Sun follows Mitch at a distance, using her tag as much as her eyes to keep a track, in moments alone her appearance flickers from red head to blonde, through brunette to deep black. With each change her body language shifts, gang girl to dock whore to slumming rich girl. She runs through her head approaches, opening lines, just how to get close to the dealer.

Pesto waits for the others to leave and then he motions to Bubbles that they should also head out. As he walks out of the bar he sets Clara to start following Mitch and Al at a descrete distance in the sky. Once he gets Bubbles and himself into the van he tells the troll, "Ok we might as well keep the van right here. I am going to sets it sensors to actively scan for anyone approaching and then I am going to jump into my drone for direct control. If there are any problems, send me a message unless you need my immediate attention."

The orc then makes himself comfortable sitting in the back of the van leaning against the wall. He sets the sensors on the van to active scan the area and notify him if anyone or anything approaches within ten feet. Then he closes his eyes and fully emershes himself in the VR experience of controlling the drone following the others.

With a curt nod, the young troll acknowledges the instructions and settles herself comfortably in the van. As soon as Pesto goes VR, she adroitly maneuvers herself over to the driving controls and reconfigures the seats to accommodate her. Primarily by removing the back rest. Only a moment later, after barely placing herself in the seat, she gets up and starts rummaging through the interior of the van, opening and inventorying everything she can reach. Which is a lot for Bubbles, as the one thing a troll has is long arms, and along with her natural body size, she can pretty much reach everywhere in the interior without moving much.

She chews her gum the entire time, but switches to quietly releasing the air in the bubbles she blows instead of her usual loud pops.

Bubbles
There is a myriad of electronic gizmos and minor surveillance equipment, mainly used for upkeep on the drones spread throughout the van in boxes and on racks.

Drug Team
With digital reconaissance watching over you, you make your way down alleys and side streets between buildings. Stepping over the occassional sleeping form, or is he dead, you follow Mitch's heightened drug awareness unquestioningly.

At the end of the alleyway, silhouetted against the glow of street lights, you see a tall thin human. His coat seems to be sewn together from fragments of hundreds of other coats and hangs limply, unaffected by the breeze from the docks.

"Vanya, come. Come, let us find something that will keep the wolves at bay. Their hour quickly approaches."

"The wolves? Shit man, I don't know nothin' about any wolves. I just need something to drown out the old lady's bitching for a few hours. You know where to hook a couple of brothers up?"

Mitch reaches into his pocket and pulls out a crumpled wad of tens and twenties.

Mitch
"I'm sure that can be arranged. What will be your pleasure my friend?"

The Ragman looks over you and your retinue.

"Will your two friends be taking some as well? The hours approach."

Al winced inwardly at the mention of "two" friends, and resisted the urge to look behind him. Had Sunny got her sweet self spotted, or was Mr. Raggamuffin hallucinating?

Well that don' hardly matter none, now, he reminded himself. This here's an occasion ta put yer finely-honed Thespian skills ta good use.

He spoke, and although his voice still sounded like a cast-iron stove being pulled across rough concrete, his syntax and pronunciation grew stilted and wooden, almost robotic: "Well, sir, I am indeed a most pathetic drug fiend, long years since fallen captive to the demon master of chemical dependency. Let not my sturdy and manful stature deceive thee, for I would climb any lofty mountain, yea, ford any raging river for the fleeting solace granted by your blessed wares. Withhold not from this poor wretch, sir, I pray thee."

And then, as an afterthought, he held up one hand and began to shake it the way he had seen Mitch's shake earlier, nodding to it expectantly as proof of his words.

From his hopefully hidden drone, Pesto watches his team members try to make the deal happen. He also takes the opportunity to record the image of the man they are speaking with.

The visual feed windowed into her upper right of her vision, Bubbles, finishes adjusting the headlight high beams on the van. They'd been at least 3 cm off at 50 meters. Idly she drops down and reaches under the front and by feel checks for leaking grease in the steering linkages.

Mitch watches Al's "attempt" to pass a druggie with a sigh of resignation.

