::October 17, 2070::
::Seattle::

The night is crisp with a strong wind blowing across Lake Washington off the east. Come morning, the western swells will push the clouds back over Seattle, but for tonight a full moon fights against the glare of urban light pollution. Sirens squawk as Lonestar patrols burn down the freeway in response to the latest mad strike by Halloweeners.

With holiday spirit rising, the gang is making forays into normally untouched areas. Fires burn across the east side, with small blazes in the outer edges of Bellevue and Bothell.

Stepping over bliss-puddles and chipheads who will be dead by sunrise, Ashan moves from fire barrel to fire barrel.

"Just something to take the edge of night off," he says.

"To deal with the hour of the wolf," he offers another.

Within hours, he has given away dozens if not hundreds of doses. Ashan knows that others are doing the same across the metroplex. A mild amp or a bottle of booze. To him it doesn't matter.

The first one is always free, and tomorrow they would come to him.

::October 17, 2070::
::Seattle::

Axe has just arrived in the plex. Those near shy away from him, not because of his size or the way he is dressed, he wears normal cloths - jeans, T-Shirt, leather jacket - No the reason they shy away from him is his manner, and the way he carries himself. His eyes are on fire, always watching, always aware.

He snags his bags and heads out onto the streets, his head buzz's and spins, he takes int eh urban atmosphere after what has felt like ages, but has only been a decade, away from any sort of urban sprawl.

Axe smiles as he see's some gangers wreck a cabbies windshield and run for it laughing, he walks up as the cabbie is cursing at the gangers and offers the driver a new windshield as well as he cab faire to help show him round town and show him a place to set up, this night is as good as any to get settled in and apparently back a few heads to keep it interesting.

::October 17, 2070::
::Seattle::

The glare of Neon and sodium light glints off the silver Phaeton. It glided through the streets of Downtown getting glances of awe and envy from the nights revellers. It silently pulled to a stop outside Icarus Descending and the door swung open allowing Jason King, Ares Seattle's director of finance stepped out his dark hair slicked back his suit perfectly tailored round his military standard physique. He stops and offers a hand to someone in the Limo.

For an accountant he's got a nice arse

A hand in a long leather glove takes the offer and a image of dark beauty steps out of the limo. Three inch heels in patent black, semis transparent black stockings and a simple black dress, backless, strapless and with enough slit up one side to show off the shapeliness of her leg and a glimpse of her stocking tops. Her hair is dark and twisted into a complicated coil on the top of her head, throwing off delicate wisps to frame her face in a delicate halo. Her face is delicate, very elven with bright blue eyes, her mouth sensual. She wears no noticable make up and her only jewelry is an art-deco brooch on a velvet chocker accenting her long neck.

King smiles at her briefly she smiles demurely as her compliments her for the seventeenth time this evening, she smiles demurely back, her eyes suggest that she'll thank him later for his attentiveness, with a hint of lust that doesn't match the shy smile. Jason gives her his arm and they walk into the restaurant, the maitre de leads then to table and hands them both menus.

"If you'll excuse me, darling." says the woman her accent hinted with eastern european tones, "I need to powder my nose."

Jason stands like a perfect gentleman, and does a fair job of hiding his admiring looks as her watches her walk to the bathroom.

The lady reaches the toilet and heads straight into a cubicle gracing the attendant with a smile.

Once in the cubicle Sun concentrates for a few minutes her face flickers slightly then settles back into the "Orianna's" features. She then adjusts her contacts to make her pupils dilate a little more, King likes the implication of her using drugs, weird guy.

Orianna returns and smiles as King explains he took the liberty of ordering. Her attention is solely on him, sweet and shy and slightly in awe, except for the eyes, they show hidden lust.

At a table nearby a Shiawase exec talks to a politician about contracts, Sun takes notes.

