"Must be really needing more beer quick..." *** *** pop ***

"Get the dregs out of cans out back, usually a couple decaliters if you break open the compression cylinders... but the best stuff is inside."

With a practiced eye the troll scans the bar's security.

A shifting landscape of discarded metahuman waste litters the small alley on the outskirts of Tarislar, lit only by the single headlamp of the stationary Harley Scorpion. Ryan Locke sits on the edge of a broken soy dispenser, idly inspecting the heavy pistol he had acquired earlier in the evening. Despite the gravity of the elf's current situation, he can't help but smile as he recalls the earlier incident.

As Ryan casually disassembles the Predator, the sound of footsteps echoes from the darkness near the entrance to the alley. The newcomer trod purposefully into the alley, deliberately letting his hard-soled boots ring against the concrete, announcing his arrival for their mutual safety. It wasn't necessarily prudent to sneak up on people in the Barrens.

Snapping the pistol's barrel out, Ryan casually glances through it toward the newcomer, an elf who stops just inside the circle of light from the bike's lamp. The elf runs his slim fingers though his long flowing hair, a perfect match to the silver studs decorating his green and black leather jacket.

"You've got to put an end to this."

Ryan shakes his head, his eyes never leaving the other elf while his hands continue to reassemble the pistol with practiced ease. "You know I can't."

"This personal vendetta is gonna get you killed. And not just you, but ..."

"That's just it. It shouldn't only be a personal vendetta, Flick. Those trogs shoulda been taken care of a long time ago. It's a matter of honor, but Lucifer's got his head so far up his ass he's ..."

"He's got his reasons."

"Not good ones."

Flick sighs heavily and leans back against the grimy alley wall. "Look, I'm just tryin' to tell ya how it is. Greenie ain't sanctioned you yet, but the way you are going, you are pushing him to the limit. You gotta back off."

The gunslinger slams the clip back into the reassembled pistol. "Back off? That's insane! With Torgo stuck in the slammer, this is the perfect time to take it right to them. And if Lucifer had any balls that is exactly what he would be doing."

"It ain't about balls! It's about common sense and ..."

"Bullshit! It's about money. He's more interested in paddin' his 'stick than doin' anything useful."

"That's definitely a matter of opinion. Doesn't matter anyway. I'm here to tell you that the word is to back off. He doesn't want or need any unforeseen backlashes from your personal blood feud."

"I bet!" Ryan stands, shoving the Predator into his belt then swinging his leg over the bike. "Well, you can tell him that you delivered the message." With a final nod to his friend, he kicks the big engine to life and roars out of the alleyway.

A few blocks later he turns into a McHugh's parking lot and pulls out his commlink and dials up Sun's number.

"Hey. What's the word?"

Sun answers her comm, like and old fashioned phone.

"Hey sweety nice to hear from you. The word appears to be beer. I'll send you an address, come and meet us, you could come in handy."

Sun looks up from her call, knocking the microphone off as she does. Addressing the team she speaks, "Flint has just checked in I'm sending him an address about a block from here, you guys check this place over, I'll go and meet him."

The mike goes back on. "So the address is incoming darling. Any news?"

Ryan smile tightens at the question "Nothing worth repeating. See ya in a nano."

The gunslinger spies a young elf eying him surreptitiously from the alley running beside the fast food joint. It was hard to tell beneath the dirt and torn clothes, but he figured the boy to be about 12 or 13. Kickstarting the bike once again, Ryan slowly cruises over to the entrance of the alley. The boy quickly ducks back into the darkness, but Ryan merely pulls the newly-gained pistol from his belt and tosses it in the young lad's general direction.

Not waiting to see the boy's reaction, the elf guns the Harley's throttle and heads out toward the address Sun sent him.

Sun grins, "Going for a walk to get us our gunman, sweethearts. I'll call if I need you."

Sun sends the address she gave Flint to Pesto, and with another image change into a passable elven skinhead punk she heads towards the address.

"No problem, baby. I'll be here watchin' the hack an' waitin' on the bug," Al replied, the omnipresent Lucky hanging from the corner of his mouth, his hands busy unwrapping a pump-action Remington 990 - one of the two bundles he'd brought from his doss.

