Group Two
[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Taqueria de la Rosa, Nueva Caracas; 12:25 PM]
Smiley levelled his shotgun towards the oncoming sedan, and the slug punched straight through the radiator grill and into the engine block. The deformation to the front of the vehicle was bad enough, but one could hear screeching, metallic chaos going on within, as a cascading series of mechanical mishaps further shredded the engine into uselessless. Parts began to fall out underneath the engine, leaving bits of metal and former components of the car in its wake, along with a mixture of oil, fuel, and water.

The car audibly began to lose power, the engine no longer providing the necessary torque to make the vehicle maintain its velocity. That combined with the shredded wheel and the rim slicing across the ground, the car quickly lost velocity, though momentum still carried it forward.

(Dexter's Turn)

[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Taqueria de la Rosa, Nueva Caracas; 12:25 PM]

All in all, I was having something of a nice day. Upgraded my living conditions, got a new ride, got some free beer and a free lunch. Even found some civies to play bait. Problem was, I wasn’t really counting on the Azzies already getting the drop on ‘em. Then again, they got the drop on me, so maybe I shouldn’t have been this surprised. As I shove the chick inside the van, I can’t help but wonder: were they already on them, or did I bring them with me.

Outside, fuckin’ hell has just opened its gates and lead is flying up and down the street like it’s raining. For some reason, I can’t help it but think of Sue sunbathing in that bright red bikini, summer of 48. Damn was she a fine woman.

My body is moving with a will of its own. My mind if miles away. It’s sorta like watching yourself on television. You know it’s you, but it ain’t. Not really. The thicker the shit gets, the more detached I seem to become. The fight is going on, and I ain’t here. People are screaming and shouting. The air smells of gunpowder and fear. I haven’t really seen much of what’s going on, but I know a few things.

We are stationary targets, all grouped up within a few meters. Hard cover and concealment all round. The ambush is roughly L shaped, with one vehicle, unknown number of baddies, one known sniper, heavy caliber rifle by the sound of it. We got enough firepower to duke it out… But stayin’ in one spot is going to get us all geeked. We need to move the fuck out.

First order of business, take the closest visible threat out. Sure, I can grab my rifle, run across the street, run up like five flights of stairs and MAYBE catch the sniper on the way down. Maybe. That is if the motherfucker hasn’t booby trapped the way. I bet that asshole has a claymore at the fuckin’ door. Sure, I can lean out of the van and wait for him to pop back up… if he hasn’t left Dodge already.

I whip my jacket aside in a motion I’ve done God only knows how many times. I don’t even think about it really. I just formulate a sort of general idea of what I want done and my body follows. I want to murder a bunch of guys; and there it is, in my chromed hand. I don’t feel it. I don’t see it. But I know it’s there, cause the link tells me it is. I lean out the door and stretch my arm parallel to the little elf chica. This close, I can smell her hair. I can feel her hearth beat through her back and unto my chest.

No matter how compact they make ‘em, launcher always pack some serious recoil.
At least, that’s what I remember.

Haven’t really felt recoil since ‘52.

Group Two
[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Taqueria de la Rosa, Nueva Caracas; 12:25 PM]
The vehicle was slowed, but continued its forward motion on momentum alone. The driver visibly wrestled with controlling the vehicle, and an ill-timed jerk of the wheel caused it to fishtail, the back of the vehicle slinging around to spin the car.

It was about this time that Dexter rose up with his grenade launcher. The minigrenade shot out of the launcher with a loud, hollow THOOMP! A tiny streamer of smoke followed the grenade until it came within millimeters of the front of the car, and then detonated. The blast completely destroyed the front, and turned the driver into paste inside the car. The punch from the explosion spun the car even faster, giving it increased angular momentum as it still continued to bear down on them. Flames engulfed the entire length of it, and screams could be heard from inside the car of Shorn Ones being burned alive.

And that's when it rolled over the grenade that Coatl had tossed away in haste just heartbeats before. When the sedan was on top of it, that grenade likewise went off, and the car went from being a somewhat recognizable mass into a flaming, chaotic chunk of metal that lifted off the ground. It flew forward, slammed back down into the pavement, and skidded up against both the right sides Dexter's van and Smiley's sedan, leaving scrapes and gouges in the metal.

((Rigid Combat Order is over, but the scene will continue if the team wants to hunt the sniper))

[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Taqueria de la Rosa, Nueva Caracas; 12:25 PM]

Once that last grenade blast destroyed the hostile car and the gunfire died down for a moment, Smiley finally exhaled the breath he held in, now able to notice the adrenaline flowing through his veins and making the grip on his shotgun shake a bit. He cautiously pokes his head up from cover, yelling to the rest of the group "Okay, I think they are dead, but someone needs to watch the rooftops incase Mister Sniper wants an encore." Taking a deep breath, Smiley opens a door to his car and rifles through one of the duffelbags in the backseat for the spare shotgun shells, thumbing them into his shotgun and stuffing the remaining ones into his pockets.

After looking around the car for a bit, he picks the cigarette he dropped onto the ground and sits against his badly damaged car, looking at the nearly torso-less body of Elena. "Anybody else dead? Who the fuck were those guys?", he looks over to the van and shouts, "Hey Old Bastard, you've got some shit to explain!" He climbs back to his feet and dashes to the open door of the van.

Smiley speaks to the Old Man in the English he's barely even needed to speak since he left San Fransisco, "Seriously, what the fuck? Your Confederate redneck ass comes here, drops Aztechtech's name, and all of a sudden we got a bunch of assholes wearing goofy haircuts as uniforms. This bullshit don't add up to good things, man. Who the fuck are you? Just some redneck cowboy out to stick it to your countries oldest enemies?"

[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Taqueria de la Rosa, Nueva Caracas; 12:25 PM]

As soon as the wrecked car came to a skittering halt and it was clear that the assassins inside were in no shape (he grinned inwardly at the bad pun) to continue the fight, Sangre catapulted himself on top of Smiley's Sedan and lept over the destroyed vehicle with a jump, transitioning into a sprint as soon as he landend on the ashpalt of the street again.

"I'm going after that sniper bastard!" he shouted back to the others while he made his way to the building that Elena's murderer had been shooting from.

[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Nueva Caracas; 12:25 PM]
[Commlink:Hidden]

Stephen gives Chaske a quick, short nod, acknowledging him.

Not exactly what I expected, but nothing is down here, I suppose.

Stephen looks around at the square significantly; rubbing the back of his neck, already dripping with sweat in the early afternoon heat.

He thought I might be ambushing him. He's paranoid, which could be both good and bad. That, or he's setting me up for an ambush. Always tricky, working with new people.

"You can call me Stephen. I imagine if I gave you enough time, you could tell me more about me than I know about myself." Stephen pats his commlink as he continues.

"I presume you chose this spot because it was safe to talk. That's fine. Well, now that you've seen me, and I'm not too overtly threatening, maybe we can discuss business. As I said earlier, I don't have significant funds to work with, only my skill-set. I'm sure we can reach a mutually beneficial relationship, and solve our respective problems. I'm going out on a limb here, but given what I'm up against, it's gotten to the point where I can't keep going alone."

Stephen opens his hands in a welcoming gesture.

"So what do you say?"

[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Taqueria de la Rosa, Nueva Caracas; 12:25 PM]

The slide cycles in a new round and I don’t even bother to look. My head is already turned away and I’m ducking back inside the van. I don’t need to see what’s going on. I already know what’s going on. I know the screams are coming. A few seconds later, I can hear wails of agony. I can smell the burning gasoline. I can hear pockets of super heated body fat pop. Burning alive is one of the worst ways to go. It ain’t real fast. And it sure as hell ain’t pretty. It almost makes me smile. Good riddance. Those bastards deserve a slow death.

