White Wolf Publishing owns the "World of Darkness." My use is in no way meant to challenge their copyrights. This piece is not intended for any profit on the part of the writer, nor is it meant to detract from the commercial viability of the aforementioned copyright. Any similarity to any events or persons, either real or fictional, is coincidental and unintended.

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Friday, January 1, 2100 – 1:45 a.m.
"It is not by muscle, speed, or physical dexterity that great things are achieved, but by reflection, force of character, and judgment; in these qualities old age is usually not only not poorer, but is even richer."– Marcus Tullius Cicero

While part of Joey Shigeta had always found the Wilmington Speakeasy's illusion of prosperity and late-20th century normalcy comforting, he also remembered the lesson his kind had learned over several painful decades – never lose touch with contemporary society. So while he was loath to leave the Speakeasy behind for the rest of the night, he knew that it was in his best interest to spend some time in the Old Philly Diner, absorbing the local atmosphere and making certain that he was seen out in public, partaking in the routine that every mortal followed day in and day out.

Matt Winterbourne fell into step behind him as soon as they were both out of the Speakeasy. As usual, the street samurai had maintained a low profile inside, making it extremely unlikely that anyone had noticed him keeping an eye on his team's leader. Winterbourne was hardly larger than average, standing a shade under six feet tall with a lean, muscular frame that, while obviously the result of long, hard hours in the gym, was still dwarfed by the physiques of men like Hound Dog, who chose the quick and easy path of chemical and genetic augmentation.

"Looked like it went well," the young man commented as he finally drew even with his boss. His brown hair trembled all the way to its spiked, frosted tips; it was obvious Winterbourne had already taken at least his first stim of the night. "Did it go well?"

"I'm not sure," Shigeta muttered absently, considering everything that Patrick Wallace had said to him. "I'm not entirely convinced our employer is playing straight with us."

"Why's that?"

"I'll go over it all at the Diner," the kindred responded, hoping to avoid telling the story twice. He was surprised that Winterbourne fell uncharacteristically silent, and the only conclusion he could reach was that his bodyguard had probably taken something more than just stims. Joey simply hoped for his own sake that the young street samurai had been professional enough to wait until after the meeting had ended. Winterbourne's many addictions made him exceedingly easy to control, but they also added a certain level of unpredictability that Shigeta found uncomfortable. Just remember – he's exceedingly good at what he does, the kindred reminded himself, recalling the first time he had seen Winterbourne in action.

The two men walked for almost a half-hour in silence, noticeably avoiding the kind of hassle Joey had experienced while walking alone on his way to the Speakeasy earlier in the evening. Maybe the reapers had a good harvest earlier in the evening, the kindred decided. They're probably too busy at their worktables to spend more time on the streets collecting extra donors.

They went through the near-darkness of the Barrens before walking over Dupont Hill. Located next to the well maintained remains of I-95, the Old Philly Diner was the proverbial end of the road, the last stop on an interstate that had once stretched up through Philadelphia, next to New York, and on up into Boston. Now all that remained in that area was a blasted wasteland that most figured would be incapable of supporting life for decades, perhaps centuries. If ever.

"Looks like business is good tonight," Winterbourne commented as the pair walked down a gentle slope toward the well-lit building, a beacon of neon light that beckoned to all of Wilmington's corp-jobbers, whether they were natives or out-of-towners on assignment. The Old Philly Diner was to Wilmington's corporate espionage mercenaries what the kindred would once have called Elysium; here there was no violence against others of their kind. The food, while expensive, was edible and as safe as one could expect for the price. There was a target range out back, along with a gunsmith and a few trailers that were set up on a nightly basis, hawking the latest in weaponry, software, and cyberware from the four corners of the globe. Wilmington was home to some of the most advanced bio-tech firms in the world, and that meant it was also home to some of the best corp-jobbers. Ex-soldiers, ex-vampire hunters, and normal citizens who'd scraped together enough money to make up for a lack of skills with cybernetics and chemicals – all of these people gathered here, sharing stories, technology, weapons, and even detailed information on some of Wilmington's finest corporate security systems.

A dozen motorcycles were parked outside in a neat row, basking in the humming, orange-red glow from the diner's sign. Several Jeeps and Humvees were also parked there, one of them owned by the team's driver, Nicole Gardener. "Team's already here, too," Winterbourne added needlessly, as if Joey had somehow overlooked the presence of the well-armored, pock-marked monstrosity he had given Nicki as a gift three years earlier.

The kindred declined opportunities for conversation and led his newest team member inside. He undertook the ritual of scanning the patrons for anyone he might consider hostile or unpredictable and then walked toward the table where Nicki was sitting with Stevie and Gina. Gina and Nicki were already eating, while Stevie did his best to avoid watching.

"Hey boss, how'd it go?" Gina asked as soon as Joey arrived at the table. "It go well?" Everyone's attention turned toward their overdue leader and his bodyguard for that night's meeting.

"It was Patrick Wallace," Joey answered simply. Almost as if on cue, each head at the table gazed down in silence – all save for Winterbourne's – and an eerie stillness ruled for several minutes before the young street sam dared to utter a word.

