[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Outside Sonora's Doss, Nueva Caracas; 03:42 AM]

Jesus, that stench. The whole alley reeked of desperation, fear, and waste. With a neural command he turned off his scent booster. It didn't help much, but it kept him from gagging.

Coatl listens to the feet marching down the stairs and considered the possibility of hitting them like this. The odds seemed good, he thought... the stairs would be too cramped for them to maneuver and he could just bowl through them. But he wasn't sure what Rasp had on his side--maybe more magic. That was troublesome.

The troll wanted to tear them up. But it was better to pull back, learn more about the enemy, and then hit them.

He turned to Sonora and gestured with one hand down the alley. "Lead the way," he said, casting one last look at the apartment building.

[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; In Front of the Cat's Paw, Nueva Caracas; 04:22 AM]

After hearing what he had done at his last visit here the elf without a name was a little shocked. I cut off someone's balls!? Why did I do that? Holy hell I must have been pissed off or something! But he didn't have much time to think about it because barely a moment later Smiley got out of the car and started what appeared to be a shakedown. After a second of confusion the elf understood what the rigger was trying to pull and joined the game, adressing the guard in a light-hearted tone.

"Alright enough reminiscing about old times, let's get down to business. You better hurry and do what my friend over there tells you. Because if you don't get your ass moving real soon I'll get really pissed off." The menacing sound of a snapping blade rung through the air as the elf pressed his cyberspur lightly against the guard's crotch. "And I think you know what I do to people who piss me off..." he added with a cruel smile.

"Oh and: Leave your Rifle! You'll need both arms to carry out all the stuff you're gonna give us. Now move you hija de puta!" he added in a sharp voice, emphasizing his words with a poke of the spur.

A Dark, Stinking Alleyway - Nueva Caracas, 03:42 AM
Biomonitor: Stable

Long ago, Sonora had spent some time (and nuyen, everybody pays) in a Buddhist monastery in the Canton Confederation. She remembered most of the trip with stark clarity, though one piece of advice in particular from a wizened monk stuck with her.

"Find your center," he had said. "Act from your center."

It was exactly the type of trendy, New-Age bullshit that kept tourists coming back and donating to the temples, spin the prayer wheels, light the incense and rub the Buddha's belly(or head, or feet, depending on the temple). However, with her shoulder aching and burning and turning a lovely shade of purple underneath the vest and shirt she was wearing it seemed that finding her center was exactly the thing to do.

She took a deep breath to calm herself...and regretted it. The stench of sewage, garbage, and the sharp odor of someone who's pissed themselves in fear - she was all right, and it couldn't be Coatl - flooded her nostrils and she started to cough again. No time to find the center; it was time to leave.

"Lead the way," Coatl said, pointing down the alley.

As she took the lead, she tried to find her center again, part of her mind submersing itself in the data she'd mentally filed over the years. Bars, hangouts, fine restaraunts - places she would figure on La Alianza controlling. Places where normal gutterpunk gangs wouldn't go, places they feared, places that may look legal but had that seedy, crumbling undertone that accented Caracas itself. She tried to put herself into the minds of the heads of the gang, funded and trained by the cartels, holding a loose allegiance to them - built to fight the Azzies, but they would get proud, powerful. Their rank and file, their lieutenants would flock to the low-brow establishments, such as the Cat's Paw, but everyone went there.

Everyone went there.

Carmen went there.

Madre de Dios.

Sonora started angling the both of them to the casa de puta, keeping to alleyways and darkened streets. In the shadows, they could get the drop on any Alianza that might come to say hello, and they could get eyes on the establishment itself. They could see who was coming and going, persons of interest, and perhaps get one of them into a darkened alleyway for questioning...

"These friends of yours...either they work with La Alianza, or they're scared of them. I think we track them down too, work some magic, put them against one another. Probably kill a few people, Coatl...I'm not very good at that. Maybe you kill a few people, I work the magic?"

((I'd like to do a Crook Hangouts knowledge skill roll for memory, see what other places come up as well.))

[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Apartment, Palmar de Caridad, 04:24 AM]

I stand over him for a few moments. At least, in my mind it only seems like a few moments. For all I know, I watch him for hours. The guy just stays there, barely moving. I start to wonder if he’s even aware of me. Aware that he’s dying. Aware that this is it. Aware that his entire life, all he’s worked for, has come to an end right here; on the crummy floor of my crummy apartment in this hell of a town. He ain’t quite dead yet, but he’s along, that’s for sure.

I wonder what Morris would give me if I turned over a live Azzie for interrogation. Probably a pat on the back. At any rate, I don’t have the time nor the luxury to question this guy. Back in the days, I would’ve. I would’ve crouched down, asked him a few questions, gathered some intel. Right here and now, I don’t care much for intel. I already got the plan in my head; what’s a few more little facts.

“You guys sure as fuckin’ hell don’t waste any time.”

I turn him over with boot and take a snap of his face. Maybe it’ll interest Morris. Fuck him if it doesn’t. His eyes are already glazed over. He doesn’t really seem to notice me. I step back just far enough not to be caught back the blood.

“If you go to Hell, tell’em to make some room.”

Like his friend, the bullet doesn’t really make a hole in his head: it takes a big chunk out and tosses it across the floor. Brain, blood and skull, all mixed together with pieces of hair. I swing the cylinder of my handgun out, top off the chambers and put it away. So much for coming home. But who the fuck am I kidding, really? This place ain’t home. Never was. Never planned it to be. Home was Baton Rouge, with the kids. Home’s gone. I grab a garbage bag from the kitchen and search the guys. Commlinks, loose change, cards, weapons, whatever. I’ll sift through it later.

Gotta pack. Gotta move.

In about 15 minutes, everyone I need is packed away in a large hiking backpack and two paratrooper duffel bag. Kids pictures in my breast pocket. It always amazes me. I’ve been around for such a long time, and yet, my entire life fits in 3 bags.

At least, I ain’t got to pay no movers.

[Tuesday, 17 November 2071; In Front of The Final Round, Nueva Caracas; 03:34 AM]
When the situation called for it, El Mono moved fast. Sure there were drugs and mojo and wires that could make you move faster, but Mono was just about as fast as normal meat in a human body could move. Well, just a bit faster than that, actually, but Mono didn't know that. What he did know was that this situation fucking called for it.

As he watched the nearly headless corpse fall to its knees in slow-motion, behind it, in perfect synchronicity, the bike tipped its rider into the street. In the same screamingly slow instant, his chance for escape was secured and dashed to the wet pavement like so much dropped chrome.
The corpse rolled into the gutter.
The stranger rolled clear of the motorcycle.
The brains rolled down the front window of the bar.
The assault rifle rolled to the pavement.
The mist rolled away from the other assassins.
The universe rolled on without a care for any of this shit.

The assault rifle.
Exploding into motion, El Mono dashed to the fallen bike, switching his pistol to his left hand and reaching down to snatch the weapon as he ran. Shouting at the stranger or the figures in the mist following, it applied equally well to either, "It's motherfucking go time!" he rested the front grip of the rifle across his left wrist and held down the trigger, indiscriminately hosing the alley behind him with bullets. Maybe there were innocents back there, who could tell in the fog? Mono didn't care anymore. These motherfuckers had chased him and hounded him for as long as he could remember. They had killed his family. Driven him to the streets. Never let him have a night's peace. Never let him sleep. They had pushed him too far. Now, motherfuckers were going to pay. Every last one of them was going to pay.

Sooner or later, everybody pays.

Sam and Smiley
[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; In Front of the Cat's Paw, Nueva Caracas; 04:22 AM]
When Sam offered a threat towards the man's cajones, aided with a meaningful poke of his cyberspur, the guard blanched. His knees wavered for a moment, and then his eyes just rolled up in his head as he slumped to the ground in a dead faint.

But the elf's words were not lost on the rest of the guards. In moments the yard in front of the Cat's Paw was empty as they all ran inside as a mass, congesting momentarily at the door as the influx of bodies created a bottleneck.

Four minutes and fifty six seconds later, the first of the guards began their return. Some had crumpled fistfuls of cash, while others shrinkwrapped bricks of dinero stuffed into duffelbags. They cautiously made a small pile next to the fallen guard, keeping their eyes on both the elf and Smiley, though mostly on the former. The indignation and resentment that some of them had felt had been totally replaced with unmistakable fear, and it showed on their faces.

Finally one of them said, "Th-that's everything! Can we go now?"