"Fuck..." He thought to himself, "If I had known it was going to be that kind of party I'd brought along a bigger knife..."

Watching the dealers face carefully, Mitch's hand slowly slides towards the knife he kept hidden under the folds of his coat. "Oh well... I know how to get him to tell us what we want to know. One way or another..."

Bubbles
There are no leaks that you can feel in the steering linkages. Visual feeds of the negotiation begin to populate your team network as the fly-drone gets situated.

The data feed picks up as a stilted performance from Al strikes a sour chord and Mitch adjusts his coat to keep out the cold wind.

Pesto
With a few mental commands the fly adjusts and attains a perch on a nearby dumpster. Data feeds begin to disseminate across the network so that you can share the intel with the others. A still-frame image of the drug-dealer solidifies and then drops itself into data-storage for later investigation.

The Alley
As the stunted performance from Al grates across the intervening space, destroying your credibility as drug-fiends, the Ragman shifts his attention from two focal points. He shifts from the iron-lunged smoker to a spot roughly two meters to Al's left.

The piecework jacket continues to hang loosely unaffected by the cold wind blowing through the streets. First tilting his head to the left and then to the right, you hear the dealer's neck pop loudly.

"Your friends are fucking nuts man. Where'd he learn that shit?"

From deep within one of the pockets, he draws out an autoinjector pen. He rests it against the tear duct and you can hear the injector activate, flooding the Ragman's eye and blood system with drugs.

Heh - looks like Mitch's pitch din't pass muster - guy's not buyin' the act. Ain't his fault - he done his best an' don't have no trainin' in stageplayin'. Shore as hell ain't no cause fer Raggedy Andy here ta be speakin' thataway about him...

With the jig up anyway, and just a wee bit angry, Al broke character. "Hey now, Hoss, ta paralyze the Good Book, afore ya go pulling specks o' dust outta yer neighbor's eye, check fer big heaps o' crud in yer own - by which I mean that folks 'at talks ta imaginary friends ain't got no bizness callin' mi compadre here nuts - be it of the fucking or any other variety."

He dropped his butt to the ground and stamped it out. Looking back up, he asked, "An' speakin' o' stuff in eyes, you gon' shoot yer whole stash in there, or sell us some?"

The Alley
"There's stuff for me and stuff for you, and even stuff for them."

With the last, he gestures broadly as if to encompass the entire city in that single gesture.

"If you are here for the hostages, let me see the ransom and a list of demands. Perhaps the hostages can be bartered for."

Al didn't miss a beat.

"Slow down, there, Ragtime. That there stuff is waaaay above our pay grade. Our op'rational parameters is ta secure proper lines o' communication, an' then we's tasked with confirming that the, er, merchandise is intact and ready for transport. Once we have eyes on the package, then, and only then, do we contact the brass about all the rest. So lead on, amigo, provided yer still straight enuff ta find yer way back home."

The Alley

"We must be united. We cannot afford the luxury of conflict."

He pats his coat lovingly, running fingers over each different patch and rag that comprises the whole.

"Pay their ransom and each hostage will be released."

With a flick of his wrist, an inhalant comes from beneath a patch in his jacket.

"I'm afraid it may not work out for this one. His ransom must be paid quickly else his time shall come."

Mitch, ignoring the strange rambling of both the dealer and Al, shrugs and pulls out some cash. He flips through the bills and looks up at the dealer, "How many hostages can I free for a cool 100?"

The Alley

"Well obviously that will depend on whether you want valuable hostages, or pathetic wastes of oxygen like this one here."

The Ragman shakes his hand to gesture towards the inhalant he is holding, as well as, to prep it for use.

"Minor hostages you can buy five ransoms, for El Presidente you are halfway there." He turns his attention back to Al momentarily. "Though I can make you a deal. If you are willing to kill this one to prove yourself to the revolution, then we can split the cost of the hostages, and you can have some yourself for the next group of ne'er do-goods to come along."

He tosses the inhalant to Al.

"Go on, kill him. Suck the life out of his pathetic existence."