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

The curvy Asian elf smiles at the security guard on the door of a high class appointment block. "Yeah, my usual house call, Lester." She says grinning at the security guard she's in a tight mini skit, a skimpy corset top fuck me boots, and a long black velvet coat trimmed with fur. "You know what he's like, he get his needs at all hours." She pats a leather satchel she carries to emphasize her point and Lester grins, he understands that his job is to turn a blind eye and forget the residents foibles, but he can enjoy them when they happen. He thinks the world of this young tart and is amazes she manages to keep the art-deco sliver on velvet choker she always wears. He hold the door for her and watches her clack across the marble to the lift.

Sun waits for the door to open before dropping out of character, she knows her boss makes sure it never records the actual entry. The Penthouse is dark, and silent. Sun
quietly activates systems in her gloves, places the satchel down near the lift door and steps into the penthouse as her heels drop into flats.

Boss are you okay?

::October 17, 2070::
::Seattle::

Hey little sister, where you goin' to now?
Sellin' yourself for a bottle of whiskey
Hey little sister, where you gone to now?
Cold stars, in the night sky
They don't care if you're free
So have the courage - reach out to me.

The hoarse wailing from the jukebox made a perfect match with the shadowed interior of Dirty Dick's Fine Food and Spirits, or so thought Al as he upended his plastic beer stein and waited impatiently for the last few drops of Grolsch to trickle down to his lips. Putting the stein back down on the water-ringed table, he sucked greedily on his filterless Lucky Strike - the hot smoke felt good in his lungs, helped keep him warm. A cold early-winter wind was blowing off the Sound and straight through the numerous cracks between the raw planks that passed for the walls of this dockside watering hole. His ancient brown leather jacket was zipped up to the neck, but the numerous holes in his jeans let the chill in anyway.

Hey little sister where you gone to now?
The cold hearts in your dollar hotel
They don't give a damn
About your misery's creation.

"Why ya gotta always play this song, Al? Guy sounds like a donkey." It was Darla, a stubbly-legged 25-year-old with four kids and an old man in the joint. She looked forty.

"He sings from the heart," croaked Al. His voice sounded like a corpse being dragged through a gravel pit. He went back to his Lucky, trying to ignore her, until she plopped a fresh brew down on the warped table top.

Darla looked down at the little man. He was shorter than she was, and thinner too, the bastard. But there might've been a handsome face there, once, under the broken nose and weather-beaten skin; tobacco-yellowed teeth. She jerked a thumb at a table full of orks - three dock workers in watch caps and faux-fleece vests. "They say they're buyin'...if you never play that damned song in this place again."

Hey little sister, your Mommy and Daddy
Tried to put out the fire in your eyes
But water fed the flames.

Al nodded at the tusked longshoremen in thanks, and the biggest one threw him the bird, daring him.

Hey little sister my kisses
Will heal up the scars on your face.

He raised a hideously burn-scarred left hand and returned the one-finger-salute with a grin, holding it there, taunting.
But just as the three started to get up, he reached over with his right hand and bent the upraised finger back at the middle knuckle with a snap that made the fat bartender turn and look. Jutting out at an unnatural angle, he grasped the maimed finger again and gave a savage twist, breaking the last knuckle. He raised his eyebrows at the orks, questioning.


Hey little sister my kisses
Will sew up the holes in your heart.

The orks sat back down - only a fool fought a crazy man.
Al enjoyed the beer. The night was young.

Come back, my darling
You're all the family I've ever, ever had.

::October 17, 2070::
::Seattle::

*** POP ***

"Hey Bubbles you been working on that stuff all day? Don't you sleep?"

Pointing at her mouth, masticating busily, the young troll shouted in return over the loud Short Stuff music blaring from sets of partially dismantled speaker boxes, "NO-DOZ flavor!"

Pointing at various pieces of electronic gear strewn haphazardly across the workbench, "Fixed Dot's trid unit. the Everest Apartments door and elevators controllers, the church van's anti collision sensors, Knuckles jammer, new spoofed commcodes on those dozen boosted Ikons, and I'm trying to figure out what this is."

Holding up an L shaped piece of plastic with a randomly distributed set of connectors and actuators she keyed a power sequence that set one end of the L to a slow spin.

"I think it's an artificial elbow, where'd you get it?"