Some of the guards were running now, not into the club, but throwing down their weapons and disappearing after the perverts they had previously been herding. No money, no boss, and guards trickling out like a nosebleed. It could be that he Cat's Paw may have had its back broken tonight.

[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; In Front of the Cat's Paw, Nueva Caracas; 04:27 AM]

When he first set out for the night, he never imagined things would turn out quite like this. As the hapless guards piled out whatever dinero they could find inside the Cat's Paw, the grin on Smiley's face grew wider. After one of the goons finally asked if they could leave, he walked with shotgun still in hand up to the amnesiac elf, casting a glance over to the remaining goons. "Go? Fine, run away. But may the gods and spirits have mercy on you if this is not truely everything!"

Smiley tosses the commlink they looted from the clinic long ago over to the elf, "You dropped this in the car, man. Getting sloppy. Now comeon, get these bags into the car quick." He looks down at the unconscious guard, giving the body a little kick. "And someone hand this guy the building deed when he wakes up. That much he has earned, hehe." After letting off a small chuckle, he reaches down to grab one of the money-filled duffelbags and haul it back to his car.

A Stinking Alleyway - Nueva Caracas, 03:42 AM
Biomonitor: Stable

Sonora wound her way through the alleyways, heading towards the Cat's Paw. The house was popular in Nueva Caracas, and one of the small hotels near that area would serve as a decent vantage point to see the comings and goings of La Alianza.

She bit back a yawn, wincing as she worked her sore shoulder. "Ay...Exhausted. Coatl, we need to go to ground. I think I know a place where they won't think to look for us."

A place near the Paw, where nobody would think twice about this pair getting a room, although she'd probably sleep locked in a small room with a gun pointed at the door. Coatl saved her life, but at the same time she didn't know too much about him.

"Oh," she recalled, "And let me see that commlink you took off Machete. We need to silence it."

Silence it so they don't track us, and lie low...

((Part of me intended to loiter until we caught up to the timeframes with the other three in the area, but we can just as easily go to ground and sleep. Up to you, Abs.))

Chaske and El Mono
[Tuesday, 17 November 2071; In Front of The Final Round, Nueva Caracas; 03:34 AM]
El Mono turned that assault rifle in the direction of the pursuers, determined to keep his six safe until Chaske could get the bike back up and running. The gun was lightweight and had almost no recoil. The silencer at the end of the barrel made the gunshots into whispers, which the burst fire then turned into whistling flutters. No shells were ejected from a port -- The weapon probably used electrically-discharged, caseless rounds. It handled like a dream; surely it was the weapon of a professional killer.

The rounds tore channels through fog, leaving narrow streams that the mist slowly filled back in. From the unseen distance came the sounds of ricocheting bullets and breaking glass. But a few of the must have had their intended effects.

"Ooof! Mierda! Get cover!"
"I think I've been hit!"

Round after round left the barrel as El Mono kept the area suppressed. Some return shots were fired around the corner of the alley, from where Mono and Chaske had just exited -- no doubt that's where the pursuers were hiding, using the corner as cover.

Chaske, meanwhile, was going through the motions of reorienting his bike, turning the handle sharply to the right and then leaning the bike up to its balance tipping point. The gyroscope inside hummed as it spun, aiding the Amerind in his efforts. Finally, it stood upright on its own...

...right as Mono's weapon ceased spitting out bullets. He pulled the trigger, but the gun was dry.

"He's run out! Go! Go! Get him!"

A round hit the sidewalk right in front of El Mono's feet, shattering the concrete into powder.

[Tuesday, 17 November 2071; In Front of The Final Round, Nueva Caracas; 03:34 AM]
Click.
Click.
The worst sound a person could possibly hear in this situation.

"He's run out! Go! Go! Get him!"

No. That's the worst sound a person could hear in this situation. Fuck it, the bike's upright again. Back to plan A: run like Hell.

El Mono squeezed off a burst down the alley left-handed and jumped on the bike. "Let's get the fuck out of here, hermano."

[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; In Front of the Cat's Paw, Nueva Caracas; 04:52 AM]

Wow! Didn't know I was so scary I make people faint! the elf without a name thought with a smile on his face. He took the unconcious guard's assault rifle and put it on the passenger seat. Finally some more firepower. Now Smiley won't hit me anymore for trying to get his shotgun...
Then he carried all the stuff the guards brought out into the rigger's vehicle. What a crazy night this had been. Waking up half dead and without memory, a car chase with the policia including backflip jumps over barricades, running from ghuls, robbing a brothel. And all within a few hours. It had taken it's toll. The amnesiac felt his wounds ache up again and he realized he was dead tired and exhausted.

Once they were in the car again he turned towards Smiley. "Guess your car repairs are covered. Turns out I'm a scary fellow, didn't even need this." He threw the credstick the rigger had given him a few minutes earlier back. "I found out a bit about my past. Apparently I came here a while ago, throwing around money like crazy for synthahol and girls and starting fights. Cut off a guard's balls when he tried to take me down. Seems like I'm a bad drunk... But I had been there before and didn't act like that. Maybe something bad happened in my life that I was trying to forget about."

Leaning back in his seat he checked out his new assault rifle before he yawned and closed his yes. "You know a place where we can crash? I should clean up and some sleep would be nice too."

[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; In Front of the Cat's Paw, Nueva Caracas; 04:52 AM]

Once the half-ton of dinero was loaded into the car, Smiley climbed back inside and fell into the drivers seat in a slump. Letting off a sigh, he removed his red-tinted sunglasses and hooked them on the collar of his shirt before reaching up to rub his eyes. It was nearly sunrise, there was no real sleep before doing what he did, and no more adrenaline pumping through his veins to keep him up and ready for anything now that all the chases and gunbattles are behind them.

Leaning back in his seat, he lazily looked out the door window as the nameless elf started talking, to which he eventually reponded, "You found something out, and did what to a guys balls? Good thing I didn't have you strut the streets." He puts any further response on pause to pick up the credstick on his lap and slips it into a front pocket on his jeans. "You know, I was expecting to get less cash and more security footage. Guess the owner didn't keep any of that in his safe, if he was smart enough to have one." After a yawn, Smiley shakes some of the cobwebs out of his head before looking over to the elf. "And no, I didn't quite figure out that part of the plan yet. I certainly ain't taking you to my place. After all this I doubt I should go back tonight myself, even if all my tools are there..."

Smiley takes another pause before pointing to the new AK in the elf's possession, "You remembered to take any spare ammo he kept in his pockets, right? Or are you good with whatever is left in the clip."

[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; In Front of the Cat's Paw, Nueva Caracas; 04:52 AM]

After Smiley's remark about the ammunition the amnesiac stared at the assault rifle for a moment with a blank look on his face. Then he shook his head in disbelief.

"I must be more tired then I thought. Be right back." He hopped out of the car and quickly rifled through the guards pockets for any spare clips before he climbed back in.
"Ok, good to go now! Guess we should find a hotel or something. At least we can pay for one now." he said with a weak grin.

C s de C acas - Nueva Caracas, 04:00 AM
Biomonitor: Stable

Lodging in Nueva Caracas had a few advantages.

You could always count on a rear entrance, for instance. One where the service personnel - actual ones, mind you, not the working girls of the streets - didn't mind so much if you wandered in from the alleyways, looking bedraggled and exhausted as if the very weight of the city had pushed you into the muck. There were rarely service personnel in the first place.

The front desk clerks don't blink an eye when that exhausted, bruised elven woman drops scant nuyen for a room with a late checkout, an eight-foot tall Troll standing quietly behind her. The assumptions are already in their mind, and assumptions can save someone hiding in the shadows. Besides, there was little evidence to support this woman would even look like this in the morning. Girl's gotta work, Troll's gotta...eat. Or something.

Nobody was going to mess with you in one of these tiny rooms. The water worked, sort of, the bed was small and not well-trusted to be sanitary, but the window had a magnificent view of...across the street. For some folks, this was a good vantage point. If a room was quiet, nobody would try to come in. If it wasn't, you got loud and people left you alone.

Best of all, it was cheap. The power was pirated, the water siphoned, the cooling nonexistant save a lazily spinning ceiling fan and the desk guy was pocketing the proceeds and telling his bosses that less than half the people he checked in were actually there. Everybody won, except the bosses. They never left their shiny corporate towers anyway, so what did it matter?

The room that Sonora and Coatl got to keep eyes on the street was all of these things. They didn't bother with AR overlays, paint, sheets or a mini fridge. Four walls, a decrepit bathroom and a single bed that had more than its fair share of dead hookers occupying it in the past were all this room had to offer. But the door locked, the window opened, and the fan tried to spin. Since nobody was shooting at them or throwing spirits that liked to yodel, it was as close to Nirvana as anyone in the city was trying to get.