Watching Sun make another transformation - this time into some sort of fashion-deranged bald punk rocker, he tried to figure out where all the hair had gone. And he also decided he needed to figure out some way to know she was who she was. Hell, 'bout anything with funbags could walk up on poor Al an' say they was good ol' Sunny, an' I'd be none the wiser.

Once she was out of the van, he started pulling EX-EX slugs out of his cargo pockets and cycling them into the weapon's magazine. All the while he kept one eye on the viewscreen of the third-rate commlink that sat beside him.

Sun grins at Al's confusion, and wanders of down the street lighting up another cigarette. A short walk brings her to the corner that she had sent to Flint. She settled herself against a wall and waited.

The streetlights warding off the darkness pass with ever increasing frequency as the elf uses the back roads to put the Barrens behind him, making his way from Tarislar to the rendezvous in Tacoma.

Vrooooom ....

Screeeeeeetch

"...ing slitch!'

Vrooooom ...

Hearing Bubbles report that the system is not on alert, the rest of the team preps for the initial foray. Al kneels down behind the bar, in the shadow of the dumpster, and pries open the panel for the small drone to enter.

Video feeds begin streaming over imagelinks and on the display screens of associated commlinks as sensor data from the drone is distributed over the team's PAN. The basement is clean swept with several large kegs in racks and tubing climbing up the wall from one bank of tapped kegs. A stairwell leads up from the beer cellar to the main bar.

Upstairs, the drone squeezes through a narrow gap and shows a tile floor with heavily stained grout. Raising up slowly, sensors sweep across the room showing several tables. In the corners, motion detectors blink idly. Behind the bar is a pass through to the kitchen. No lights from the rear office or restrooms shine under the door.

Outside, Al retreats back to the van as Sun and Flint return. The motorcycle lets out a deep, throaty growl in the otherwise quiet street.

"Only take about 30 seconds to haul off a keg... 'less you need more time for something?"

Unzipping or snapping open various interior tool carrying compartments by sliding her hands in various pockets and reaching under her intensely colored jumpsuit, her groping hands cause disturbing large bulges as she fetches, examines, and replaces various breaking and entering tools.

Triumphantly holding up the tool, "Aha, that's what we need."*** pop ***

At the mention of making off with a whole keg, Al's grin widened like the Cheshire Cat's. It was a feral expression, lips strained back from yellow teeth with a cigarette clamped in the center. "Well, Yer Majesty, appealin' as is the thought, I had been considerin' the possibility of spendin' a little longer in hopes o' turnin' up a clue or three."

Turning to Flint, he rasped, "Glad ya could make the party. Yer jist in time fer a li'l ol' look-see in yonder den of Deutsche iniquity, which, piss poor though it be, is our best lead so far in this morning's merry undertaking. The good news is that Pesto's pet don't see no one inside. But better safe than sorry, my Ma always told me..."

And with that, he pulled his Remington out of the back of the van, stamped out his Lucky, and stalked off toward the back door of Bar Krutenau.

Upon arrival, the elf nods his greetings to the group.

As he listens to Al filling him in on the situation, Ryan opens the seat compartment of his Harley and pulls out a tightly wrapped leather bundle. Trailing behind the human as they head towards the back door, he unwraps the bundle to reveal a studded, black leather gun belt, which he straps around his waist.

Pausing a moment to reposition the guns in their holsters, Ryan then nods to Al.

"Ready when you are, omae."

Once they were at the back door, Al leaned against the dumpster waiting for Bubbles to work her magic. He let his weapon hang from its shoulder strap, took out his knife, and unscrewed the top of the haft. Upended the blade, shook out a tightly wrapped roll of worn leather, and stuffed it in his jacket pocket in case he needed it inside. Replaced the knife and eyed Flint's gear. "Them's some right fancy peashooters ya got yerself tricked out with, amigo."

"Thanks."

Flintlock smiles and looks down at his rig, lovingly caressing the ivory grip of the matte black Roomsweeper slung low on his left hip. Looking up, he meets the human's gaze, all traces of a smile instantly gone, the inner twinkle of his emerald cybereyes belying the elf's serious demeanor.