I reach between the front seats and grab the carbine. I’m slipping on my tac vest when Paco starts yelling angrily over the parting words from our Azzie friends. I ain’t quite sure what he’s expecting me to do. Explain everything? Like, now? Is he fuckin’ serious? There’s some guy out there with a fuckin’ Anti Material calibre weapon and he wants “explanations”? I ain’t quite sure how to go about it. I mean, I could just butt him in the face with my rifle’s stock and it’ll be the end of the argument. But he don’t look too sturdy. And plus, he’s just some civilian after all. Probably scared ‘n shit ‘n what not.

He sticks his head in the door as I’m coming out.

"Hey Old Bastard, you've got some shit to explain!"

I hand the van’s keys to Kennedy, jerking my head toward the driver’s seat. My voice sounds twice as tired as I actually am.

“Cuachicqueh.” I say, just like I’d say Pass the salt. “Aztlan black ops. Paramilitaries. Crazy motherfuckers.”

"Seriously, what the fuck? Your Confederate redneck ass comes here, drops Aztechtech's name, and all of a sudden we got a bunch of assholes wearing goofy haircuts as uniforms. This bullshit don't add up to good things, man. Who the fuck are you? Just some redneck cowboy out to stick it to your countries oldest enemies?"

I ram a rounds into my carbine’s chamber.

“Pretty much."

I look toward Esteban.

"Kid, that was one fuckin' nice throw if I've ever seen one. That was some Major League shit. I owe you one."

I start jogging across the street, following Daisy before anyone adds anything. I ain’t got time for this shit.

Fuckin’ civilians.

But then again, that’s already a total of five dead Azzies in less then 24 hours. That’s gotta count for something somewhere.

[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Taqueria de la Rosa, Nueva Caracas; 12:25 PM]

So, the old man really is trying to retake The Alamo. Go figure.

While he watches the old guy run after Sangre to take the sniper, Smiley just shakes his head with a sigh. At least the miserable prick didn't shove me this time. He slings his shotgun to his front-side in a readied position as he climbs into the van. "We better get these wheels spinning, I don't got the ammo for many more shootouts." Climbing into the driver's seat, he looks over his shoulder to elven woman inside, "Voz, right? Hand me the keys, it's probably better I drive. Trust me." Smiley didn't have any reason to doubt the woman could drive, he only just met her after all. But after all that just happened, there was only one person he could trust behind the wheel of a vehicle: Himself.

Just after he sent a wireless signal to start the engine of his car and get it to follow the van once it got moving, he looked past Voz and pointed to the machinegun sitting in it's mounting on the roof in the back, "The fuck is that? We could of used that a second ago..." He gives off another sigh, "Goddamn Alamo man, figures he'd be holding out on us."

"Carne, get in here already. We may have more people to kill just yet!"

Group One
[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; La Plaza, Nueva Caracas; 12:25 PM]
Stephen was introducing himself to Chaske, giving his best pitch for the idea of forming a team. The din around them came from the people in and around the square, going each their separate ways and living their lives. The honks of horns and the rumble of motors was indicative of the vehicular traffic in Nueva Caracas at this time of day -- though travel on foot was far more common, it was by no means the only method used.

One of those motors rose out above the rest, a car turbocharging its own engine in a dangerous haste to get to some destination. The ragged squeals of rubber tearing at road preceeded the increase in volume of the vehicle, and it wasn't long before a black sedan with tinted windows was rushing past the the location were Stephen and Chaske were meeting. The rear windows were being rolled down, and men could be seen sitting in the back, men with their heads shorn, such as were seen last night.

And that's when the staggering, thunderous clap was heard in the distance. People in the square began screaming, covering their ears, looking around in sudden horror, and scattering, trying to find where that obvious gunshot, and a monster of one it was, had come from. By the time the real excitement began, somewhere maybe just half a block away, the pedestrians were running at full pace. Explosions began rocking the ground, causing puddles formed by the rain the night before to ripple chaotically.

((At this point Groups One and Two are now in sync.))

[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Taqueria de la Rosa, Nueva Caracas; 12:26 PM]
Biomonitor: Heart rate exceeding nominal parameters.

Wordlessly, Sonora let the keys drop into Smiley's hand, drawing her legs close to her body and scootching back against the side of the van. Her vantage point gave her a perfect view of the collateral damage that her life seems to have caused.

Cuachicqueh. The Shorned Ones were sent...after Coatl and I? And they...Breathe, chica.

A crowd was starting to gather at the taqueria, some trying to grab at valuables in what was left of the burning car, others holding back Marta and her mother while Rodrigo held the remains of his other daughter.

Sonora knew how this would play out. The police would come, and they would clean up what was left of the car after the rest of the cucarachas cleaned out the smoking remains. Passers-by would bring candles and flowers to make a small shrine to appease Elena's tortured spirit, to show her love and remembrance. Her family would speak to her soul during the Day of the Dead, and, in time, life would go on.

Despite this, Sonora pulled the red ribbon keeping her hair back, letting it fall free as she held it in a hand, next to her pistol.

She couldn't even see the blood on the ribbon.

Two of the men were gone, two remained here. One was about to drive this armored van with the machine gun in it, the other would likely take the machine gun. They would find the man who shot Elena, and they would kill him.

But it should not be quick.

Looking away from the scene and towards the driver's seat, she said, "I'm...not good with guns. How can I help?"

[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Taqueria de la Rosa, Nueva Caracas; 12:26 PM]

It's just too much. There's too much to take. Too many noises--the new meat jabbering at each other in English, the screams of a family torn apart, the burning and popping of the car and the final pained gasps and cries from the men inside--too much noise. The big troll can't get his bearings, so he shuts the ears down, click, just a simple mental command. The silence is beautiful. It's as quiet and still as those moments just before God said the Word and gave Light to His Creation.

It's too bad that it won't last. He takes refuge in it while he can.

Coatl dusts himself off and turns his back on both the dying assassins and the family they destroyed (a piece of him inside says he had something to do with it, his presence here called these men, but he ignores it because he cannot let it be true). He turns. Sangre and the Old Man, they ran off after the sniper and he lets them go. He's sure they won't catch him, the rifleman would be long gone before they got there; but more important, Sonora has stayed behind, has gotten into the van, and for now at least his loyalty is to her, not them. He trudges over, seeing Loco waving him in towards the back but not hearing him. He wants a few more seconds of bliss before he lets this chaos back in.

He flicks his ears back on as he grabs the door of the van and eases himself into the large rear compartment, listening to the van complain at his weight. Coatl brushes past the machine gun, petting it once with affection. Chances are good he's going to get to know the M202 real well.

He settles into place and prepares to close the door, taking one look outside and seeing them: Elena's survivors. Rodrigo wailed to the sky. Briefly, Coatl caught Marta's eye; she was glaring at the van, an accusatory look that placed the blame on him. He ignored the anger and pain in her gaze, just staring at her blankly. Her fury was misplaced, must be; after all, he was one of the good guys, wasn't he? It was the Aztlaners; they were the bad ones. They had made this happen.

(No, it's your fault more than theirs, that voice said again, and he tamped it back, refusing to listen.)

He didn't speak but tried to make his voice heard in her head: We will get them back for this. Your sister's death will be revenged. We will make them pay. They all will pay. Everybody pays.

And he slammed the door shut.

[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Taqueria de la Rosa, Nueva Caracas; 12:26 PM]

With the keys in hand, Smiley started the van and took a quick look on the dashboard readouts, half-expecting the AR to start telling him vital info on damage taken and what this components stress levels are at here and that components heat buildup rates are there. He did, up until realizing that this thing was neither his nor was it set up for that. As if his distate for these kinds of van's needed more fuel for that particular flame.

Behind him, he heard Voz state: "I'm...not good with guns. How can I help?" It took him moment to respond as he got the vehicle in gear and took off after the two guys chasing down the sniper. "Huh? Just keep an eye out for that sniper. The camera on my 'link has a better sensor array than this sluggish piece of shit, so if he is still around he could take this thing out with a single shot to the engine and I probably wouldn't notice until we stop moving." It takes him a moment, but shortly after his last few words a realization struck him, and he turned around to look at the woman. Normally a bad move, but the van still had it's basic front-and-rear camera's installed and working.

