Hunting in the Smoke IC, British Shadows are dark... mostly... Options

[Drain Brain]

London, like many cities, is not the healthiest of places to live. It is a dirty place - to be sure - and there is the oppressive smog, which inspired the oh-so-delicate naming of the place as “the Smoke.”

But that’s not the worst of the health-issues. No, no… there are far worse things on the streets of Old London Town than the occasional McHugh’s wrapper. Things that can choke the life from a man faster than any polluted air. It’s the people, term, the people. London is like one big apathetic sore on the world, where nobody cares about anything – except themselves.

So, pretty much like any city then.

For the people that have to live there, there aren’t many options. Sure, if you have money, power, or at least a job, it’s a different story. There’s the likelihood that you’ll have food on the table and a roof to keep out the periodic acid rains which whip down through the skeleton of the city’s cursed weather protection dome. If you lack these things, however, the future is bleak without outside help. Communities band together for protection. Gangs of all shapes and sizes alternately help and harass the populace. Corporations do little for the dregs of London save exploit them as cheap labour.

But they do have one use…

London has a thriving Shadow community. Not, perhaps, as busy or boisterous as say Seattle or even Philly, but it’s there and its steaming.

That’s why there are people like you around. Runners. Hunting in the Smoke.


The following messages are received by the runners…

Sandy Jackson:
Timed at 0415 hours in the dark of Thursday morning, a video message reveals the leering visage of Blue Sam on the tiny screen of Sandy’s Pocket Secretary.
“Alright there gorgeous, s’Sam. I’m guessin’ that you still don’t wanna come work for me in the way I’d like,” he winks, “so here’s something else for ya’ – an invite from a Johnson passed to me by a mate. Lookin for someone real goodlookin’ who knows how-ta talk their way about, right? Obviously I thought of you first…
“If you’re interested, go to the Siren – 53 Commercial Road – tonight at ten. They say time is short, so it has to be today.
“Catchya later, petal.”

Stone:
Whilst taking his morning exercise, the Stone is disturbed by the incessant ringing of his ‘phone…
“Stone?” the raspy cockney voice grates on ears more used to softer Korean accents. “Badger here… a little job has come to my attention, ya’ follow? Seems there’s a bit of a rush, so they are after the best and right-quick too. If you’re not busy, Johnson’s meeting a crew at The Siren tonight at ten-oh-five. Don’t know why the weird time. But listen – I want a good cut this time…”

Piper:
Despite the lack of an official trumpet, Piper was still up at the crack of dawn, exercising and running through his katas. Fresh bread and hot coffee had long since passed his lips when he finally noticed the winking indication of a message on his P-Sec.
A French accented voice fairly assaulted the room in its intensity. “Monsieur O’Toole, zis is Eric DeLande of Mr Whelan’s agency… we have you on our books as available for work in ze area. We may have a… casting for you zis evening at ze Siren in Commercial Road. Please arrive at twenty-two-ten for your appointment. Contact’s name is Johnson. Good Luck…”

Fridge:
Luckily, the fare in the back is slotting some chip or other when Tyrone’s radio blares out with George’s excited voice.
“Ty, Ty… we’ve had a call, but it ain’t no fare…
“Asked fer you specifically by the “Fridge” moniker too – said to come to the Siren tonight at five to ten to talk about a few days’ work.” George could barely contain his curiosity. “So, you gonna go or what?”

Deuce:
A man – or rather a gargantuan Troll – with the rather inspired name of “Fist” greets Markus from the telecom’s screen. As a higher class of pro-bodyguard, his well-doctored teeth gleam as he grins, speaking coolly accented English. “Hey there, term. I could use a hand, if possible.
“There’s a meet going down tonight, 9:45 at the Siren – you heard of that, right? – and they’re apparently after some discrete muscle for a little work in the Smoke. I’d go myself, but there’s a new client in town…”

[Kurukami]

Despite his distaste for the upjumped human, Stone kept his voice polite and even as he replied. On a professional level, Badger was a useful resource, and there was no need to have him get irate over such a small thing as his percentage.

