weyland consortium

It’s late. You’re hungry. It seems like you’re always hungry these days. The buzzing of the cheap fluorescent lights in your apartment are starting to get to you. You grit your teeth and check the fridge again. There’s nothing in there but three month old soy-beef burritos, just like it was two hours ago, when you last checked.

“ALL GOOD THINGS COME DOWN THE BEANSTALK,” blares the Weyland corporation advert outside your window. It does that every three hours. It gives you a migraine every time, without fail. You pick up your piece to shoot the damn thing out of the sky out of frustration. Your hand waivers as you line up the sights of your gun to that obnoxious neon piece of shit. You take a deep breath. No. Bad M-Byte. You’ve got two strikes already. Destruction of corp property will pack you away for good.

You slump down in your seat in front of your rig. You’re sick of it all. Of being hungry, of the headaches, of the constant reminders of how much more is out there, and how little of it is yours.

Fuck it, why shouldn’t it be yours?

You slot into your rig, lining the jack up with your spinal interface, and popping it into place. There’s the rush of adrenaline as your brain connects to a computer almost ten times as powerful as the hunk of meat in your skull.

You’re not fucking around tonight. You pull up the connection data for Weyland’s financial departments and your own bank accounts with a single thought.

One part rage, two parts desperation and a dash of inspiration later, and you’ve diced your way past the ICE protecting Weyland’s precious, precious creds. The sight of Weyland’s holdings spiral downwards while yours skyrocket… it’s almost better than that last trip to Wyldside where you got stimmed up out of your brain.

You jack out, fifty thousand creds richer than you were a few hours ago. You crack your knuckles and hop out of your seat. Wyldside sounds good about now, you realize. A new wardrobe, a few new appliances around the apartment… hell, there’s always that new bistro up in Heinlein all the riste assholes are talking about. Maybe it’s time you paid them a visit.

After all, what good is it being a Criminal if you can’t live it up?

Start of buisness day.

Start with a light mocha. Rogers is on line one reporting on the latest sales numbers of the new Hadrian’s play set. It’s going to be this year’s best selling toy. Elizabeth calls after her press conference. Everyone loves her; that last hostile takeover is already forgotten.

Jackson Howard is on loan from NBN, and is on line three. He thinks he’s got a way to make those old geothermal fracking plans viable again, though he’ll have to work them through R&D.

Line four buzzes. It’s the Space Elevator Authority. Someone picked up some “interesting” logs from that hack that trashed what was to be a very valuable set of government contracts.

Six hours from now, a series of unexplainable explosions will level a city block containing an outdated Weyland Consortium building, tragically costing the lives of several dozen residents of a nearby apartment complex, along with one scum-sucking piece of shit runner who REALLY should have known better than to fuck with your money.

You finish your coffee. It’s going to be a good day.

Weyland. Building a Better World.