Bloody Oaks is the best apartment complex in the Redmond Barrens. It has plush carpeting, working toilets, a well-maintained rooftop garden, and a doorman in milspec armor. It's safe, clean, and depending on circumstances, affordable. The landlord is friendly, competent, and available, and the tenants there won't dare break the lock on your door and steal your stuff while you're away.

Now the rent... I did mention the rent, right? Affordable, depending on your circumstances? Well, you see, the landlord's a ghoul. He eats people. But the rules don't say he has to eat a whole person. So instead of money, he gets tribute. Fleshy tribute. A pound of fleshy tribute, each month, one pound per person. And no matter what, he ALWAYS gets his pound.

You've kinda.... you've kinda lapsed in your payments. Maybe it's the drugs, maybe you got squeamish this time you thought about gutting the hobo who warms his hands in the alley behind your favorite bar, or maybe it's the fact that Knight Errant has taken up the cause of policing your beloved Redmond to rub Lone Star's impotence in its face. Citymasters for quick deployment of shock troops, forensic mages for 95% certainty in finding criminals, Ares corporate media monitoring the whole place, the works.

Whatever the reason, you know Tom (nice name for a ghoul, right?) is pissed. You've tried avoiding him, taking the fire escape, the back doors, maybe even jumping out the windows. What you haven't tried is running away, probably because you know it won't do you any good. Tom always keeps his word, and word is your number's up. Plus, it's nice to have a working toilet for a change.

It was a day like any other. You woke up without the benefit of the alarm to avoid making noise, skipped your normally nice, warm shower for the same reason, and made your way to the fire escape. Only there was a note this time. It said only this: "Meet me on the roof. 5 pm. Don't be late, please. " Judging from the smell of it, Tom wrote that note himself, dipping his HMHVV-sharpened nails in blood every 3 letters and carving more than writing those jagged prehistoric-looking letters onto the hapless page.

Groaning quietly, Swarm drags himself out of bed to get ready for another day of searching for 'rent money'. Grumbling irritably at his virtual secretary, he decides that he doesn't like "Janet" very much, and decides that today, he's gonna change her around a little bit.

Never much liked the name Janet anyways. Maybe I'll have better luck with something else... Melissa, maybe. And frag, her voice is annoying in the morning. I seriously gotta download some new mods for this thing

Absent-mindedly he starts up his Sunshine chip, knowing it's the only way he's gonna get started this morning without a shower. Quickly dressing, he checks on all his drones, and gets the Stormcloud to start an area sweep for likely prospects.

"Good morning, sleepyhead" says a cheerful Janet. i really need a new personality for her too... she's way too cheerful for her own good. She continues, "Don't forget to get your grocery shopping done today. I've done some shopping around. Here's the list."

Glaring at her and pushing the AR list aside, he thinks to her, "Just get the usual from wherever's cheapest. You know the drill." gonna have to remove the corp programming from her too. Getting all this advertising drek is starting to get annoying. Should've checked her code before I bought the bloody thing

After a couple of minutes scanning through status reports and diagnostic checks for his drones, he is pleased with what he finds.

Well, at least the drones are doing ok. The morning may not be too bad after all. And it looks like the chip is starting to kick in, too. Better head out before Tom shows up looking for rent, though.

Stepping as quietly as he can, he slips over to the window only to find the note there. He stands there quietly, reading for a second."

Drek. Just what i fragging needed to get the day started. He calmly shuts off his chip. Gonna need to be thinking straight today. It's starting to look like it's gonna be a lousy morning after all.

Meanwhile, he starts fiddling around with the autosofts for the drones. Given the circumstances, he has a feeling he may want them all working their best, and a little tweaking never hurt either.

It's 0500 hours and Lieutenant Major Andrew Dole V (discharged) has just woken up, just like clockwork, and is greeted by the dismal sight of his Bloody Estates apartment. This is a bad day, just like every day since his discharge from the UCAS Marines. Still, the Lieutenant Major carries on. He gets up and arranges himself; cleaning his guns, putting on his slotting civis, holstering his firearms. Usually he would exercise, also, but normally he isn't avoiding a certain ghoul because he hasn't carved up some poor fragger, yet. To this effect, his front door hasn't been unlocked in over a week.

When Dole steps out his window and softly plants his feet on the fire escape, he realized that today isn't just a bad day, today is a miserable day. A note has been left on the fire escape. Not a good note. He stands and contemplates his next victim. It will probably be a drug addict; he hates them. He says it's because they don't hold their weight in society and are a detriment to all who encounter them, but really, deep down, he hates them because they mirror what he has become.

He doesn't realize it yet, but he's shaking. It's barely noticeable to others, but it's there. Slowly, he realizes it himself and notices it is for what it is (or so he thinks). His rage is acting up again, he's going to go out of control again. He needs his pills, his self-prescribed medication. He digs in his blue, UCAS Marines-emblazoned windbreaker and pulls out a multicolor pill with an ornate, scripted B inscribed into it. He places it in his mouth. "No fooling around today" he says aloud to himself. He swallows the pill.

Really, the shaking is his dependence on the drug and deep down he knows that. The rage has gone away a long time ago, and a long time ago his addiction set in. He just uses the rage as a convenient excuse, even if he doesn't know it consciously. But that doesn't matter now. Right now, Tom doesn't seem so menacing. Right now, carving up a man doesn't seem so bad an ordeal to keep his rent going. Right now, nothing is bad, nothing is squalid, nothing is miserable. Redmond is beautiful right now.

Now, to get his rent.

Even through the bliss, you can't help but shudder as you see a raging air elemental burst out of the window across from you carrying an ork whose face is a frozen scream. It dispassionately freights him over to an efficiently placed Citymaster in the street below. Seems Knight Errant caught another perp without incident.

In the streets below, you can see the difference they've made over the past month. The gang in the apartment next door isn't blaring its music anymore, the graffiti is gone, and there is a Citymaster for every block.

Unfortunately, it isn't just the drugs telling you that Redmond is beautiful right now.