"This... Is this your first time going through something like that? You seem a bit spacy for a second there." He put his attention back to the road, letting a small grin escape despite the rather darkly situation. "I was like that too when shit similar to this started happening to me."

Group Two
[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Taqueria de la Rosa, Nueva Caracas; 12:26 PM]
Sam dashed from the scene of the gun battle that had occurred just seconds ago, and Dexter followed him by about two meters. The building, a squat five-story apartment building, was ahead about 50 meters on the left side of the street. The men ran forward with murder and retaliation on their minds. Smiley, meanwhile, was mobilizing the cavalry, manually controlling Dexter's van while wirelessly and remotely moving his well-beaten sedan just right behind.

But the sniper had further tricks up his sleeve. As the team got closer, they could make the blurred form out slightly better -- still hard to spot, but a bit more discernible due to the suit's mutilation of the light around it, rippling like a haze lifting off a hot street in the summer. When the form rose up, it held not a sniper rifle, but what those up close would notice as being a rocket launcher: a single-shot square tube with a bulbous rocket tip just barely seen right within. For a second, he looked as to take aim at the van rumbling up the street... but then he noticed the two men, Sam and Dexter, closing in on foot. That's when he hastily lowered his aim down at the street, near the two men, and took fire. Flames spewed from the rear of the launcher, letting the rocket hiss out of the tube and begin spiraling down to ground level.

((Reaction+Dodge rolls from the both of you. One is is the primary target, the other is just in the way. But I want them from both. +2 modifier to the test.))

Group Two
[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Near Taqueria de la Rosa, Nueva Caracas; 12:26 PM]
With their enhanced reflexes, the assassin's targets, Sam and Dexter, saw the rocket coming down in their direction. Dexter dodged towards the left, taking him closer to the building, while Sam went in the opposite direction, out towards the other side of the street. When the rocket hit, a chunk of asphalt shot up into the air like a concrete geyster, and then came down in a rain of smoke and pellets, like some sort of black fallout. The blast aided them in their escape, sending them sprawling away from the epicenter, now a smoking crater that bore down into the earth. Sam skidded across the opposite sidewalk, giving his arms and stomach some road rash, while the old combat veteran slammed into the side of a different nearby apartment building, bruising his real arm. The roar of the blast left eardrums feeling puffy and as if full of cotton. Sounds seemed distant, and an ominous ringing drowned out the screams of those who had been victim to the rocket and yet were now still alive.

Some bystanders fleeing for their lives amidst the din of battle got caught a little too close to the rocket when it punched down into the ground. Innocent people began cartwheeling away from the blast, pieces of them flying off as they flew through the air. One man who had landed on his back was howling down at where his legs now ended below the knee. He looked at them with the one eye left inside his skull. Reaching down towards his ruined legs, he found that one of his arms now had nothing below the elbow where the rocket blast had torn it off. And he was in better shape than some of the others who had fallen victim to the blast. Even women and a few children lay dead on both sides of the road, some more whole than others.

Screams and wails filled the air all down the street, from the Taqueria up to the building Sam and Dexter were now in front of. Right as they were picking themselves off the ground, Smiley came rolling up with both vehicles in tow.

[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Near Taqueria de la Rosa, Nueva Caracas; 12:26 PM]

For a split-second after the blast, there seemed to be silence. A dead quiet, an expression of shock and disbelief. Then the screams started. Dust and smoke hung in the air, whirled up by the explosion, while the smells of blood and charred flesh mixed with the wails of the wounded to create a blazing inferno of pain and misery.

Pulling himself up Sam saw the bodies around him, mutilated and torn up, some of them barely recognizable as once belonging to a human being.
Like a slideshow of horror the pictures kept piling up in his brain. A young woman staring at what remained of her left arm in shock. An old man crying over the body of a young girl that had been almost ripped in half while he was missing his right leg himself. The burnt remains of a family of three, their pieces spread throughout the steet. The face of a little boy, tears running down his cheeks as he watched a bloody arm in front of him, the only thing left of his mother.

Those fucking assholes...In the middle of the fucking street...with all the people around...all these kids...

He felt anger rise inside him, stronger than everything he had ever felt. Earlier, when Elena had died it hadn't affected him that much. It had happened too fast and the situation had been too dangerous to think about it. But this was different. Such a complete disregard for human life was inapprehensible. Those assassins weren't human. They didn't deserve to be treated like they were. His head spun, his vision blurred and shades of red passed before his eyes. His hands trembled and his mouth was filled with the taste of ash and death.

I'll make them pay! I'll make them all pay and if it's the last thing I do!

"I'll fucking KILL you!" he screamed at the top his voice towards the sniper, his face displaying shock and pure rage. His hand gripped his rifle so tightly that his knuckles protruded whitely as he set off towards the building at full speed.

[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Near Taqueria de la Rosa, Nueva Caracas; 12:26 PM]

When he woke up this morning, Smiley didn't imagine he'd find himself trapped inside a scene from a hollywood action movie; being surrounded by dead bodies, good guys, bad guys, and explosions as far as the eye could see. He flinched when the rockets damaged caused a bit of smoking gibs to bounced off the armored windshield and leave a small bloody smudge. After hitting the brakes he lept out of his seat and started making his way to the back, shooing the others out of his way while saying "Move, gotta pop a window!".

Once at the machinegun mount, he immediately set to work deploying the thing. As he undid the securing latches to the hidden hatch and brought down the folding steel riser that allowed human-sized targets a small boost, he could see this was an unusually sturdy mount; it could probably support a 20mm autocannon no problem provided it could actually fit through the port. He switched his view to thermographic in order to get a better chance to see the sniper before shoving the hatch doors open and deploying the machinegun, quickly trying to undo the safety and rack the Stoner's charging handle in order to chamber the first round, then takes aim at the sniper and opens fire with a full-auto barrage.

[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Near Taqueria de la Rosa, Nueva Caracas; 12:26 PM]
Nothing registers. The dead. The pain. The carnage. Nothing registers anymore. It's like wearing glasses, but with the wrong prescription. You know things are there. You can sort of imagine what the blurry images are. But you're never really sure. Every morning, I wake up with my mouth filled with cotton. I wake up with body aches from years of doing bad things. I've killed unarmed civilians. I've shot scared kids who had surrendered. Shot them in the stomach and left them dying in the jungle, as a warning. I burnt entire villages to send messages. I slit a man's throat in front of his entire family.

I am not a good man. Not anymore.

The smoke clears. People are dead and dying. And I don't care. Not one bit. This is war, and people are meant to die. They see us soldiers and call us monsters. Murderers. I guess that's what we are. I don't know the man shooting at us. I probably never will. But he is my enemy and my mission is to kill him. If the roles were reversed, I would do the same as him.

My mission is to kill him.

Collateral damage is acceptable.

My mission is to kill.

I give a quick glance toward the elf. The guy looks fuckin' pissed, and I can imagine why. He doesn't too worst for wear tho. Not in any worst shape than me... which almost brings a smile to my lips. I'm old enough to be his dad, twice. But I can still duke it out.

Ashes stick to my bear. I switch on my interal air supply to avoid breathing any smoke. As of now, I am completey sealed in my body. The elf starts running toward my position. Now, our sniper friend knows real fuckin' well we're coming for him. If he thought we were dead, Daisy's scream just here confirmed otherwise. We need to move, and fast.

I should check the door for booby traps, but we ain't go the time.

Sometimes, you gotta roll hard sixes.

I knock at the door the only real way I know: with the sole of my combat boot and all my weight behind it.

Group Two
[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Near Taqueria de la Rosa, Nueva Caracas; 12:26 PM]
Dexter ran up the tiny steps to the front door of the apartment building, and a heavy boot kicked the door in almost like paper. The frame shredded into splinters as the door crashed out, and suitable force sent the door itself outward enough to twist the hinges into uselessness. The door would never close properly again.

