Misanthrope's Masterplan [IC] Options

[Mulcarn]

One week ago...

March 13th, 2073, 10:00 PM

@All - Thank God it’s Friday. You were looking forward to a night full of beer, babes, and Brawl—Urban Brawl that is, with the Screamers playing the Wings in a crosstown shootout—but all too harshly, reality barged in and ruined your weekend plans. Instead you got a call from your fixer with an offer that was sweetened quite nicely by his/her usual bonus rates for a rush job. A month’s pay for an hour’s work? Hell, your tridset can record the damned game for this kind of money. You grabbed your stuff, and took a drive. So instead of chomping down on some buffalo soy-fingers and washing ‘em down with a tall cold one, you find yourself driving through the elven ghetto, Tarislar. There’s nothing innately elven about it as far as you can see. It’s a far cry from the fancy elven district in Downtown. It feels like the biggest difference is that the hungry street kids are skinnier than ork kids, taller than dwarf kids, and faster than troll kids. Same old ghetto, just with different pointy ears.

The outside of the Daisy Chain proper fits your mental image of an elven oasis a little better. There was the occasional tree or two in the parts of Puyallup with running water, to be fair. The Daisy Chain club itself though is positively green by comparison in more ways than one. Arrayed in their distinctive green racing leathers, lounging against their distinctive green bikes, members of the Ancients go-gang kill time on the street out front. A few are racing each other up and down the block, two of them on nimble, faring-less street bikes are doing tricks and burning rubber right out front, and plenty more seem to be busy just glaring at one another instead of partaking in the mild contests. No one hassles you at the door, elven or not. You’re expected after all. It’s time for the moment of truth, though, because you’d been dreading the music ever since you heard this was the site for the meet. The Daisy Chain’s got a reputation for being the hottest nightspot in town for the cynical elven goth types and the subdued, mournful, Celtic wannabes. You expected harps and pipes, sad songs in Sperethiel, the occasional street poet pouring out his heart at being a Tír exile, sob story fundraisers week after week from refugee families. But on weekends, they let people play guitars here, and they even let the band get away with playing a classic rock tune like the one you’re hearing now. You find your Mr. Johnson right on stage. Belial’s just started up a Concrete Dreams hit called “Broken Yellow Line” as you walk in. There’s not a harp or set of bagpipes in sight, just the closing notes of “Broken Yellow Line,” a rock ballad that’s older than you are. Whew. Only on the weekend. Thank God it’s Friday.