"You will get your usual percentage, Badger. The size of it depends on the size of the job you have brought to my attention."

"Yeah, well... just you make sure I get wot's mine," replied Badger over the cellphone. Stone could picture him even without a vid-pickup, straightening the out-of-fashion tie he habitually wore and glaring out from under the rim of his bowler hat. "After all, I remember wot happened seven jobs ago. You've done right by me since, and we done some good business together, but I want wot's due me."

Stone reassured him again with a quiet tone, then disconnected. Badger had an irritating manner, that could not be denied, but it also remained true that he lined up interesting work. Stone looked around the apartment, then began to crack his joints in the pattern he always used to relax. Fingers, wrists, elbows, shoulders, and finally a slow clockwise roll of the neck completed the routine.

Work. Things have been so slow recently I had nearly forgotten how much I liked the anticipation. With a half-smile skewing his craggy features, he stretched his broad, three-meter frame and went to make breakfast.

[Rakshasa]

Way back in the 17th century London was known for its fog. During the 20th century, 1950's to be exact, smog, as it was called, killed 4000 people in one week in good old London Town. No wonder the City is called the Big Smoke.

Piper rolled over, trying to get comfortable and failing dismally. It didn't matter much, the glimmer from his alarm told him it was nearly 6am and time to get up anyway. He had a lesson to teach at seven. Why wannabe kung fu artists wished to take a lesson before going about their business, Piper neither knew nor, really, cared. He just sometimes wished they wouldn't.

The short Irishman heaved his legs over the edge of the futon and made it to his feet in one easy motion. Standing there momentarily, naked and feeling the cool breeze coming through the open window, Alex Murphy O'Toole felt as alive as he ever had been. Today would see the start of something big, he was certain. No idea what it would be, nor where the call would come from but, to the one time Master Sargent, his fortune was about to arrive around the corner any moment now.

But then, he thought that every morning.

The lesson went well, unexpectedly, and Piper had nothing scheduled until noon. It was time for breakfast. Fresh bread with lashings of butter, followed, or concurrent with hot black coffee, set the ex -Master Sargent up for the rest of the day. He meandered up to the flat roof above the dojo, where he could go through his own routine, looking out over the polluted stream, which was the Thames.

Sweat glistening on taut, vibrant skin, Piper finally noticed the winking indication of a message on his P-Sec as he came out of the small shower down in his attic room.

A French accented voice fairly assaulted the room in its intensity. “Monsieur O’Toole, zis is Eric DeLande of Mr Whelan’s agency… we have you on our books as available for work in ze area. We may have a… casting for you zis evening at ze Siren in Commercial Road. Please arrive at twenty-two-ten for your appointment. Contact’s name is Johnson. Good Luck"

A casting? It took the Irishman a moment to remember that his Theatrical Agent also found him work, infrequently, for his other, more militaristic skills, rather than his acting ability or stunt doubling. The Siren. I know that place. Along the Commercial road in the old garment district where sweat shops abound. 30 pence Sterling for each garment completed. And the slaves, for such they are, have to complete their daily quota of fifty per day. Truly sweated labour.

Piper sat down, pondering on the possibility of a job as he leafed through a copy of Modern Merc - Swimsuit edition.

Ten-o-clock saw him entering the Siren, it's smoky atmosphere hitting his fit lungs like a sledge hammer.

[Digital Heroin]

`Georgie, Georgie, slow down a tick boyo. If that there fellow back behind me wasn't chipping up at the moment, you'd be in a site bit of shite right now. As it is, I could use some splosh, so I'll be droppin' this 'ere berk off 'n be taking my leave for the day. Cover for me, will you Georgie lad, I may be gone a few.`

When the fare's dropped off, Tyrone heads back to his garage, to give the taxi it's daily check up, then he tucks in to his mid afternoon meal, and grabs a bit of a nap. Some time going over the transmission of his rally truck follows, when he realizes he'd best be off. A quick network check, and he triggers to door release, taking off with his two slave taxis following at a decent clip behind.