Before them, a small lobby complete with broken tiles in the floors and fake potted plants in the corners. A hallway the color of dirt and pitted with stains stretched on from there, with doors lining both ends of the hallway going into people's rooms. Some of them were actively slamming behind people who were running inside, trying to avoid whatever calamity was going on outside.

At the beginning of the hallway, and at the far end as well, were flights of stairs that wound upwards to the floors, as well as Roof Access.

Smiley's barrage of machinegun fire caused screams to come out of some of those rooms, even through the closed doors. He fell short of hitting the blurred form, but he chewed up the edge of the building, causing pieces of the masonry to fall out and crash at ground level. The assassin retreated from the edge now that much of his cover had been obliterated by the MMG in Dexter's van.

[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Near Taqueria de la Rosa, Nueva Caracas; 12:26 PM]

Pushing past Dexter, Sam stormed into the lobby and up the stairs to the roof. He felt like his rage was moving his body by itself, like his muscles had been replaced by red flames of anger, driving him forward with inhuman determination.

"Move it Old Man! That bastard's not getting away!"

[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; La Plaza, Nueva Caracas; 12:25 PM]
That car... those men. It was only a glance at passing traffic, the sort of glance El Mono threw around a thousand times every day. A quick survey of the area. The huge majority of the time, nothing important was out there. Occasionally, a previously scouted escape route had become blocked. Every great once in a while, something fucking important was happening. Like more of those shaven-headed assholes who had tried to kill him a mere twelve hours before rolling by in a black sedan. After years of living on the run, he had finally seen the face of his enemy last night. Not the head - the chica in the suit - he had seen her more than close enough back when this all first began. No, the hands. The dirty fucking hands that went out and did the work. That kicked in doors. That killed his friends.

El Mono has gotten a taste of their blood last night, and he'd found it sweet. Gunning down those pendejos had been one of the best things he'd ever done. He'd finally had a chance to turn things around and put some fucking fear into his tormentors, and it gave him a rush better than any of the drugs he'd sampled in his life on the streets of Caracas.

Now a carload of these fuckers were rolling down the street right past him. He was reaching for his pistol even before the shot rang out. Now, there was chaos. Explosions. Screaming of the terrified and wounded. rattling of automatic weapons fire. War had returned to Caracas, brought by these same fuckers who'd been hunting him for so long. Well, whoever was shooting back at these assholes were his people.

"Fuck the meet. War's on, amigo."

If he had thought about it, El Mono would have recognized the line from Brimstone, P.I. The Movie, but he had other things on his mind. Hauling ass up the street, he saw the flaming wreckage of the car the men had been in. He saw that the fight wasn't over yet. Someone in a van was vomiting lead at a high rate of speed up at the roof of an apartment building - apparently whoever had blown up the car had spotted more targets. Judging from the dudes last night, whoever was up there would probably try to get away without going to street level. Fuck 'em. The rooftops were El Mono's home. Leaping up to grasp a window ledge and vaulting to the fire escape across the alley, Mono gritted his tusks and prepared for blood.

[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Near Taqueria de la Rosa, Nueva Caracas; 12:26 PM]
Biomonitor: Heart rate exceeding nominal parameters. Reduce cardio stress immediately.

Caracas had turned into a warzone. The sniper rifle and the car full of gunmen Sonora might have been able to handle, but a rocket?

Think, chica. And calm the hell down. You have to make that stuff last. Find your fucking center.

She took a deep breath, sliding into the passenger seat to scan the rooftops while Loco charged the ripper in the back and started letting lead fly on the building the rocket had come from. Immediately after looking out the window she wished she hadn't - the carnage was worse than she feared.

All this for two people? What were they expecting?

No, no time for this now. Watch for the man, watch for [i]policia, watch for reinforcements.

And hope that La Alianza didn't show up.

[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Near Taqueria de la Rosa, Nueva Caracas; 12:26 PM]

Some chink guy said, a long time ago, that the fool who rushes into battle is the first one to die. By the looks of it, Daisy ain't just a fool, he's a fool in a mighty hurry. I know he's got a juiced up system, and good combat reflexes. But that doesn't help fuckin' squat if you ain't got a sound head screwed tight on your shoulders. I want to kill the motherfucker who shot at us because that is my mission, my purpose. He wants to kill him because he's pissed off.

I'm sure he'll do a fine job.

I'm sure his temper will also kill him some day.

As he passes by me with all the subtlety of a troll in heat, I almost grab his shoulder to make him slow the fuck down. It ain't a question of keeping up with the guy. It's a question of "if he gets shot I'll have to carry his ass out".

But I don't. Not sure why.
Maybe because I don't really care after all.

[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Dirty Apartment Building, Nueva Caracas; 12:27 PM]
Dexter and Sam sprinted up the narrow and claustrophobia-inducing stairwell, enhanced vision senses on the both of them keeping them from stumbling in the gloom created by all those busted fluorescent lights. In his haste, Sam began to outpace the older man, though his extra effort was evident: he began huffing a little harder than the seasonsed combat veteran behind him, who was pacing himself. After a minute of dashing up stairs, the Roof Access door was right ahead of them.

Meanwhile, El Mono was taking scaling the apartment like a bird takes to the sky. He flew across the alley, from one building onto the fire escape, which rattled and wobbled unsteadily as his weight slammed into it. Rather than scaling the stairs -- that takes too fucking long, natch -- he steadied himself on the edge of the railing and jumped vertically upwards, soaring up another couple of flights. As he ascended, he could hear the sounds of gunfire and battle getting nearer.

The top level of the fire escape was filled with trash and debris, making it unpassable. Whatever resident lived on the other side of that window obviously decided that it was additional open air storage space and not actually meant for metahuman use. With quick thinking and even quicker reflexes, El Mono kicked off the fire escape, back across the alley, and ran vertically up the wall of the building opposite the apartment where the battle was taking place. Those inside the van, positioned as they were, were able to catch an ork making the jump, and then running up the side of the alley towards the roof, before kicking back off, twisting in midair.

A miscalculation meant his jump fell a bit short. His gut slammed into the edge of the building, and he began to slide down, but he quickly caught himself. All the wind was knocked from El Mono and it took a moment for him to regain his senses. However, when his vision stopped doubling, he saw not one but three blurred forms on this rooftop. One was kneeling down towards the edge of the roof, though well away from where the barrage down below was chewing up the building. The ruthenium-clad form was wielding a very large anti-material rifle and peering towards the two roof access doors. Each one of the others was positioned just to the side of each of the doors, kneeling down and holding assault rifles in their arms. This was apparently the textbook definition of a fucking ambush.

By the way the blurry figures were just kneeling there, they had not yet caught sight of El Mono. He had the drop on these pendejos.

Dexter in his wisdom, toggled on his radar sensor. In slow motion, he saw Sam raise a boot to kick through the door and barrel out onto the roof access, all while the radio waves bounced back and indicated the three forms waiting for them up there, positioned for a quick kill when they made their exit. The radar even picked up on the weapons in their hands, and gave a cursory analysis of their estimated caliber and grade: one with the .50 cal rifle, and the two flankers with automatic assault rifles.

[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Dirty Apartment Building, Nueva Caracas; 12:27 PM]

I get up the stairs and Daisy about half way through his motion. Leg cocked back, he's about to kick this door like his ex wife. Well, if he has one. Had. Have. Whatever. Wireframe overlays contour everything like the worlds a giant shadow puppet theatre. Shapes of rifles pop out as my weapon watcher software starts screaming like a cheap hooker. There's red, and exclamations points and all the fuckin' bells and whistle. And Daisy's leg starts to move forward, driving his foot with the same excitement as a boy who's just discovered his dick. Which, considering the guy, probably ain't far from the actual fact.

