complection blanching in reflection, Doc
walked in.
  
   Doc was the next member of Teflon-88. He was an oddity.
His bright orange windbreaker, with several prominant
white crosses marked as a medic, only a crazy man shot a medic.
He was carrying an enormous duffle filled with medical
equipment. He quickly went to the bar and ordered a drink,
a SymKa gimlet, before carefully setting down his bag.
There was little mystery to Doc, even a cursory
scan would show that he had nothing "installed"
and carried no weapons, unless one considered
the strange object in Doc's pocket, and another
around his neck. In addition, he may not have had
the optics inside a look at his shades told
you he was not bereft.

   "Damn, I'm getting too old for this," Doc grunted.
   He was quickly followed by an equally dour Sylvian and
Squat, who contrasted quite effectivly with Doc's
almost strangely normal human appearance.

   The Sylvian was their decker, Jam. His Sylvian
style coat almost his Bandai type XXX Ablative armor
and the pair of Colt flechetters on his hips. Jam settled
a hard sided case down on the table that Doc had sat down
at and set down a small duffle on the floor. Jam might be
the decker, but he was far from lost in a fight, and had
a little bit of everything in his duffle.

   The Squat, Rex, was the Tech. He had been part of the
design team that had built Barak. The lucrative job
behind corporate walls had ended when he told a superior
to shove it. Barak had worried about the squat's temper,
but when it failed to materialize again, Barak suspected
it had been part of a ploy to get himself fired as
unreliable. Rex and Jam had already started a pair
of SymAles. The difference, Barak knew, would be that
the SymAle in front of Jam would last all night, for
Rex it would be the first of many.

*********************************************************
This story is produced with material from a game
and background created by Joshua Follick and
Randy Johnston. All Rights Reserved.
Should anyone wish to use characters or setting
it is strongly recommended that they contact the
above, or face criminal charges and look very silly H\)
*********************************************************  
-- 
Old Jedi Master: Ahh Joshua, he's more machine now than man, twisted and evil.

                         New Imperial Forces Motto:
                       Outnumbered, But Not Outfought!
Newsgroups: alt.cyberpunk.chatsubo