Tasha wakes up from her restless doze with a yelp as she feels a cold nose press into the small of her back. Instinctively, she whips around, dragging her pistol out from underneath her pillow. Innocent blue eyes greet her - her virtual pet, an arctic fox, cheerfully ignoring the gun leveled at its head as it wags its bushy tail and gives out a friendly little yip.

She wryly shakes her hed as she stretches, catlike, before easing out of her bed - not a futon, but an actual too-goodness bed! - to begin her morning. She once again berates her circumstances - that damn apartment fire in Tacoma, just when she'd finally gotten free from the thrice-damned Puyallup Barrens, forcing her into this wretched hellhole in the Redmond Barrens. To be brutally honest, her current place is a step up from her old apartment. It's roomy, furnished, has working utilities that mysteriously aren't rationed like everyone else's, and no one even thinks about messing with your stuff when you're gone (thieves tend to wind up as dinner).

But she's in a foul mood. Redmond didn't seem so bad when she first got here. More people than desolate Puyallup, and the "rent" didn't seem so bad at the time - distasteful and disgusting, maybe, but she was a gun for hire anyways. What's lopping off an arm, when you've already killed someone? But that was before Knight Errant came bullying in, throwing their weight around and making it damn near impossible to make a dishonest living. She'd ditch this whole scene, only she still owes that ghoul bastard his "rent", and blowing it off would be a bad idea.

She steps out onto the fire escape and sees the note. Her scowl deepens as she reads it, and a low, feral growl escapes her throat. She is tempted to go put a few rounds through that disgusting creature's ugly face right now, but she remembers her conversation with Biggs:

The ork raised an eyebrow at her latest outburst. "Kill him? Honestly, Tasha, think for a minute. Ghouls are considered animals, they have a bounty on them, and Knight Errant is nabbing people for so much as scribbling graffiti on the walls. But this guy's running his operation right in front of them? Think of what that implies! Bribes or blackmail pretty high up, not to mention all kinds of connections. And I suspect it might be worse than that. Tamanous. You've heard of them. I'm not saying there's anything tying him to them, but it fits, to me. So you could probably blow a few meaty chunks out of his hide, assuming he doesn't have some mojo or hidden ace up his sleeve, but then what would you do? His associates would come after you, and death would only be what you would get if you were lucky."

She takes a calming deep breath. Biggs is right... save the violence for the desperate last resort that it is. Hell, maybe you'll even manage to snag someone today, and show up with some nice, bloody gobbets of dead guy to pay your "rent" with.

Her breathing begins to slow down, when suddenly the air above her howls, as an air elemental brings down another hapless victim to shove into the gaping maw of a citymaster. She scowls. Huh. Maybe I should nab one of those Knight Errant bozos. Give Tommy boy some nice fresh meat to play with. Hell. Well, at least one good thing. If the hammer is coming down tonight, I'm not bothering sneaking around until then.

With that decided, she goes back in to take a nice long, hot, shower, before heading out the front door.

Ricky was gone. He'd always sit on the side of the door opposite from the guy in milspec armor, and he'd always pinch your ass on the way out and say something about his pants and what's inside them. "Bloody Oaks's second guard," they'd call him, always vigilant, if not for unwanted people entering the building so much as people he wanted exiting it. He amused the guard, which was probably why he wasn't dead. The man, underneath all those layers of kevlar, was human, and 8-hour shifts can get lonely. Apparently those Knight Errant guys weren't lacking in human companionship, since by all indications they took him in for vagrancy this morning.

You feel... something. Maybe it's the fact that a fixture of your life is gone, making you feels as if you've lost a little bit more control over your life, maybe it's the fact you didn't get to butcher him and give his kidney as tribute.

Andrew laughs at himself as he stumbles backward and sits on the sill of his window. "Almost forgot about them,' he thinks to himself. The irony that is his life brute forces its way through the Bliss-induced high much like the air elemental he had just seen as he thinks about how not long ago he would have been on that side of the law. Nothing like a slice of life to kill a buzz.

While he was sitting down, the Lieutenant Major re-evaluated his situation. "Need to get a pound of meat. Human meat. Less than a day do get it. God knows what happens if I don't. Do I take a chance with the ghoul or the Errants?" He sat for a while and contemplated his options.

After about a half-hour of wholly uncomfortable seriousness, he made up his mind. He would jog to his usual haunts and see if any particularly juicy opportunities presented themselves. If none did, he would go to the ghoul empty handed and handle it from there. Unfortunately, if he did that, he would have to do so completely straight -- he would take no chances on being high in a potentially hostile situation. Not if he couldn't help it.

He stood up on the fire escape, smoothed his pants, and checked his weapons; two knives (one hidden in his boot) and his Hammerli 620S, all in working order and ready for whatever may come. He was go. He wouldn't let this miserable day get to him anymore. He smiled and clamored down the fire escape. The wind in his face reminded him that right now everything was beautiful.

Trent wake’s to the bash of something against the wall, Damn thin canister walls he thinks. His head is still pounding from a partial hangover. The pain at his shoulder blades where his Cyber-Arms lock in still brings itself up to annoy him every morning, well it's more like afternoon he guess's since the sun is already coming down outside his window. Flexing as he stands he take's a look around his beat up apartment, what a trash heap.

The bed is merely a mattress thrown on the floor in the middle of the room; the place is littered with cans, bottles, and discarded assortments of just about every drug. Hell even a few spent condom wrappers lay about.

Home, sweet home.

Why clean up when you can just ditch this place and go to another, which reminds him...the ghoul.

With a grumble Trent notices the note on his window, oh what the hell, the foul smelling sum-bitch even invaded my room to annoy me. Trent has had a good time in this little apartment, and the flesh-rent thing doesn’t Really bother him, its more the principle of the matter, you start paying land lords and they will expect you to do it the next month too.

With a sigh Trent rips down the paper and reads it, "Oh joy, a meeting to discuss my future with the apartment building I bet," a small smile licking Trent's face as he chuckles at his own little joke.

So two choices go up and see what the frag he wants, or get some flesh and pay him.