At ten to ten, the massive troll pries himself out of the front seat of his cab, which is parked just down the street from Siren. The other two cabs are parked a couple blocks beyond that. When five to ten rolls around, Tyrone makes his entrance, adjusting his cap as he lets his eyes get used to the light.

[Kurukami]

0845 - atop an apartment building in Notting Hill

The loose gravel that had escaped the roof's tarry grip gritted under Stone's bare feet as he took his stance and began. He always enjoyed the morning ritual, getting out and having the space all around him in which to run through kata. His apartment, large as it was, was not quite spacious enough to permit the sweeping motions that the hapkido kata required.

The rising sun shone with a bloody light through the haze that fouled the air. Away to the east, across the archipelago of rooftops, the usually green expanse of Kensington Gardens was tinted with shades of rose. An omen, perhaps?

Time will tell. And speaking of time... Five minutes after the hour was a strange moment to rendezvous. Maybe the employer in question was just being clever about the meet, though, trying to throw off any impressions generated by a substantial number of questionable people crowding through Siren's front door at the stroke of ten.

He let his thoughts drown in the patterned movements of the kata, putting distractions aside as he flowed through the motions time and again. Half an hour later, with patches of sweat darkening the athletic shirt he wore, he straightened from the final sweep, bowed to the east, and descended the stairs back to his apartment to shower.

At the very least it will be a welcome change of pace. I will have to contact those above me, though, and inform them of my engagement.

[Kurukami]

2203 - down the street from Siren's

Stone waited in the darkened mouth of the alley, taking in the panorama of Commercial Street. Siren's was a good fifty meters away or more through the light evening drizzle, but the magnification hardware that nestled behind his retinas allowed him to study faces as though they were only a few meters in front of him. Most of those who had entered the nightclub in the past twenty-five minutes were nothing but toffs and suits, but there were a few...

At five minutes to ten, the troll who was only a few centimeters shorter than he, prying himself out of the cab which was parked halfway between Stone's position and the club.

At ten p.m. precisely, with the carillon striking the hour, the short human who from his features was most likely Irish. The way he moved, smooth, always balanced, suggested a practitioner of some form of martial arts.

There were a few others who had caught his eye as possibles, but... well, time would tell. Stone glanced at his wristwatch one last time and stepped fluidly away from the alley's wall. Time to go to work. He walked swiftly down the damp sidewalk, the hood of his Ulysses greatcoat keeping the rain off his scalp, and ducked through the entrance to Siren's with five seconds to spare.

[Rakshasa]

Some would say that O'Toole had tunnel vision when it came to work. Not his eyesight, you understand, that was 20-20. No, it was to do with concentration. But then, those that said such a thing didn't really know the soldier at all.

The Siren was, as expected, crowded out. Where people got the money to party all night in the back end of Whitechapel, Piper couldn't figure. Besides, the whole area was sleazy, certain to end in a fight, or the death of some misbegotten term before dawn broke.

He headed for the bar, eyes nowhere and everywhere. Suits abounded, along with their female attachments, but that wasn't what Piper was looking for. Runners have a certain aura about them. A kind of `I'm not really here so don't look at me' feeling to them which, over the years, Piper had learnt to identify.

Even a place like the Siren attracts all kinds, you name the breed and it'll be somewhere in the joint. The troll by the door. The one in the greatcoat. Yeah, probable. Maybe even that tasty piece of skirt that had just wandered in. "Gimme a shot. Irish." Piper's voice was low but penetrated to the trained ears of the bartender. A single woman without a friend was either a brass or a runner, almost by definition. By the look of her, either could be the case.