*** POP ***

Bubbles tossed the odd piece of gear onto the bunch and grinned, "I'll figure something to do with that."

Squatting back down on the floor so she could work at a comfortable height with the human standard sized table, the young troll in brightly blazing colored outfit of a blinking Blaze Orange and Neon Yellow alternating smart tees, and Ultra Black and Angel White shorts, delicately picked out a small electronics metering tool from her kit and reached for the next item in the stack of electronic detritus the gangers had scavenged. Her bare feet with glossy rotating image toenail paint leave a trail of glowing after sight as she taps on the floor to the beat of the dwarven rock bands latest club dance hit.

"Hey, could you toss me that pack of cinnamon oatmeal gum?"

*** POP ***

"Burp", pops out of Pesto's mouth as he places the empty wine glass down on the table. With a satisfied sigh he scans his plate once more to make sure he hasn't missed anything. Unfortunately the only sight that meets his brown eyes is the residual streaks of tomato sauce left over from his latest Italian feast.

Deciding that it was time to take off Pesto waves over the waitress for the check. "Was everything ok, sugar", she asks as she keys in the final bill. Pesto smiles and replies with a slight southern accent, "Sure was ma'am. This is one of the better pizzeria's I have been to since coming to Seattle. I am definitely adding Genero's to my list." He then transmits the bill amount with a generous tip.

Pesto gets up with a small groan. He brushes some bread crumbs off of his small pot belly and then notices another food stain on his worn-out shirt. Shaking his head, Pesto then examines his worn-out cargo pants to make sure they also do not have any new stains. Satisfied that there are no new stains he grabs his beat up leather jacket and heads outside.

::October 17, 2070::
::Renton::

The elf scowls in distaste as he takes another sip of the lukewarm soycaf. His emerald eyes quickly scan the interior of the small shop, taking note of the other three customers and the tired-looking orc waitress, before returning to the view barely afforded by the grimy front window of Dunky's Donuts.

Ryan Locke scowls once again at the taunting sight of the big bike sitting alone in front of the small block of apartments across the street. Still no sign of the troll ganger he had followed here all the way from Loveland. The lone Spike had been in there for well over an hour now, and the thought of even one more mug of bad soycaf, or even good soycaf for that matter, was almost enough to make the blond elf throw in the towel.

But not quite. Eyes sparkling unnaturally under the glaring flourescent lighting, Ryan waves the orc over for yet another refill, as he resigns himself to maintaining his self-appointed vigil.

::October 18, 2070::
::Seattle::

A slim red head in t-shirt and dirty jeans, sits half way through a cup of decent coffee and a danish in an all night coffee house just outside of the UW campus, student caffeine freaks sat round the edges discussing the night's parties, wondering whether to hit a night club, none of them thought to ask the red head to join them. She finished her coffee and went outside lighting a menthol Cigarette as she stepped outside. She walked a discrete distance and took a long drag on her cig while looking at the stars.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, okay Sun pull your shit together. Someone did this find them, remove them, carry on the work. Okay what do I need to do that. money and allies. Fuck the boss never gave me his call list. Okay go with who you know. Can't trust clients, they could have ordered this. Runners would do the trick,allies and cash. Okay stop recording this <<<delete file y/n>>> y. Delete complete

A decision made Sun heads into the night.

::October 17, 2070::

Mitch awoke with a start, sitting up straight on the inch thick piece of foam he called a bed. With a groan he fell back and slowly rubbed his face. The dreams were back and this had been a doozie. His body was soaked with a thin layer of sweat despite the non-existent heating in his apartment. He slowly rolled out of bed and staggered to the bathroom. Shower first. Then food… He stopped to look in the mirror and immediately wished he hadn't. He looked like shit. His hair was greasy and matted to his head, his eyes bloodshot and he really needed a shave.

He slowly dug through the small assortment of whiskey bottles that were crowded on to the edge of bathroom sink. Empty. All of them. Shit. He stretched in front of the mirror and gave himself another look over. Fuck it. Unwashed he wandered back to the bedroom and grabbed yesterdays clothes off the floor and got dressed. He'd clean himself up later, right now he needed a drink.