Sonora didn't go anywhere near the bed. She sat in an aging armchair that was near the window, an equally battered table with formica top held the bottle of Oaxaca that was now a bit emptier. Her gun sat next to it, her hand atop and she dozed lightly, the window half open and the sounds of Nueva Caracas filtered inside.

She hadn't lasted long after getting up to the room, the whirlwind events of the night catching up to her about the time she hit the chair. The gun was hopefully enough of a deterrent towards funny business. After all, she'd just lost her home.

Trolls weren't her type anyway.

Various backalleys - Nueva Caracas, 03:44 AM

"That's good, that's good," Coatl said as he followed Sonora, checking his six every few seconds. While his olfactory was turned off, his eyes and ears were cranked to the max to catch any little detail--he didn't want to get gunned down from behind. "I ain't so good with the magic but I know 'bout killing. So we even out. Make good team."

As they trudged through the city's filth he began to feel worn down. It had been a busy couple of hours. And now, with no immediate threat to deal with, he was starting to get a bit slow. When Sonora stopped and mentioned hiding out, Coatl nodded agreement as he yawned--big, wide, and long, jaw almost distended like his namesake. "Yeah. Rest up before the blood," he mumbles.

The troll looks at her blankly for a few moments before realizing she asked him something. "Oh, here," he says to her, pulling the commlink from the pocket of his flats and handing it over. "This place you mentioned--it nearby? Gotta get some sleep. And I need to piss like a centaur."

El Mono and Chaske
[Tuesday, 17 November 2071; In Front of The Final Round, Nueva Caracas; 03:34 AM]
Mono squeezed his burst off in the direction of his attackers, hoping to score a solid hit even if visibility was severely limited. At the very least it would do to slow them down until Chaske got his bike back up.

The burst whirred out of the Fubuki at a super-fast rate of fire, and it was followed by a man's scream.

"Chingate! Fuck this, I'm killing this puto!"

Mono jumped on the back of Chaske's bike as the Amerind applied torque to the accelerator once again. But before the bike could accelerate to a reasonable escape velocity, there was a clattering tink.....tink-tink behind them on the ground. It sounded alot like a--

The grenade exploded behind the two as they were leaving on the bike. The shockwave shattered the windowfront of The Final Round and showered the patrons inside with shards and fragments of broken glass, which prompted screams and cries of alarm from within. It also likewise tipped Chaske's bike up onto its front wheel, the rear wobbling precariously about half a meter up with Mono's unbalanced weight sitting astride it. The blast tore a hole in the concrete, fragments of which pelted both men mercilessly and left numerous scratches and dings on the outside of the bike.

Chaske handled the bike more expertly than he had just moments ago. He turned the handlebars this way, then that way, reorienting the balance of the bike for the benefit of forward motion, the gyroscope working overtime to keep the bike from spilling over once again. After a few eternal seconds, the rear wheel once again slammed back down on the ground jarringly, the impact of the bike's hard, unpadded surface not doing Mono's more sensitive areas any favors.

But they were alive. They had escaped, leaving the agents behind to vanish in the fog as Chaske put more and more meters between them, finally slipping the noose that had been sliding around their necks all night.

((Combat Over. Both of you escaped, and have 2S damage. The bike has 1 box of damage and a bunch of scratches and dings in it.))

Sonora and Coatl
[Tuesday, 17 November 2071; Casa de Caracas, Nueva Caracas; 04:52 AM]
Sonora and Coatl settled into the dingy, stifling hotel room with no complications. It was a claustrophobia-inducing room for two normal people, forget that one of them was troll-sized. Sonora graciously took the easy chair next to the open window, which had an excellent view of the Cat's Paw club next door. This left the bed to Coatl -- if he laid on it and curled into a fetal position, it might be just enough room for him to sleep on without any extremities dangling off the edge. Of course the spot where it sunk down in the middle didn't look promising. And the dirty sheets had holes in them where the springs, having torn through the mattress, had penetrated and were now sticking out, waiting to slice and snag on skin as sleepers tossed and turned.

Maybe Sonora had done Coatl no favors after all.

The bathroom was likewise quite tiny, practically a coffin. If Sonora sat to use the toilet, her knees would've brushed up against the closed door. If Coatl was looking to take a dump, he would've been doing so with the door wide open, and making every cubic meter of the room smell like the remnants of his last meal. The shower stall was tiny, and the filthy tiles looked like a likely breeding ground for some sort of awakened, sapient athlete's foot. The droplets of water leaking from the shower head and sink faucet had the reddish-brown tinge indicative of rust.

My, what a shithole this place was.

After some time had passed, the comotion that had been going on next door when the two checked in started becoming more... pronounced. Sonora and Coatl both had seen guards belonging to the Cat's Paw staff herding men outside, but otherwise it had elicited little comment. But when Sonora started to doze off, giving off light feminine snores in the process, she was awakened by the sounds of automatic gunfire. Her adrenaline spiked and she was dumped unceremoniously from the arms of sleep onto the hard earth of reality itself.

The guards began to haul away the body of a man they had just riddled with bullets. Meanwhile, a car pulled up in front of the Cat's Paw, one that was particularly quite beat to hell and riddled with bullet holes. An elf wearing medical head bandages exited the vehicle, walked up to the closest guard and began engaging him in conversation. It was impossible to hear at this distance the conversation, but she did see the guards in general growing... agitated. More so when the driver, a human wielding a shotgun, suddenly started calling out to them that they were collecting protection money.

Sonora's Talents let her read this duo out in front of the Cat's Paw like a simflick script. She could tell they were bullshitting their hearts out, and doing so with surprising effectiveness. The guards, despite massively outnumbering and ungunning them, were stricken with fear -- no, terror and panic. They ran towards the front door of the building in their desperate, mad dash to come back with the "protection money." One guard had even fainted dead away.

And then they returned with handfuls of cash, which they were throwing down in a pile for the human and elf to pick up. The two were loading the cash, while the cowed guards started running off into the night, completely despirited and looking to escape their fears.

[Tuesday, 17 November 2071; Casa de Caracas, Nueva Caracas; 04:52 AM]

As Sonora took her place by the window, Coatl shouldered his way into the tiny water closet, closed the door, and undid his pants. He relieved himself with a happy little sigh, and had time to take a good, frightening look at the lav's facilities. The troll eyed the shower with distrust, and knew that even if he could have fit in there he wouldn't have used it. He'd feel cleaner walking nude through the street while it rained.

He washed his hands by rinsing them under warmish water and shaking them dry. He didn't trust the towels.

Coming out of the bathroom he could see Sonora already getting heavy-lidded; without a word he crossed to the bed--which looked uncomfortable at best--and lay upon it, not bothering with the sheets. Coatl lay on his back, looking up at the ceiling, legs crooked over the edge of the mattress and feet touching the ground. Small beds were nothing new. He shifted a bit to find a position that didn't have any springs poking him in the back, but gave up after a few minutes.

He didn't bother undressing, not even his shoes. If they had to get up and go fast he wasn't going to have time to bother putting them back on.

His return to waking was less extreme than Sonora's; he heard the chatter of autofire and slowly blinked awake. The sounds were close but didn't sound like they were in the building, so it probably didn't concern him and Sonora. He was less afraid and more upset that his rest had been disturbed. Hearing her shift in her chair, Coatl glanced her way with bleary eyes but didn't comment yet.

Casa de Caracas, Nueva Caracas - 04:52 AM
Biomonitor: Stable

The staccato of automatic rifle fire jolted Sonora from her sleep, dumping her onto the floor from her perch in a rather unceremonious fashion.

Ignoring Coatl's expectant look for a moment as he peeked over from the bed that was barely holding his weight, she peeked over the ledge of the window to see what transpired. After only a moment's glance, she shrugged.

"Poor pendejo got ventilated. They're looking a little frazzled across the street, and--"

A yawn interrupted her commentary, giving her a chance to stretch and climb back into the chair. She wasn't going to say anything about it, and Coatl wouldn't either, if he knew what was good for him. Don't mess with the petite elf woman who stabbed a spirit. Yeah.

Besides, if it got really bad, she could just tell him to shut up and sleep. She finished repositioning herself and watched out the window.

"Some car's pulling up...Jesucristo, this guy looks like he's been swimming in sangre, half of it his. Guards are scared of him, his friend's got a--"

She stops, ears straining to listen, eyes taking in the scene.