Trent grabs his pistol and blade, throws on his jacket over them and makes his way for the fire escape, his usual made of transportation to and from the building, and works his way tot he top, ready to frag a Ghoul if it becomes necessary but mainly just curious to see if it's gonna be more interesting then bashing in a few ganger's heads. He checks his watch and see's its already 4:15, giving him only 45 minutes before "the meet" just enough time to scope out the roof to see if Tom has any ghoulish surprises, another grin spreads across Trents face at his own pun on the ghoul.

Nobody knows exactly when Rashaad set up in the Bloodied Scalpels' formerly unused basement, all they know was that one day one of the younger gangsters went down there alone, started yelling, and stumbled back to his blood brothers with a hole in his arm. The gang went to him, ready for war, and they caught him sitting behind his table, cleaning his rocket launcher. Having a rare case of cool-headedness, the boss decided that it was a better idea to deal with this man than take his stuff, since if they dealt with him, they'd get more stuff. Guess that's why they made him boss.

You find him smashing open a plastiwood crate with a rusty lead pipe, and he looks up at you with a smile. "So what kind of deep shit brings you to this circle of Hell?"

*************************************************************

The old lady who tends the garden hears you coming and waves to you as you peak out over the edge. Her son died in the Desert Wars a few years back, and most of the animals in the barrens'll give you HMHVV soon as look at you, so tending to these flowers is the only real outlet for her maternal instincts. For these reasons, these flowers are impeccable. The only thing keeping this from being a botanical garden is the fact that she lets them grow free, refusing to force them into any sort of scientific organization.

"Are you looking for Tom?" she asks.

*************************************************************

Janet starts to flicker.

"Why aren't you paying attention to me, Master?" Who knows, maybe she's developing sentience. "Am I not beautiful? Is my attention too little? Why?"

She starts to sound like a breaking mixtape. Maybe you oughta check on her. Log on, rebuild her code, extract the comlink and fiddle with it.

Waking, as with any kid his age, is as much a ritual as anything in his life. First comes consciousness, then denial, then starting and looking at the clock wondering if he´s late for school, or for work....

It´s only then that Tim remembers, as with every day, that he´s got no school to go to, no steady job to speak of. He´d had things good before that run-in with Humanis, before a simple initiatory prank had drawn him into a circle of hatred he was none too happy to have let himself get too deep into. It´s then he wonders about his parents. He wonders if his father still has his job or if he´d been let go before a less qualified human employee because of corporate downsizing. He wonders if his mother´s shop is ok. He wonders if they´re thinking about him.

Of course, considering it´s well after noon he doubts it. While they may think of they wayward son every now and then, he doubts thoughts of him consume their every waking moment.

An argument out on the street brings his eyes open. The sound of gunfire in the distance. He grunts, and throws the single sheet from atop his naked form. Rolling out of bed, he smells himself and grunts. He´s going to have to see about catching a shower at the messenger dispatch again. That is if he´s even welcome there. A bike messenger without a bike has always been an oddity, but since the dispatchers started giving him choice runs, well he´s been pretty much an outcast with the riders.

As the arguing outside escelates, his eyes are drawn to the window and to the note tacked there. Some might find the note to be strange, but growing up he´d been encouraged to live without computers every now and then, so it is the presence of the note, not the format, which causes him concern.

Crossing his room in three quick strides, he untacks the note from the window and is immediately revolted. It has to be Tom´s work. He can smell death upon it. Reading the note just heightens the distaste.

He´d been a fool to come here in the first place. Not to see what the landlord really wanted for rent. When he´d said it would cost a pound of flesh, Tim had assumed it was some kind of joke. When he´d showed up with a credstick the first month, and the ghoul had been less than pleased. Tim was mortified.

He´d been dodging the ghoul ever since, trying to figure out another arangement, trying to find a place to crash while he found his own place. But the only guy he could fully trust was Red Eddie, and the Troll didn´t even seem to have a place to live.

Eying his watch, Tim grunts. He´s got less than two hours before the meet. Figuring he´s already been called on his lack of rent, he actually takes a nice long shower, and then gets dressed and heads out onto the fire escape anyway. He doesn´t have too long to get something to eat before the meet, and the nearest reliable noodle shop is a thirty minute rooftop run.

Trent beams a smile at the nice old lady, "Well, kind of ma'am, we have a uh, meeting. By chance do you know if he is up and about near here? Or if he left anything behind for others?"

All the while Trent is doing a half scan of the area, looking for good ambush spots or a area he could relax in for a bit to wait for Tom to show his ugly face.

Raymond Chen's Noodle Emporium served an entire apartment complex and very little more, these days. Thinking it would protect him from gang violence and newly-enforced sanitation laws, he moved his shop from street level up to the rooftop. Nobody outside the apartment complex really went to his shop anymore except for people like you and those who went to the gangland parties held on his rooftop, also moved up to avoid enforcement of the new rules. The gangs have done a good job of enforcing their own sanitation rules, cutting the frequency of flies in soup down to one in ten.

*************************************************************
The stairs come up to the roof out of a corner; if you wanted to ambush him, you'd have only one place to hide behind, assuming he doesn't bring help. The only other option is hiding in the flowers, and you have a feeling she wouldn't be quite so maternal towards you if you did that.

Trent checks out the only available ambush spot to make sure nothing is there at this time. If there isnt then he will chat some with the lady and then sit on the edge and relax for a while until either he hears more peopel showing up, or gets bored (which wont take more then a few minutes) and decides to clean his gun and blade, the only two things that are always spotless.

"Ah, Rashaad. It's time for rent, and you're not going to believe what rent is. I'll give you a couple of hints: it's pink, you have it, but so do I. I don't want to give either of ours which means I have to find some elsewhere because ghoulish landlords named Tom love to eat it for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. This is the reason I've come." he says to Rashaad while perusing his wares.

Andrew smiled a big grin -- for him, being in Rashaad's was like being a kid in a porno shop. "Oh, I might also need another clip for my Ceska if I don't find what I'm looking for."

The edge is clear, and so is your view of the city, if not of the sun. She asks him, "Late on your rent again, aren't you? You'll be fine; he's a very nice man."

