Caracas: Hole in the Heart, IC Thread Options

[Abschalten]

[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071, 01:30 Local Time]

Nights in Caracas are even hotter than the days. The air swelters like a furnace, and the pollution makes every acrid breath feel like you're inhaling battery acid. Sure the sun goes down, if you could even see the fucking thing through all the rain. But as it dips down below the horizon, sinking further down into a nearby ocean just over the Muralha Verde, the shadows begin to creep out of alleyways and spill into rain-flooded streets, broken only by flickering neon bulbs and the sputtering glow of trash fires. The darkness swallows the heart of this city, suffocating it. And in doing so, the real face of Caracas is revealed.

Those too weak to face the horrors of the night find refuge in their homes, sometimes shantytown shacks, sometimes towering apartment buildings that seem to decay right before ones very eyes. Of course, the truly desperate overcome their fears and go back out into that awful, predatory murk to offer up their bodies or perhaps more for the chance that they might make a better life for themselves. And of course this city just chews them up, gristle and all. It doesn't even bother to swallow, just spits them back out and leaves them broken down to their very souls; a ruined mishmash of dreams deferred and exploited.

Nobody really makes it. You might see the finish line, but you'll never get there. It's a dream, puto, a fucking illusion. The nearer you get, the further it moves away from you, and the more you'll have to bleed to make it even a hair closer.

But it doesn't stop you from trying, does it?

Tonight the rain is coming down in sheets like God's Wrath, perhaps to drown all the wicked in a second deluge. Even the muñecas, pimps, pushers, and predators are starting to think that maybe tonight isn't the best night to make the dinero. Gusts of wind scatter trash through streets already full of the detritus of millions of metahuman souls falling apart in unison. But tonight is unusual aside from the rain. Tonight is when the city really gets nova-hot.

A few battered, world-weary metahuman souls, each for their own reasons, find themselves stuck in this hole of a town, out in the heart of the South American jungle. None of them are saints. They grapple with demons that aren't hidden, but rather lurk just beneath the skin and peer out of their eyes at a world where nothing is safe, and nothing is sacred. It is a world that they have to be harder than in order to survive. Before it's all over, people are going to die, and lives will be destroyed, before they've had their way and left their mark on this town. Think Caracas is bad now? You've seen nothing yet, amigo.

[Abschalten]

"Amnesiac"
[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Alley, Chacao District; 01:30 Local Time]

It was the sounds of panicked cries and screaming that woke the man up. As he leaned up out of the puddle he was laying in, fetid water dripped off of him. Funny, that he should be aware of the plinks of water droplets falling back into the pool. The change in position caused a wave of dizziness to wash over him, then a tide of nausea. He leaned over and vomited, emptying whatever he'd had for dinner onto the floor of the alleyway. Of course, this only exacerbated his headache. The man pressed a hand to his head. Fuck, but it felt like somebody just drove a jumbo fucking jet straight into his brain. And he touched something wet. Of course, it's raining. But rain isn't this hot.

He pulled his hand away and saw all the blood. He glanced down, and saw a red river spilling down his neck and onto his jacket. Speaking of which, his jacket had holes in it, and they, too, were squirting blood. Suddenly he was aware that he was injured, maybe dying. And as he tried to recall what just happened, his thoughts skittered away like a hare chased by a barghest. Mentally, he tried to grasp them, and they slipped through his fingers to be lost in the void somewhere in the back of his mind.

More screams and urgent cries for help echoed down from the nearby mouth of the alley. They snapped him from his shock, and as he looked around, he saw bodies. Several of them. Two of them dead, one of them coughing up blood. Or maybe that sound was a death rattle. They, too, had holes in them. The man thought, Whoever shot me got those others pretty good, too.

He clutched at his chest in a half-assed attempt to keep the blood from leaking out of his guts. He quickly glanced around for something to stem the blood loss, and that's when he noticed the gun at his side, laying in the same shitty pool of rainwater he was sitting in. As his hand fell on the weapon, he heard the words "Policía! Freeze! Oh shit, he's got a gun! Open fire!" Reports of gunshots sounded, and rounds ricocheted, some splashing into the water around the man's body.

[Doc Chase]

Outside Julio's Cantina, Nueva Caracas, 0130

There are areas of the city that prove God has a sense of humor.

Nueva Caracas was a hole, a condemned hole filled with the dregs of society Sonora had come to know and passably accept. Once the up-and-coming ciudad that was going to be the crown jewel of Caracas proper, its allure quickly faded and the unsavory elements moved in. Truly, it was the New Caracas - Illicit, stinking and liable to kill you before you could get your rocks off.

The rain sheeted down as if a dragon had decided to take a monster piss from on high, water sloshing into storm drains and carrying the detritus of the back alleyways into the street for all to see.

Couldn't the homeless at least try to shit in a dumpster? she thought to herself as she huddled under her poncho. The skirt she wore was already half-soaked, but the combat boots she'd snagged from a military surplus were as good as if it were the desert. At least she wouldn't have to worry about some cabron trying to have his way with her - in this weather he was likely to drown sneaking up on her. Even so, she was only steps from her destination - Julio's, where everyone thought they knew her name. Julio had told her once his casa was hers, and she took him up on the offer every night Bunny was working, until last call.

Two steps from the door. Nobody nearby, so no w--Shit.

The pain came, a tightening in her chest.

Shit shit shit not now

Sonora faltered to a stop, scrabbling for her inhaler under her poncho. Leaning heavily against the door, she finally found the device and ripped her rebreather away, taking a hit of the medication to alleviate the pain in her chest.

Breathe breathe calm calm...Dios mio, there.

She took a choked gasp, inhaling dirty water, dirty air, and the stink of a city in ruin.

"I hate this place."

With that, the woman reattached her breather with slow, measured motions, hid her weakness from the land at large, and pulled open the door to take refuge from the rain.

[Martin_DeVries_I...]

[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Nueva Caracas; 01:30 Local Time]

Mixed blessings. The world was full of 'em. Take an armored coat as an example: the heavy material and ballistic weaves can make a hot, humid Caracas night unbearably hot; but at least it helps to keep the rain from soaking through. A body can be only mostly soaked in brackish water rather than completely soaked. So despite the overwhelming heat, Coatl is glad to have the coat with him.