Five minutes later he staggered out the front door of his nearly condemned building, surprised at how dark it was outside. The flashing billboard across the street only worked half the time, and half of the time when it was working it was wrong, but not this time. 10:00pm? Damn. That must have been one hell of dream… He'd slept the whole day away. Well the boring daylight part of it...

With a sigh he began wandering down the street, looking for a bar where he didn't owe any money…

::October 18, 2070--0100 local::
::Seattle::

Axe
The cabbie chats with you for awhile as he shows you the sights of Tacoma. Strung out whores walk the streets looking for the next John to roll for a fix. Auto-cabs cut through the traffic with speed and precision that your driver can't match, launching him into a diatribe about loss of humanity and an over-reliance on god-forsaken machines--did we learn nothing from that god-damned travesty at the Arc?

Sun
Thoughts and plans course through your mind. Every tool and trick you had been trained is put to work as you re-examine dealings with your mentor, his dealings. Who could have done this? Why?

An incoming call stirs you from your reverie. ID Unknown.

Al
Mutters of "whackjob" float across the bar, but no one makes anything of it. Before you can make anything of it, your commlink chirps with an incoming phone call. Glancing down, you recognize the ID as Hun.

"Ahhl, how you do? Man came here looking for you. Said he had work. You call him, kay?"

Bubbles
You shove the last piece of electronic detritus off to the side. With every scrounged part you could find, you were able to repair most of the items laid out for you, though the wireless convertor for the toaster is absolutely shot.

Chewing the last piece of smore's flavored gum **Now with POWER crystals**, you stand up and work the kinks out of your lower back. An incoming call is routed through your imagelink and you see a thumbnail image of Donnie D in your upper right display section.

"Bubbles, you remember that job you did, you know when, well I need another one like it, different people, different boss. You game?"

Pesto
Pulling your coat closed against the harsh wind, you begin heading home. It'd be good to get some sleep, the meal sating you and pushing the heavy urge to nap. Of course it could have been the want of sleep that cursed you.

Vinnie is sucking back on a cigar which you can almost smell across the link, with his feet on the desk in front of him. He was conspicuously casual, slacks, suspenders, and an old wife beater. His shirt and jacket lay on the desk near his feet.

"This is your talent call. Take it or don't, but favors are being called in and you are the chip I'm willing to spend. You up for a little work?"

Flintlock
Leafbiter.

The trog had barely gotten the word out before taking two rounds in the chest. He went down knocking his bike over in the process and wasn't making an motions towards getting back up as you kicked the gun away from his hand.

Poppers bulge out of his pockets and spill on to the sidewalk mixing with his fresh blood.

Incoming Call blinks across your vision. Brian calling could only mean work.

Mitch
Lurching down the street to the Waterfront, you stumble in with a crowd of industry kids off work and ready for a couple drinks. Most of the patrons take one whiff of you and give you obviously hostile looks. Shaking them off, you sit at the bar and order whiskey. The whole bottle.

The Fomori behind the bar sizes you up and shakes his head. There is no disgust in that look, only pity.

"Take it and get out. Find something, anything, that you care about before you come back."

As you stumble down the alley, heading towards home, the feeling hits you. Someone is here, watching you, moving close. Another ass-beating is in your future.

::October 18, 2070--0100 local::
::Seattle::

Sun jumps, she wasn't expecting a call.
"Fuck," an uncharacteristic exclamation escapes her lips. It's being a bad night.
For a second or two she hesitates, and then with a deep breath answers the call.

Sun Soon Gear speaking, what can I do for you?

::October 18, 2070--0100::
::Seattle::

Al hauled the pesky commlink out of his jacket pocket. Limited to a lens/mic - screen/speaker connection, he held the bargain-basement device in front of him as he sat at his table in the dimly illuminated confines of Dirty Dick's.

Hun's face leered back at him from the back-lit screen. "Ahhl, how you do? Man came here looking for you. Said he had work. You call him, kay?"