"Umm… is there a problem?" he asked.

"He's the reason you were hired," Gina said, bluntly giving voice to the thought that everyone in the group was sharing. "He's the one who hired us for the job that got Ken killed; if Ken had survived, you wouldn't be working with us." Joey looked at his second-in-command curiously, detecting a hint of unexpected bitterness in her voice. Ken had not been popular in the team, though as with Winterbourne, everyone was more than willing to concede that he excelled at his job. The kindred could only assume that Gina's tone was meant more as a rebuke of the team's neophyte than as an indication of any affection for their fallen comrade. He would have to pay attention and see if there were any other signs of internal discord – that kind of thing got team members killed more quickly than bullets.

"Cheerful, Gina," Stevie muttered. "Very cheerful."

"You gonna argue the accuracy of my statement?" the hacker asked caustically.

"Enough," Joey interrupted. "You guys want to talk about Ken, you can talk until you're all blue in the face as far as I'm concerned; but we're taking care of business, first."

"Sure, boss," Gina responded sheepishly. Stevie nodded, and Nicki continued to gaze silently at the food on her plate.

"The money he's offering is good… too good, even," Joey began. "Son of a bitch gave me a huge song and dance about how we've hit the big time, how his superiors were impressed by Chrysalis and now want to pay what we're worth. Pretty much everything but an exclusive-rights contract, actually."

"And you told him no, right?" Gina guessed.

"I told him you'd call him by noon," Joey answered.

"What's his number?" Gina asked as she pulled her cell out of her pocket. "I'll call him right now and tell him what he can do with his job offer."

"Wait a second," Winterbourne cut in, ignoring icy glares from Stevie and Gina. "Just how much money are we talkin' here?"

"Who gives a shit?" Stevie replied. "He could pay us each a million… it ain't gonna do us any good if we're not alive to spend it."

"But what if he's on the level?" the team's rookie challenged, obviously looking for the big payday that every young corp-jobber spent hours dreaming about.

"He's a Mr. Smith, a suit," Nicki commented, looking up from her "cheese" fries as she finally joined the conversation. "They're never on the level. They're always workin' an angle, whether he's just trying to get us to agree to an impossible job, or whether he's deliberately setting us up to get taken out; after all, maybe his bosses just decided Chrysalis is 'need to know,' and we don't. If the money's too good to be true, then it's not a job we want."

"But if he's gonna set us up, why risk raising our suspicions by overpaying?" Winterbourne reasoned.

"Except maybe he's counting on our new rookie to make that kind of an argument, to trust him because no one who was workin' us would be so obvious about it," Stevie said condescendingly.

"But then again, maybe he expected that those of us with experience would have picked up on that possible trick, and we would then suspect him again," Nicki replied with an amused grin. "So it's like, he knows that we know that he knows."

"Quit screwing around," Gina spat. "Can't we be serious for at least five minutes? Is that so fucking much to ask?"

Joey looked his team over, again wondering what kind of internal strife was developing behind his back. He had spent so much time training Matt recently that he had failed to keep an eye on the rest of the crew. "Here are the facts – the job is listed as a tech-grab from a bio-tech corp. Facility is level five, maybe level six… certainly nothing we shouldn't be able to handle."
"Unless asshead has some surprises for us again," Gina grumbled.

"True," Joey agreed. "Payment's six figures."

"We've only done one of those before," Stevie commented, referring to a job fourteen years earlier that involved stealing a prototype of a new attack helicopter from a facility in Georgetown, Delaware. "That job kept me golden for three years."

"This one would keep you longer." Stevie's eyebrow arched at Joey's comment, and he sat back in thought for several minutes.

"I vote yes," he finally said.

"Easy for you," Gina said, lowering her voice and leaning across the table so she could keep her voice lower. "Your chances of walking away are far better if the job goes south."

Yup, there it is, Joey decided, finally seizing on the source of the team's internal friction. The only other vampire in the group, Stevie was a former gang-banger who experienced his life's greatest stroke of luck when he left Los Angeles only hours before it was vaporized. The rest of the team consisted of ghouls, all of them old and experienced but dependent upon their master for the blood that provided their eternal youth and vigor. The last time the team's mortals had started to grow jealous and resentful, Shigeta had quelled the ill will by upgrading everyone's cybernetics to next-generation wetware that reminded them why they could never undergo the embrace… and why the sacrifice was worth it. It seemed such an outlay of cash was quickly approaching again. And that's as good a reason as any to take the job, he decided. I could divide one-twenty amongst the survivors and use the other eighty to upgrade Gina, Nicki, and maybe even Matt.

"I've been looking at some of the new InterPhasic I-O neuro-transmitters," Shigeta commented pointedly. "They're nice. Real nice. Tests have them reducing signal degradation by over twenty percent; but they sure cost a hell of a lot." The team's three cybered ghouls were staring at him, each of them understanding the silent offer that was being made.

"Fine, I'm in," Nicki sighed.

"Me too," Matt agreed.

Gina simply stared at her master, still appearing to weigh the merits of risking her life on a dangerous job. "Fine," she finally relented, no small hint of anger in her voice. "But I don't like it."

To be continued………………………………………