Of course, the sweltering heat and unceasing rain made him absolutely miserable. But that was okay. A foul, miserable mood would make murder easier, should the night call for it.

The troll half-hoped it would.

He was still new to this boil laughably called a city, a tenement crammed with too many bodies and not enough souls. Coatl walked the streets this evening, looking for a new watering hole to check out. Not because he needed a neighborhood bar to take his cred and poison his body, but because he needed to get to know the low-lifed, filthy roaches that would be inside. Because those roaches may be the bottom of the city's chain, but they would know the predators above them; all he had to do was look high enough up the food chain to find the people he was looking for. If the gods smiled on him perhaps he'd find one of the Drowners in a watering hole tonight.

So he walked in the pouring rain despite it putting him in a foul mood. A foul mood would make murder easier.

[Rastus]

[Tuesday, November 17th, 2071; Skirting Chacao District, 01:30 Local Time]

Few people would drive at any speed resembling Fast in the crowded streets of Caracas, and only the very good or certifiably insane would do so during a rainy downpour such as the one taking place now. For a certain driver of a certain GMC Commadore sedan, both was pretty much true.

Smiley was at it again, an old habit he had no care to be rid off. It was his favorate way to test his car: Drive around, taunt the cops by either waving a gun or merely flipping them off, then drive like a maniac to escape them. They'd either give up once he got to the really rough parts of the city or they crashed. Tonight, the polica damn near ignored him. Probably because they knew better.

Plugged into his vehicle in Hot-sim, he used the rain-slick streets to make a powerslide around a corner that had relatively light traffic, cursing loudly in his mind, Sonofabitch, they finally did it, fuckers got wise! Sighing in his mind, he dropped the speed by three kilometers an hour(out of his current 60kph), trying to go over what to do next in his head. Nobody I know doing anything interestin', and ain't had a job offer in a month... Shit. Time for desperate measures.

After blasting past a red light, Smiley decides to check if he can listen in to the police frequency for any news. Danny boy, lets pray that code you gave me don't fail now.

[Rystefn]

[Tuesday, November 17th, 2071; Nueva Caracas, 01:30 Local Time]

Rain. Every fucking time with the goddamned rain. Caracas suffered through more than 83cm of rainfall annually, most of it in the late summer and early fall. El Mono didn't know that, of course, but if someone had told him, he would have thought it was all coming down in one night. Fucking rain. Meant no going home tonight. Sure, the weather would make him harder to see, but there was no way in Hell he was about to jump and climb up the side of a building with the slick, oily rain covering everything. Tonight, El Mono was grounded.

Briefly, he considered ripping a few holes in a garbage bag in the time-honored poor-man's raincoat worn by the downtrodden around the world for more than a hundred years now... the smell rolling out of the next alley he passed would have dissuaded him even he hadn't already been soaked through, making the enterprise a waste of time anyway.

With going home out of the question, and staying outside soaking up the foul, polluted rain unthinkable, there weren't many viable options left. This time of night, in this neighborhood, he was more or less limited to bars and bunraku parlors. Taking mental stock of his cash and how long it was likely to rain, he hunched his shoulders in disappointment and jogged towards the flashing neon light that read "CE V SA" in flickering green letters and beneath "O EN." With luck, he could nurse three or four beers through the downpour without calling too much attention to himself.

[Combat Mage]

[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Alley, Chacao District; 01:30 Local Time]

No matter how bad the situation seems, it can always get worse. The elf didn't know where he had heard those words but they certainly seemed to be true as he grabbed the gun and tried to stand up, tried to set his agonizing body into motion. Time seemed to slow down as he finally stumbled to his feet, clutching his chest to ease the spike of spain that accompanied the action. The situation felt completely unreal to him. Everything was drawn out, quiet, like he was watching himself in slow motion.
Then a bullet ricocheted of the wall right next to his face and the scene shattered. Sirens, screams, gunshots, the steady pounding of the rain, all crashed upon him like a wave of sound mingling with the pain from his wounds to a frenzied chaos.

He had been shot, possibly fatally, the police seemed to be chasing him and he couldn't remember a fucking thing. Confused, he stood still for a moment, overwhelmed by the hopelessness of his situation. Then, trained reflexes took over. He didn't know why but he felt this wasn't his first time in a firefight.

Trembling he made his way towards the end of the alley trying to get out of sight of the people shooting at him.

Get out of the imminent danger. Then you can think about what the fuck is happening to you.

The blood was flowing from his head and his chest, dripping down his arms, mixing with the rain. The shadows seemed to be reaching for him trying to pull him back into the dark from which he had just awoken. Everything was red and black and painful. He tripped, fell down, pulled himself back up.

Just one more step. One more step. One more step...

[DrZaius]

[Tuesday, November 17th, 2071, El Zamural, 1:30 Local Time]

Stephen Jacobs woke up in a sweat. "How is it this place is so fucking hot all the time?" he thought to himself while groping for the bottle next to his bed, and sneering when discovering it was empty. "Just my luck. Well, looks like I'm going to have to earn an honest living."

He chucked to himself at that thought, knowing that was next to impossible down here. Why was he still down here? He had nothing left here, or back home. It was an odd feeling; not knowing one's place. There was only so much synthahol his body could take before he passed out, but still it wasn't enough to make him forget. He knew in his heart of hearts he didn't want to forget.

He wanted revenge. But, and this was the worst part, he knew that wouldn't help. Time and time again, when he was hunting people down for money, he'd deliver them to his clients, and see no glimpse of satisfaction when they were killed. He wasn't arrogant enough to think he would feel differently from the hundreds he had already seen.

So if not revenge, then what? Justice? Could something like that even exist down here? He leaned up in bed and decided to sober up enough to try and find out for himself.

[Mister Juan]

[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071, Palmar de Caridad, 01:30 Local Time]

I should be dead. When I say this, I ain't speaking in that... what do you call it... figurative way. I ain't saying I should be dead because I'm old. Because I've outlived my usefulness. Because statistically speaking, having led the lifestyle I did, I should have been killed. I ain't saying it because others who had a lot more to live for than me died in some forgotten corner of countries that don't even exist anymore, fighting wars no one ever heard about. I should be dead at this very precise moment in time. I should be dead as in "I just got struck by fucking lighting" dead. But I ain't. I should be, by all accounts dead. But I feel my hearth pounding in my chest. I can feel my sweat rollin' down in huge beads, down my neck and my back. My meat hand is shaking and my throat feels sore. I've got murder on my mind, and enough Jack in my veins to kill a horse. But I'm not dead. And I should be.