"Too bad I don't get t' wear 'em as off'n as I'd like."

With a quick swipe of the card, there is a momentary glimmer of hope that you may be able to get in without leaving any signs of tampering. Sadly, the passkey is unable to gain access to the building and Bubbles pops her gum and grabs a few tools.

Removing the case and rewiring the innards is not nearly as graceful, but rather effective. Within moments the hatch has opened and people are holding on to the lip and dropping down into the near pitch black darkness. Soft sounds of movement help those of you without heat sensing organs as the trolls quickly moves across the cellar and up the stairs.

With another quick swipe, the interior door opens to the electronic prodding of the passkey.

"Stay here."

Moving with a dreadful slowness, Bubbles passes across the bar and begins reprogramming the motion detectors. It takes almost two minutes as she slowly moves from one item to the next and cycles each one into a diagnostic mode. The upstairs is clear, beer cellar is unlocked and ready to start carting off kegs.

*** pop *** "So who we inviting over to party?"

"Well, Princess, that all depends on how much you kin carry outta here. Me, I'm gon' check the office."

As Pesto is waiting with Clara hovering inside the bar he leaves her for a moment to do a scan of the place for any security devices they may have missed.

Once everyone is safely inside and Bubbles gives the all clear Pesto sends the following message to the team:

"Ok now that we are in I am going to take Clara outside and move her into position to watch for any uninvited guests."

He then moves the drone back out the way it came in and then up into a position to watch the various approaches to the bar.

After giving the place a quick once over for signs of danger, Ryan plops down on a bar stool and contents himself with watching the activity.

"So, just what're we s'posed t'be lookin' for anyway?"

"Clues, I reckon," Al replied, lighting a cigarette as Bubbles worked on the office door. "Hell, ain't like I done a whole lotta drug lab huntin' before. But inna trids they's always snoopin' 'round the bad guys' offices an' they find some file that puts 'em onna right track. Figger alla that's based on realism ta one degree or another - no reason it can't work fer us."

With the team spreading out to start scouring the bar for clues and alcohol, Bubbles off-handedly hacks through the security encoded lock and forces it to open. Following a few steps behind her, Al stomps into the office and begins making a large mess as he pulls out drawers grabbing data crystals and dumping the years of detritis that has built up within the desk across the floor.

Flintlock starts looking around from his seat at the bar, when a reflection in the bar mirror catches his eye. The gunslinger moves behind the bar, where a heavy gauge shotgun is pressed into a magnetic grip. Beside it, mounted on the underside of the bar is a lockbox designed for an old-fashioned physical key.

Meanwhile, the tiny drone continues to flitter around the building scouring signals and searching out devices. It buzzes in and out of the office, noting short range wireless signals coming from beneath Al's feet and the bar near Flintlock.

'Ummm', Pesto thinks to himself as he goes over the readings being picked up from Clara's sensors.

He then communicates to the others over the commlinks:
"Al there is something emitting a short range wireless signal beneath your feet. Perhaps there is some sort of hidden trap door.

Flint you also have something emitting a wireless signal near your position at the bar."

<<Roger that, baby.>> Al croaked into his commlink's pick-up. He pocketed the collection of crystalline optical chips he'd pilfered and kicked all the garbage he'd dumped onto the floor into the corners of the room. Next he was on all fours, his bony knees scraping the floor through his ripped fatigues, the haft of his knife tapping at the floor like a carpenter looking for studs.

After experimentally tilting over the nearest kegs the troll nods to herself and tips a couple on the side and rolls them to the door like giant soda cans. On her second trip back Bubbles pauses at the audio input, *** pop *** "Need me to unlock more stuff for you?" she stage whispers up the stairs.

Flintlock yawns as he suveys the room.

"I'm beginnin' t' think this is a w ... wait a nano, what's this?"

Spying the old shotgun, the elf smoothly vaults over the bar. Reaching for the weapon, he spots a box under the bar just as Pesto's message reaches him. Suddenly cautious, Ryan pauses before touching anything, instead calling the others over.