I don't know the guy. I don't really care to know him. He's an asshole and short fused prick. Yet, I know for a fact I can't take on those three fuckin' Azzies by my lonesome. And he's about half a second away from having his insides become his outsides.

I let go of my carbine, the sling swinging it tight to my chest. I get my chromed armed all round his chest like I'm gonna tackle him. God damned Daisy's probably going to get a major hard on from being man handled like that. But I ain't got the time for luxury. Hell, I ain't even got time to just tell him to slow the fuck down.

I pull the elf off his feet and slam to the ground with him. I'm half way through spooning with him. I just hope he doesn't get any ideas… He's about to shout something but I clamp my meat across his mouth.

"Shut the fuck up!" I whisper.

I point at each side of the door. Then I hold three fingers in front of his face. Then I make the internal gesture for "gun", and I aim it at his face.

I hope he fuckin' gets the message cause I ain't in the mood to explain anything.

[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Dirty Apartment Building, Nueva Caracas; 12:27 PM]

Just when he was about to kick down the door, the last thing to stand between him and the damn sniper, something hit him from behind like a truck. A metal arm squeezed around him and he crashed to the floor. What the fuck?

Cold steel slid out of both his hands as his cyperspurs activated.
"Let the fuck go of me or I'll gut you like a fish!" he hissed. Or he tried to at least, but his face was suddenly covered with a giant hand.

Just as he prepared to stab the fucking old man anywhere he could reach him from his current position, he saw the signals the guy was giving.

Two guys with guns on both sides of the entrance. That snapped him out of the red haze of rage that was still burning inside of him. Slowly he nodded and pulled of Gramps' hand. "Get the fuck off off me, I get it." he whispered.

"Just two more we'll have to kill." Gramps had probably saved his life here but he would be damned if he ever admitted that.

"You got your grenade pistol with you?"

[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Dirty Apartment Building, Nueva Caracas; 12:27 PM]

The elf says he gets it. He could've just nodded, but he decides to say it. I hope to fuckin' God the guy standing a few feet from us doesn't have too sharp an ear. If he does, we're pretty much in the shit. Come to think of it, we're in the shit no matter what at this point.

For a moment, I wished I had a direct link to Daisy's brain. I haven't had to explain myself in gesture for a pretty long time. I ain't too rusty, but I try to keep out as many obscure Marine Corps hand signs as I can. After all, even if this guy is half as smart as he is pissed off, he won't get the a third of what I'm tryin' to say. So I wave my hands around.

I point at myself. I point at the wall next to the door. I point at Daisy. I point at where the two other guys are.

I hope he fuckin' gets it, cause if this don't work, it's going to suck being us.

I reach inside my opened combat vest, and pull a flashbang out. I pull the pin out, and look toward Daisy. My other hand is on the door's handle. I wait for him to acknowledge me in any sort of way.

[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Dirty Apartment Building, Nueva Caracas; 12:27 PM]

Gramps continued in sign language. Sam didn't think the guys outside could hear whispering through the walls. But maybe they had equipment for that. Besides, the signs actually felt strangely comfortable. Like Sam was used to them and had just forgotten that fact. Which he probably had.
He quietly took position by the door and readied his assault rifle. Then he gave the old man a nod.

[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Dirty Apartment Building, Nueva Caracas; 12:27 PM]

I take a deep breath.

The spoon flies out.

I count.

Here goes nothing.

[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Street, Nueva Caracas; 12:27 PM]
Biomonitor: Heartrate falling within nominal parameters.

If I were an Azzie, where would I run away?

Sonora took the fleeting moment of silence (of gunfire, anyway) to find her center and start to breathe. The pounding in her chest lessened, and she could hear the minute movements behind her as Loco manned the ripper.

Not the front door, going through the building would be bad, I would...jump. To another building.

Acting on a hunch, she started to crane her neck, looking for where the fire escape hit the bottom and where the closest leap from rooftop to rooftop would be. Sonora had a pretty good idea that he'd jump rooftops and find a seperate building to escape from. Well, provided he wanted to escape.

I'm a Shorned One with a giant rifle. Do I leave it behind? Booby-trap it? Or jump with it?

Jump with it. Don't leave myself unarmed. Do I have assistance? Probably. One car or two for getaways. Probably two in case I run into Alianza or Bolivar '49. Need something larger to hide the rifle in, a truck or a van. Large enough to house more rockets.

Large enough to spot.

She looked back at Smiley and Coatl.

"Loco! What would you drive if you had to hide a rocket launcher and a big gun? Where would you park it?

"Carne! How good are you with a machine gun like that? If Cromo Blanco y Sangre can't take down the sniper, maybe we can find his escape route!"

[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Street, Nueva Caracas; 12:27 PM]

While scanning the 'occupied' building for more targets, Smiley managed to see some guy from the corner of his eye climb up the side towards the roof. What the hell? Did somebody call for a websli- before he could finish the thought, he heard Voz asking questions. After taking one last look, he crouched down so he wouldn't be exposed to any suprises.

"What would I drive for that? Well uh... I'd prefer to keep speed and subtley, but a sedan wouldn't carry big guns, and a van is way to slow, so... Maybe an SUV? As for parking, I assume you mean if I was them, right? I wouldn't park it at all. I'd keep the wheels spinning and have it circle the block until a pickup is needed. Never know which direction you need to retreat, best to keep your way out mobile."

"By the way, 'Loco'? That's a terrible nickname, just call me Smiley." Shaking his head, he adds, "Voz isn't much better, either."

[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Dirty Apartment Building, Nueva Caracas; 12:27 PM]
El Mono saw a chance to enact some poetic justice on these bastardos, these motherfuckers who had been set on destroying him. Now that they were distracted and he had the drop on them, it was time, once and for all, to make them pay. He unslung that bitchin' assault rifle he had taken off the one whose head he removed the night previous, lowered the barrel in the direction of the three forms standing there, and began to suppress them with extreme prejudice.

Whatever game they were playing, it was apparently off now. They began to scatter from their positions. The one closest to El Mono, the one with the large fucking rifle, dropped the rifle and then started running forward, apparently withdrawing some sidearm stored underneath his concealing armor. The one just beyond him, the one at the closest roof access door, attempted to find cover. The furthest one, however, seemed to take the bullets suddenly going into his back none too kindly. The rippling blur of his disguise was ruined by a spreading stain of blood that seemed to hang in midair, regardless of how the light warped around the rest of the pattern.

That one, the one with the bleeding wound, was also taken off guard as the door he was guarding suddenly swung outwards into his face. Dazed, he had no time to react to the grenade that was flung out the door by a metallic arm, and seemed to detonate almost immediately. That one fell onto the gravel-covered rooftop, dazed and screaming, as an older gringo human with a cyberarm and a hispanic elf wearing a trenchcoat dashed out of the roof access door.

((El Mono took his Surprise turn, time for Sam and Dexter to do what they're going to do now that they have the drop on these guys.))

[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Dirty Apartment Building, Nueva Caracas; 12:27 PM]


Bursting out of the door, Sam let his anger run loose. Taking in the situation he saw one of the attackers running towards a strange ork, saw the rifle the guy had dropped behind him, made the connection.

I promised I'd fucking kill you!

The rifle jumped at his shoulder, the reticle in his field of vision locked on. Pulling the trigger felt like a twisted part of heaven. An expression of glee shone in the elf's bright green eyes as he let loose a hail of bullets.

[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Street, Nueva Caracas; 12:27 PM]
Biomonitor: Stable

"Like Smiley is much better," Sonora said with a cheeky grin.

She was starting to feel better now, doing something rather than staring at the horrible consequences her indirect actions of being alive and not in Azzie employ had wrought. The ache in her chest was still there, but it was emotional in nature; grief at the removal of someone she had been talking to not minutes before. She liked that taqueria, but she had the feeling they wouldn't be welcome there anymore. A blood-spattered :nuyen:100 was not a tip anyone wanted to receive.