I've got a 12 gauge barrel pressed again'st my skin. I can feel the barrel, warm and cold at the same time. That acrid smell of gunpowder from a poorly cleaned gun. It ain't the first time I've felt a gun pressed against me. And apparently, it might not be the last time, even though it should have been.
I can hear the rain pounding outside, and I just wish I could close my eyes. But I can't. I haven't been able to close my eyes for the past 20 years, on the account I don't have eyelids anymore. Last time I saw Sue, she said I was a monster. Maybe she's right. She's probably right. I am a monster. I wasn't, but I became one. I made that choice. I chose to be one to protect what I loved. I chose to die so that my children would live in a better world. And right now, I should be dead.

I've had this gun for a long time. Always served me well. If there's one thing the German can make, beside a good pair of boots, it's a reliable gun. For as long as I can remember, I've never had a buckshot missfire. I should be dead. I've downed an entire bottle. Took pictures out. Sue. Catherine. Emma. Arthur. Us at the beach. Me graduating basic. But mostly the kids. Downed the bottle, and loaded one shell. And nothing. I should be dead, but I'm not.

The hand barely holding the barrel steady is mine. It's shaking. I've never shaken while holding a gun. I should be dead but I'm not. First time in my life I can't kill someone. God only knows how many people I've killed. I lost count long ago. But what I do know, is that everyone I've gunned for, aimed at and shot with intent to kill, is dead. Yet, I'm not. I'm still pressing the barrel under my chin, and the trigger is pulled all the way back.A dud.

Well fuck me.

Guess that counts for something. And here I was, not worrying one bit about getting a hangover on account I was setting to blow my entire face off.

The rain is still falling outside. Reminds me of home; somehow. Ain't quite sure why.

I put the shotgun, dud shell still in the chamber, on the couch next to me. I've got spare shells in my jacket, but I ain't quite sure I still have the stomach for it. At least not tonight. Jack's almost empty. Maybe a few drops left. I'll have to get another bottle. I look at the shotgun again. Fuck it. I'll do it next week.

[Lamhslea]

Tuesday, 17 November, 2071, Nueva Caracas, 01:30 Local Time
Commlink: Passive Mode. Broadcasting SIN: Chayton Wanji


It's not the heat, it's the humidity. Chaske thought as he glanced down at his hands, covered in durable microthread gloves that were in themselves covered with black metal plates. No amount of washing is going to get the smell out of this. he lamented while shuddering at the thought of peeling off his form-fitting body suit.

He flexed his hands and revved the engine of his bike; he could feel the heat of the engine boring into his thighs as sure as any knife sliding between the ribs. Chaske grit his teeth and looked around at the gridlock, slowly becoming aware of the heat pouring off of the other vehicles; surrounding him, suffocating him. The Amerindian's chest began to tense under the sweltering heat even though he knew it was all in his mind. The heat waves that one could just barely see wafting above the roadway began to weave together and then branch out to the surrounding buildings.

Not again. he pleaded with himself as an invisible drummer began a steady tattoo in the distance.

                Bum bum bum bum, Bum bum bum bum

Chaske started to dry heave and the drumbeat increased in intensity.

             Bum bum bum bum, Bum bum bum bum

Chaske's eyes darted around, searching. THERE! He turned and maneuvered his bike through a gap in the traffic and shot onto the sidewalk amid some jeers and car horns that were drowned out by the drumming.

           Bum bum bum bum, Bum bum bum bum

He set the Pilot to take him to the nearest bar, then turned off the manual controls as he tightened his grip on the handlebars and shut his eyes, trying to block out the drumming.

         Bum bum bum bum, Bum bum bum bum

Chaske's throat continued to tighten and he continued to heave as the motorcycle casually whirred through the back allies of Nuevo Caracas.

             Bum bum bum bum, Bum bum bum bum
Chaske opened his eyes and took a gasp of air before coughing into his helmet.

                Bum bum bum bum, Bum bum bum bum

Quickly, the Amerind turned off the Pilot program before it could leave the Static Zone it had wandered into. The motorcycle quickly came to a graceful stop and Chaske began to take deeper and longer breaths.
 
 
 
Chaske slid off the seat as the motorcycle's gyros worked to keep it tranquilly standing upright in stark contrast to the man beside it scrambling to rip off his helmet and retrieve a tablet from his combat vest at the same time. He shoved the tablet into his mouth, but his throat seized up again as he tried to dry-swallow it. Looking about in feverish worry Chaske spotted a small puddle in a shadow and crawled over to it, hoping to moisten his throat just enough to let him swallow...

[Abschalten]

"Sam"
[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Chacao District; 01:32 Local Time]
The Amnesiac ran down the alley, his booted footfalls splashing into the ankle-deep puddles of filthy rainwater. The rain itself still kept coming down in a torrent, practically obliterating vision except for the faint and hazy outlines of buildings and objects in the distance. La Policía were still in hot pursuit, and the staccato notes of gunfire still erupted from behind him, occasionally shattering chunks from walls that pelted him in the face as he ran by.

Every pounding step seemed to cause more blood to spurt out of the wounds in his chest. How much had he lost already? The jacket he wore and the shirt underneath were rapidly turning into a big red stain despite the constant rain to wash everything away. Darkness began to surround the edges of his vision, a blackness to steal his light and take him into the next world, whispering a siren song to him to lie down, give up, and surrender to the Big Sleep.

Though it seemed to move further away with every moment, and though the world spun almost like a top about to fall over, the opposite end of the alley came nearer and nearer. So close, now...

((Make a Willpower+Body roll, -wound modifiers))

----------------------------------------

Smiley
[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Chacao District; 01:32 Local Time]
The codes ol' Danny boy supplied proved true. Within moments Smiley was eavesdropping on frantic chatter on the police frequencies as he tore through the congested streets and cluttered alleyways of Chacao. The passcodes passed their authorization check right as Smiley's ride sliced between two cars with a narrow gap in between, avoiding trading paint jobs by perhaps a centimeter on either side.