"Hey hey! Looks like we got some kinda box here."

Al

Tapping the floor boards with your knife, you quickly find a spot beneath you that sounds denser than the rest. Unfortunately, there are no obvious access points from the office floor. At least none that you have found.

"Well alrighty, reckon I found the source o' that signal Pesto tipped to. Now just gotta git at it," Al announced to Flint and Bubbles as they worked on whatever they'd found at the bar.

Al
You pace around the room, looking for an access panel or latch, but are unable to find one. On a hunch, you stomp down the stairs back into the basement. Looking up at the ceiling, you locate roughly where the signal is coming from, but nothing is apparent from this side either.

Either someone better trained at finding things will need to come inside, ro you are going to have to break a few things.

Sun paces outside while the others search,

Guys do you want me to come on in and give the place a look? I'm kind of trained to find shit.

Ryan has finally decided that the shotgun poses him no danger, and is currently in the process of retrieving it from its place under the bar. He pauses, shaking his head in response to Sun's comment.

"So then why didn't ya come on in in the first place?"

Ryan
You feel the quick-release mechanism and trigger it with the tip of your finger. Pulling the shotgun free of its place, you can imagine the barman doing the same thing with unruly guests. Induction pads along the forend and stock have been modified for a wireless signal. Your smartlink queries if you'd like it to interface.

Running your hands down the sleek metal and ceramic parts, you find that most of the weapon has seen one modification or another. The fully automatic capabilities have been removed, leaving short burst and semi-automatic fire options. The external hardware has almost entirely been replaced with a hardened ceramic material.

Because you needed someone, to keep an eye out, out here sweetheart.

With that Sun begins to head inside, following the route the others took.

Forsaking the box for the time being, the elven gunslinger slowly walks back around the bar, lovingly caressing the old shotgun. Once again seating himself on a barstool, Ryan proceeds to lose himself in disassembling his new toy.

Once inside Sun starts examining everything, quickly but very systematically. Her eyes dart round quickly and her hands delicately probe every gap, and run over every surface.

As Sun began her examination, Al reached with his shotgun and tapped the spot on the ceiling of the basement that had him stumped. "This here's whut's got me licked, toots. Pesto done picked up a signal onna floor o' the office, which is this here spot from down thisaway. I can't find no way ta git at it from here or upstairs. An' the more hid it is, the more I reckon I wanna take a gander at it."

Once the elven temptress was on the job, Al busied himself checking the kegs that Bubbles hadn't yet moved over by the beer chute - he wanted to make sure all of them were as heavy as they would be if they really held beer. He also looked around for any valves or tubing that could indicate work with aerosols.

Once he was done doing that, he made a cursory inspection of the kegs slated for purloinment, reckoning there were some inventory RFIDs on them somewhere that might prove pesky in the future if not removed in the present.

Sun

The office has been throughly trashed, if not searched. You run your fingers along the underside of the desk and feel the lightest bump. Kneeling down you see that it is a temperature sensitive RFID. A dark green runs across the otherwise black surface from where your fingers slid across it.

Holding your fingers on the tag for a few seconds, there is a hiss near your feet as pneumatic systems activate. The tag is a bright red of 310 degrees kelvin. A section of the floor lifts up and slides beneath the desk as a chrome device rises up. You can see through the windowed area that the device is currently active and constructing something.

Al
The kegs are divided into two sections, full and empty. The full kegs all weigh in heavily enough that you are convinced they are full. Rocking the empty ones to be sure, most of them still have dregs of liquid in the bottom which you hear splash around. There are no valves or tubing present.

You do a quick check for tags, none found. Either the tags are inside the kegs' lining or they aren't being used.

Flintlock continues to play with the shotgun, looking up only occasionally at the activity around him. Snapping the last piece back in place, he then strolls over to where Al is busy with the kegs.

"So, what's the plan with all this beer anyway?"

Sun grins, "Et Voila. Now if some one cares to grad that doohickey maybe you can tell us what it does. Now lets grab anything else we want to grab, start a fire and make this look like a gang doing a beer raid, okay?"