Al smiled - Hun's speakee English campaign is coming right along. "Much obliged amigo. Shoot me the code an' I'll git on it."

"What you say?" Or maybe not.

"Thank...you...Send...me..." Al tried, but the persistent look of confusion on the Cambodian's face made him give up and speak to the man in his own language - he thanked him and asked him to send the commcode.

After signing off, Al leaned back in his chair and thought for a moment, puffing absently on a Lucky. His first thought was that maybe that asshole foreman had told Hun to give him his job back at the docks. But that blowhard would never have asked for a callback. Well, whatever it was, work was work, and Ma Guthrie didn't raise none of her sons to be deadbeats.

With employment in the offing, he plopped a Y10 tip he really couldn't afford down on Darla's tray on the way out. Once through the doors, a gust of cold wind caught him and he doubled over coughing. It was several minutes before he got the wet hacking under control - looching up great blobs of phlegm in the process. Pulling his jacket a bit tighter against the chill, he turned the corner to take a piss in the alley - it was cleaner than the head in Dirty Dick's.

A few minutes later he was leaning against a rotting wooden railing and peering out over Elliot Bay, watching the water lap at the pilings beneath him; staring north along the harbor at the bright lights of the Edgewater Hotel. Ten months and he was already feeling like he'd been in one place too long.

LA beckoned.

Lighting a fresh cigarette, he entered the commcode, and as an afterthought killed the video image on his end before hitting SEND.

::October 18, 2070--0100::
::Seattle::

With an inward groan Pesto takes a look at who is calling him. When he sees it is Vinnie he rubs the side of his face as he accepts the call.

As usual Vinnie is quick to the point but brief on the details. Pesto takes a moment to mentally review his credit balance and then shakes off the rest of his sleepy feelings. "Sure I am up for some work as long as the pay is good. What are the details?"

::October 18, 2070--0100::
::Renton::

With a smile of satisfaction, Ryan quickly scans the surrounding area as he accepts the incoming call. Suddenly Brian Royce's sharp, angular features are superimposed across the blond elf's vision.

"Good news, I hope."

Just at that moment, a slight twitching of the downed troll's arm catches Ryan eye, and he tersely cut's off the fixer's response. "Wait one ..."

A shark crack echoes off the surrounding buildings, the Predator almost jumping in the elf's left hand as he pumps a round into the now former Spike ganger's skull. He quickly surveys the area once again before returning his attention to the commcall.

"Sorry. Unfinished business. Go ahead."

As he listens, Ryan pops a fresh clip into the big pistol, then returns it to its holster under his bright blue and yellow jacket. Scooping up the dead troll's weapon, he sets off at a trot across the now quiet street, heading for the black and green Harley parked behind the run down Renton donut shop.

::October 18, 2070--0100::
::Seattle::

"Wooo, where's the party at!"

*** POP ***

Gyrating her hips, accidently bumping and shifting the worktable, and then absent mindingly catching a falling power cell off of the table before it barely starts accelerating with the pull of gravity, Bubbles does a half twirl and pose with one hand raised, the other at her hip and slightly behind and standing in a split foot stance.

"Got some new moves I want to try."

*** pop ***

Ignoring some of the clapping from the rest of the room she continues her conversation in an eager voice, "So what's the scoop this time?"

Mitch takes a swig from the plastic bottle then carefully slides it into his jacket pocket as the sounds got closer, and he had thought the night was going to be dull...

As the assailants closed in a slight smile crossed his face, waiting for the pain of first contact...

Sun
I need a social lubricant to stand between the street and the players. If you are available, arrive at the address listed in two hours.

Your link chirps with an incoming file. There's an address listed in southern Renton, the warehouse district. As you register the file coming in, the line goes dead.

Al
The wind is cold and bitterly cuts through your jacket, chilling the commlink to the touch as you hold it to your ear.

"Good morning. I am doing a talent call for individuals who want to do some trouble shooting. If you are available to do work, show up at SW 16th and Lind Ave in Renton by three AM. Payment to be negotiated face to face."