The shot glass appeared like magic and filled with a light amber liquid. No chance of it being what he ordered of course, but drinking it would while away a few minutes and put something in the adept's hand - just in case - without raising suspicion. Piper paid for the sour tasting spirit, no better than 5% proof by his reckoning, and leant his back against the bar, continuing his survey of the Siren's denizens.

[Kurukami]

Stone made his way carefully through the crowd towards the bar, fully aware that his size made moving quickly a difficult prospect. The Irishman was already at one end of the countertop, sipping at a shot glass and studying the crowd. Stone headed for the bar's middle and drew the pourer's attention. "Guinness. A pint."

Once the stein was in his hand, he glided off towards one of the darker corners, where hopefully they had a reinforced chair or two. The thought of trying to perch his 700-kilo frame on one of the barstools was preposterous. He arrived at one such chair just before a pair of entwined, amorous elves who were clearly planning to use it as a snogging sofa, gave them a glowering stare, and took his seat.

And now, we wait. He took a sip from the stein of ale, which fit inside the breadth of his palm as neatly as a coffee mug would for a human's, and studied the figures and faces and heat-patterns of those around him.

[Rakshasa]

Sipping the foul tasting, so called whiskey, Piper let his mind wander over what he knew about this deal. What was it DeLande had said in that abominable French accent of his? The contact's name is Johnson. Jeses! The contact's always called Johnson! Whoever the original Johnson was, he must have had a bike and a girl in every port, to mix adages.

The troll had taken up a nice position, Piper noted. Far enough back and out of the way to watch the whole bar, almost, yet, with his large frame, quite capable, the soldier guessed, of getting to any corner of the place should the need arise. So far, according to the short hairs along the nape of Piper's neck, said `need' hadn't, and didn't appear to be about to `arise'.

He gave the bar another broad scan. "Come on Mr Johnson. Where the hell are you?" Piper, getting bored fast, decided to check out his assumptions. Well, one of them at least. He drained the shot glass and called the barman. "Two pints o' Guinness." He laid nuyen on the bar and lifted the dark ale, one in each hand. Side-stepping inebriated patrons, the soldier made his way into the gloom and the seated troll.

"Seat taken?" Piper nudged a chair nearer the table and sat on it, putting a glass of ale down and sipping the other. "Kinda crowded, an I'm waiting for someone. Hope you don't mind?" He sipped again, watching the troll over the rim of the glass. Of course, if he was wrong, he could always apologise and shift his ass somewhere else - if the troll'd let him that is.

[Kurukami]

Stone raised an eyebrow at the Irishman's audacity. Still... If his guess as to the vocation of the small man was correct, there was little harm in being social. "Not at all," he replied, forming each word precisely. He narrowed his Asiatic eyes at the Irish in consideration. "I suspect that there are many people in this place tonight who expect to meet someone shortly."

He drained what little remained of his stein of ale with a single motion, then set the empty gently on the wooden tabletop. And that leaves me with a solid item to fling if it comes down to it.

[Mysterio]

Deuce strolls into the Siren, cocky as always. Cigarette in his mouth, he flashes his sly elven smile at some of the ladies. They in turn give a sexy smile back. He's dressed fine and didn't care if they wanted him for his money or his looks. The two complimented each other nicely he often thought.
He wanders over to the bar and puts out his cigarette.
"What'll it be sir?" asked the barkeep. Deuce, not even glancing at the barkeep orders himself a glass of chardonnay. Being told that such drinks aren't served there, he agrees to have the house wine. The barkeep quickly fetches him the tall glass and deuce lays down some nuyen on the counter. The barkeep scoops it up and while Deuce begins to light a cigarette, he remind the barkeep that he wants his change.
"And be quick, I'm meeting someone..."