*************************************************************

For once in your entire time knowing him, Rashaad is speechless.

"Well, I've got a cybersurgeon friend who sells off the spare parts of his clients. It think they're called 'Tamahoe' or something, they're not too choosy as to what they get. They pay by the pound, so I don't know if they're cloning organs or what.

"And to make up for what you're going through, the clip's on me. Damn."

Trent smiles again at the lady, "Yeah, i guess you could say that, seems he would like to speak to me about compensation for the payment not coming on time, we shall have to see how it goes though."

With that Trent goes back to cleaning his weapons, not really expecting a fight, since in the worst case he can go snag some meat for the Ghoul if it really came to crunch time, but you never know Tom might be more pissed then expected and try to take Trent down, and then things get fun...

Glaring irritably at Janet, Swarm grumbles "Don't you have some files to sort or something?" as he shuts her off.

Gonna have to go through the code and rewrite half of the bloody thing. And who knows what's wrong with her anyways? Shoulda just wrote it from scratch... it would probably have been easier. Now i gotta wade through a drekload of lousy code to find what's wrong.

His mood is not particularly improved by the ruckus across the street. Irritated, he sends off a couple more drones for the hunt. Looks like he's going to have to rely on them to find this month's rent, while he takes care of some coding. after considering briefly, he decides the drones will probably need some extra brainpower to help them out. Pulling out his medkit and hooking it up just in case, he calmly reaches down into the resonance within himself, pulling pieces of thread from the seeming chaos of shattered code, sifting through them until he finds what he needs.

Focusing himself to try and bring them all together into one unified whole, an ally to analyze and organize the data from the drones for him, his jittery nerves and BTL weakened mind get in the way, and the data overloads his mind, pummelling him with waves of code.

His body twists and thrashes for a second as it tries to deal with the random instructions, then lies still as he gasps for breath.

"What the frag happened?" he groans, trying to get himself up from the floor. "I haven't felt this sore since that taser accident when i was getting trained." Stiffly, he repositions the medkit and gets started, though he worries it won't be able to do much for him. "And here i thought the day couldn't get any worse."

I need to sit down for a bit, calm myself, and recover from this. I can't afford to meet Tom in this shape. He staggers over to his table, has a light breakfast, takes a shower, and sits down for a while, leisurely searching through Janet's databases, updating it to his specifications. The first thing to go is that name. So then, Melissa, let's see what i can do about that grating personality of yours....

"Rashaad, you are a true friend. I won't forget this. If you need anything, you call on me. And to top it off, I'll be sure to come in here and next time I get a nice, healthy number on my credstick and spend it in here. I think I might be in the market for a nice, quick rifle." Andrew smiled that big smile again like a retard on parade.

After he got the information on finding the cybersurgeon, he took of to him. The bliss might have started to wear off, but maybe it wasn't a miserable day after all. Bad? Always. Miserable? Maybe not.

When Tim took the rooftops he didn´t just run, he took flight. Never once on his journey to Raymond Chen's did he slow, never once did he touch the detrius of the streets below. He weaved his way amidst much neglected machinery atop the roofs, sailed over alleyways. He moved with the wind, and with whim as much as a plan. This was his meditation. High atop the ruins of society he found peace.

And like every day about this time he didn´t take the stairs to the noodle house, he landed between two tables, one hand planted to the ground. He tips his head up, nodding to those he recognizes, and he stretches to his feet, letting out a little whoop.

`If there´s a better way to start the day, I´ve yet to find it. Two boxes to go, my friend. I´ve got a meeting to make and someone to see along the way.´

You hear sirens, more air elementals bursting out of 9th floor windows, and admittedly hilarious demands to see lawyers. Business as usual.

****************************************************************
A data bomb goes off around JaMelisset's pink-heart icon. It doesn't harm you, but when you go in to look at the source code, all you see is "HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA" over and over again for 10 MP. At the bottom, it's authenticated "Annoying Little Bastard." Fucking hackers.

****************************************************************

You pass by a purse-snatcher being chased by a much more physically fit orc KE officer and his elf buddy. You give the snatcher 5, 10 seconds, tops.

You move down an alleyway, a little less wary than usual because of the enforcement. You make a left, right, left, go up some stairs, jump over a gap in the floor, go down some other stairs, and find his office.

You see a pretty but strangely expressionless woman sitting at a nice mahogany desk. This guy's pretty loaded. "You have an appointment?" she asks.

Before you can answer, the door behind her opens and a 5'11" man in a doctor's garb walks through. He pokes something inside the table with his bloody gloved hand and the mahogany and secretary disappear, leaving a utilitarian metal table with a bloody button on it. He is holding a small monofilament chainsaw with his other hand. You see bits of fresh bonemeal on the handle.

"How can I help you?"

*************************************************************

Raymond takes about 10 seconds preparing your food. You don't know whether to be happy about his expediency or worried about the quality of the food.

"I remembered to duct-tape them closed again so they don't burst open like before. Have a good day!" Raymond looks like he'd smile at you if he weren't so tired from serving the 20 person party himself.

´Cheers mate.´

Tim slides over enough certified cred for the boxes, and his usual 25% tip. Even in tough times he´s appreciative of good quick service. As for the quality, he´s none too picky. Can´t afford to be. He got over being squeemish right quick after hiding out in the Barrens. Can´t survive long otherwise.

With a tip of his nonexistant hat, Tim drops off the rooftop onto the ledge he knows is just a short dip below. He turns and runs along it, leaping clear of the building and bounding off of the old hulk of a garbage truck, using the middle ground to clear to the building across the way. A quick run up the wall and he backflips onto the rooftop there, and is off again through the Barrens.

His one stopover is to be at the old skate park that Eddie has tagged as his turf, both with RIFD tag and with good old fashion spraypaint. In either medium the Troll is an artiste worthy of museums and galleries. Sad that he´ll never see either.