She caught the same thing Smiley did, a wall-climber perching atop the roof with some sort of rifle.

"Call me Sonora, if you don't like Voz. I'll tell you why la-"

Her response was lost in the statacco beat of gunfire, and a flash of light from the rooftop.

"Mierda! Cromo Blanco y Sangre must've gotten to the roof!"

[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Street, Nueva Caracas; 12:27 PM]

Coatl looked over the M202. "If we had time to take it out of the mountings, I could use it okay," he says. "I've handled 'em before. Stuck in this, though? I don't know if I can fit in the mount. I could probably do it if we really need to--can lay down some suppressive fire at least, keep folks off our hoops." He looked to Sonora and Smiley. "Up to you guys I guess."

[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Street, Nueva Caracas; 12:27 PM]

Sonora is a master of the snap decision. She points at Smiley.

"You should drive. Either there's another car full of pendejos or we'll have to make a fast getaway."

She then points at Coatl.

"You should get some practice on the thing. With our luck, Alianza will come and you can shoot them. Everybody wins, yes?"

Sonora crosses her arms. "I will, uh...Keep lookout. From the passenger seat."

[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Dirty Apartment Building, Nueva Caracas; 12:27 PM]

I swing the door open and we spill into daylight like the US fuckin' Marshals. The flashbang detonates with a dry thud, still in mid air. The bright cloud of flash dust is still hovering in the air that it starts raining bullets by the bucket. Daisy swings to his right, the bolt of his rifle working so fast it seems like it's buzzing. The guy shows great reflexes and damn good marksmanship, but pretty poor fire discipline. Then again, maybe that's just how he rolls.

I can feel movement to my side, next to the door. Sure, it's the closest target, but by the sound his face made when it connected with the door, I ain't too worried he's getting back up. With Daisy going right, I break out left, snapping my carbine up. I look past the sights at my target.

No time to do it fancy. Gotta get the fuck out of here.

[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Dirty Apartment Building, Nueva Caracas; 12:27 PM]
El Mono showing up as he did totally ruined the shorned trio's ambush. With his unexpected suppressive fire triggering their ambush reflexes, they immediately broke off from the task at hand to seek cover. This gave Sam and Dexter the openings they needed as they rushed out, each locking on a different target. Full automatic fire was focused, one on each target.

Dexter's weapon quivered in his hands, the muzzle jerking only a hair due to his iron grip. The rounds poured out of the barrel like leaden rain amidst a muzzle flash that was almost a living flame for its intensity and duration. The rippling form standing near the opposite Roof Access door turned into hamburger meat. As the rounds tore through armor and flesh alike, sparks flew from the figure as the disguising capabilities of the armor failed, leaving what appeared to be a man wearing black clothing covered by a transparent plastic poncho.

At the exact same moment, Sam had focused on the form now running away from the large caliber rifle. He squeezed the trigger for a second, and rounds began to slam into the chest and abdominal area of the man, causing his concealing armor to likewise deactivate. The shorn figure was now a solid target. He staggered backwards, clutching at his chest. But Sam was not done yet, and this puto was still breathing. Sam steadied the still warm assault rifle and performed the coup de grace: a three-round burst that jerked upwards with the discharge, putting a round in his chest, throat, and in his eyeball.

Dazed and dying, the man clutched at the gurgling hole in his throat from which blood was now spewing, like a fire hydrant knocked over sprays the sidewalk. A red tide spilled down his chest, leaving not so much a trail as it did an eight-lane superhighway of crimson. The remains of a ruined eyeball hung out of a bloody red socket, dangling at the end of ragged optic nerves. Backwards he continued, until he tripped over the edge of the building, the ledge now chewed away by Smiley's gunfire. The man fell five stories, then crashed through the glass windshield of Smiley's sedan, caving it in all the way down to the dashboard.

The lone survivor of the trio still was clawing at eyeballs that would not work for him. Still disoriented, he attempted to lurch to his feet, only to crash back down into the gravel of the rooftop. His scalp was split wide open from the impact of the door, which was hard enough to cave the wood in. It could be said that he made quite the impression.

((Combat Over. For now.))

[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Dirty Apartment Building, Nueva Caracas; 12:27 PM]
Those poor bastardos just barely figured out what was happening in time to die horribly from it. Their superior training had set them up for spectacular failure as their every move just made the situation worse for them. In setting up for a picture perfect, by the numbers urban ambush, they had allowed El Mono to get behind them and hose their position with automatic fire. In attempting to take cover from/assault his position, they had turned their backs on their initial opponents. Instincts driven into their brains by rigorous training and methodical repetition had made them do the exact wrong thing when the unexpected occurred. History is full to overflowing with dramatic tales of underdogs defeating better armed, better trained, and more numerous opponents, and they nearly always feature unexpected, unorthodox tactics and turning predictable training against the enemy.

Of course, Mono didn't know any of this. He would probably never understand why the attack had worked, even if it was explained to him. His mind just wan't tuned that way. It was, however, tuned to individual survival and a font of rage directed at his long-invisible (and largely imaginary) oppressors. Oppressors who now had a face. Oppressors who were now at his mercy.

Two men had leaped through the door, gunning down two of the pendejos, one of whom took a spectacular dive over the edge of the building. Just like in a cheesy action trid, he had hit the roof of a car below. The other had sprayed a stream of arterial blood across the rooftop in a dramatic arc. A small part of El Mono's brain nodded in approval. The rest was occupied with the third. Rolling and staggering in a vain attempt at retreat, obviously disoriented and in pain, this man was the link. He had the answers. He would know what it was about... or could at least shed some light on the situation. Not here, though. Broad daylight on the rooftop with God only knew who heading in this direction to find out what the Hell had happened here. No, what was needed was an out of the way place for questioning. A place where no one would worry too much about some random person being beaten and questioned. Luckily, that covered most of Caracas these days.

Mono wanted- no, he needed to so something first, though. Something he had seen a thousand times in a thousand trids. A need so deep it didn't even register to his conscious mind that he needed to do it, nor that there was any other option in this situation. Something that had been drilled into his hindbrain his entire life as the only appropriate measure in a situation like this.

With a snarl mixed of anger and triumph, El Mono took two steps running towards the man down on his hands and knees gasping and trying to regain his equilibrium. His right toe pointed. His leg extended. A mirror reflection of every action movie ever made, El Mono delivered the "I win" kick into his opponent's ribcage.

"Fuck you."

[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Street, Nueva Caracas; 12:27 PM]

From inside the van, Smiley could hear the gunfire atop the apartment building. He could just barely make out which models are being fired due to the sounds drifting down to the street. Two bursts were loud, and had a slow suttaco that had to be from a Kalashnikov rifle, while a long barrage was more timid but faster firing, which had to belong to the Colt M-22 or 23 series of rifles. Have to be our guys, I know Sangre was packing an AK when he went up. Feeling curious, he poked his head out of the hatch port to see what was happening.

He was just in time to see one of the troops fall off the building and onto his prized car with a landing that would of got the falling man a 7 out of 10 were this the Olympics. Nevermind not being alive.

Almost uncharacteristically, Smiley doesn't show any sign of anger. Instead he rests an elbow on the deployed machinegun and tries to recall the comm number to the 'link he hacked for Sangre to use. Within a moment, he's through and able to send and recieve messages.

<I can't prove anything, so I'm just going to go ahead and blame you for that. Asshole. Now you're going to have to pull him off, because you and Alamo are going to trail us in that car.>

After taking one last look at the car he pulls the machinegun back into it's concealed position within the van and heads to the driver seat, grumbling all the way.

[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Dirty Apartment Building, Nueva Caracas; 12:27 PM]

Sangre smiled as the ravaged body of his target fell down 5 stories and landed somewhere out of his sight.

I always keep my promises, asshole. Too bad you died to quickly to realize who killed you...