[Kurukami]

Stone threw a glance over towards the bar, scanning for whoever his contact might be. He doubted it was the Irish -- if it was, the man would have known his identity and not beaten around the bush. The other troll had taken a seat against the eastern wall, which was hardly the wisest position to observe from, and appeared to be waiting similarly. That ruled him out in Stone's mind.

And then... then there was the chain-smoking elven dandy who had just strolled in as though the place belonged to him. The amplifier and sound filtration hardware cut the ambient noise in the room to a dull background hum, and Stone listened with curiosity as the fop tried to order Chardonnay and settled for the Siren's undoubtedly watered-down house wine.

No, definitely not him either. Johnson's tend to be a bit more... discreet.

[Rakshasa]

Piper realised that the troll was scanning the bar in much the same way as he was himself. Seemed like there was every chance that he would turn out to be a fellow runner on whatever the caper was.

The noisy Elf who had just arrived, calling for some posh drink and eyeing up the talent, captured Piper's attention. There was a certainty of recognition, at least of the type, if not the person. You don't run without gaining a knowledge of who else is in the game, and this Elf fitted the descriptions Piper had heard from various quarters.

And that makes four. Two heavies, a dandy Elf and me. He glanced again at the eye candy which had come in earlier. Maybe five. Now all we need is the Johnson.

[Mysterio]

Deuce sat at the bar and surveyed the room. He wasn't looking for anyone that may appear to be a runner, or a Johnson for that matter. Deuce was more interested in the women. There was one girl in particular, a burnette human, dancing not too far away that caught his eye.
Doesn't seem to be with any guy, looks like she'd here for the pick-up. He downed his drink, and lit another cigarette.
Where the frag is this damn Johnson?
It was at that moment that the dancing burnette glanced in his direction and then quickly looked away. Deuce smiled and gave a puff on the smoke.
Maybe Mr. Johnson can take a little while longer...

[Drain Brain]

Engaged as they were in various conversations, their own thoughts, or clandestine inspection of the Siren’s multi-faceted clientele, the runners could well have been forgiven for failing to notice the arrival of their Johnson. For the more perceptive amongst them, a middle aged man in a now-drying raincoat could be noticed stepping in from the cold outside, shaking off an umbrella and frizzing unkempt, wet hair with a gloved hand.

The man stood by the door for a short time, shrugging a small leather satchel off his shoulder and peering across the bar. Although he could have been anybody, his making a point of lingering on each of the runners was at least indicative of recognition. With a brief detour to the bar, he made his way to an empty booth, squirming to the far end of the bench seat, with his back to the door – which in and of itself was odd. He did, however, continue to stare in turn at six of the bar’s patrons…

It was quite clear that this man, sweating brow hidden under lank brown locks, wanted to somehow get the runners attention, but even still it looked like he was going to jump out of his skin when the first of them - a diminutive human man with a long black coat - bit the bullet and crossed to Johnson's table

[Rakshasa]

The time had long past for the Johnson to appear, very much to the irritation of Piper who, with his military background, was used to punctuality. Yet none of the patrons of the Siren looked like being someone with a task they needed sorting. Let alone having the money to hire runners.

The bat wing doors clattered, allowing cold wind and the smell of rain to waft into the bar, along with a raincoated dweeb of a man. For the briefest of moments, Piper found himself in eye contact with the newcomer, but it broke almost immediately as the nondescript continued to cast his gaze around the bar.

Piper watched as the man moved, not going to the bar, as he had expected him to but, instead, making his way to a small, surprisingly empty, booth where he sat, back to the door. The back end of Whitechapel was clearly not one of this guy's usual haunts. No one who had the first inkling of this part of London would sit with their back to an entrance. And certainly not in the Siren with its notorious reputation.

That's it! Piper realised it was the rep which had made this place the obvious choice for a meet. A Johnson who had need of runners, particularly if he had never hired some before, would choose a known `sleazy dive'. Naturally, he would think, runners on the lookout for work, or a good workout, would frequent such a place. And this Johnson was a novice when it came to the shadows, as evidenced by his lack of care in where, and how, he sat.