The Lieutenant Major could all but laugh at the deceptively utilitarian lab the doctor had here. He outstretched a hand, "Doctor. I was sent here by our mutual friend Rashaad. I was made aware that you might be able to help me with some business I have." Pausing and realizing that the doctor's hands were bloody, he repositioned himself in a sort of military "at-ease" stance, his hands held behind him. "I have a problem which can be solved by attaining a pound of spare human organs. I hear that you are able to provide such a thing, for some monetary compensation. I would like to take you up on that."

He looked somewhat blankfacedly at the man, as he would look at military peer, awaiting his response. You could almost see him wearing his military garb through his stance.

Tasha glances around as she exits the apartment.

"Hey, Ricky's gone. Aww, I always liked the greasy little runt, too. Always kidneying, um, kidding around."

She makes a placating gesture at the guards scowl, then walks out onto the street, chuckling. Her good mood evaporates within a few blocks.

Hell, it's like an occupying army down here. Once I get this month's rent taken care of, I'm getting back to Tacoma if I have to live in coffin motels for a month. Well, may be a moot point. I may be dead tonight. If I can't find some expendable scumbag, and if the freak won't give me an extension... considering how things are around here... then either he's going down, or I am. And if its him, then I'd better get out of Seattle all together, maybe get a ride from a smuggler going to Denver or something.

Okay, plan of attack. Parks, alleyways, and other deserted areas, to see if someone tries to mug me. If they do, then a few bullets, and a few choice pieces carved out with this kitchen knife go into this trash bag. Some rubber gloves and wet wipes - I'll clean up better at the apartment, but they should keep me from sporting any suspicious stains. Bars, too. Let myself get picked up by the dirtiest scumbag there, get him to my place - getting rid of the rest of the body will be a bitch, but maybe the creep'll let me pay several months in advance with one corpse. Even if he doesn't, he probably wouldn't mind getting a whole body. And finally but least likely, if I get a chance to get ANY of these Ares goons alone, oh yeah. But gotta be careful as drek if I do that.

She wanders over to one of the larger decayed areas of the city, a place of crumbling walls and rubble-strewn vacant lots. If she has no 'luck' there, she'll try the two nearby dilapitated bars, places serving sullen orkish day laborers and less savory types, now also frequented by slumming Ares civvies looking for that little edge of danger. She passes a squatter by. She's not going to gut helpless, innocent, people. Besides, poor bastard's already missing one leg.

As you approach the skate park, two Greeks statues on marble skateboards enter the U from opposite ends at the same time then do perfect 900's, also at the same time. Throughout the whole demonstration, they move more like animated stone than people despite their fluidity and perfect technique. You suspect the method he uses to make them move like that could be worth millions assuming it hasn't been stolen by company hackers.

The troll himself is much less idealized than his skateboarding Olympians. He is dressed in a yellow coat, a multicolored hat, and jeans, all of which seem to have gone for months without washing after being mashed in a wet garbage pile on a daily basis. He is staring at appears to be a floating red sphere that is in reality a very nicely chiaroscuroed perfectly round spraypainted circle. You imagine it rolling out of its wall and crushing both you and Eddige after a Benny-Hill-Soundtracked chase.

He turns to you and asks, "I just can't get the right shade of red. I wish they'd invent a paintcan that can mix colors. Not much of a market for one, I imagine.

"What can I do for you?"

************************************************************

"Just call me Tim." He holds his hand out to shake, then realizes exactly why you didn't do the same in the first place. He looks at your stance and awkwardly tries to imitate it.

"Yes, I do sell body parts, but to Tamanous exclusively. That's our deal. They have a monopoly on organlegging in the Barrens, and given their main business, the one besides killing people, I'm not inclined to disagree."

*************************************************************

A man walks out of the alley with a shadow over his face. It isn't that he's wearing a mask, or magically shadowing his face, it's just the darkness of his purpose shining through. His hands are in his pockets, and he's walking more briskly than he should be towards you.

Before you can pull your gun out and blow his head off in self-defense, it becomes apparent that the squatter isn't really missing a leg. He lifts his chameleon-suited limb up, points it square at the perp's neck, and fires off a gel round. He walks over nonchalantly and handcuffs him. He tells you, "You'd best be on your way."

A smile flashes on the face of Lieutenant Major Dole's face as Tim stands in a sorry attempt to imitate a soldier's stance. Some men just aren't military material, and that's part of what made the Dole men proud of their profession. The smile is replaced by Dole's stoneface a fraction of a second later, and he hears Tim's response.

"I see," he says with a hint of frustration in his voice. "I suppose I couldn't convince you that just one pound wouldn't be missed, then. Thank you for your time, Tim. I know in a profession like yours time is money, and the difference between life and death. Could I ask you one last question; that is, where I could find the Tamanous' dealer, then?"

As he awaited Tim's response Andrew, mentally conjured the digital clock as well a translucent mapsoft of Seattle to estimate the distance and time of travel on foot between here and the dealers, to see if he even had the time to make it to the dealer and back to Bloody Oaks.

"Absolutely not. They live and die by their secrecy, or they would, if they were any sort of normal secret society. Sorry."

"Alright then, Tim. Perhaps next time we meet I'll have something you can help me with." He turned on his heel and exited the surgeon's shop. He had almost gotten lucky, but it seemed that it wasn't his fate. The story of his life.

Andrew headed back to Bloody Oaks and up the fire escape. Now it was just habit. He took a nice, warm shower for the first time in a while, changed into his jumpsuit -- a dark blue Urban Explorer that he purposely got without all the multicolored nonsense, prepped his weapons, cleaning them again and adding the Ceska to his lineup, attaching the new clip of ammo he acquired to his holster strap. A UCAS Marines cap pulled over his blond, crew-cut hair and he was go.

He walked up the stairs of the fire escape and hurdled over onto the roof.

Tasha shrugs blandly at the apparently undercover officer handcuffing the guy.

"Yeah, sure... your social life is your business."

She supposes she should be feeling shock, but she is approaching the point where nothing surprises her anymore. Hell if she knows what KE is really up to - AAA zones don't get this much 'protection'. With a mental shrug to follow her physical one, she aimlessly heads towards the bars. Maybe another lowlife will try to jump her first, or maybe she'll find someone deserving of death at one of the bars.

