Discovery Gaming Community

Freeport 1, Omega-3

As she flew away for a bit from the comotion that represents any Freeport, only to go into another one. She left Johnny behind, this time. The bomber she flew with, allegedly scavenged off of a debris field somewhere in Shikoku, a Waran. A classic for any "heavy lifting", was put on auto-pilot.

The old system of Omega-3 opened its door, and she was welcomed by the usual border patrols, Military vessels, police vessels. None took any particular attention to this "Freelancer" vessel. Ezra deactivated the autopilot and went full-steam ahead to Freeport 1. As she flew, she was thinking... "This person from OS&C... He told me to present myself as...", she was thinking to herself... hm, it doesn't come back. She grabs a tablet behind her seat, logs into the Neural Net, and reread an off-line copy.

"...Hmmm, so... Ah! There it is... Miss... "

"This is the Mooring Authority of Freeport 1, please identify your ship, and yourself, Freelancer"

"Greetings, it's Miss Steinbeck. Bomber-class vessel, Waran."

"Roger that Miss Steinbeck, your designated landing pad is... 8-B. Have a good day."

She leaned back for a bit as the autopilot was piloting her ship to the designated landing pad. The travel was long, but it seems like mere minutes have passed.

"Well. Time to find 'em, and talk, I suppose."

Ezra was getting used to the atmosphere and "ambiance" of the Freeports; the home of the desolate, and where many deals are done under the table. She knows that because she was part of both categories. She reminisced of this, as she prepared to board the station. Handgun, ready, grenades, ready, tear gas grenades, ready, strapped-on explosives, ready. She grabbed her coat and wore it, and walked as usual, minus the fact that she has quite the arsenal on her. Though, of course, just in case. Not visible either way.

As she finished regaining her composure, she boarded the station.

"Well, hello there.", she opened.

Freeport 1, residential tower C Omega-3

A bluish light illuminated the ceiling of the suite. Hermann reached out, fumbling for the datapad. A laconic "she docked, 8-B, the surveillance video is linked" stood out on the screen.

"Here we are".

Schimdt pulled himself up from the sofa on which he had spent the last two hours, mulling over why he had gotten himself into this matter without mentioning it to the director and not, as he hoped, trying to get some rest after the journey from Baden Baden. He opened the video, scrolled it back and forth a couple of times and dialed a number on the screen.

"Ja?"
"Female, early thirties, dark coat. She should be already there at the moment"
"Let me check...got her sir. Do you want me to approach?".
"Yes."
"Roger that".

Hermann tossed the datapad onto the sofa, leaned back against the table, and took a couple of deep breaths.
"Here we are, really."
He moved into the next room and opened the suitcase that he had left on the bed as soon as he arrived: a 3-piece suit, brochures and maps of Baden Baden, a bulletproof vest and two pistols with as many magazines already in a holster to be worn under the jacket .
"Well, how to pass away in style" chuckled as he dressed. He took out the two weapons and inspected them: years had passed since his compulsory military service, the sensation of having a weapon in his hands again sent a shiver along his spine.

The bell brought him back to reality. He quickly put away the two pistols and just as quickly went into the other room. From a screen he checked who had rung: his contact and the woman he had talked to in the last few days were there, in front of the door.

"Thank you, Gunther, let her in."
"I'm outside if you need it. Please, Miss Steinbeck, Herr Schmidt is waiting for you."

Shiloh

Marcellus