Piper glanced at the troll. "Think that might be my man." He pushed the other glass of Guinness toward the troll. "Here, you might as well have this." He carried his own glass, half full, and moved toward the jumpy and sweating man in the booth.

Before he could shoulder his way through the crush of half drunk patrons, Piper found himself pre-empted. A man, smaller than Piper himself, made it to the booth and sat down.

Piper hovered, sipping Guinness, and waited to see what would transpire, still certain that this was the Johnson he, and the rest, whoever they turned out to be, were waiting for.

[Kurukami]

How curious, thought Stone. The recent entry certainly could be the Johnson, given the way he behaved -- clearly looking for someone, somewhat discreet, yet not in possession of the presence that had identified some of the others to Stone's eyes. The prospective Johnson's choice of seating was abysmal, though -- first, with his back to the door; second, in one of the booths that was far too tiny to fit a troll of Stone's stature. Additionally, any attempt by him to communicate with the man now sitting in the booth near the door would draw a substantial amount of attention, which Johnsons usually preferred to avoid.

He leaned forward to sniff at the Guinness the Irishman had left, focussing his augmented hearing on whatever conversation might be going on across the floor.

[Silverspur_2020]

06:00

Waking to the sound of the beep of her terminal, Sandy got out of bed and pulled on her dressing gown before watching the message play several times over making sure that she understood what the client would want. Just the sight of this pervert on her video phone made her feel dirty, so without hesitation she deletes the message and decides to go and shower. Enjoying the powerful hot water jets pound her body she plans her day, making sure she has plenty of time to get ready for the evenings meet.

Later on, dressed in a smart and stylish Zoe~ Trouser suit she rings Pete to make sure that he will be able to pick her up this evening and see if he can work the area so that he can pick her up when needed, letting him know that even though he doesnt usually work that patch... she will reward him enough to make up for any money he may or may not have lost out on. Then she checks the stock market to see how things are shaping up... happy that eveything is going fine she sets the alarm and heads into town.


08:30
Stood at a distance, she watches a young and very beautiful Elven girl climb out of a car and go running into school to meet her friends. Sandy smiles, even though her heart feels heavy at being so near yet far. Maybe one day....
Turning on her heel and walking back to her car she gets out the well used pocket secretary and dials up a couple of people who she knows are in need of work. "Listen, Ive got a job for you which I think you might be interested in...." Being the middleman was always a fun game, like a skilled game of chess you always made sure you kept the upper hand from the other player and only put them into check when you were sure you could get mate


18:00
Her own bussiness having been taken care of, and all instructions having been given, Sandy puts on some music as she stands in front of her ample wardrobe and looks for the most appropriate outfit. Knowing the club, she knows she needs something slightly slutty yet professional enough to show that shes good for the job. Too much of one of the other and it could all go horribley wrong!

22:00
Having just got out of the cab, Sandy turns and thanks Pete and pays him for his work so far as well as the plentiful tip that she promiced. "You take care of yourself Miss Jackson, I know you can but that doesnt stop me worrying! When you need me just give me a call and I will be right over" She couldnt help but smile at this mans genuine feelings. "Im sure I will be fine Pete, but thanks for the thought! See you later!!"
and with that she walks into the club, feeling and looking fantastic! Wearing her hair pulled back into a ponytail, she has obviously spent time expertly applying her makeup to show her Elven features and ebony skin tones. There is just the hint of blue glitter applied around the eyes to not only draw attention to them but to also match her top, which was a tight black little number with blue sparkles and cut low enough to give men an idea of her ample cleavage but not too low to have it on display! Wearing a plain black thigh length skirt it looks innocent enough to the casual observer, but if a man were lucky enough to get his hand up it (which he wouldnt be!) he would find a small concealed holster housing a Walther Palm Pistol! and as she hadnt antcipated any need for running tonight, she was wearing black stilettos to make her legs look that bit longer!
Mixing with the other women in the club she orders a bottle of orange from the bar... doing this for two reasons, one because she wanted to make sure she was clear headed, and two so that she knew it wasnt spiked! To anybody who was watching, she was just anther women out for a good time.
Heading out to the dancefloor she starts dancing with a human women who appears to be enjoying herself, this was she can just tell the men that she isnt "that way inclined" but it also gives her the perfect excuse to move, look around and watch the room without sitting in the corner and looking conspicuous. Just like that Troll over there....
As the man walks into the club, she spots him straight away and would have gone over and made it look like she was flirting with him and some man not walked over there. But nevermind... instead she changes tactic, and leaves the dancefloor as though she has had enough for a little while.
Heading over confidently she looks directly at the man and smiles sweetly...."Mind if I take a seat hunny?"