"Are you serious? Are you fucking serious? Coatl, they're shaking down an Alianza hangout! Insane!"

She checked her commlink and AR glasses to see if she could find an ARO indicating their profiles...And there they were. They had profiles active while shaking down this place. And it was working!

Sonora looked over the pile of cash the guards threw down before running off, and decided to take a risk.

"I'm going to call them. Anyone with brass huevos like that I need to get the ear of."

And the bank account number.

She shot a quick call off to the man with the shotgun directing the last of the cash being put into his car. The elf needed to stay on overwatch with that rifle if the man with the raspy voice decided he needed a little puta to take his mind off the puta that robbed him.

<I don't know who you and your friend are, hombre, but you just screwed with some very bad people. Get yourself and your friend off the streets, and we can discuss why later.>

Casa de Caracas, Nueva Caracas - 04:52 AM

Coatl got up on his elbows at Jesucristo, smacking his lips and trying to get that sleep-funk out of his mouth. He sat up all the way when she stopped talking; when she said what they were doing he got up and made his way over to the window to peek out on the two shakedown artists. He cranked his ears up to maximum to catch every word he could. And he started recording--sight and sound. If they didn't like what Sonora had to say, or they tried to doublecross her and Coatl, he'd make sure word could get out. He didn't feel as trusting as Sonora seemed--especially towards two guys who were robbing a place as he watched.

[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; In Front of the Cat's Paw, Nueva Caracas; 04:52 AM]

Just as Smiley was about to start the car up, he nearly jumped as he found a message pop up on his AR display. "Holy shit, somebody in these slums can actually use the matrix!" After taking a moment to read the message, he turns to look at the elf, "Why the hell didn't you tell me I was running in Acti-- Uh..." He stares blankly at the elf for a moment, before shaking his head in dismissal. "Nevermind. We had a larger audience than we thought, best not screw around and get some place far from the Cat's Paw, man." He took a moment to send off a reply before hitting the gas.

<Screwed with whom? They going to have to get in line after tonight. Furthermore, who the hell are you? Why do you care? Don't tell me you had a liking for that place.>

As he drove away from the area, Smiley slammed his fist against the steering wheel. "Aw shit, I just realized. We gonna hafta take the money in with us. The zapper on this thing won't exactly stop careful hands and a tow-truck from taking the whole thing with the money inside. Can't be too careful yanno."

Tuesday, November 17 - Casa de Caracas, Nueva Caracas, 04:52 AM

<The type of people that cut in front of the line, Loco, who solve their problems in a hail of gunfire. You and Sangre there need to hide out for a bit.>

Sonora looked over to Coatl, who looked to be taking some pictures of the car as it sped off. "Well...I don't think they're Alianza. Their swagger was too...manufactured. One of them looked like he didn't know what was going on - it was a fast job. Not bad, for amateurs."

She grinned. "I'm going to set up a meet for tomorrow, after we've all slept. Either they know more than we do, or they're going to need help around town, and now they have a bankroll."

<Call me Voz for now. Either you two are local and suicidal, in which case I want to take a picture before you die, or you aren't...and you need a support network. A scam like that took huevos, and you got paid where most would have gotten full of holes like the pendejo that showed up before you. I want to find out which one you two are. Let's do lunch.>

[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; In Front of the Cat's Paw, Nueva Caracas; 12:05 PM]
The night never lasts forever, and as the old axiom goes, it's always the darkest before dawn. The glow of a false impending sunrise eventually gave way to the real thing, and slowly the bright ball of the sun rose over the distant mountains to the east. Sheltered as Caracas was in its valley, a great shadow spread across the city until the sun was high enough to spill its light down on the buildings and people below, burning away the thick, omnipresent fog that blanketed everything. The humidity skyrocketed, and a man walking down the street could almost drown doing just that. Sweat pored from every body, and a rippling haze descended on Caracas, creating a wavering illusion that made the city seem to oscillate.

Word on the streets was that last night had been busy. The police had been busy chasing brazen gang members throughout Chacao. No, it was one car, and it was modified to fly through the air where the police couldn't get to it. Or it was La Alianza, who were mobilizing for a push into the city that not even Bolivar '49 could keep in check. People spoke of murders in all parts of town. There was a bar in Nueva Caracas, some say La Alianza members went in and killed everyone inside, leaving their heads on the counter as a warning. No, it was La Alianza who got killed and they're on the run from unseen assassins who are knocking them off one by one. Or even mysterious, sinister forces nobody has ever heard of.

The rumors grew in the telling to the point where little truth came out the other end and it wouldn't have surprised some to see Bloodzilla storming the city, or aliens beaming people up for experiments. But they all indicated that something had been going on the previous night, exciting news and events even in this crazy town.

But now the bright light of the sun was back, and the city's darkness banished for at least a little while. People crept back out into the open to begin their daily routines all over again. And yet there were undercurrents of fear, of nervousness. Like somehow, last night, things had begun to change. Some were openly wondering what the hell was happening to their city. Others were afraid of the political tensions between Amazonia and Aztlan. The word on the tips of everyone's tongues, the one they feared but didn't want to utter, it was a simple one, an old one:

"War."

[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Villanova Suites, Edge of Nueva Caracas; 12:07 PM]

"Hah, modified to fly. What a bullshit statement. Typical Policia lying to cover the fact they couldn't catch a fucking cold without outside help." Muttered Smiley as he sat on an old metal folding chair, listening to a news report on the trid about the car chase earlier in the morning.

He checked into the hostel along with the nameless elf at around five-thirty AM. The desk clerk seemed rather unnerved at first when it was just Smiley coming in with his shoulder holster rig visible and shotgun slung across his back while carrying dufflebags in each hand. He was unnerved, up until the elf came in immediately after, then the guy gave a bit of a shrug before giving them an... 'Understanding' look as they demanded a room with no other residents. He still charged extra, however.

That was over six-and-a-half hours ago, though. Only five of which Smiley slept through before the heat woke him up. Since then he's been watching the news to see what else has happened, and has recently disassembled an old desk lamp to get the wires out, which he then cut with a pair of scissors he snatched off a table on the way to the room. After peeling a strip of wire into two parts, he stuck a cigarette between his lips before plugging the lamp's power cord back into the wall, touching the live wires together in order to light his cigarette.

After successfully doing such a simple task through such needlessly dangerous methods, Smiley unplugged the lamp again and placed it aside, taking a drag as he looked over to the nameless elf, not paying attention to the fact he may very well be awake already. "Hey, get up." He uses the stock of his shotgun to prod the elf for a moment, "Comeon man, we gotta get ready to meet whoever was spyin' on us. Cut up those flats we got so I can get me a new shirt, and maybe get you a bandana or something from one of the legs... The bandage on your head make you look a bit creepy for daylight, man." After taking another drag, he opens up his AR display to check on the status of his car as well as send a message.

<Hey, Voz. It's the ones you call Loco and Sangre. Where are you at? It's too damn hot out to delay any meetup you have in mind.>

[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Villanova Suites, Edge of Nueva Caracas; 12:07 PM]

The elf who, without his knowledge, had been dubbed Sangre, yawned and slowly got up from the dirty and dangerously instable bed he spent the last six hours on. He actually felt much better after getting some sleep, most of his wounds seemed to have closed up a bit and he didn't see any fresh blood anywhere. He seemed to be relatively fine. Well except for the bullet in his brain of course but he couldn't do anything about that for now.

Before he went to sleep yesterday he had tried to get his old clothes, especially his armor, as clean as possible, with mixed results. At least he could wear them now without drawing unduly attention to himself. The bullet holes had reduced the kevlar's protection by a significant amount as far as he could tell. He would need to get to an armorer to fix that. If he ever got the time for stuff like that.

After a quick tour to the bathroom, he took out the packet of flats they bought yesterday at a vending machine and opened them. After throwing a shirt in Smiley's direction he popped out the cyberspur in his right hand and cut off a strip of cloth from the remaining stuff. He wound the blue fabric around his head, tying it with a knot at the back of his head to form a makeshift bandana that covered his bandages.

"We better be ready when meeting the guy that watched us do our little trick. Could turn ugly...again."

Putting on the rest of his clothes and armor Sangre packed up his stuff and checked his assault rifle.

"I'm ready"

Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Taqueria de la Rosa, Nueva Caracas; 12:07 PM
Biomonitor: Stable

The both of them had been there for over an hour, sipping cool drinks and trying to beat the cloying heat that Caracas was well known for. The local screamsheets had been full of information on events of the previous night, including a rash of executions, a flying car, and other violent acts that led to all the pundits crying the same foul:

War. War. War.