<<Dispatch to Unit 243, What is your status?>>
<<Unit 243 reporting! Backup has arrived and we are pursuing the suspect! We are in an alley off of Calle Sucre and Avenida Francisco de Miranda! He is armed and dangerous, repeat, armed and dangerous!>>
<<Dispatch to Unit 243, I copy that. Permission to use deadly force is granted. Have one of your team check the victims for medical contract identification.>>
<<Roger that! *sounds of gunfire*>>
<<Dispatch to Unit 243, we are coordinating inbound units to cordon off the area. All units, be advised and rendevous at the location coming across your comms...>>

That explained the lack of pursuit. The law dogs had some other cat to chase at the moment.

And the address? Hell, that wasn't far from there at all... To get involved or not...

((Make a Navigation roll; then a Pilot Ground Craft roll, -2 for rain-slicked streets))

----------------------------------------

Sonora
[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Julio's Cantina, Nueva Caracas; 01:32 Local Time]
As Sonora entered Julio's, a bell positioned above the door tinkled softly.

Julio's was a dive, even as far as dive bars went, and it sat mostly empty, excepting a drunk passed out on a table in the corner, and the troll sitting at the bar, nearly crushing the steel reinforced chair he sat upon. The troll didn't look up, merely sat staring sullenly into the bottom of the glass before him, not moving a muscle.

Julio stood behind the counter, a swarthy man with a generous paunch, wearing a button up white shirt covered with a black vest. Upon seeing Sonora enter, he gave a hearty chuckle that caused his extra chins to wobble with the effort.

"Ah, it is you again, come once again grace us with your presense! Come out of the rain and sit here at the counter! What shall I get you?" The troll punctuated the bartender's question with a sudden, rumbling fart.

As he gazed at Sonora he ran a finger over his greased, thin little pussy-tickler moustache that he took so much fucking pride in, regardless of the fact it made him look like a bit of a pedophile.

((Give me a visual Perception roll, -2 for rain and -3 for distraction; or give me an Intution+Shadowing roll with the same mods))

----------------------------------------

Coatl
[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Sidewalk Near Julio's Cantina, Nueva Caracas; 01:32 Local Time]
Wandering the streets of Nueva Caracas took Coatl past all the best establishments this side of town had to offer. Augmented reality adverts obnoxiously boasted having the best selection of spank fodder in the porn shops, and the finest flesh for rent by the hour in the numerous brothels and cathouses. What's your fantasy? they teased. We can give it to you.

As the troll moved up the street, he saw an unusual scene... A figure, a woman walking on the streets all alone tonight, warding off the rain with a poncho. The poncho obscured most of her form, but it was a chica alright. And what's a woman doing out in this neighborhood at this time of night without her pimp? Just not safe.

She leaned against the side of a bar called Julio's Cantina, bracing as if for support. She stripped the rebreather off her face and took a hit of something.

Right behind her, a man stepped from the shadows, barely within the reach of a loudly humming streetlight. Coatl's enhanced vision stripped away the rain's obfuscation, so that he plainly saw the man pull a half meter length of blade from a sheathe at his side and gaze murderously at the woman now proceeding within Julio's. The way he gripped the blade spoke of a homicidal anticipation, and he crossed the street to enter the bar after she'd gone inside.

((If you want to get there faster, roll Running+Strength))

----------------------------------------

Stephen
[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Apartment, El Zamural; 01:32 Local Time]
As Stephen sat in his apartment, the sounds of city life outside filtered in through the window. The rain roared in a ceaseless fury, and occasionally the hum of a motor would signify a car taking a chance on a shortcut, and then hydroplaning through the flooded street. The occasional notes of gunfire erratically punctuated the night, like some sort of urban Morse Code.

And another sound, one coming not from the window, but from the door to his apartment. Scratching. Like nails on wood.

Scratch. Scratch.

After a time, the noises are accompanied by a high pitched whine. It is a mournful croon, a familiar noise, with undertones of sadness. It is a fitting counterpoint to the urban symphony coming through the window, blending into a single harmony.

Scratch. Scratch.

----------------------------------------

Dexter
[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Apartment, Palmar de Caridad; 01:32 Local Time]
As Dexter laid the shotgun down on the couch, the noises from next door grew louder in volume, almost as if to taunt him and get him to reconsider. Breathless moans of faked ecstasy permeated the wall. The paying customers grunted and wheezed, while metal springs in the mattresses they tussled upon creaked, creaked, creaked with each desperate thrust.

Occasionally something would bump into the wall, sometimes hard enough to cause rotting plaster to rain down from the ceiling and onto Dexter's head, covering him with bits of flaky powder.

And then another noise, quite different from the ones next door. Dexter's commlink began to buzz, as it does when there's an incoming commcall. And buzz it did, humming across the table, shivering itself to the edge to fall upon a filthy, mold-covered carpet next to more discarded bottles. The little blue LED flashed everytime the comm vibrated, as if to say "Look at me, asshole!"

----------------------------------------

Chaske
[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; A Dark Alley, Nueva Caracas; 01:32 Local Time]
Upon entering the static zone, the steady drumbeat fades into the background, though it doesn't disappear altogether. Just on the fringes of Chaske's perception, he remained acutely aware of the omnipresent rhythm of the Matrix, of all that information all around him, floating in the air, whispering to devices and sharing a common experience. It was almost like a spider's web, the threads spreading out to reach other nodes, other hubs, and then reaching out to touch others, which continue the pattern until everything is linked altogether.

The particular puddle Chaske dranks from tasted like shit. Maybe somebody really had shit in it. Who knows? Or maybe it was just what people tasted right before they came down with cholera or dysentery or who knows what-the-fuck else people around there died from that's not bullets or knives. The lukewarm water carried the pill down into his stomach to wait for distribution to his eager central nervous system.

Suddenly, a spike of information surges through the Dead Zone, causing that drumbeat to come back with maddening intensity.

Bum bum bum bum, Bum bum bum bum

A burst of Matrix traffic from the local area shattered the comparative radio silence like a bolt of lightning slays the darkness in the dead of night. The drumbeat fades in volume, but remains, as devices began talking to each other, the flow of Matrix communication in the area going from virtually absent to voices stentorian chanting in the night.