[Mysterio]

Deuce was enjoying himself at the club. The sights, the sounds...the women. The burnette lost Deuce's attention as soon as he saw the elven girl come into the bar. Gorgeous he thought. He watched her go on the dance floor
And a great body...nice moves Finishing his cigarette, he puts the butt out and stands up, adjusting his tie, straightens his jet black ponytail and then begins to head over.
Much to his dismay, the gorgeous elven woman makes her way off the dance floor and over to a booth in the corner.
She didn't come in with him...and if I have anything to do with it, she ain't leaving with him
Deuce confidently makes his way over. He's picked up many women in his time, She won't be any different As he approached the booth he noticed the man sitting there. What would she want with that guy?
"Mind if I take a seat hunny?" He over hears her say to the seated man. before he could answer Deuce says "Excuse me, I was wondering if i could buy you a drink, or at the very least, have a dance?"

[Kurukami]

Damn it. Chances are that's the man I'm here to meet, Stone grumbled to himself. The primary difficulty was that any of the three alternatives to approaching the contact were likely to draw a great deal of attention.

First, of course, he could simply walk across the crowded floor, but with no way to fit into the booth across the way he'd stand out like a sore ten-foot thumb.

Second, he could walk across and sit down on the floor near the contact. That, however, had the double negative of both drawing attention and demeaning himself by sitting on the less-than-clean floor.

Third, he could pick up the chair he was sitting in, assuming it wasn't chained to the floor, and take it across the room to the booth. That was the most tempting, but the sight of a troll hefting a sofa across the dance floor would undoubtedly draw far more attention than either of the previous options.

There was, however, a fourth alternative that suddenly popped into his mind -- a quiet method which could bring all interested parties to the far more controllable location where he was currently sitting, and which meant he didn't have to wade across the dance floor.

He slipped his hands into his pockets to retrieve a Euro coin, a pen, and a small piece of paper from his notebook.

[Silverspur_2020]

Feeling slightly irritated at this slimy little Elf trying to chat her up... Sandy sits down just accross from the suspected contact, "No thank you, In case you hadnt realised, I have just left the dancefloor and I have a drink already!" and Sandy indicates her bottle of OJ. Hoping that he would clearly get the hint that he stood no chance.

[Mysterio]

Deuce smiled. "Of course, how silly of me"
A challenge...
Not paying any attention to anyone else at the table, he sits down across from her. "My name is Deuce" and he extends his hand for a friendly handshake

[Silverspur_2020]

Still wondering if this was just another tactic to get into her underware she simply shook his hand, "Sandy"

[Silverspur_2020]

Still wondering if this was just another tactic to get into her underware she simply shook his hand, "My names Sandy... no jokes please, ive heard them all" and with that she hoped this was the end of it.

[Mysterio]

Cold, very cold... Though not one to give up so easily, Deuce knew if he kept up the pressure, then there would be no chance of...well...drinks afterwards. He smiled sweetly, "Pleasure is all mine..." then fished a cigarette out of his pocket