She sighs. Normally, she would hit places this for some fun. Now, she's trying to pick up the most repulsive specimen that she can find, to give to an even more repulsive specimen. Well, she won't be headed to the roof empty-handed, at any rate. If she doesn't nab the 'rent', she'll still have her guns.

Shark woke up late, as usual. He noticed the note on the fire escape ladder, but didn't really care. "What the freak wants with me again?, he thought. He took his hockey bag where all his stuff his kept and climb down through the exit.

While walking towards the nearest entrance to the ork undeground, he gave a second thought about the message. Maybe it would be a good idea to see what the landlord had to say, just to make sure he woke up one day with a leg and an arm missing...But he still had time, a whole day to think about that. Meanwhile, underground goblin rock bands and street fashion shops were waiting for him.

The old lady looks at you and says, "Wow, Tom seems to be really popular today," and laughs her old lady laugh. The "joke" is corny, but she's nice and she's old, so you let it slide.

***************************************************************

The first bar you go to is a bust. Everyone knows that nearly everyone in the Barrens does drugs; the problem, from your perspective, is that they've stopped doing them. Instead of trying to cop a feel or leer at you, they're all staring off into space, some of them even pantomiming injecting themselves full of poison.

************************************************************

The underground seems untouched by KE's intrusion. The shops are as lively as ever, and the goblin rock bands are as hit or miss as ever. One of the crowd nods encouragement at you, then looks away in disgust as he notices your pointy ears.

Tim moves in close to the yellow coat clad Troll, offering up a slap on the shoulder and a laugh. If the smell bothers him, he sure as hell isn't letting on. Truth be told, it doesn't.

`Always going to find something wrong with a masterpiece, aren't you Eddie? Look, I just wanted to let you know I've got dealings going down today which might go fowl.` He scratches at his brow ring. `You know the deal with the landlord I told you about? Seems I can't dodge him anymore. Was wondering if you could maybe be wandering around the Bloody Oaks say quarter to six. Just in case a little runt like me needs a bigger presence.`

He didn't want to put Eddie in danger, but he was a Troll, and a survivor at that. He'd only seen the big guy in a single fight, and that was nanosecond fast.

The big guy sighs. "Well, I guess it'll give me some perspective on the paint color. I really don't think I can think about it objectively staring at it like that.

"Anything else?"

Tasha frowns as she looks around, nursing her bottle of cheap synthahol (she's not about to trust the cleanliness of the glasses in this place). No one's interested here. Maybe the other bar will bring her better luck. If not, she could always pick the most wretched and desperate-looking specimen here and pretend to be a paranoid drug dealer who will only deal from her "safehouse" out of fear of KE. Assuming she can locate one that doesn't actually give off "undercover cop" vibes. More and more, it's looking like she's headed for that rooftop empty-handed. She hopes Tom will be reasonable, for both their sakes - more for hers, because she won't come out ahead even if she "wins".

`To ask anything more'd be crude of me man. You find your red, first round's on me next time we hit a bar.`

He gives that little tip of his imaginary hat and he's off again. He skirts the holoart, not wanting to get too close. Thankfully he's not wired for AR, or he'd truly be queasy right now.

Next stop, the rooftop. Much as he'd like to just skip the meeting entirely, he's not sure that'd be appreciated.

Getting lost in the work of cleaning up his new virtual secretary, Swarm loses track of time. by the time he jacks out, it's already 4:00 and there's just barely time to grab something to eat and then show up for the meeting.

quickly grabbing a snack, he hastily brings his aerial drones into the area to keep an eye on the roof, just in case, and has the dobermans cover the ground area.

hopefully I won't need any of this, but it's better to be safe than sorry. And with all the Ares goons around, I don't know if i can risk bringing anything too big on my person to this meeting. I sure hope the roof is public enough to keep Tom from trying anything...

Grabbing his hammerli, he quickly sets it into place, puts on his armored vest and more securely sets his goggles and respirator in place, sets his earbuds firmly, and then adds on the helmet. after careful consideration, he gets out a backpack and loads it up with his medkit, armored vest, and SMG, adds two iballs to his belt, and places the kanmushis into his pockets. taking a deep breath, and performing a final test on his sattellite feed, he cautiously steps out the fire escape and heads up to the roof for the meeting.

You go up on the rooftop and you see a bunch of weirdoes, all of them probably in the same predicament as you. If Tom's looking for a fight, he's got a weird way of going about it.

You know something's missing. It has nothing to do with you, and everything.

A younger man, maybe in his mid twenties, maybe earlier, is laying near the edge of the building, smoking a cigar and playing with a 4 foot katana. he is decked out in jeans, a T-shirt with a flaming skull and crossbones and a leather jacket. At his hip you can see the outline of a heavy pistol. His hair is short, nothing to short but it does have a messy quality to it that you think really "fits" him. Then it hits you. It was so blatent that you completely missed it... he has two full fledged cyber replacements arms. Obvious, and though you have seen plenty of 'ware in your time these are a bit different.

These arms are decked out in spikes and a tatoo like flesh pattern that at first glance gives them the appearance of real arms that are just tattooed with heavy silver. The paint job must have taken months, it is a work of art.

"Hey, chummer, you here for the meat fest too? I'm Trent, you manage any meat?" A gleam in his eye makes you weary of him, yet he doesn't look like he gives a shit if you do or not, just likes puting people on their guard.

Trent is 5'10", maybe 175 LBS, he is buff, not ripped so its doubtful that its fake, and has a look about him that he thinks he is a hardass, or is one.

No doubt anyone on the rooftop has seen him before. The practically glowing short green dreadlocks, the proudly diplayed elven ears with their multitudes of piercings, the glint of steel just above perceptive green eyes, the easygoing smile. Tim was using the fire escape long before the rent came due, practically from the first day he'd come to the complex. He didn't use it to skulk, though. He was more apt to be seen running up and down its steps repeatedly, his shirtless torso glistening with sweat. Physically he is in his prime; while slender, he is posessed of a toned build. It should be obvious, though, if not by action, that he is built for speed. A tattooed band around one of his arms is a scripture oddly enough in elven runes derived from Tolkien's fantasy works, and there is a rising phoenix inked upon the opposite shoulder. He's clad today, as he is most days on the town, in his Urban Explorer jumpsuit, black for the most part, but with highlights as green as his hair. If he's armed it doesn't show.

