Tamura Tatsuya: Corporate Intermediary

Arthur Jenkins, forty-three years old, senior operations manager for Arasaka NC's counter-intelligence division; thirteen years of service and experience galore.

The lights of a passing shuttle temporarily distort your HUD, but only for a moment, before they refocused back onto the man whose office you visited without invitation and whose desk you sat across.

He is but another foreigner, tainting the pedigree of the Corporate Structure with his brutish, unsophisticated presence; your nose crinkles at the smell of tobacco as the man continues feeding his addiction, not understanding the severity of the situation which would warrant your presence.

How could he? The Young Master saw fit to mask his presence in this wastrel city, but that only made your task more difficult; to fulfil his wishes–without implicating him–would require sacrifices and favours alike.

"The division has a plan set in place for Faraday, but it is not the right time to spring it. We still have information left to squeeze from the man, and there is not enough pressure to warrant an offer for defection."

You barely conceal the irritation that threatens to surface across your face; what right does this American have to question the decisions of an Arasaka!

"I understand that, but my associates require his services immediately, and we feel it necessary to borrow your hand for this act."

A displeased expression crosses the white man's face, his cigarette now abandoned in its tray, the grey wisps wafting between you and him.

"There will be repercussions; this isn't my rodeo; Abernathy and the others will use this as ammunition against me."

What can you do for me?

"You know my position in Arasaka. I believe you understand also how high my associates stand within the Company, for them to employ me as messenger; you needn't worry about consequences; this is a favour that will be repaid."

The man pauses; his hand previously moved towards the half-full shot glass of bourbon, but now he ponders your words, mind racing at wondering who you represent. His mind is too small and narrow to believe it is anything more than a director or two; were he suddenly aware of the truth, he would've let it slip.

"I'll need to use my own personnel for this operation, and we'll need to do it quickly before the others find out about this. Three hundred K, upfront, to hire and equip them."

"Agreed, have it done by the week's end."

He stretches out his hand, a symbolic gesture to seal the deal, one you do not reciprocate; you don't touch unwashed Americans.