But Chaske had never heard anything like these before... Something was strange about them. Like the rhythm was off kilter, in a beat that staggered and weaved uncertainly, trying to throw the listener off balance and muddle their senses.

((To understand what it is, I need an Electronic Warfare+Decrypt roll))

----------------------------------------

El Mono
[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Near El Hoyo, Nueva Caracas; 01:32 Local Time]
The ruined neon signs flickered at random, unpredictable intervals, but the meanings behind them were apparent enough. El Mono found himself walking towards an establishment called El Hoyo, and true to its name it looked like a real hole in the ground. The business next door was a pawn shop set up like a fortress, with bars over the windows and shatterproof glass several centimeters thick behind them. That one was obviously closed. The alley in between them was pitch dark, Mono's low light vision barely able to penetrate any meaningful distance inside, aside from a sign advertising "Free Abortions, This Way."

What's that? Looking up he caught motion, somebody moving on top of one of the buildings. Only years of highly trained paranoia allowed him to see them at all. The figure was clad in raven black full body armor, barely visible as they blended in with the subfuscous evening to become almost a ghost. Their face was covered with a mask, with large goggles over the eyes. What were they doing?

A shuffling noise about twenty meters to the right, and there was another one, walking across the tops of buildings to join up with the other first mysterious stalker. This one was clad in the same manner of garb, with the dark armor covering him from head to toe. Were they watching? Were they following El Mono? What were they doing?

That old sensation returned, that of thousands of invisible eyes peering from everywhere and nowhere all at once, watching and following El Mono. It was the feeling of all that attention turning into a cloying, crushing, suffocating mass as strangers and unknown stalkers studied, analyzed, and visually vivisected him. He experienced a familiar creeping of the flesh, a shiver of the spine to let him know that they were back.

[Rastus]

[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Chacao District; 01:32AM Local Time]

Upon finishing the next turn, Smiley begins to think about his next action. He has no real reason to interfere, no reason to come to the rescue of some person who may have good reason to be chased. For all he knows, this person could be dumb enough to try and carjack him after the rescue... On the other hand, if this guy wasn't an idiot psycho, he'd owe Smiley big time, and as his old creedo goes: Everybody pays. Besides, it's not like he didn't have ways to be rid of the guy if he proved to be a killjoy.

He had new and better engine parts, a newfound charitble mood, and now a clear goal for the next hour at least. Not sparing another moment, Smiley pursued his new course of action. After consulting a mapsoft and using his knowledge of finding shortcuts while listening in to the chatter for more info, he speeds up and heads off after this mystery man and the fun that's about to result from raining on the law dogs parade and force-feeding them another slice of humble pie. As he approaches, he looks at the condition readout of the car on his VR HUD, thinking to himself: Fun times ahead or no, better give these cops a bit of distance until I see the guy... The armor on this thing won't be able to hold out against whatever they normally mount on those damn Citymaster APC's.

[Lamhslea]

[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; A Dark Alley, Nueva Caracas; 01:32 Local Time]
[Commlink: Passive Mode. Broadcasting SIN: Chayton Wanji]

It takes a supreme force of will to keep from vomiting up the one thing that's keeping the drumming at bay, but Chaske manages to hold his stomach in check until the tablet enters his bloodstream. And once that happens, what does it matter if he vomits back into the puddle? More flavor for the next schmuck.

As the Bliss takes hold Chaske's worries melt away and he slumps against a dumpster. His biomonitor calmly informs him that his heart rate is returning to normal, though he figured that out when it no longer felt like it was going to crash through his chest. The drumming returns just as Chaske begins to lose feeling in his outer extremities; rather than set him running it only annoys him. With a light smile he stares off in the direction of the noise.

Chaske leisurely opens an AR window and quickly sculpts his living persona to that of an old man in a tattered sweater clutching a straw broom with a wooden handle. The world before him fades as he maximizes the AR window and then flies about the previously dead zone, poking the broom handle into this node or that as he tries to figure out what those damn kids are up to.

[DrZaius]

[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Apartment, El Zamural; 01:35 Local Time]

Stephen stretched to fix the crick in his back, and stood up. The scratching had become more persistent.

"All right, all right, I'm coming."

If he had been back home in Seattle, there was a procedure for this sort of thing. He would first peek into the Astral, to see if there were any spirits spying on him. He would then project through the door, to see if what beyond it had a dark aura, or if they appeared to be planning on harming him. He could also quickly summon a spirit to go check them out. He grinned at the thought. It was always interesting to greet someone before they entered your home. They always looked for the cameras, and immediately put him in a position of power.

Down here though? It was too hot for all that drek. Stephen got up, picked up his Colt from beside the bed and slide it into the holster in the small of his back, and opened the door.

[Doc Chase]

Julio's Cantina - Nueva Caracas, 01:32 Local time
(Commlink - Passive Mode, SIN broadcast = ERROR, NO SIN FOUND, PLEASE REGISTER WITHIN 30 DAYS OR WARRANTY IS VOID)
Biomonitor - Stable


In a city bordering on the ridiculous, Julio's pedophile 'stache was perhaps the icing on the cake. There was something about it that just made his face plain greasy; it made a face that should have belonged to a mariachi one that belonged on a Matrix bulletin. [Sex Offender In Your Neighborhood - Is Your Child Safe?], it would say under his picture, the flabby jowls only amplifying the look of wide-eyed surprise on his face. You couldn't make it menacing. There was just no way. It was like trying to demonize Trollbabe - it couldn't be done.

Sonora smiled as she unhooked the rebreather once more and let it hang from her neck, making her way to the counter. "Oaxaca, Julio. It's a shitty night out there."

She was hiding her ears tonight. Too many Juans mistook her for a streetwalker at the wrong time when they were out, but the Cantina was where she tended to keep the disguises to a minimum. A bit of hair work was worthless on a night like this, so the black hair had a mind of its own. Enough waves in it kept the strays out of the way, but it covered her features nicely enough to where she could pass as human. Sort of. Too little work was making her sloppy. Julio probably knew, but that was his own business. She knew the way he looked at her, he looked the same way at most of the streetwalkers that burned some time here while waiting for the slap patches to numb the pain between their legs.

They didn't have a slap patch to soothe the soul, but the Oaxaca came close.

