Amea Virou
Snowbound
"Soul Making, Sound Shaking, Earthquaking Change"
The wurly synths and the synthetic pipes of an organ pushed smooth melodies which were a welcome change to the drone of voices and glasses that clinked. The deep baritone voice of the singer on stage hummed along to the melody, the entire band swayed with a feel for their craft as they created sensual art on the stage. This was not their first gig, and it showed. They acted as one soul, their stories sung with a thousand voices brought together in harmony by a set of drums, a keyboard, an electric guitar, and a vocalist. Today’s venue was l’Oeuf Blanc — the White Egg — which was an apt name for the establishment she was seated at given its shape.
This white biodome had many suits in it. Some black, some navy, and a surprising amount of cream given the generally dark color scheme. There was not a single man, woman, or other who hadn’t come here dressed up to some extent. Even Amea had come here in a dress, and that probably said something about just exactly how upper-class this operation was, and the stakes it carried if either of them were caught.
Indeed, it was almost ironic that the most delicate data was held by those that seemed the most delicate in physique and health, but anyone worth their two nips of salt knew better than to underestimate appearances. This place was a big nest of white-collar crime. It housed people whose closets had more skeletons than they had new friends at hand. Once upon a time they’d have been Amea’s people, but the times had changed and with them she had withdrawn from the hunt.
This operation was about the same thing as it always seemed to be about; information and data in great amounts. More specifically, it was a manifest of a rumored Galactic Alliance transport carrying urns that contained the essence of a certain familiar face. Call it the one that had pushed her into this particular line of work, and all she wanted to do was repay him in the only way that seemed suitable. Really, whichever runner that accepted her invite to work was doing her a massive favor.
“How’s the get-up?” Amea asked over the comms as she shifted in her seat. “Remember who the target was?”
The wurly synths and the synthetic pipes of an organ pushed smooth melodies which were a welcome change to the drone of voices and glasses that clinked. The deep baritone voice of the singer on stage hummed along to the melody, the entire band swayed with a feel for their craft as they created sensual art on the stage. This was not their first gig, and it showed. They acted as one soul, their stories sung with a thousand voices brought together in harmony by a set of drums, a keyboard, an electric guitar, and a vocalist. Today’s venue was l’Oeuf Blanc — the White Egg — which was an apt name for the establishment she was seated at given its shape.
This white biodome had many suits in it. Some black, some navy, and a surprising amount of cream given the generally dark color scheme. There was not a single man, woman, or other who hadn’t come here dressed up to some extent. Even Amea had come here in a dress, and that probably said something about just exactly how upper-class this operation was, and the stakes it carried if either of them were caught.
Indeed, it was almost ironic that the most delicate data was held by those that seemed the most delicate in physique and health, but anyone worth their two nips of salt knew better than to underestimate appearances. This place was a big nest of white-collar crime. It housed people whose closets had more skeletons than they had new friends at hand. Once upon a time they’d have been Amea’s people, but the times had changed and with them she had withdrawn from the hunt.
This operation was about the same thing as it always seemed to be about; information and data in great amounts. More specifically, it was a manifest of a rumored Galactic Alliance transport carrying urns that contained the essence of a certain familiar face. Call it the one that had pushed her into this particular line of work, and all she wanted to do was repay him in the only way that seemed suitable. Really, whichever runner that accepted her invite to work was doing her a massive favor.
“How’s the get-up?” Amea asked over the comms as she shifted in her seat. “Remember who the target was?”