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kv:

Welcome to Augmented Reality

It's the great equalizer. It'll stop a troll the size of a car as easily as the smallest dwarf or thinnest elf. It ain't a weapon, spell, or even a dragon- it's hunger. When it's time to eat, you just gotta get the stuffers into your stomach before you go beserk.

What are stuffers? They used to be called junk food or munchies. They're probably just as good for you as the nutri-soy and krill-filler, reguardless of those ads from the UCAS Nutritional Council.

When the hunger pangs hit, there's only one place to go (especially when the sun rises in about an hour) to find that kind of chow. It's the place everyone loves to hate: Stuffer Shack.


--- Quote from: GM Stuff ---Okay, everyone, post what you'd be doing between 2am and 4am on a Thursday morning, what you're craving, and how you're getting there. For those of you without cars, bum a ride from a roommate, steal one off the street, or take the metro. Have fun! Play Shadowrun!

Instructions about where items are in the stuffer shack are in the Shadowrun Quickstart rules, page 16. You can download it for free from http://www.shadowrun4.com/wp-content/uploads/Downloads/Shadowrun%20Quick-Start%20Rules.pdf
--- End quote ---

Ingo Monk:

--- Quote from: OOC ---Just pulled my post from the thread Ruski started and moved it here since it was relevant.  If you want something different let me know!  By the way, I like the idea of using quotes as OOC info. ;)
-Ingo

--- End quote ---

Eric rubbed his eyes.  They told him coding on image links would be much easier on the eyes than doing it on a normal screen.  Heck, they even told him having cybernetic replacements would remove eye strain all together.  Well.. his new fake eyes still hurt.  "Give yourself some time to adjust" they told him, "you'll be fine" they said.  Liars.  He eventually found out it had something to do with how his brain was wired, and there wasn't much that could be done.  He was part of the 0.0001% with this issue.  "How special I must be" he thought.

Eric shifted his focus to the image link.  "2 AM" he said to himself.  He had a meeting with his recruiter at 9, so he wouldn't need to sleep until 4 or 5.  He was hopeful for the meeting, he had blown the money from his last contract adding drone racks to his truck so he was running a little low. 

His stomach was roaring at him so he checked the mini-fridge.  "Empty, just great."  With a thought the Ares Roadmaster's systems began powering up, the slight humming of it's systems pulling him away from his thoughts.  As he walked to the 'pilot's seat' as he called it, the Roadmaster's engines roared to life.  The modified exhaust emanated a deep growl that he thoroughly enjoyed hearing, one of the upgrades he liked best. He ran his hand across the dash as she woke up.  She was black on black, sitting in stark contrast to the light grey corp plascrete that surrounded her.  The morning before he bought her he had come across catchy song from a century prior by a band called Ram Jam.  "Morning Betty" he said with a smile. 

As he sat and buckled himself in he checked the sensors to see what was going on in the immediate vicinity.  A homeless guy was holding a bottle of weak synthahol and talking to a wall.  Apparently the wall was named Richard, and he owed the guy a few hundred nuyen from the card game last week.  He must have gone through a case of those bottles to be that plastered.  A couple was walking to their car from the night club down the street.  The guy was looking at everything but her face, while she went on and on about how much fun she was having while trying to walk in a strait line.  Eric hoped for the guy's sake he bought her the right number of drinks, one too many and this sure would be a night he would remember.  A few aircraft and drones zipped about the clear night sky. He made sure the weren't watching him, making note of their serial numbers in case he came across them again.  The corp lot he was parked in was empty.  They had allowed him to park in there even after he finished his contract with them, but after a couple of days he might be overstaying his welcome.  "Time to resupply" he mumbled to himself as he brought up his mapsoft and plotted a course to the nearest Stuffer Shack.

Ruski:
Sly woke up with a lurch; his arms striking out at invisible monsters almost of their own accord.
*CRACK*
The sharp snap of forehead striking shelving bin snapps him back to reality.
In the distance he can hear the trail end of a land-train rumbling away down the road, eventually quieting down so that the only sound was the more steady traffic murmurs from the overpass above him, and the patter-drip of rain against the windshield and roof of his van.
Sly sat up again, slower this time, making sure to duck the shelving bin hung directly above his fold-down cot. Sitting with his head cradled in his hands he does what he can to massage away what is sure to be the first of many headaches today.
Checking his internal comlink he confirms what he already suspected. Nearly 2am. Cell-service is still suspended until payment can be made, and 400 missed calls have filled up his voice/video mail provider.  Due to insufficient funds he can’t read the actual messages, but the ‘from’ field tells him everything anyways.  The Bank.  The other Bank. The credit collection agency.  Student loan company. Permits Office. The list goes on; but they’ve all got the same content. ‘Where are you: the rent is due’.
Sly reaches under the bunk-plank and grabs a flashlight.  Full Charge. Two hours or better. The light from the occasionally passing vehicle over head is more than enough to illuminate the interior of the van for his low-light vision, but given the option of facing a day with nothing in his hands, and the option of at least having a heavy flashlight handy… he would always chose to have the edge.
Sly’s stomach rumbles with a growl that’s more howl than growl.