Tim doesn't simply walk up to the rooftop garden, he lands up a clear patch off to one corner, having lept from an adjacent building. To his credit he doesn't seem to be too worried by Trent's badass appearance, he's got his own all too slick attitude on. He flashes a grimace at the mention of the meat deal, though.

`Score? Didn't try. Been avoiding the rent since, well since I found out the whole pound of flesh deal wasn't just a sick joke.` A hand goes up to scratch at his brow ring again. He steels himself a moment, and goes ahead and reciprocates the question. `You manage to score any rent?`

After a long day of hanging out in the ork underground, either bullied by true orcs who didn't buy Shark's poor orkish disguise or simply avoided by less violence-inclined metahumans, the ork poser finally noticed on his commlink time was running short.

He ran towards his appartment building and climbed to the rooftop, 5 minutes late.

Shark is an elf...obviously. But he is as large and tough as any ork should be. He even shaped his dermal plating so his nose and lips somehow ressemble those of orks, but the disguise is so lame anybody is able to see through it. Apart from his armor jacket filled with goblin rock bands' tag and an unmarked hockey bag, only several noticeable cyberimplants could be considered interesting facts about the pathetic Shark.

Lieutenant Major Andrew Dole V comes from a long line of military men. Of course, you can't tell this just by looking at him. What you can tell is he really likes the UCAS Marines. On his person, every article of visible clothing is marked with the Marines emblem, from his dark blue and black Urban Explorer jumpsuit, through his UCAS Marines windbreaker, up to his Marines ballcap and down to his running shoes.

As his figure sits leaning against the wall of the rooftop, you can approximate that the man, who appears in his late 20s, would be around 5'7" standing up. He looks like the kind of man that either delights in his Marine regimine or has spent substantial time under a cybersurgeon's knife; every muscle on the man seems to be built up at least a bit. Though his mug (which isn't all too pleasing to the eye, but not horrid) seems stonefaced and you see no fear in his cold blue eyes, if you pay close enough attention you can see his hand tremoring. Either he has some fear in him, or he's a chronic drug user who hasn't had his fix in several hours.

As for weapons, you can clearly see a Hammerli 620S holstered in a special holster you know is for firing the gun quickly hanging from his hip. Also on his hip, on the opposite side, is a sheath holding a large knife, a survival knife. If you look close enough (or at the right perspective to see inside the right breast of his jacket), you might see the butt of a machine pistol sticking out of the bottom of his windbreaker, which upon further examination belongs to a Ceska Black Scorpion.

Tasha is short for an elf, with a slender build. Her hair is dyed a dark blue, worn short and spikey. She has startling bright grey eyes and pale skin (with a few light freckles), with black lipstick and heavy eyeliner. She has a tattoo of a stylized crosshairs around her right eye, and also has a nose stud and a pierced eyebrow. She is wearing black jeans and heavy boots. Her dark jacket is open to reveal a midriff-baring black t-shirt with a thrash band logo on it. Another tattoo, a ribbon of flames, encircles her navel.

She paces restlessly, wearing a scowl that is probably meant to look intimidating - but she is too cute and petite for it to really work. Her movements have an unnatural smoothness, though, that you usually only see in people who have augmented reflexes. Stopping and taking a deep breath, she settles down a bit, sitting down to take out a menacing Ares heavy pistol, grimly attaching a silencer to it.

She looks curiously at the others, noting the major's choice of sidearm with some approval. The ork poser doesn't really repel her - she is hardly the stereotypical elf herself, so she is not as shocked as, say, a recent Tir immigrant would be. The two pretty boys draw her eye a bit more, and she wishes that the circumstances of their meeting were a bit different. But their conversation draws her interest more.

"So, you guys didn't have any luck, eh? Me neither. I guess I'm too particular about who I kill."

She shrugs callously. "Of course, I don't think I'll have any scruples blowing Tom's head off if he isn't reasonable..."

She breaks off as she gets a good look at Trent's synthetic arms and gets a sick look on her face. "Oh drek, don't tell me. You've... missed the rent... before?"

The door opens, and you can hear a slight hum as Tom walks by Trent. Anchored spell, linked to a bullet detection spell, you think. Dammit. You wouldn't really peg him for a mage, given his it-would-be-jolly-if-it-had-a-beard face, flannel shirt, and denim overalls.

"Ah, you came armed. Can't really blame you. But I hope we won't be needing our respective... ah... preparations, and I think you feel the same." While he's waffling over the 'ah," you can see sparks between his fingertips.

"We all know why I have called you hear. You have missed out on your obligations, but under the circumstances, this is understandable.

"The terms are this. I will give you two weeks, and by the end of the two weeks, I want you to give me 15 pounds in total. That way, you are forced to work together, and if you work together, you are more likely to succeed, and we are more likely, as a collective, to be happy. You get an extension without much of an added stipulation, and I get more weight in flesh than usual." He paces the rooftop as he speaks, and the old lady hums to herself bemusedly, seemingly oblivious to the lethal dealings. A slight bead of sweat breaks the illusion to the watchful.

Tasha gives a curt nod. "All right."

Hell, probably going to wind up geeking someone for this anyways, someone who deserves it. Fifteen pounds just means there's less of the rest of the body to throw away. Should be able to kill someone in two fraggin' weeks, even if we need to get out of Redmond to do it. And once that's paid off, I'll be out of this sickening hellhole, and out of Redmond, all the fraggin' way.

She glances around, hoping that the ones burdened with extra scruples don't speak up and botch it. "Save it for later, guys", she thinks. Because if it does come down to a fight, even an unneccessary one, she won't sit on the sidelines.

At 6 foot even, Swarm is about average height for an ork. His skin is lightly tinted green, and he moves as if he isn't familiar with his body. He's wearing simple black pants and a T-shirt underneath an armored jacket. He looks extremely out of place against the backdrop of the barrens. A few subtle hints tell you he's probably some kind of wageslave, or was at some point.