Like hell I will - like ta go skinny-dippin' inna pool o' leeches afore I surrender my sensibilities ta the lordship of unnatural pleasures, thought Al as he caught the inhaler in both hands. But he said: "Don't mind if I do, neighbor."

He unzipped his jacket and pulled up his yellowing T-shirt. Some sort of large, dark tattoo loomed up from under his jeans and encroached on the sea of curly brown hair covering his shrivelled stomach. Cinching the shirt up almost to his left armpit revealed a nozzle protruding out of his side. As he fitted the inhaler to it, he glanced up at Mitch and Mr. Rags - "Fer some strange reason," he said, puffing on the fresh cigarette that had appeared in his mouth, "done got all these tumors an' shit in my throat. Anyway, the high hits faster an' harder this way - straight to the source."

With that, he pulled the lever and held it until the dispenser sputtered. Almost immediately, his eyes rolled up in their sockets and then bounced back into place.

"Woooohoooo. Caramba!"

He took a faltering step and slipped on something slick, falling into a pile of garbage and sending a family of rats scurrying.

Shaking his head as if to clear it, he looked at the dealer - "Now that's the stuff, muchacho. An' I 'specially liked whatcha said about givin' us custody of some o' them there hostages for further release ta our good friends. Hostage release, ransom collectin', now that's the biz we's aimin' ta be in."

The Alley

After watching Al inject the drugs straight into his lungs, or believing it at least, the Ragman's tone transitions yet again under the untenable weight of his fractured psyche. The rhythm changes to one reminiscent of a beatnick poet.

"Well alright then. The time has come for our work to be done. With the Revolution of Evolution, there will be some, changes..."

The last word is softly stretched out over a two-count, a sharp contrast to the energetic and emphatic statements before.

"With an elevation of negotiation, one should take pause and examine the yearnings of our cause. Reflection and introspection will give herald to the erection of our new gods...

"Do you not concur or would you prefer to discuss the matter at hand... A land of Sin and Vice with morality lost within the price of life...

"Rhymes must end as time descends upon us. Show me...the money..."

He extends his hand, with each long, gangly finger uncurling one at a time.

"Money? Brother, you got us all wrong," Al said as he gingerly picked himself up out of the pile of rancid garbage. His joints could almost be heard creaking in protest. "Like I been tryin' ta tell ya, we was only gon' ransom yer hostages to see if they wuz alive an' kickin'. An' judgin' by the buzz I got on me right now, I'd say they's alive an' playin' the damned World Cup. Now thatcha done give me a free sample, we ain't got no call ta be spendin' money on no penny ante shit. We want in the ransomin' biz ourselves, an' I reckon we gots to git a mite higher up the food chain fer that ta happen."

Al picked a befuddled centipede off of his jacket collar and sent it flying into the rubbish. "So by hook or by crook, it's Take Me to Yer Leader time, hombre. We's goin' inta bizniss tagether."

*** pop ***

"Hostages?"

*** pop ***

The Alley

Everything around you drops into a sudden silence as the Ragman stops speaking, stops moving, stops being. You can hear the steady breaths of yourself and the people near you, heightened hearing can even pick up heartbeats.

"I offered you your chance. Deception though it is a cunning tool, only lasts as long as you are able to maintain it. Had you inhaled the drug, you would know how to find the others, as he found me. Now I fear you will be come the hostages."

With that last, his hand goes to his back beneath the coat.

*** pooop ***

"Hostages! ... Move it!"

Mitch sighs and begins to draw the knife he had ready.

The Alley

As the Ragman slides an inhalant out from beneath his coat, Al charges forward and delivers a solid combat boot to the drug-dealers shadow. Combinations of recreational drugs course through his system as he sidesteps the kick and takes another deep puff.

The Van
All around Bubbles lights on the console activate and the engine revves back to life. Pesto still appears as comatose as before, though with riggers and VR it's hard to tell where their attention is focused.

The Alley

Moving with a speed belying his roll-over and take it nature, Mitch twists the blade in his hand and thrusts the pommel into the drug-crazed dealer. With a step continuing his momentum behind the Ragman your drug hound grabs the dealer's arm and pulls it up tight.