He angrily mumbles to himself “Superthyroid, little bit faster and stronger, there’s hardly a downside… unless you can’t afford food… then you starve to death in like three days.”
Activating the Mr.Caffeen and Mrs. Soy machines he dumps the last of the tablets into the processing bays.
“Breakfast of champions… it is the most important meal of the day…”
He checks the calendar on the wall.
“John Ryley. 6AM. Devil Rats .”
He looks over to the equipment carefully stored and cleaned.  He wouldn’t probably need the vest. Then again, He’d rather wear it and not need it, than need it and not have it.  The dark red ‘devil-dress’, a rip & stain proof uniform complete with helmet and respirator would fit over the armor and had enough pockets and clips to sate the apatite of even the most kleptomaniac of adventurers.
Although his pockets were quite a bit lighter on tricks these days, he still had more than he descended into that first ghoul warren with.
A nice heavy flashlight, and a backup of the same. A shock glove for things that got too close. The bulky ruggedized LASER for things that needed serious dissuading,  Of course, there was always the completely silent pistol crossbow.  The crossbow was his favorite. A much more advanced version of what he descended into that first dark hole with. Oh well. Fortune and Fame, and all of that.
Another early morning land-train rumbles overhead breaking his thoughts and driving away the nogalistic feelings.
A clear ‘ding’ from his appliances notifies him of his breakfast being ready.
The Black-Tar Coffee is churned out into the waiting cup.  The cup is a bit battered like everything here, but at least its clean.
The Mrs. Soy isn’t so friendly.  The cardboard and rubber tire flavored paste it pushes out into a bowl is devoid of the expensive flavor additives.  If he wasn’t starving he would happily do without.
Turning on the vanity light and mirror Sly initially winces at the brightness of the light, and then fixes his hair while trimming up his goatee.
Clicking off the light plunges the interior of the van once again into darkness as his eyes adjust back to their natural low-light preference.
Eyes closed and re-adjusting to the dark he dumps the coffee into the soy paste and drinks down the foul coffee flavored tar combination as quickly as possible.  His stomach is still voicing protests as he sanitizes the dishes and puts them back into their holding spots.
He goes through his mental checklist.
Full charge battery in the LASER. One charge pack in the side pocket. Three charging in the van.
Two extra braces of bolts for the crossbow, with a full brace in its internal magazine.
The sword, in all its impressive glory, would wait in the van. If he needed it on this call, he would be running away, and re-negotiating the pest elimination price before going back.
The crossbow, a silent and dis-ambiguous self-assembling contraption was built into a wrist-guard worn on his right arm. Work boots, polished black and laced tightly finished out the uniform of the day.
After gearing up Sly moves to the driver’s seat of the van, punching up the electronics.
The Hacker charged a lot, but letting him steal electricity from the grid-guide system to charge his electronics was one of the few luxuries he had. Disconnecting from the grid he dropped into the first person control mode and laid out a course to his only job today.  Like most of his few remaining jobs, this one was in redbluff where the people who knew him from his original office in Seattle still liked him for past heroics, regardless of what everyone else said. If he could find a discrete overpass to hide under there he would be better off and save on fuel charges; but he hadn’t found anything yet.
“The Early Devil gets the rat…”
Sly turns on the morning talk radio as the autopilot sneaks him into the nearly nonexistent morning traffic.
He didn’t have much cash left, but he considered stopping at a stuffer shack on the way to his appointment. Real ™ coffee would be nice… and he really should get a throw-down comlink his creditors didn’t have the number for.


--- Quote ---Leaving most of the heavy weapons (laser pistols, swords, and the chainsaw); in the van. I'll be taking in the crossbow, because it's sneaky, and dis-assembled it looks like a bad-ass bracelet. The armor vest is also worn, as it's more or less part of the uniform, and he is getting ready to work.
--- End quote ---

Zone:
"You can't have a belt feed without the belt, Meadow..." 
"I know that, Grimshaw, I have every intention of buying the belt but not that piece of dross.  Get a good one and I'll buy it...and for using that name you just cost yourself 10% on the rest of this stuff."
"Ah, Me...."
"Say it again, and I'll knock you on your ass."
Grimshaw sighed around the faint smile he was hiding.  "Okay, okay..." the pair struck the deal and the woman strapped everything into an military courier pouch and slung it across her shoulders.  The 10% savings she had demanded would be more than enough to get her some grub on the way home, she realized she hadn't eaten for ten or more hours.
She left Grimshaw's hole in the wall the pink and white strands of her hair caught the garish neon, and reflected it back, while the black, blue and purple seemed to absorb the light, it gave her on odd fiber optic look.
She glanced about, checking for threats, she had had taught herself to do so after getting too caught up in her thoughts in the past had gotten her a thorough beating, she still sported a split eyebrow as a souvenir.  She rubbed at said eyebrow absently, and tried to figure how far she was from food.  She headed down the street, she seemed to recall there was something....
The harsh aura of light which typically surrounded urban Shacks pulsed a few blocks to the west.  She made a face, but night owls couldn't necessarily be all that picky, late night grazing was fairly limited in scope.  She adjusted her bag and started walking.