It's hard to make out his face though, as it's almost entirely covered. You can spot a few strands of brown hair around the helmet, but that's about it. it's hard to tell past the goggles, but it seems as if half the time he's not looking where his eyes are pointing.

Before Tom shows up, as the search for rent is being discussed, he practically growls, and the words come out rough. He seems to not be used to his mouth, either.

"Haven't been able to find a bloody thing. The barrens are being patrolled too heavily. Makes me wonder where the money is in it." He spits. "You can't hardly look down a street with those Ares goons hauling some fool off." The way he says Ares it sounds like an insult.

After Tom shows up and makes his offer, he looks around at the rest of the group. "Well, I can't say the help ain't welcome. Gonna take a lot of work to find the rent this month."

Moments later, an AR connection is offered from his commlink.

-- You can call me Swarm. His icon smiles faintly. i suppose you could call me a supplier of eyes and hands to get the job done. --

-- My personal advice: might be worthwhile to look into KE guarded facilities. with this much manpower in the Barrens, they gotta be stretched thin elsewhere. Cloning facilities would be good, maybe. Less likely to draw attention if a clone disappears as compared to a person. Then again, I guess that depends on the person. Plus, if we can find a buyer, maybe we can sell the rest for spare parts. unless you've got a different use for the rest of the body. --

"Hardly dear, these are the metal with the meat, pure heaven. Done by a good friend and master artist, I always take care of my hardware." He gives Tasha a wink and goes back to polishing his weapons.

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

A low chuckle escapes Trents lips as Tom nearly threatens him openly with his magic.

Maybe this guy ain't so bad after all, at least he stands up for himself and shows no fear with a squad of us up here able to wax him in a moments notice.

As Tom walks around the roof speaking Trent makes sure to make eye contact and not break it, seeing just how ballsy this guy really is.

Tim had seen them all before, out and about the apartment, passed them on the fire escape when his need was less than recreational. They were fellow Oakers behind on their bloody rent. It didn't take any leap of brilliance to figure so much out. He'd been trying to figure out how to ask Trent about the artwork on his arms when Andrew arrives. Tim isn't so sure what to make of the guy, who seems to be a walking billboard for military service; he's got the look down, save perhaps a slight bit of overbranding. A little hat tip and a nod to match are given by the way of greeting. Shark's arrival gives Tim even more pause. He'd seen the rather confused fellow before, as with the others, but he could never figure out his game. Still, as much as he couldn't understand not wanting to be proud of being an elf, there's a certain nobility in putting your best effort to being who you want to be, even if its obvious you're only a poser. That and Tim respected the fact that unlike so many Shark's not trying to downplay his metahumanity. That he can't stand.

Now Tasha's arrival doesn't bring about the curious appraisal and open greeting the others had drawn from him. Instead he only half looks her way, like some schoolboy with a crush. It's funny, really, how a good looking woman can do that to him. Especially one with a distinct and open sense of self as she seems to have. He'd seen her around like the others, even tried to muster the nerve to open up a conversation every now and then, but he'd balked every time. To watch him sail over rooftop and ground alike you'd think he knew no fear, but he is only metahuman after all, and a teenager at that.

Tom's arrival halts the schoolboy side of him, and gets his defenses up. Though he doesn't overtly show it there are a myriad of small signs; tensing muscles in his shoulders and legs, a narrowing of his eyes, a hand resting upon the raised section surrounding the roof. The keen of eye and those undistracted by the ghoul's display of magic might think he's thinking of flight, but he's got a few makeshift clubs scouted, and he's ready for whatever might be needed.

When the deal is laid down, and it's obvious he's not going to be able to skip out on this one, Tim grunts, shifting to sit upon the outer wall of the rooftop. If anything Tasha's acceptance alone would draw him into this, but from the looks of some of these people they wouldn't take too kindly to him bowing out. Not that that entirely worries him. It's only when Swarm speaks up and accepts as well that Tim notices him, though he's not sure how he missed the ork before. Other distractions, perhaps, but there's something about him that almost screams that he should have stood out before. Being devoid of a commlink, however, Tim doesn't get the introduction. There's a downside to being stone-aged in communications terms, though it does unfetter his viewpoint on life some.

Andrew nods back at Tim.

As Tom walks up onto the roof, the Lt. Major eyes him warily, keeping an eye of all that is there but focusing on him. His brain is working on overtime now -- he's filtering for the sounds that indicate a battle will be waged. It's hard to filter for that kind of thing with the blasted KE are rampaging around everywhere, though in the Barrens Dole supposes these sounds would be inevitable anyway. Because of these distractions, Dole ends up missing part of Tom's ultimatum and ends up having to listen to the recording at the request comes through.

Seeming like a man of either slow wit or methodical planning (but actually one of distracted mind), Dole answers quite late to Tom's bargain; "Team hunting would bode better for us all than singular. I'm in." His deep voice seems to go well with his body, though with all those muscles you find yourself almost convinced he should have an Austrian accent.

Andrew finally accepts the invitation from Swarm's commlink. His icon, a mock of Atlas holding up the world with Andrew's face and dogtags hanging from around his neck, replies with "Lieutenant Major Andrew Dole V, discharged. If we cannot find that, I have heard of a group called Tamanous who seems to have a hold on the spare parts business around here. I'm not sure what they do with the parts they acquire, however."

Shark looked at all the metahumans gathered on the rooftop and felt uneasy among so much non-orks.

''Ok guys, the name's Shark. Unless you all want to get your hands stained, the best idea is a mortuary, in my opinion, or a body-chop shop. A freak with cyberlimbs have no use for his meat arms anymore.''

"I'm not sure about the mortuary, but a body-chop shop is where I visited this morning. If the rest are anything like that one, Tamanous will have already made an exclusive, and from what it seems, persuasive 'deal' with them," Dole replied through his commlink. "Best not to rule out that option just yet, though. Find a couple more chop-shops and see what's going down, first."

Tom says "I'll let you get on it," turns around, and leaves from where he came.