Fortunately, this area was quiet at this time of day. Like most denizens of hot, unhospitable places, the 'service workers' and patrons of said establishments tended to sleep the day away, resisting the heat as best they could before coming out in the marginally better evenings to ply their trades and get money to change hands. Noon in Nueva Caracas was as good as three in the morning in the middle of a corporate enclave. Better, since there wasn't any security.

Rosa's was about as far from the Cat's Paw as Sonora could walk before the heat chased her inside. There wasn't much to say about the place - it was a small storefront that had no door, no fourth wall. Perhaps an old bodega, it had maybe six tables and it looked like the owner had wrested the furniture from an unwilling Tacobufa, or perhaps an ill-advised Awesome Taco. Sometimes corporations just didn't learn.

Sonora had heard little about the place, which was a good thing in her book. If she'd heard of it, chances are it was a high-end restaraunt that would likely chase her and Coatl out with as much snobbery as Caracas could muster(which was quite a bit, when 1% of the haves outweighed the 99% of the have-nots combined). On the other end of the spectrum of restaraunts she'd known rested the filth-strewn cucarachas where the seedier elements who killed for a handful of pesos liked to eat. Rosa's was neither, and that was good enough for her.

While the veneers were cracked, the walls were painted in an odd, faded, off-yellow and the clientele tended towards the quiet, hard-working blue-collar folk that swept, washed and pressed this part of the city, the aroma was an enticing mix of spicy local cuisine and vat-grown roses from the flower shop just next door. Both saw extensive business from the Juans that had regular girls to see - some of them thought they could get a discount with a boquet, and often could only afford a torta after the girls ran them through the wringer. Physically and financially.

The heat inside wasn't much better, but the cooler in the back had plenty of cold drinks, either cheap beer or cheaper sodas. And real eggs! Sonora was reasonably certain, however, that the al pastor wasn't quite as advertised.

It was well after the half-eaten breakfast plate and about the sixth cool drink when she got the message. She fired back a quick text with rudimentary AROs and notified Coatl.

"They're on their way. The way Loco drives, it should only be about ten minutes."

<Taqueria de la Rosa in Nueva Caracas. It's quiet this time of day.>

[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Apartment, El Zamural, 12:07 PM]

Stephen woke with a feeling of clarity and purpose he had lacked in recent weeks. Last night had been a large step forward, one he had hesitated to take until now. What had been holding him back? As he sat in his apartment, pouring himself a morning drink, he reflected on the risks he took last night, and their possible consequences.

Well, if they figure out what happened, I'll have to watch my back. I probably did most of them a favor though. People like Ramirez are rarely missed for long. There will be a power vacuum, but some other pimp will fill it soon enough. Business always keeps going, no matter what happens on top. Someone else will be collecting fees in a week, and in two no one will even remember what Ramirez looked like. One of the few advantages of this town eating people alive. I won't forget though. I can't forget, until it's done.

Stephen sipped at his drink. He knew his next move, who he had to find next, fill in the holes in the story, complete the chain of events and make sure everyone paid their part.

The Hatchet.

Last night had been too close. He had been too reckless. Back home, he never went into a situation like that without a plan. He had escapes planned ahead of time, false identities established. He'd never leave a trail that could lead back to him. Up there he wasn't a person. He was a fleeting memory, not worth recalling and definitely not worth looking for. His first lead in weeks, and he had nearly blown it, and gotten himself killed. He hated to admit it to himself, but he needed help.

Stephen wheeled through the AR display on his commlink, highlighting his fixer's number.

<<@Jose: Need help tracking someone down. Preferably someone who can handle the matrix and has a bone to pick with the Alliance.>>

Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Taqueria de la Rosa, Nueva Caracas; 12:07 PM

Coatl nodded when Sonora gave him the update, idly cracking the knuckles of his left hand. He hated waiting. He was bored, ready for action. The troll wasn't much for small talk and Sonora's few questions to him had just been met with grunts or short responses. Six empty bottles were in front of him and a seventh near at hand, soon to be drained; he was holding back, not wanting to get too buzzed before the meet, and not wanting to blow all his cred on one lunch. To make up for the lack of alcohol he was chain-smoking cheap Chinese cigarettes, nearly a whole pack of Yehuans crushed into the ashtray in front of him. He was gonna need another pack before the afternoon slipped away.

He had spent time idly flipping through an AR newsfeed, only half-paying attention to it. The news suggested something was coming but he already knew that; he could read it in the way people were moving today, in eyes that darted with more caution than usual, in quiet whispers and shared glances. Even with the heat, there should have been more people on the street than this. Some sort of storm was brewing. Everybody knew it. Those with sense were getting out of the way. Those without sense...

Well, they were sitting in a taqueria. Daring the winds to come their way.

[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; In Front of the Cat's Paw, Nueva Caracas; 12:05 PM]

I woke up with panic in my mind, fear in my gut and a gun in my hand. It seemed like every single part of me was trying to shake itself loose.

Except my chromed hand. It held the gun, steadily, towards the open window.

I got up, scratched my hairy chest and closed the shutters back. I could taste my own stale breath in my mouth, and something was throbbing in the back of my head. I already had nasty as fuck black bruises on my stomach, but beside that, everything seemed to be in order. Still can’t believe how fuckin’ clumsy those guys were. I mean, those guys were supposed to be top dog black ops assassins. Cream of the crop. Either someone didn’t quite tell ‘em who they were going up against, or selection standards have dropped way the hell down since I enlisted. But I ain’t gonna bitch too much about now. Going up against a bunch of blatantly incompetent spics just makes my life easier. There I was thinking about raising myself a small army. Or at least a decent fireteam. If that’s the sort of shit I’m gonna be gunning up against, two more reliable guys should be enough.

I stretch and yawn my jaw off as I put my revolver down on the beside table. The room’s shitty as fuck, but it’s gonna have to do for now. Not like I could just stay at my old place. Especially with the two rotting bodies in the kitchen. Sorta breaks the mood when you try to cook yourself a nice breakfast. My stomach grumbles as I realized I haven’t really eaten in the past 24 hours. A bottle of Jack ain’t really a meal. I rummage through my shit for a clean enough shirt. I hope I paid the guy downstairs enough extra cred. Most of my heavy ware is stashed under the bed, but it ain’t real subtle. That and the SPAS shotgun next to the door. And the rifle next to the window.

My back hurts. I ain’t quite sure if it’s from spending so much time hunched over all those guns, doing maintenance, or just some the piss poor shitty mattress I just caught a cat nap on. I check over the list of targets I’ve got on the chip. I ain’t got no clue where to start. Usually, I’d just go off guns blazing to get those spics bastards. But like Morris said, I’m gonna need a bit of help. I ain’t got no money to pay hired hands, so the only way I’ll get backup is by convincing people it’s in their better interest to play bullet magnet with me.

I think back to my early days, running around the jungle, teaching farmers and fishermen how to shoot of Aztechnology goons at 500 yards. Good times. I have a fairly good idea how what I have to do. I finish getting dressed and give a quick update to Morris.

[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Villanova Suites, Edge of Nueva Caracas; 12:07 PM]

Nodding to the elf near him, Smiley shrugged the shirt overtop his shoulder holster rig and the now rather sweaty sleeveless muscle shirt. He gave 'Sangre' a small grin, "Ugly you say? The worst that could happen is they'd try and kill us, and so far the track record for attempts on your life haven't panned out in favor of the opposition. As for me, well... I'm still alive so far." He reached into one of the duffelbags, pulling out some of the cash in order to discreetly hide his shotgun inside it, along with the eight Ex-Ex shells that remained from the box of ammo in the car. "So, with that track record, I think that regardless of what happens, shit should be fine so long as I'm not standing in front of you when shit pops off."

After slinging the dufflebag with the shotgun inside over his shoulder, he slides a few of the other bags to 'Sangre' before grabbing two himself and heading back to the car, stating; "We goin' to some place called Taqueria de la Rosa. Should be nice." Once the cash is loaded and the elf is back in the car, he opens up his mapsoft of the city and drives off to the meet.

[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Taqueria de la Rosa, Nueva Caracas; 12:20 PM]

After thirteen minutes of driving, Smiley pulls up and takes a look out the car windows at the resturant, nodding to himself when he spots the only standout patrons. He climbs out of the car with the favored dufflebag slung over his shoulder as he approaches, not really waiting all that long for the elf to get out.