kv:

Every Stuffer Shack looks just the same, exactly like every other- a handy design gimmick from your friends at Aztechnology (Your Friends in the Business... TM).
These places in Denver are exactly the same as the ones in Seattle, or in New York, or any other hole that needs 24-hour coffee and sim supply. You could walk the isles of any Stuffer Shack blindfolded, and if it wasn't for the shoddy matrix connection to this place, probably caused by local hackers stealing signal, you would just order from home and have a drone deliver it to your dive. Hell, given the amount of nuyen you've dropped into this place, you should probably own stock.

The sky is gray with clouds, lit by the street lights of the city. The air is cold and crisp, with that bite you really only get in the mile high city. The snow is caught in little flurries of wind, gathering on the pack that barely melted from the sun yesterday. You wipe your nose and push through it, looking forward to the lukewarm reception at the store; anything is better than freezing in the street.

The parking lot in front of the store is almost completely empty- a Ford Americar with a broken window is parked crooked on the Handicapped spot directly in front of the store. You snicker at the broken window; Denver's weather of choice this season, snow, is unforgiving to car interiors, even synthetic ones. Anyone who's ever smelled rotting synth-pleather is not eager to repeat the experience. There's a ten year old Honda Spirit that could probably use three new tires, parked in the 'employee reserved' parking spot with half a foot of snow piled on top of it. Someone is making the big nuyen. </sarcastic smiley emoticon>

As Eric approaches the front door of the Shack, the automated doors slide aside, and he's assaulted by a wave of AROs. "Welcome back to the Shack, Mister Dubois!" The cheerfully impersonated voice says. "It says here in our records that you recently purchased World of Shadowcraft! Were you aware that you can purchase in-game items using your credit account? Click here to link your credstick to the game!

There are AROs for Neil the Ork Barbarian, recently remade by Horizon; for Nutrisoy, all of your daily vitamins and minerals in one edibile package; For a bunraku sim you downloaded once as a teenager; For mixed drinks and hangover cures; for candies, sorted by your color preferences and past purchases.

Among the hail of messages, each items helpfully asks in a cheerful voice, "Was this item helpful to you?" Lemmings.

Off to your left, just on the other side of the credit transfer station, is a small 'fresh fruit' stand. You stand in front of the holographic representation of fruit in the display, drooling as he thought of the taste of grapes. Wouldn't it be great if Stuffer Shack sold stuff like that? Sadly, this is an ordering kiosk for straight-to-home delivery, where the voice narrates that "Estimated delivery would be in just __Error. >>Address unknown. >>File new address with Corporate office >>Address necessary to generate delivery estimate." A small screen pops up, where you can punch in your address, using street numbers or a GPS estimate.

As Sly enters the building, the LAN hits off his commlink, set to silent, and then defaults to the RFID in his fake liscense. "Welcome, Mister Dante Inferno!" The helpful voice chimes in, continuing "We show that you have never shopped here before, and we are grateful to have you as a new customer!" As you glance around, the layout of the store pops up in your display, although you don't really need it; nearby product on the shelves, identified by RFID tags, begin playing advertisements. The Horizon ads are the hardest to ignore- they're so hot that some groups claim they're psychotropic.

"Please, take a moment to fill out our customer satisfaction survey!" The jolly voice continues "We can notify you of incoming products that fit your requirements for diet and nutrition! Your feedback is very important to us!"

Half of the products that pop up in the AR window have ARO warnings that tell you these products have no nutritional value, or a (much smaller) warning that the products have passed their expiration dates. Each product has an ARO logo pop up, and the following drop-down menu: Purchase this item, Purchase this item online for home delivery, check local markets for pricing, and shop related items.

As a first time customer, a list of the 'freshest' products and a special one-time only discount pops up, advertising their most popular items.

Near the back of the store, there's the mecca of Stuffer Shack- the soykaf machine.
It warms up as you approach, like an old friend seeing you come in on the security scanner. AROs throw out a menu of possible drinks. Coffee with something called selective-serotonin re-uptake inhibitors, called "Happy Caffee" was the top seller this week, with new nicotine-added soykaf "Jittery Java" a close second. Beyond that were your Euro-vanilla roast, your basic "Black Kaf," and "Weak Sauce," the new re-branded decaf soykaf, for the extreme impaired.

The ork behind the counter, an overweight teenage guy with a bad complexion, ignores an equally unappealing dwarven girl chattering at him as she reads through her beauty magazine. The employee is reading through his Horizon SimStarlet guide, watching short clips as his eyes check the timestamp for the end of his shift.

Outside in the street, Sundance shivers against the cold, trudging through the snow and finally giving up and moving to the slush in the street. There's not much worse than walking in brown and yellow slush, but walking in knee-deep drifts of snow and refrozen ice make the list.

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