From the sounds of it the corpse had hit a car. Five seconds later he had a rough idea which car, when his commlink announced a message from Smiley. He decided to read what was surely an angry rant later and moved over to the large rifle the assassin had dropped and picked it up.

Then he turned around to the still-breathing enemy and the ork that had appeared out of nothing to help Sangre and Gramps. The mysterious stranger was delivering a hollywood-worthy kick to the injured man on the ground.

"Hey there. Thanks for your help. Try not to kill the bastard though, we need to ask him some questions. Where did you come from anyway?"

While speaking Sangre quickly grabbed the assassin's neck, discharging electricity from his shock hand and subsequently plunging the armor-clad figure into unconsciousness in a matter of seconds. Then he relieved the guy of weapons and commlink.

"I think we should take him with us and find out what he knows. Old Man, wanna carry him? You should come too, Mr. Ork. We need to talk."


((Edited because I realized Sangre doesn't posses shock gloves // Edited again because, as Doc Chase pointed out, I don't know my own 'ware))

Sonora
[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Street, Nueva Caracas; 12:28 PM]
Sonora kept an active watch out of the windows of Dexter's van, the one Smiley was currently in charge of. She barely registered the sound of a body smashing through the windshield of the sedan following them sans driver, and didn't really pay attention to the fount of blood that erupted when the body landed, painting the back doors of Dexter's van with human tomato sauce.

What she did notice, as she peered through the din and chaos of the city and the confusion of battle, was a black SUV, sitting in place. Even at two blocks away, her Talents aided her study of this vehicle. She noted how it trembled as though the engine were running -- strange, that the driver should just sit there and let the engine run. Windows were tinted, but she still saw the outline of a person within, manning the driver's seat. She visually peeled the vehicle like an onion, noting how it sat low on its shocks -- the armor, so skillfully concealed within the vehicle's chassis, must be weighing it down.

Right as the hairs were beginning to rise up on the back of her neck, a sure sign that she had found exactly what she had told Smiley about, the SUV's wheels spun furiously, screeching at the asphalt amidst a sudden blossoming of acrid smoke. As soon as the wheels caught, the black SUV lurched forward and took off down the street, disappearing on the other side of the block.

[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Dirty Apartment Building, Nueva Caracas; 12:28 PM]
"Hey there. Thanks for your help. Try not to kill the bastard though, we need to ask him some questions. Where did you come from anyway?"

So that chromed-out elf Was on the same page, at least. He and his older chum surely had some moves, too. Fuck, maybe it was El Mono's lucky day. A couple of tricked-out street sams would go a long way towards taking the assholes down. Of course, that rules out the buddy action flick. At this rate, they were heading towards a full-on ensemble cast. Less chance of winding up a sidekick, of course, but people died in these things more often as well. Fuck, this was real life, right? Having some muscle and a few extra guns kept you alive. Most of the time.

"Yeah, I want to know where these assholes came from and why they won't leave me the fuck alone." He gave the elf a toothy grin. "I'm the motherfucker these pendejos have been chasing around for years. Last night, it looks like they gave up on catching me and decided to just kill me instead. So now it's open season on... whoever the fuck they are. They call me Mono."

[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Street, Nueva Caracas; 12:28 PM]


Sonora was feeling much better now, focusing her attention on the street outside while Smiley complained and Coatl looked at the MMG that the crazy man was, well, manning. The gunfire above them dulled until it was unheard, swallowed into silence as she focused her senses on an anomaly.

Sonora's glasses were mostly for show. They were a simple image link to access her commlink, and had a bit of the auto-darkening feature becoming commonplace so she could wear them inside and out. People complained (as well as she at times) that they made her look too 'bookish', but she slipped them on regardless and took a good look as her 'link went into recording mode.

Two blocks away, she took in the details of a black SUV after Smiley described his ideal pendejo escape vehicle. This one seemed to fit the bill; one occupant inside though the car was left running while parked. The vehicle sat low to the ground despite having reinforced suspension; it was clearly armored, and the way it sat suggested to one with her particular Talent that the driver's compatriots were either robbing a bank...

A body impacts Smiley's car behind her. She doesn't notice.

...Or setting up an ambush. Either required a fast getaway.



"Smiley," she said, "You think you could make this van fly like you did your car?"

Any response was drowned out, in her perception, by the SUV peeling out and rocketing off the block well ahead of them at high speed. She captured what she could, saving it to her commlink.

"Because their getaway vehicle just took off about two blocks up. What do you say? We could leave the other two your car and chase them.."

Another thing those of Sonora's particular Talent knew was that words were dangerous. Inflection, tone, positioning - all these things could turn an innocent comment into a dangerous one. Turn a joke into a threat, or an ultimatum into a punchline. Sonora's choice of words was perhaps not the best, as the query has been karmically responsible for the death and misery of millions:

"What's the worst that could happen to it?"

[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Street, Nueva Caracas; 12:28 PM]

While sitting in the drivers seat, Smiley began to see if he could wrest control of the van's AR controls. From what he's seen thus far, the van may have half-decent hardware, but it's software is shit and the sensors are about as good as a commlink camera. After a moment, he heard Sonora almost issue a challange to him by asking if he could make this van fly.

"Fly? Hell no, too slow, too top-heavy thanks to the machinegun, and the turning is too loose..."

He basically waved off the notion dismissively, up until two things happened: First, Sonora told him she spotted the getaway vehicle. Second, he just found the connection to a rigger control box installed in the van. With a grin on his face, he buckled up his seatbelt and looked over to the woman beside him, "On the other hand, this'll be a good way to get back at old man Alamo." Before slipping into VR hot-sim control and speeding off after the escaping SUV, he sent a quick text to Sangre.

@Sangre<Change of plan, we spotted the getaway car. I'm going after it, you take my car and try to get on an intercept course while I try and keep up to it. I'll have Sonora try to keep you updated on our heading.>

[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Dirty Apartment Building, Nueva Caracas; 12:28 PM]

As fast as everything started, everything is over. The smell of gunpowder and blood still hangs like a cloud, and I realize we've got a third party in this shootout. I'm about a split second away from double tapping him, but I don't. The kid has rage and determination on his face, but it ain't aimed at us. And the fact he's clearly not one of em... well... I give him the benefit of the doubt.

Daisy and the ork start to yammer on, like it's a fuckin' day at the mall. I'm still on my toes, my eyes scanning the surrounding rooftops for threats. It doesn't seem to cross their minds, for a second, that we're as exposed as it gets, short of having our balls hanging in the breeze.

Daisy gets the last living one out cold. At least, that's half a thought. I decide to get this fuckin' show on the road, cause I have the hair on the back of my neck going up. I don't like this.

“You guys take perimeter watch while I secure our man. Daisy, take 12 to 6. Mono, 6 to 12.”

I sling my carbine to my side and kneel down next to the Azzie. He's in a pretty rough shape, but he ain't quite dead yet, which is a boon. I still give him a quick look to make sure he's stable enough to move. I bring both of his hands forward, take a zip tie from my belt and loop it around his wrists.

As I'm making him cozy for transportation, I decide to throw Mono a bone. The kid seems to have balls of steel, which is a good thing in my book. There's that, and the fact that he did help us out. Save me a few bullets.

“They're Cuachicqueh” I say, nodding towards the Azzie. “Aztechnology / Aztlan black ops guys; a bunch of grade A motherfuckers who apparently still can't shoot a fuckin' fish in a barrel.”

I take his boots off, throw them across the roof.

"If they're after you, I'd guess you've probably done something to piss them off big time. S'far as I can tell, these guys weren't here for you tho.”

I slip another zip tie around his ankles.

“Doesn't mean they won't shoot you if they see you tho.”

My knees grunt a bit more then I'd wish when I grab the guy and heave him over my shoulder. It's been a while since I've carried a fully grown man around, and my body reminds me of it.

“Daisy, you got point. Mono, you got rear guard. When we get to the street, you each take half of the pie. Scan the street, scan the roofs, scan the windows. If it looks at you wrong, give it a few warning shots.”