<Hola Voz, I'm going to guess you're the one sitting next to the troll. You know, a more traditional way of getting seen is to wear bright colors.>

[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Taqueria de la Rosa, Nueva Caracas; 12:20 PM]

Following Smiley's example Sangre had emptied one of the dufflebags to make space for his newly aquired assault rifle. It didn't fit too well and the bag had a slightly rifle-shaped look now but it would do for now. He used his spur to make a cut in the section of the bag where the grip was so he could reach inside and fire the weapon from there if it was necessary.

Going towards the Taqueria de la Rosa he watched his surroundings carefully, not knowing what to expect from the people they were going to meet. Suddenly his mind starting working on it's own, analyzing the area for the most likely locations for a trap. If I was setting up an ambush here I'd start with snipers on this balcony here and the surrounding roofs at those three points. One team hidden inside the restaurant to keep them from seeking cover there, additional teams in the alleys, cutting of every possible escape route. A back-up team in a vehicle as mobile reinforcements on demand... Wait, where do I know this stuff from? He shook off the momentary feeling of confusion the sudden burst of knowledge had caused and concentrated on the situation at hand. He gripped the bag that held his rifle tighter and prepared to enter the establishment. Without conscious thought he took a position a bit behind and to the right of Smiley, to provide cover and avoid friendly fire in case the shit hit the proverbial fan.

Stephen
[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Apartment, El Zamural, 12:07 PM]
It didn't take long for Stephen's fixer, José to respond back.
<<Ah, Stevie. Been a bit since I heard from you. Eh, got my top guys on stuff already. You need Matrix support, you say? I might know somebody. Don't know him very well but he seems straight enough, and he's talented with the Matrix. You want to play Señor Garcia, then I'll gladly pass your name along, and see if he's interested.>>

Meanwhile, a strange sort of shuffling, scrabbling noise was heard, coming somewhere from the kitchen area...

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

Dexter
[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; In Front of the Cat's Paw, Nueva Caracas; 12:05 PM]
Morris listens to Dexter's report about the events the night before, and Dexter can see him nodding at the bullet points. When he is finished, Morris sighs and then calmly replies:

<<Just as well you got out of there, then. Your name is on that list, and they're after you for certain now. I'd keep your head down. I'll keep the photos of the two men on file, but not only do I doubt we'll find anything, you didn't really leave us a bunch to go on, what with their faces missing and everything. As for the commlinks... In the past we've found that the commlinks are tied to biomonitors that the men wear or have implanted. Once they're dead the commlinks scramble up and cease to work. It'll take a seriously sophisticated computer science professional to crack them open and make them work again. They are handy, however, for reading files encrypted for their operatives. I would hang onto them and see if you can get somebody to open them for you. Like I said we've got our guys busy out in the field. The comms themselves are probably sanitized anyway. You more than likely won't get anything special off of them.>>

Morris took his glasses off again to rub his eyes. Maybe he caught some sleep, but it sure wasn't much. The man was pushing himself hard, maybe a little too hard.

<<All the same, I'm glad you sent those Azzie bastards to hell. I'm hoping you send many more, too. And... I'm glad you made it out safe, Mr. Pope. Also, I'm trying to convince certain bean counters to move some funds from certain bullshit projects into my account, so maybe if you get some people together, we can give them something more than our appreciation and gratitude, if you understand me.>>

[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; El Decanso Último, Nueva Caracas, 12:07 PM]
[Commlink: Hidden]

The sunlight filters through the grime-covered shades and Chaske groans in protest at the intrusion on his sleep. Before he can roll over and shield his bloodshot eyes from the sunlight he catches a glimmer of movement off of his helmet's visor sitting on a chair. In an instant he opens himself to the resonance and tunnels into his helmet's sensor array. Before he can pull up the ultrawideband a flurry of black feathers causes Chaske's persona to jump back. As he regards the raven perched before him Chaske inclines his head respectfully before addressing the sprite: <<Many thanks, Kangri, for agreeing to stay with me for a short time longer. I am glad for your help in this. Did you find anything from that first trail we encountered? These men have dogged my companion and I all night, some information on them would be most welcome.>>

Taqueria de la Rosa; Nueva Caracas; 12:20PM

Sonora's buzzing commlink heralded the arrival of the Pair. She checked the commlink and smiled, raising a hand to welcome them to the table where she and Coatl had made themselves at home. The avoidance of bright colors was the mark of the day; the selection was a vintage Maria Mercurial concert tee from '51 and a pair of equally vintage jeans from the same period. She'd used a red ribbon as a hair tie as a nod to habit, it was her favorite color.

You could go terribly wrong with vintage clothing, but it accessorized well with ballistic protection.

This is what got the blood running. Meets with unknown people, secrecy and paranoia, the hint of uncertainty - would these two, in a mismash of real clothing and dissected flats be on the level, or would they try a double-cross? Would she try to con them out of the thousands in cash they carried, or would she take the longer view? Sonora and Coatl had defeated a spirit with nothing but guile and raw power, and after catching this lucky break she was feeling on top of the world. The long view it was, stopwatch be damned.

"Buenos dias," she said with a smile. Long-used habits caused her to give them a quick assessment - cheap clothes to replace tattered ones, heavy bags carrying more than just toiletries - was that the shape of a barrel out of the elf's? And why was he wearing a headband like one of the founders of Bolivar '49?

They couldn't be that local. Certainly, Loco drove like he owned a taxicab, but Sangre had a taste of nervousness about him, uncertainty. He walked as if he were expecting an ambush and were ready to provide fire support. Judging by the bags they carried, it meant they were packing some decent firepower should someone come running, but just past noon in the red light district? You could hunt chickens with a rocket launcher down the main street and nobody would notice.

Honesty is the word of the day with these two, she thought. As they seated-no, positioned- themselves, she said, "You two look like hell. Get something to eat, something cool to drink. You look like you could use a friend."

[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Taqueria de la Rosa, Nueva Caracas; 12:20 PM]

The metal chair creaked and groaned as Smiley leaned back into it. "Look like hell? Nah, that can't be. Sure feel like I'm on Cloud Nine. At least we're sporting this years fashion, think my madre has that same shirt." he says with a smarmy grin on his face. He leans over to place his bag on the ground, placing the shoulder strap under his foot so if someone should try snatching it, he'll feel it. "I kid, heh. Guess all the excitement of driving a flying car, fending off hungry ghouls, and then that last thing you saw all within a few hours kinda gets to you."

Smiley looks at the pair across the table from him, noting the few glances over to 'Sangre'. "Uh, don't mind him. Had a rougher night than me, and he don't realize that if we're in a bad deal then we've already been had, 'cause as a guy I knew from way back when would say, 'You always should be wary of the woman who only shows interest when money is involved'." He looks off to the side for a moment before muttering, "Hmm... Then again, that guy would always shove me so I'd drop the soap... Bastard." Shaking his head, he turns to look back at 'Voz' and troll across from them, "Anyways, I don't mean to be rude or nothin', but why not we be honest and put any ulterior motives on the table, yeah?"

Smiley crosses his arms and leans back again as he lets the question hang in the air, giving the two a good lookover. Something about these two... Not hostile, but suspicious. Definately can't be affiliated with those who 'rightfully' own the money, would of tried killing us before we left the Cat's Paw... He speaks up once again, pointing to the troll asking; "Oh, and uh... Who's your friend? You already named mine, so I might as well get a handle for this guy."

[Taqueria de la Rosa; Nueva Caracas; 12:20PM]

The troll had watched them approach, noting the duffle bags--certainly not loaded with presents and offerings--and noticed the difference in the two: one cocky and strutting and laid-back, the other more reserved, almost paranoid.

And this one, oh how he liked to talk. Coatl much preferred the other one; he kept his mouth shut. On the other hand, Chatty Cathies were known to sometimes let details slip because they would forget to shut up. That had its uses sometimes. A flying car and ghouls? Either this one had had a very eventful night, or he felt a need to puff himself up with stories.

Coatl flicked his eyes to Smiley when asked for a handle. So far they'd all been talking to each other with Sonora's quick nicknames, and so early in the relationship he saw no need to change that. "I'm Carne," he says to Loco. Sonora seems to want to work with these guys in some capacity, and Coatl tried hard to sound welcoming... but his best efforts can't go very far.