Not one to waste words about fair play and all that, Al reaches into the fray and helps throw the dealer to the ground. With a knee from each assailant driving deep into his kidneys, the Ragman coughs and jerks, rabidly trying to get free.

The Alley

With a rasping spasm that reaches down to the toes of the drug dealer, the Ragman coughs and bits of flesh and blood spill out to pavement. You feel his body go slack beneath your grip.

"Joseph and Mary in the manger! Dagnabbit!" Al's commlink was in his hand - "Bubbles, gon' need you Johnny-on-the-spot with muh satchel the second ya get here. Pesto, we might need some light." Without waiting for a reply, the shorter man looked up at Mitch - "Well, what say we roll 'im over and see if he's got any chance at all. An' while we're at it, keep them fingers crossed they ain't got no magical drug such as lets ya know when one of yer boys goes belly up."

Sun swears quietly to herself in Korean, forcing her perception astral, to scan the area for spiritual trouble.

As soon as the Ragman goes limp Mitch jumps back from the body, giving Al the room he needs to work. "Bloody Hell." he mutters as the van's headlights illuminate the alley. "How's it looking? Got a pulse or anything?"

*** pop ***

"Hostages.. hostages, "*** pop ***"medkit, hostage."*** pop ***" medkit medkit.."

*** pop ***

Long before the van arrives Bubbles has snatched out the satchel and is ready to go. As it slows as it approaches the scene, she steps out and tosses the satchel ahead.

Grateful for the illumination of the van's headlights, Al grabbed the tossed satchel in both hands. As he opened it up, he answered Mitch's question - "Pulse? Hell, a pulse I kin git back - that's jist plumbin', an' he's only been down a few seconds. But if'n whatever happened to him did a number on his noodle, well, there won't be nothin' for it. Now cut his shirt open for me."

Al's scarred hands flew over the Ragman's inert form, attaching leads and applying adrenaline patches. He paused for just a moment however, and addressed the assembling team. Gesturing with his cigarette, he said, "Now let this serve as a lesson to ya 'bout the dangers o' recreational drugs."

Al
With the lights from the van, you are able to read the diagnosis from the medkit as it injects nanites into the dealer's body and begins to repair the damage. He is suffering from massive internal damage, at a cellular level. The damage seems to start at the Ragman's lungs and spread out from there.

"Holy Inhalants! Whatever this geezer jist sucked down is eatin' up from the inside! Sunny, I don' know how long I kin hold 'im, but I'm gon' try an' wake him up, an' you see if you kin sweet talk a clue out of him."

Team

With a surge of chemicals from the medkit, Al resuscitates the drug-dealer. The stimulants would do hell to his internals, but you would probably have a few minutes of lucidity.

Pesto waits in the van will the others are taking care of their contact. As he does so he switches focus to his small drone and then sends it up to get a better view of the surrounding area. The orc wants to make sure no one is coming their way.

With a quick wave of hands and a comm message to back it up Sun clears the others away from the victim as he starts to come round. She shifts her clothes to a shiny finish and a simple black color. Her features round out and her hair shortens and changes to a pleasing Auburn shade.

She leaves it a moment, then sprints to the drug-dealers side,

Her voice has a local twang, "Shit are you okay, did those assholes roll you? Crap you're a mess man, have you got any friends who could help you? I can call a friend and get you somewhere."

Sun's attitude is friendly concern. Her tone sincere, she continues talking trying to draw out information from the mark all the time sounding like she's some sort of good Samaritan. I you hadn't seen her do the change you suspect you'd believe she was one of the last decent folk in Seattle.

Sun

"Friends. No friends...in town. Doc, Docwagon on way. Take coat."

The Ragman shrugs his shoulders and gets one shoulder free of the coat before his body goes rigid and falls limp.

*** pop ***

"We gonna have to find another one of these guys?"

Bubbles chews thoughtfully for a moment, "Be difficult since we flushed everything."

