On 11/17/2022 at 9:26 AM, Drifter One said:RICKY FO
RTUNE - LAWMAN
Head Armor: 7 | Body Armor: 11 | Shield: 0 | HP: 45
INT: 7 | REF: 8 | DEX: 7 | TECH: 5 | COOL: 6 | WILL: 8 | LUCK: 7 | MOVE: 6 | BODY: 5 | EMP: 4
Humanity: 40/40 | Wounds: | Critical Injuries: | Addictions:
Heavy Pistol 4D6 | ROF 2 | Hands 1 | Shots (8) | Concealed |
Shotgun 5d6 | ROF 1 | Hands 2 | Shots (4):
Ugghhhhhhh.....
Ricky stirred and as he rolled over he tumbled from the stained, cracked leather couch, hitting the hard floor of his conapt with a thud.
Jeezus Christ... he cursed as empty bottles clattered and crashed around him. Ricky sat up, back against the couch and rubbed his head, sore from and overindulgent evening and his hair messy and crusty with dried Stylocream. He paused for a moment, his arms resting over his knees as he surveyed the mess around him. He was living like a bum, and he knew it. He struggled since he and his wife had separated and he was forced to rent this shoebox whilst things "sorted out". Standing with a grunt, Ricky kicked some empty vials out of his path as he stumbled to the bathroom. He was still fully dressed from the night before, even still had his overcoat on.
Get a grip... he muttered to himself as he reached out and waved his hand in front of the shower control. Hot streams of water immediately fell from the shower head, steam filling up the small room immediately. Ricky began to peel off his dirty clothes.
The shower came as warm relief to Ricky as the hot water seemed to wash away his foggy head and the grime of Night City which just seemed to stick to his skin. He had lathered up with soap and washed it away and was now just standing under the stream of warmth as it soothed all his aches and stresses.
bbzzzzzz....Hot water quota limits reached. Terminating...bzzzttt came a static ridded synthesized voice and the shower abruptly stopped. Ricky sighed heavily. Exiting the shower booth, Ricky quickly dried himself and dressed in his usual white shirt and dark brown suit. Pouring a quick pick-me-up of whiskey and drinking it in one gulp, Ricky heard the familiar beeping sound of his agent.
Where the **** is it... he swore, rummaging through cushions and empty glasses and all manner of other untidied items, much like a scavenger on a rubbish tip. Eventually he exhaled with relief as he found his agent, but slumped back on the sofa in disappointment, it was not Renee calling to offer reconciliation. It was the job boards, pinging with the latest gigs.
Ricky was a cop, but cops got paid pittance and he found he was struggling more than ever, Since his split from Renee, he had to support himself as well as her and their son, Jack. He had already been declined three times for promotion this year; he was beginning to feel the precinct were trying to stifle his progression. He had toyed with the idea of pimping himself out to private clients for some time now, just to make ends meet, which is why he had signed up to these damned job boards in the first place.
His finger hovered over the screen for a prolonged period until finally it dropped and pressed the "Accept" button.
His agent immediately connected to the fixer who had posted the gig. It was a recorded message which at the end, asked Ricky to leave contact details, where if chosen the fixer, one "Pastor Robert", would be in touch. After leaving his details, Ricky terminated the call.
All in the good service of the Lord. he told himself. He turned to the coffee table and pushed some debris aside and grabbed an upturned photo frame. He stared at it for a long time, the picture of his wife, Renee and their son, Jack. He kissed the picture and set it upright on the table.
I'll make this right, Baby. I promise.