[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Taqueria de la Rosa, Nueva Caracas; 12:20 PM]

Sitting next to Smiley, the bag with the rifle in his lap, the elf kept quiet, leaving the talking to the rigger. Sangre knew he wouldn't be a match for that women when it came to words, she had the air of someone that knew how to talk circles around you without ever actually saying anything. At least she didn't seem to be much of a physical threat, so he focused his attention on the giant that called himself Carne, giving him an appraising look and then a short nod. He felt some kind of connection to the troll, two warriors acknowledging each other's skill. The willingness to kill the other if they had to but also the acceptance of their possible death at the other's hand. Worthy opponents who knew their abilities, not just street posers. For a moment the elf thought he saw a reaction in the troll's eyes, a sign that he shared the feeling.

Then reality returned and Sangre reprehended himself for romanticizing the situation.
The big guy is just some troll legbreaker not some warrior comrade in spirit, you idiot! If it came to the worst he'd have to take on what looked to be more than 500 pounds of muscle in close quarters. The thought made his spurs itch beneath his skin.

Taqueria de la Rosa; Nueva Caracas; 12:20 PM

Loco was living up to his name. Sonora had heard the rumormill, read the article about the 'flying car', and subsequently wrote it off as a flight of police fantasy. It was time to find out their motivations, though this one was outwardly paranoid and seemed to talk to conceal it.

"Ulterior motives, hmm?" Sonora asked with a smile. Coatl used her nickname for him; for that matter everyone was using a nickname. So it wasn't just Loco that was paranoid. So be it.

"Survival," she said. Her smile faded, and she drummed her fingers on the table. "The place you robbed is a hangout of a very nasty band of thieves. La Alianza. They're the type of people to get in gun battles with the policia and win as often as not. They're also willing to try and kill innocent bystanders over a matter of peanuts, and that's one of their favorite places to stay."

She glanced out to the street for a second, moreover to give herself a chance to consider what to say next; to properly read these two. Yes, Loco was not being deceptive, and Sangre...Well, he was different.

"Carne and I can hold our own. We wish to prosper, however. You have seen the news. You have seen how the people walk around expecting war between the Azzies and Amazonians, with beloved Caracas as a battleground."

Sonora smiled again, wishing to get down to brass tacks. "I propose a pooling of resources. You have cash you need to make lighter; I have friends who can make that happen. You require parts, or...other things," she said, glancing at Sangre, "I have friends. I can speak to them on your behalf. In return...we have the capability to make some real money and get out of here before the war starts.

"You'll have questions, I'm sure."

Chaske
[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; El Decanso Último, Nueva Caracas, 12:07 PM]
Kangri, the sprite, perched atop an icon floating in the virtual space of the Matrix, as if it were stationary footing. The black bird cawed one time and turned its head to the side. One overlarge, black eye examined Chaske closely. Though the bird said nothing, a voice spoke from within Chaske's mind, one composed of nothing but Resonant code, but which his emerged biology rendered into a soft whisper of a voice.

<<They were well guarded, my brother. It is to my eternal shame that I could not follow them, for they were ghosts. It was like chasing prey by smell alone in a thick mist. But Those Above have heard your pleas and entreaties for my aid, and They have agreed to allow me to assist you for a time. Other aid may be brought to you. He Who Guides The Wind>>, and Chaske knew that Kangri was referring to his Paragon, <<has too long heard your cries and felt your pain. It is decided: You who are worthy are to be guided.>>

The raven cocked his head up, as if looking for the source of a sudden noise.

<<A message comes, brother. It is meaningful.>> And with a caw, Kangri took to the "sky" in a shower of black feathers and was gone.

A few digital ticks went by before Chaske was given notification of an incoming message from his fixer, José:

<<Hey, niño. I know you're looking for work. I haven't had much, but I have a Señor Garcia now who's looking for some Matrix help. He gave me details, but I get paid if you talk to him yourself. Do you want me to set up a meet, virtual or otherwise?>>

[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Taqueria de la Rosa, Nueva Caracas; 12:21 PM]

"Yeah, heard all about the reports of impending war. What a shame, reminds me of home. The Azzies will probably come in from the docks so as to avoid screwing around in the jungle more than necessary. Can't blame 'em. Fuckin' giant spiders in that jungle, man." Replied Smiley in a nonchalant manner to Voz's reminder of the predicted future of Caracas as he tilted his chair back and forth repeatedly, puffing away at the practically finished cigarette placed between his lips.

While Voz went on about explaining her wishes and offerings Smiley looked over into the shop, letting his mind wander for half a moment as the heat made him crave beer, water, whatever. He cleared his throat before speaking up again, "Well, okay. Nice to have that all out in the open. You say you got friends, I got those too. However, difference is that I know mine are real, but not so much about yours." He pulls the dying cigarette from his lips but doesn't stub it out just yet, instead using the lit cherry to help light up a fresh one.

"You know..." Smiley paused to take a drag of his fresh-lit cigarette, "Maybe things would be better with a uh, token of good faith."

He held up one finger to signal the others to wait a moment as he bent over to reach into the duffelbag, withdrawing a wad of cash and sliding it across the table to Voz and Carne. "Should be about a thousand-five-hundred nuyen in just that one tiny wad. That's my token, where's yours?"

[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; El Decanso Último, Nueva Caracas, 12:07 PM]
[Commlink: Hidden]

<<Many thanks, brother Kangri>> Chaske says to the sprite in his native Lakota.

After the raven departs Chaske takes a deep breath and closes his eyes to center himself. Once he is satisfied he releases the breath and as the air flows out of his mouth his icon changes from a plainclothes version of himself to a leather-faced trid star he had gotten on sale a few weeks ago.

<<Thanks you, José. Here is the node Señor Garcia can reach me at.>>

Chaske sends José the address of a Hong Kong based chatroom at the same time as he sends his persona there.

The room is small. A booth, really. If Chaske wanted to he could look past the walls and ceiling and floor and see an almost-infinite number of similar cubes beyond this one. But he didn't, that would be rude. Settling himself in Chaske awaits Señor Garcia.

[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; El Decanso Último, Nueva Caracas, 12:07 PM]
Time awake: 35 hours, 37 minutes.

It had been one Hell of a night. No fucking way El Mono was going to sleep after all that. Did those pendejos throw a fucking grenade at him? That's what it had looked like, near as Mono could tell. Small round ball, big fucking explosion. If the trids hadn't led him farther astray than he thought, that was a fucking grenade. It wasn't what he had expected. Usually, there was a big fireball, right? And the wind... picked the bike half off the fucking road, and showered him with gravel. Broken pieces of the road. Sure, in the trids, there was a crater in the street sometimes, and if he'd ever thought about it, Mono would have realized all that ground must have had to go somewhere, right? He hadn't thought about it, though, and it surprised the shit out of him when it hit. Nearly made him tip the damned motorcycle. No flames, though, that was something else. Maybe it wasn't a grenade. Maybe it was a spell. The ground bucked under them. Could a grenade do that? could a witch put a spell in a ball and give it to someone to throw? Fuck, it was good to be far away from that shit. For now.

No way he would have stayed with this hombre, but by Mono's count, they had saved each other's lives exactly one fuckload of times yesterday, and that earned this dude a lot of leeway. If he was working with those fuckers, they weren't afraid to kill him, and made him an ally, if not a friend, when the shooting started, at least. So Mono had directed the guy to drop him near his own bike, and met back up five minutes later to ride around until they found a shitty little motel to crash at. Well, Chaske (that was his name) crashed. El Mono stayed awake, and watched the door. A few late-night trids as well, but mostly the door. Johnny Blade filled the time, but couldn't keep his mind off the fact that whoever was after him had given up on subtlety and was in a killing mood now.

Chaske had slept through the morning, but it looked like he was starting to wake up. The had groaned and rolled a bit a minute ago. He looked like someone had given a few taps with a stun-baton now, though. Either he was really bad at pretending to sleep, or something was off.

Mono fingered his pistol as he nudged Chaske with a piece of rotted bed frame. "Hey, you awake, guy?"

[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Apartment, El Zamural, 12:07 PM]

Stephen's commlink buzzed quickly, and he opened up the AR display to show the meeting request to the Hong Kong chatroom.

At least this guy knew his stuff.

Stephen disguised his icon as best he could, using an off the shelf "Johnson, v.3.2", and entered the node.