Sun scoops the coat up, "Time to move sweethearts Docwagon incoming. This guy says he has no friends in town. But his coat may have something useful."

She chucks the coat to Al and searches the Ragman's body for anything else that could be useful, thanking all the gods that she wears gloves as a matter of course.

Catching the coat, Al sought to allay Bubbles' concerns - "Not ta worry, yer Gloriousness, whatever he done tried to feed me is safe right here," he said, tapping his ribs, "an' he alleged as how that was another one o' them dealer detector concoctions. Plus we done got his whole stash, not ta mention this," he said as he bent down and picked an inhaler off the ground, "the stuff he done sucked down right before he tried to check out on us."

Suddenly, the little man's mind was aswirl with things that didn't seem to add up. "Sweet cheeks, he got a bracelet or somethin'? Hell, he shore din't make no calls. If he's got a contract that they'll track him here on jist from his vitals goin' south, this boy had some serious cred. An' why be lookin' fer a Doc Wagon pick up if'n ya wuz jist tryin' to off yerself? Raises a whole lot o' disturbin' possibilities....Bubbles, you got a way to scan this here rag afore we mount up?" he asked, referring to the man's coat with a gesture, but casting his eyes about on the ground under the illumination of the van's headlights.

Sun
You quickly run your fingers across his cooling body. The Ragman has little of interest on him, his pockets have a book of matches, lint and a now cracked glass pipe. There is an almost healed scar from an incision just above his hip bone near the spine.

Al was pleased to see there was enough mud and dust around to easily pick up the Ragman's tracks. Confident he could follow the trail, he turned his attention to the coat (checking carefully for sharps) while Sun checked the man's body.

Al

The coat is much heavier than you expected it to be. Several small pockets sewn into the coat and under different rags have pockets jammed full with drugs and inhalants. There are also several rigid plates sewn into the fabric at various points. Not enough to armor against a rough and tumble fight, but perhaps enough to turn a lethal shot into slightly less.

Sun pockets the Ragman`s possessions.

"Any sign of incoming? The corpse has a scar that might hide something of interest."

Sun reveals the scar to the on lookers.

"Surgery note my scene, I`ll head vanwards."

Sun follows through on her statement. As she goes she checks the matchbook over for addresses or anything else of note.

"Well alrighty then," said Al. Once Sun was in the van he handed her the Ragman's coat, holding it just high enough that she had to bend over a bit to reach it. Shore does smell good, he thought, reconsidering some of his preferences.

"Someone git ready to hold 'im if he wakes up again," he said, kneeling and producing a mean-looking survival knife from its sheath at the small of his back. He had a couple of sterile blades in the medkit, but wasn't going to contaminate them with this pusher's blood when one of his new friends might need help at some point. He did, however, make sure to put on a pair of surgical gloves - who knew what was in this fella's system?

He started by pressing the flesh around the scar, feeling for anything out of the ordinary with his own senses, then tried the medkit's scanner, though he wasn't sure whatever was in there would show up as invasive or even non-bio. Listening for sirens, he continued by applying the point of the sharp blade to the recent incision. He sliced along the line of the old cut, used his left thumb and forefinger to open the wound, examined the field, and then started probing with the knife.

Al

Probing the incision with your fingers, you feel a definite lump. The medscanner confirms that there is a foreign substance within the now cooling body. Carefully, you cut into the scar, reopening a similar incision, with cruder surgical implements.

As you probe the wound, you are able to pull out a security tag which had been implanted just beneath the fatty layer.

Holding the thing in his left hand, Al turned his left-hand glove inside-out around the thing, so that it was off his hand and basically wrapped around the bloody device, and then handed it to Bubbles.

It suddenly occurred to him that the thing might be able to hear him, so he'd better shut his mouth, even if it was a mite after the fact.

Sun
The matchbook is black with silver lettering "Bar Krutenau" and an address in Tacoma. On the inside, black print against the white lining states, "Feines Bier, Gute Nahrung"

Two matches are missing from the book.

Sun smiles, and sends the details to then team over her comm.