I'm getting sloppy, Sonora reflected as she leaned against the counter. The hairs on the back of her neck didn't rise as threatningly when she kept her back to the door. Maybe it was the rain, maybe it was the time of night. Maybe it was the fact Julio's was all but abandoned, the stink of half-digested refried beans and krill wafers from the Troll an understandable deterrent to walking in here. She ignored it. She had to - the Troll might have something she could palm and pawn later. The take from the pit fight was all but gone, but there was enough to eat, have a few drinks, and try to forget about the inhaler she'd nicknamed the 'Snooze Button' to silence the shrilling alarm of her heart.

[Martin_DeVries_I...]

[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Sidewalk Near Julio's Cantina, Nueva Caracas; 01:32 Local Time]

It had been a long, long time since Coatl had been with a woman, and each step down this street only served as a harsh reminder. The prices listed in the ever-present AR spam had long ago reached amounts that he could comfortably afford, should he choose; but with this prices this low disease was almost guaranteed. He may as well dip his pene in petrol and light it aflame--it would be half as painful, be over a lot quicker, and at least leave him with a story to tell.

No. He ignored the offers of flesh. Even if there had been a safe, healthy place to purchase a high-class piece of trim, his heart just wouldn't have been in it this sodden, burning night.

Trudging through the rain, seeing the streetwalker gave him pause. Whoever had let her off the leash was bound to lose a good investment, letting her wander in a place like this. Even with a pimp around, selling yourself wasn't the safest profession. Well, thought the troll, she's not my slint and not my problem.

As Coatl got closer he saw her take a hit from a breather--probably filled with whatever it was her pimp used to keep her in his control--and he spied the man with the machete. Carefully honed apathy faded a bit at that, slowly replaced with something unfamiliar. Whores being cut up was an everyday reality, but that didn't mean he was going to let it happen right in front of him. Maybe it was a disappointed juan who wanted his money back; maybe she was a runaway and her pimp was going to teach her a lesson; maybe he was just a sick fuck who only got his rocks off when he was elbow-deep in slaughtered senorita. Coatl didn't care. That girl probably wasn't going to last a week on these streets anyway; but it seemed important to the troll that she not die tonight.

As the streetwalker entered Julio's he thought maybe she was safe, but then Machete started to follow her in. Brazen fucker, Coatl thought, and stopped his pursuit. Probably her pimp was inside and Machete was about to get a big surprise; Pimp would see the blade behind his girl, and Machete would take a bullet in the head before his eyes had adjusted to the dim lights and cigarillo smoke. Problem solved. But, Coatl realized, the guy might get lucky and tear her up before anything can be done. If I were to get there first and end him fast, maybe I get an in with the pimp for saving his merch, eh? Might be a useful guy to know.

The troll broke into a shambling run.

[Mister Juan]

[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Apartment, Palmar de Caridad; 01:32 Local Time]

For a moment, I look at wall and wonder just how thick it is. I got enough 5.56mm to supply an army, and I can fuckin’ see through walls. Pop pop pop. And then it would be all quiet. But then again, there’d be holes in the walls, and I’m sure some creep would watch me coming out of the shower.

I brush the plaster off my shoulders and take the commlink. My back hurts like a bitch. My knees cringe like I’m some old lady. Thank God I ain’t. If I was, I would be one damn bitch from hell.

I answer the fuckin’ thing before the buzzing makes my headache worst. And I answer it with my best “fuck you” voice. I mean, what’s a soldier got to do to get a day off?

“What!”

I have such lovely manners.

[Abschalten]

Smiley
[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Chacao District; 01:33 Local Time]
Smiley was too good at this shit. He maneuvered his sedan through the nooks and crannies of Chacao, moving en route to La Policía's target. Cutting through alleys, driving on sidewalks, dodging incoming traffic on one-way streets, Smiley meandered the remaining kilometer.

Already his sensors were picking up an increased aerial drone presense. Radio waves pinged off of air-borne bodies, and the vehicle Pilot's expert systems confirmed that they were, indeed, seriously armed.

As he closed in on the target, a large, red Matrix window opened in his VR vision and flashed warningly: "[POLICE ZONE - DO NOT ENTER]". Undeterred, he proceeded onwards. This prompted a nearby rotodrone to take a shot with its mounted sniper rifle. It was most obviously not a warning shot, as it fell just ahead of his vehicle and shattered a chunk of wall, pelting his GMC Commodore with small bits of brick and mortar.

Just up the street was a police barricade, and more drones were closing in behind. Smiley steeled himself, rounding a turn sharply and then braking so hard that the car lifted off of its left wheels. The skidding took him towards an alley so narrow that it would normally permit nothing but pedestrians and motorbikes. However, the car up at an angle, his raised wheels merely rode along the wall, and that's how he exited out of the other side within the police zone, not a hundred meters away from his destination. The wheels slammed back down on the ground without their support, giving a jarring test of the vehicle's suspension.

<<All units, be advised: Aerial recon has spotted a vehicle moving at high speeds, and it has penetrated the perimeter.>>
<<Damn, I bet it's that same mamón we've been chasing for weeks. Somebody blow his ass away!>>

----------------------------------------

Sonora
[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Julio's Cantina, Nueva Caracas; 01:33 Local Time]
Julio looked beneath the counter, and then at the bottles along the wall. The bartender lifted the empty bottle of Oaxaca and gave it small shake, then tsked disapprovingly at the last few droplets splattering around on the inside.

"Huh, this one is empty. I think I have another in the back. Give me just a few moments," he said before disappearing through a door behind the bar.

As Sonora took her seat, she caught sight of a man approaching Julio's Cantina through the dirty, time-sullied glass door. Despite the darkness and the rain, she could clearly make out the glint of light off of the machete extending from his hand.

She could read him like an open book, too, since she had certain Talents in those regard. Though she couldn't hear him yet, just the sight of him openly advertised an undisguised, murderous enmity, directed towards her. She could see it in the furrow of his brow, and in the unblinking, wide-eyed, challenging glare. Even the rising and falling of his chest indicated increased levels of anxiety and adrenaline that usually accompanied a man about to take another's life. His gait, his lack of hesitation, the set of his jaw. He couldn't have made it any clearer if he'd shouted his intentions to her.

The man opened the door, stepped inside, and raised his machete.

"I've found you, puta! And now I'm going to kill you and shit on your corpse!"