<<Hello. I know you were told by our mutual acquantance that I might have some work for you. That's both true and false. While I do need help, I'm not operating for anyone but myself, and obviously my resources are more limited than most of the Senor Garcia's you and I would work for. I'm telling you this because it's important that our relationship is honest up front.>>

<<What I'm offering is a partnership, of sorts. You're clearly adept at the matrix, whereas my talents lie in the astral. If it seems agreeable to you, I'd like to work together. I'm sure that in your work you need magical support that you cannot provide yourself. What I am offering is my services, and in exchange after I've proven myself useful to you, your help with my problem.>>

<<I know this probably isn't what you were looking for out of this meeting; I know when I get a call from a Senor Garcia I'm looking for cred. If I had it, I assure you I'd offer it; but as it stands, this is what is on the table. What do you say?>>

Taqueria de la Rosa; Nueva Caracas; 12:21 PM


Sonora raised an eyebrow as the wad of cash hit the table, sliding to a stop in front of her. There was something about the exchange that rankled her. Perhaps it was the offhand delivery. Perhaps it was the vague estimate, or perhaps it was the slightest glaze over his eyes while she talked. Was it machismo that prevented him from taking her seriously? Was it the situation? What was his motivation - it couldn't be profit if he couldn't even count the money he threw at her. So then, what was it?

People like this were difficult to negotiate with - they filled the air with words, jamming the conversation full of fluff. She could read his movements, and they spoke volumes of honesty. Loco believed in what he was saying, what of it there was.

A wave of sound and fury, she thought to herself. Or however the saying goes.

Perhaps his motivation was simply to let his car fly. A thrillseeker of the highest order, and his sidekick...read like a blank slate. Puff on his sticks, fire his guns, drive his cars. Perhaps machismo was the right word.

In response to Loco's offer, she covered the wad with her hand and called out to the family in the back. In the hour they had been there, she had learned the proprietor's name - Rodrigo - and that this family run enterprise had been here for at least two generations, ekeing out a living as the glitz and neon rose and fell around them. She had also learned his wife and two daughters assisted as they could, Marta making the spicy sauces they served with their dishes, and twins Maya and Elena worked the register and served the food. It was enough of an enterprise to keep them all occupied. It could have been much worse for the twins.

"Elena? May we have those two platos and four cervezas, please?"

While the girl bustled to fill the order, placing two plates of real eggs, chorizo and some tortillas near the newcoming pair, Sonora returned her attention to the matter at hand. The money had disappeared during the delivery.

"Give me a number that you would like lightened, and tell me why you're in town. What you need. And please, eat, drink! I will take you to my show of faith directly after."

She indicated her own half-finished plate, and the dozen or so empty bottles that Elena took away. "They have a way with eggs."

[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Taqueria de la Rosa, Nueva Caracas; 12:21 PM]

The conversation started to irritate Sangre. He didn't really understand why they were even talking to these people who offered nothing but some vague promises. The bullet in his brain started throbbing again and before he could stop himself he'd already touched his bandana at the point where it covered the wound. Don't let them see your weakness, your confusion. Those are the signs of prey and you are no prey for anyone. He pushed the pain to the back of his mind as his face took on a determined look and he spoke up for the first time.

"This conversation's going nowhere. Let's put our cards on the table here. So we fucked with some people who are dangerous, tough luck. There's already a bunch of assholes out there trying to kill me, I've lived so far. I got something I need to do and I won't let la policia, la alianza or anyone else get in my way!" I'll find out what happened to me, why my life is a pile of shit. And then I'll make whoever's responsible pay for it. No matter who they are. Everybody pays!

He leant back and tried the surprisingly good eggs while he watched the women on the other side of the table intently.

"You say you want to team up, pool our resources, make some real money? Get precise. What are you planning and how would it benefit us to share our money with you? "

Taqueria de la Rosa; Nueva Caracas; 12:22 PM

Ah, so the mute one can speak, Sonora thought to herself as he started to rage. She watched him touch his bandana as if it pained him, or something underneath had. She recalled how she had seen him the night previous - bloody, moving with difficulty, causing the guards to know true fear and scrabbling for third-rate assault rifles off the street.

He was sorta cute until he opened his mouth. Cranky when he has a bump on the head.

"Planning?" she asked as they finally did start sampling the food. "I'm planning to create a power vacuum by setting people on one another. Robbing people who don't deserve the money and power they have. Distributing it to those who need it - namely us. Getting the hell out of this city before it explodes, or finding refuge in an opulent mansion whose owners were 'convinced' to put us up in.

"But I can't do any of that with just Carne and I. The power vacuum, we could do. The robbing, probably. He can cut a spirit in half with a machete - I don't have to tell you what he'll do to meat. You hold your head as if someone beat it in with a crowbar. That means you need competent medical attention - I have contacts. You scrounged a gun off the middle of the street with everyone watching. That means you need someone to wipe a few cameras and you need a reliable source for guns. I have contacts that can do both.

"You also have two duffel bags full of cash and other...things, which means you need to make it a manageable size. Clean and free, so the people you stole from don't come looking for you. I know people who can do that.

"This can go one of three ways. One, you accept my offer of assistance, I lead you to people to fix you up, outfit you and you go about your business. We part ways after a nominal fee.

"Two, you accept my full offer, and we team up. I do the same thing, we don't part ways, and we start finding answers and ending the lives of very bad people.

"Three, you tell me and Carne to go to hell, and we stand up and walk away. No guns, no fighting, no masked gunman. You're on your own as are we, just four acquantainces who had lunch."

[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Taqueria de la Rosa, Nueva Caracas; 12:22 PM]

When Sangre finally spoke up in utter irritation, Smiley didn't bother interupting or even batting an eye. He simply took the opportunity to take a few bites of his meal. After Voz was done with her part of the discussion, he wagged a finger at the woman as he said, "You know, of all the things you're saying, I actually didn't think you'd be honest about the eggs. These are good." After washing down another mouthful with some drink, he continued on speaking with a grin now on his face. "Also, the way you talk about robbing bad people? One could almost mistake you for having a noble agenda."

Once finished stubbing out his cigarette into the ashtray, he starts lazily rocking his chair back and forth again with his hands behind his head, "Now, I personally think this little jagged alliance of ours could work, provided we could trust eachother farther than we can throw eachother." Smiley pauses for a moment as he shoots a glance at Carne, "Um, maybe not necessarily as far as you might be able to throw us, heh." He turns his attention back to Voz, "See here's the thing: Your contacts? I also got a guy who can bring me nice stuff too. Hell, that dreadlocked disgrace to Blackbeard could probably give me a nice little hideaway in one of those tiny islands off the coast in exchange for a little of the money I got. However, that would be boring. So in order to cut to the chase and possibly give us a little trust excersize to work towards..." He stops rocking and leans forward, resting his elbows on the table.

"I'd much prefer to hear what you got in mind for targets. Sitting in the blistering heat of the sun ain't as much fun as actually going out and doing something."

[Taqueria de la Rosa, Nueva Caracas; 12:22 PM]

These two were starting to get on Coatl's good side. Both of them were clearly men of action, men who wanted to be on the move and causing damage. Sonora he liked, but he was still unsure on her plan--she wanted to get rich, which was good, but she wanted to leave the city. Coatl couldn't. He had too much unfinished business. More blood to spill. And it sounded like the one called Sangre was the same way.

Maybe the four could help each other out, let Sonora escape when she was done, and then the trio could go on to paint the town red, eh?

But he kept his mouth shut for now. He wasn't a bright man but he knew when he had very little to offer a conversation. He tapped the last cigarette from his pack and lit it and kept his eyes open. Perhaps they would need a demonstration of his usefulness. The troll would gladly give it to them.

[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; El Decanso Último, Nueva Caracas, 12:07 PM]
[Commlink: Hidden]

<<A partnership, you say?>> Chaske asks, clearly bemused. <<While some magical mojo would be welcome I must wonder what you are hoping to get from me, Señor. Before I agree to anything why don't you let me in a bit on what you need done, and then we'll go from there?>>

Chaske notices Mono's movements through his helmet's cam feed and he sends a text message to appear on the helmet's visor.

:::Woke up to a Fixer's call, I'm meeting the Garcia now. I have a microphone on this, so if you want to talk go ahead:::

[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Apartment, El Zamural, 12:07 PM]


Stephen's icon leaned back in the booth, reflecting it's user's anxiety about answering the question.

<<Let me explain myself. My job is to find people. I'm sure that's something that you are familiar with. In fact, as we speak I would not be surprised to find you hacking my connection and determining where I am, and what I am doing. That's fine, I would expect nothing less.>>

<<What I need your help with is backup. There is a man, an Alianza, that I would like to speak with. What about isn't your concern, just something I need to do. Believe me, if I thought I could succeed on my own that is what I would do. However, after nearly getting myself killed last night, I recognize I need to be a bit more careful to see this thing through to the end.>>

<<If you are not interested that is fine; I appreciate the time you've taken already. Once I get to know you better I may tell you more about what I need done, but you'll understand if I wish to keep it to myself for the time being.>>