"Well," Al answered the elven gunslinger, "drink it, I reckon. Less'n you gotta better idear. Jist now been discernin' that there're none o' them pesky RFID tags on 'em. Nope, clean as a whistle. Now let's see whut's keepin' the ladies."

Heading upstairs, they found Sun and Bubbles examining the device that had arisen from the floor. Al let out a low whistle. "Soak me in tar an' run me through a chicken coop - I done toldja there wuz clues in here - guess it jist took a womern's touch to suss 'em out."

In response to Sun's suggestion about an exit strategy, Al produced his big zippo and started looking behind the bar for something harder than beer.

*** pop *** "Dunno where's that been, don't want to touch that."

Bubbles

The closest you can guess is that the device is a desktop forge. It certainly is not a standard model as there seems to be a secondary system for nanite replenishment and no filtering process keeping the nanites out of the developed product. The base material isn't anything you are used to seeing or hearing about for industrial cunstruction.

Al

Reaching under the bar you are able to find several bottles that smell to have a high enough proof to put hair on your chest and light fires. Most of the labels are written in German and Polish.

Al hummed to himself as he worked. If that contraption was what he thought it was - and what else would it be, hiding in the floor like that - this gig could be halfway to payday....

As he lined up a few choice-looking bottles of Central Eurotrash snog on the bar, he noticed the small, locked box under the counter. Hauling the small bundle of leather out of his pocket and unrolling it next to the bottles, he looked at the collection of picks it contained and selected a couple. Hunching down, he set to work on the lock...

Ryan finds himself back on the same barstool he previously occupied, this time watching Al as he moves about behind the bar. Seeing that he has spotted the box, the elf clears his throat.

"Um, hey Al. Pesto said somethin' 'bout some kinda 'lectronic signal comin' from 'round there. Might wanta be a bit careful."

A pick between his teeth, Al looked up and clicked a long, tobacco-stained fingernail a couple of times against one of his eyeballs, saying, "Yeah, never can be too careful with things that go boom. Done found that out the hard way over Cambodia-way back in '64."

Al

Despite your best efforts, the lock refuses to open. Most likely, it's one of those new fangled locks that requires both manual adjustment and electronic input. Laser cut keys and all that...

Confidence unwaivering, you are able to say for certain that there is no bomb.

"Well, I done jiggered this thing eight ways ta Sunday, an' she ain't blowed us up yet. But I almost wish she would, cuz she's shut tighter'n a Catholic girl's legs durin' Lent."

He glances over at the office - "Hey, Bubbles, can ya toss me a microspanner?"

Al
You set back to shoving the lockpicks into the keyhole and juggle the tumblers as best you are able. While holding them in position, you tenusously apply different levels of voltage to the lock. The voltimeter responds back as you cycle through low grade currents on par with RFID tags.

With the proper voltage found, the box tumbles open as both hands are busy holding the tools. The lid stays bolted to the underside of the counter and the main box shows several vials encased in heavy polymer. In addition to the vials, several inhalant poppers cascade down to your feet.

"Bingo! Okay people - now I reckon we got everything we came here for," Al called out as he pocketed the polymer-wrapped vials and then gathered up the inhalers.

His booty secured, he opened the liquor bottles he'd found, preparing to douse whatever looked flammable. But even as he picked up the first flask, he had a thought.

"Hey y'all - we's gittin' paid ta do two things right? The Cap'n wants us to destroy the manufacturin' facilities, an' also we gotta finger whoever's runnin' or financin' this here operation. Well, between the contraption ya got in there an' this all I got in my pockets, I'm willin' ta bet at least two or three fingers, an' my sim career ta boot, that we done handled the first bit already. So if we's lookin' to find out who's in charge, this here place is still our best lead. We burn it, they send some chumps ta pick through the mess, an' they'll have their guard up. We hide out inside here, whoever's cookin' with that there gadget'll eventually show up, none the wiser the joke's on him. We kin review all these chips I got outta the office while we wait. An' hell, it ain't like we's gon' get thirsty!"

"That mean I get to play barmaid when the regulars show up?"