((Give me a Memory test, Willpower+Logic))

----------------------------------------

Coatl
[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Sidewalk Near Julio's Cantina, Nueva Caracas; 01:33 Local Time]
Coatl, despite his enormous size, speeded across the street with every stride. His massive, well-muscled frame propelled him forward like a cheetah, if cheetahs were the size of elephants. Every time his foot fell on pavement, he pushed his weight into it, and his muscles drove that massive boot into the ground like a pneumatic drill. The unmaintained, rotting pavement gave a few times, as he left visible cracks and potholes where his foot had previously been. Lifting them back up scattered crumbled bits of broken asphalt over the road.

Machete had just stepped inside Julio's Cantina and raised his weapon when Coatl got to the other side of the street. From within he could hear a man screaming "I've found you, puta! And now I'm going to kill you and shit on your corpse!"

Clearly, he seemed a little put out at the woman in the bar.

----------------------------------------

Stephen
[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Apartment, El Zamural; 01:35 Local Time]
When Stephen opened the door, Colt ready at his side, he at first saw nothing. Nothing to the left, and nothing to the right either. The hallway stretched out to either side, and reeked of stale sweat and dark corners voided in. Everywhere the disgustingly mauve wallpaper peeled and was stained, and the carpet was littered with trash and broken glass.

Another whine, and attentions were directed downwards at a pathetic street mutt of a dog. It was almost impossible to tell what breeds were involved in the making of this animal, but clearly more than one had fingers and toes. Its fur was patches of grey and white slashed with browns and blacks, and obvious fresh injuries had let blood leave a crusted mat of fur in places. And yet at a second glance, it was easy to tell this dog was a survivor. Sure he looked a bit like a doggy Frankenstein, but he was well-built and sleekly muscled, with a barrel chest and a powerful-seeming jaw. A scrap of paper stuck out of his mouth, which he set on the ground at Stephen's feet. He peered up with deep brown eyes, and began panting happily, with a tongue lolling ridiculously out of the side of his mouth. His tail wagged furiously.

----------------------------------------

Dexter
[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Apartment, Palmar de Caridad; 01:33 Local Time]
Upon answering the commcall, an augmented reality window opened abruptly in Dexter's field of vision. A familiar bearded, white-haired man appeared, wearing large, dark aviator-style shades that went out of fashion probably about a hundred years ago. He puffed on an expensive-looking cigarillo, no doubt exhuding the scent that the man himself wore in person.

"Mr. Pope," Morris began in that gravelly baritone of his. "Glad to see you're still alive. It's been what, coupla months? I thought you would've eaten a bullet or something by now." Morris gave one of those infuriatingly smug, knowing little grins of his. "How's life treating you?"

----------------------------------------

Chaske
[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; A Dark Alley, Nueva Caracas; 01:33 Local Time]
The perplexing, out-of-rhythm drumbeat, little by little, begins to coalesce slowly into a steady meter. The old man persona swipes at one of the nodes with his broom, and when the handle collides with a white, floating orb, it shatters into a million million pieces, almost like stardust, which spreads around the virtual space of the Matrix. The drumbeat becomes a dead silence, replaced by the crystalline tinkling of the bright motes filling the digital area.

Chaske is then aware of the frequency. More than aware: it buzzes directly in his brain, turning into discernible sights and sounds that his emerged ego turns into information. It is a comm channel, and there are voices speaking on it.

<<Forward Team, Report.>>
<<Closing in. Sweep is nearly complete. Target in sight. Resistance should be minimal.>>
<<Understood. Strike Team One, Report.>>
<<Commander, there are civilians near Point Alpha. Is the operation still a go?>>
<<Affirmative. Fuck these people. They're not even collateral damage. Our masters won't care one way or another, so long as the job is done. Strike Team Two, Report.>>
<<Target has been eliminated, returning to rendevous point.>>
<<Roger. Strike Team Three, Report.>>
<<We are closing in on the target's position. Keeping up high, out of the streets. Some civilians around.>>
<<If they spot you, kill them. Nobody knows we are here, comprende?>>
<<Roger.>>

[Rastus]

[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Chacao District; 01:33AM Local Time]

Upon shaking the dust out of his head after leaving hot-sim, Smiley starts to cackle like a madman at his antics. Hah! They ain't never saw that coming!. He keeps the car driving forward, the tactic going back to his days in San Francisco when Saito ran the show; back in those days where the only defense against the hardware deployed by the Imperial Marines was speed and lots of it.

After a moment of looking out the windows while switching between vision modes on his cybereyes, he reaches down under his seat and withdraws a sawed-off SPAS-22 and a box of 12-gauge shells with a mushroom cloud on the plastiboard box. He lazily starts thumbing Ex-Ex shells into the tube magazine as he wonders just where the hell this guy is.

Man, I can't stay in one street for too long or this car's going to have a half dozen drones shooting at it with big guns. Need to be subtle too otherwise... Aw fuck it.

Rolling down the driver side window, Smiley leans his head out slightly and starts honking his horn and shouting: "Hey, asshole getting cops attention! You wanna live you best get in the car before we both get blown to the next fucking world!"

[Combat Mage]

[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Chacao District; 01:34AM Local Time]

With a surge of defiance the Amnesiac fought back the pain. He would not die here, alone and without knowing why. One step at a time, the end of the alley came closer.
In a detached corner of his mind, he was amazed that he was still alive. So much blood everywhere. How much do I have left? he thought almost curiously.
He drew the trenchcoat tighter around him in a pathetic attempt to stop the bleeding. His head pounded and every step felt like a kife was driven through his brain.

Finally he turned around the corner. Standing on the deserted thoroughfare it took him a second to notice the car coming to a halt in front of him. In a reflex his blood-stained right hand came up, leveling the Manhunter at the driver. Then he realized that it wasn't a police vehicle and the man inside was talking. Well shouting actually and calling him an asshole among other unpleasent things. But the important thing was that he apparently was here to help him. The hand holding the gun slumped back down and hung limply at his side.

Gathering his last strength, the hispanic elf forced his bloodied and battered body to move one more time, opening the passenger door of the car. He fell more into the front seat then he set down, collapsing to a trempling heap the moment he didn't have to force himself to stand anymore.

"Thanks, whoever you are." he murmured weakly. "I think I'm going to pass out now." His eyes fell shut. Finally he gave in and blackness swallowed him.