I make sure my grip on the Azzie is still solid.

“Move out.”

Smiley, Sonora, and Coatl
[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Street, Nueva Caracas; 12:29 PM]
This van of Dexter's wasn't the most agile, nimble, or responsive of automobiles, but Smiley handled it like a jet engine. The engine rumbled and growled menacingly as he forced it to perform outside of what had been expected of it, pushing roughly 1500 kilograms of mass at a velocity to rifle an amped-up racing bike. He sliced down one-way thoroughfares and swapped paint with a few smaller automobiles, charged down sidewalks, and launched over curbsides into narrow alleys. At one point the narrow alley walls were grinding against the sides of the van, and sparks were being sent up as Smiley forced the van through it.

He was in control, though. He knew this van could take it, and that the damage was only cosmetic. Though the scrapes and bumps and jolts caused his virtual body to ache and caused a tingling numbness to wash over parts of his limbs, he never felt any danger. And even if he had -- fuck it, he wasn't letting this puto get away.

Holding the SUV's estimated velocity and path in mind, Smiley knew how to take these turns and how fast in order to catch up. As he neared the escaping SUV, he could hear the other vehicle's engine doing the same thing his was, and he could hear the car's screeching tires as the driver fought against his vehicle rather than with it.

Suddenly, Smiley knew that if he took this next turn, he would be in front of the van. He could hear it coming up the block, just out of sight around the corner. He could block it off, though he risked getting rammed if he did. Or he could jump in behind it. Or he could time everything just right and ram the vehicle himself. The possibilities were endless when you had the advantage, though with every ticking nanosecond, those possibilities, one by one, dropped off. It was time to make a decision.

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

Dexter, Sam, and El Mono
[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Dirty Apartment Building, Nueva Caracas; 12:29 PM]
Now that he'd regained some semblance of his senses, as well as an appraisal of the situation he was in, the shorn-headed man slung over Dexter's shoulder began to fitfully writhe and struggle against his bonds. It was hopeless, of course. Even if he fell off, he would just be picked back up. But struggle he did, intent on letting nobody just carry him away like a carpet.

When the armed trio reached the street level, Dexter's van was gone, leaving behind only Smiley's bashed up sedan. The dead Cuachicqueh that had fallen off the roof was still laying across a glass-covered dashboard, bleeding copiously into the car.

All around, the maimed and fallen were still there. Some of those who had been wailing moments ago had finally succumbed to shock or death. A few good samaritans -- amazingly some still existed, even in this hellhole -- were dragging off some of the wounded and attempting to attend to injuries. Of course, when their patients expired, nothing kept them from rifling through pockets for whatever they had left on them. Certainly, they weren't going to need it anymore.

A few of the denizens were now pointing out the scene in front of the apartment building, especially the dead man in the car, and the armed trio carrying what appeared to be a wounded kidnap victim. Certainly, they had something to do with this atrocity. Angry shouts started to rise up out of the suddenly forming, impromptu mob. A few rocks and chunks of rocket-blasted asphalt were throw in the direction of Dexter, Sam, and El Mono.

"My wife! Mi amor! She is dead because of you!"
"My best friend, you killed him!"
"Lola was the best piece of ass in the city! She'll never suck me again!"

Oh yeah. They were angry.

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

Dexter
[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Dirty Apartment Building, Nueva Caracas; 12:29PM]
Oh the sly, Dexter was communicating with Morris and giving him a rundown of the situation. When he finished his debriefing, Morris responded back emphatically.

<<You're motherfucking goddamn right we want him! How soon can you get him to us? Or can we rendezvous with you somewhere and pick him up?>>

[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Street, Nueva Caracas; 12:29 PM]

As he flew past the battered streets in his endeavor to catch the escaping SUV, Smiley began to wonder if Sonora had thought this idea through. That SUV could probably exceed 100kph even with the armor; this van couldn't, *and* this van was loaded down with a troll. Even if they caught up with it, nobody here was able to man the gun but himself, and he was kinda busy doing the driving. The only people he knew were good with a gun were not in the van.

This kind of poor planning will get people killed, Smiley thought to himself, be a miracle if this turns out well... Luckily the impossible ain't a challange for me.

Before he knew it, the SUV was already close enough for him to give it a suprise appearance. He knew before driving off that outright ramming is unquestionable: This van is useless if the engine dies. The only proper course of action seemed obvious to him: Go for the light touch, do a P.I.T. manuever and the inertia from the van ought to keep the SUV spinning in circles until he can draw a bead with the mounted machinegun.

[b][Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Dirty Apartment Building, Nueva Caracas; 12:29 PM][/b]

We're barely out the damn door that I'm dodging concrete. For a moment, part of me screams out that we ain't the bad guys. Then I realize that we are. These people live here. I'm an invader. I'm a foreigner with foreign interest. I don't give a fuckin' rat's ass about Caracas. I'm in this, neck deep, because I love my country. Not theirs. I'm in this for my family, not theirs. I'm one of the bad guy.

I raise my chromed arm, hear the rock bounce off with a metallic ding.

<< I got wheels, and 2 other unconfirmed friendlies. Get your people ready for a pick up.>>

Right now, all I know is that this can turn really bad, really fast. Sure, we can shoot 'em all dead, but I'd rather not.

FIDO. Fuck it, drive on.

I open the door to the back seat, and shove my squeashy parcel on the floor.

"GET IN! NOW!" I yell at the two boys watching my back.

<< Prisoner is critical, but stable. Clear of weapons. Cyber and bio unknown. We got his link also. Just tell me where.>>

As I turn around, I catch the a blur of movement, the smell of spice. Someone's is coming at me with a big fuckin' rock in their hand. My carbine is in my hand before I know it. I twist it around, catch the man straight in the nose with the butt of the stock. He goes down for the count.

Crowds are bad. I fuckin' hate crowds.
And I hate mobs even more.

The barrel goes up and I let loose a few rounds. I take aim at the closest one.

"THIS WILL BE YOUR ONLY WARNING! BACK OFF, NOW!"

I cover the crowd as best as I can. All I can hope as that the two kids get a fuckin' move so we can leave.
Like... now.

Smiley, Sonora, and Coatl
[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Street, Nueva Caracas; 12:29 PM]
With time in Smiley's VR peeling away in tiny slices, he times his approach carefully, but accurately. Though he didn't hold any fancy degrees, life in the Real World had taught him some basic physics. He knew velocity, acceleration, momentum. He also knew angular momentum, inertia, and all sorts of funny things that he didn't know the actual names of, but how they worked. For instance, when he slammed the back of the SUV whizzing past him with the right front end of the van he was driving, sure it maybe crushed the headlight. But the application of sudden force sent the SUV spinning abruptly.

The driver at the wheel was maybe not quite as skilled in the laws of physics, for when he jerked the wheel and slammed on the brakes, he only made things worse. The SUV spun furiously, the back end colliding with a car parked on the left side of the narrow, one way street. This jerked the SUV up into the air, rising up until it reached a tipping point, and then it fell over sideways onto the ground. The vehicle's spin continued, the side scraping along the road amidst a shower of sparks, until it finally came to a rest. The engine in the SUV chugged and puttered, and then finally stalled out. The wheels stopped spinning. When it finally came to a rest, the SUV was on its side, the roof facing Smiley's location.

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

Dexter
[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Dirty Apartment Building, Nueva Caracas; 12:29 PM]
<<There's a parking garage on the edge of Chacao, west of Gematria along the main boulevard about ten kilometers. It's just down the street from the big Evo building. Currently it has some big annoying AR ad on the side of it pushing skimpy clothes to pre-pubescent girls. Can you get there?>>

[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Dirty Apartment Building, Nueva Caracas; 12:29 PM]

<< If the local fuckin' fauna doesn't maul us to death, yea, I'll be there. I'll call you back 5 minutes out. >>>