[Lamhslea]

[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; A Dark Alley, Nueva Caracas; 01:34 Local Time]
[Commlink: Passive Mode. Broadcasting SIN: Chayton Wanji]

With a curious smile Chaske's persona crumbles back into the binary and he closes the AR window. He laboriously looks about the alley for his helmet. Giving a slight sigh as he puts it on Chaske secures the chinstrap and sets his commlink to hidden before reclining in a corner and immersing himself in the hum of the Matrix proper.


Chaske sculpts his persona into a small desert tarantula as the interconnecting wireless transmissions begin to shimmer and coalesce into a haphazard web. Chaske opens a small window in the lower left corner of his view, tying in the camera and microphone in his helmet so he can keep an eye on his body. Closing all of his virtual eyes, Chaske reaches deep into the resonance and entreats a small portion of it to help him. As the call propagates down into the Resonance Realms Chaske works reverently on an icon for the sprite to inhabit: an arachnid template to be fully fleshed out by the sprite according to its own desires.

At first, nothing responds to his call so Chaske concentrates and pours more of himself into the plea. The arachnoid template glows faintly as a sprite answers his call and enters into the icon. Chaske's own tarantula form bends its frontlegs in a bow to the sprite and the Amerind technomancer impresses a desire upon the entity to follow the strands of communication and update Chaske on anything it discovers. The technomancer then scuttles along the strand identified by the 'Commander' as Forward Team.

[Abschalten]

Smiley and "Sam"
[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Chacao District; 01:34AM Local Time]
The heavily-wounded hispanic elf jumped into the passenger seat of Smiley's sedan, slamming the door shut behind him. It was apparent that this hombre was two half-steps away from being hamburger meat. Not only was blood squirting out of this man copiously -- and all over the nice, clean interior of this car -- but he even had what looked like a fucking bullet hole in the left side of his forehead. That this pendejo was even walking, let alone alive, was a miracle.

And right before the situation lost its novelty, before one could almost get used to having a bloody, armed stranger fucking up their ride, troops from El Departamento de Seguridad de Caracas (or more simply referred to as La Policía) spilled out from the mouth of the alley. All of them wore their full body armor suits and face-covering helmets decorated in the black and dark blue colors that have become the Departmento's standard. At a signal from the forward commander, they leveled their assault rifles and began firing in concert at the car. Bullets rattled against the car's metal, some glancing off the side, others possibly penetrating.

<<It's them, it's both of them! The suspect and that cabrón we've been chasing! Open fire!>>

((Need you to roll Reaction +/- Handling three times, each with a -2 modifier. If you want to go on Full Defense, you can add in your Pilot Ground Craft skill, but you'll be dedicated to Evasive Driving.))

----------------------------------------

Chaske
[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; A Dark Alley, Nueva Caracas; 01:34 Local Time]
Chaske, in that arachnid form of his, latched onto a gossamer thread, a strand of that web stretching from its current, originating node and disappearing beyond visible sight into the darkness of a void. In the distance, if one followed this thread long enough, would be another connection, another point for the web to spread out, making innumerable connections to the greater Matrix.

However, the spider quickly found that this web was not quite up to snuff. Soon as it began crawling on that thread, it wobbled uncertainly, bobbing underneath his weight and leaving him dangling. As Chaske crawled along the strand, hoping to take it to the next node, it snapped, and he found himself dropped. Giving way underneath his weight, it left him dangling below the greater web and above a dark, black abyss. The strand on the other side, nearer to his destination, seemed to snap back and recoil, giving no way to follow it back to the location.

It would seem as though the party in question doesn't want to be Tracked...

[Doc Chase]

[Julio's Cantina - Nueva Caracas, 0133 AM]
Biomonitor: Elevated, but within nominal parameters

Mark.

The realization of who this cabron was caused Sonora to begin thinking, fast. One glimpse was all it took, and the details just started to come in.

Tempo dealer. Machete. Brighter than expected, but still a dumb pendejo. Persistant. Willing to kill over a ten-pack of Tempo-Willing to track and kill over a ten-pack of Tempo. How did he find me? Sloppy, sloppy, sloppy.

Stay chill. Options:

A.) Knife fight. He'll carve me into so much meat. Not recommended unless he stabs Stinky at the bar.
B.) Cavalry. Bar patrons don't seem too interested, but a possibility. Would have to keep him occupied. Let others do the fighting.
C.) Run a game. Fool him into dropping his weapon. Perhaps cut a profit off it. Find out who the fuck sold me out.
D.) Drill a round into his forehead.

It was clear which option Sonora was going to take, though it wasn't one she enjoyed very often. It was a curious thing, being able to shock someone into doing what she wanted. It had to be quick, simple, and it would confuse the ever-loving hell out of the mark. Mix it with the right story, and nobody was the wiser....

Even as he stood in the doorway, even as he started to call her hurtful things (hey, SINless have feelings too), her hand was reaching under her poncho for the holster, for the Manhunter ensconced within, for the one thing she hated to fall back on.

In a flash, blued gunmetal was in her hand, pointed at Machete, the red dot of a laser sight on his center mass. Four words were that were needed. She put the power behind them. Now two clocks were ticking.

With a Commanding Voice, she shouted, "Policia! Drop your weapon, pendejo!"

[Martin_DeVries_I...]

[Julio's Cantina - Nueva Caracas, 0133 AM]

He heard the woman yell that she was with la policia and had just enough time to realize he literally couldn't stop--he was moving too fast to put the brakes on now. Well, fuck, Coatl thought, just before he burst into the bar.

The door slammed open, knocked off of one of its hinges, as Coatl barreled in like a freight train. Rather than try to stop (and likely tear up his knees in the process) he decided, To hell with it. And he jumped for Machete, going for a tackle.

Not that it matters. If she's a cop down here alone she's gonna get torn apart one way or another.

[DrZaius]

[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Apartment, El Zamural; 01:35 Local Time]

Stephen leans over and picks up the note. "C'mon boy, let's get you some food." Stephen walked back into his apartment, the dog dutifully following. Street dogs were much smarter than domesticated dogs, but any dog on the planet knew what "food" meant. As Stephen dropped a half-eaten soy-meat package on the ground, he closed the door and read the note.