Pesto
“I don’t have a lot of the details on this one. The meet is in Renton in a couple hours. All I know about the job itself is that someone is going to the mattresses, but it’s a bit more complicated than grabbing a bag of cannolis.”

Vinnie shifts in his chair to tap the ashes off his cigar and lean forward.

“In or out?”

Ryan
Waving his hand dismissively, Brian makes it clear that he doesn’t need to know any of the details about the business you are clearing up.

“Listen chum, there’s a call going out for some talent to meet up in Renton this morning. Down near Boeing field and the warehouses. A friend of a friend is pulling this thing together and calling out a fair number of folks. The money is coming from somewhere else, but it probably has to do with some of the rabble in the streets recently.

“If you’re up for it, be at 1624 Lind Ave by 0300. If you are passing, let me know, I will need to find someone else.”

Bubbles
“There won’t be much dancing unless you want to do the Electron Shuffle and the Automatic Dance. E(x) Puddles never know what hit them until the next morning. Enough two-stepping through the tulips. The job is meeting tonight at three, Lind Ave, rave joint.”

A mapping ARO drops into your lower peripherals, as an address is uploaded to your link.

Mitch
“Yeah, he’ll do…”

Peripheral senses feel two men moving forward on either side of you.

“Hey buddy, how’d you like to earn a couple hundred bucks?”

::October 18, 2070--0102::
::Seattle::

"Rave. Smart Drinks!"

*** POP ***

Grinning as she starts going over the work bench and accumulating an assortment of tools and gear Bubbles taps her feet to the music she just changed to the latest synth pop hit.

"Hey, Bubbles, what kind of party is it you need to bring a crowbar too?"

"Private.." *** POP *** "...party."

"But I thought you said it was a rave?"

"It's code silly. Like when you always got to call 'the man' a 'Johnson' even though you know they really are called Smithers or Witherspoon or something silly like that."

"Why'd they let anyone call em Johnsons? Kind of rude."

Puzzled Bubbles looks at the young troll towering over her, "What do you mean, rude?'

"Anyone call one of us a Johnson, well we call em out and rumble."

"Makes sense, since you aren't a Johnson." *** POP ***

Shaking his head, the young troll gives up, "Never mind, just leave the address, you know how Knuckles will get if I can't tell him where you went."

::October 17, 2070::
::Seattle::

Ah cannolis..., Pesto daydreams for a moment and then quickly brings his focus back to biz. "Yea I'm in send me the location", Pesto says as he climbs into his van. "So is there anything else I need to know", the orc asks as he starts up the van.

::October 18, 2070--0200::
::Seattle::

'Negotiated face to face,' huh? This poor sap won't know what hit 'im, thought Al. Right then he made up his mind that, whatever exactly the job was, he was absolutely going no lower than a hundred nuyen. Speaking into the mic on his commlink, he growled, "Well sir, shootin' trouble's one o' the many things I do best. You kin count me in. Be there in an hour."

Signing off, it occurred to him that just the ride down to Renton would cost him most of his remaining stake.
He shrugged, pulled his jacket tighter, shoved his hands deep into his pockets and trudged up toward Alaska Way to find a cab, a Lucky hanging precariously from the corner of his mouth.

::October 18, 2070::
::Seattle::


Axe finds a place to stay and holds up there for a bit. After getting settled in he decided to take a walk aroudn town, maybe check intot eh local pub and get a drink or something.

::October 18, 2070::
::Seattle::

Sun smiles, checks her watch and heads away from campus. A short walk away sits a car registered like her house in the name Sura Najeev. Sura brings her ID into open mode on her commlink and the delicate Indian human climbs into the driving seat and sets the pilot to take her to the address by a round about route with one stop in between.


Sun climbs out of the drivers seat wearing a human face. Her hair is blonde and worn in two plaits down either side of her head running down her neck to just past her shoulder blades. Matt Black PVC jeans and leather knee boots cover her legs and she wears a Black skinny tee-shirt. All this is covered by a battered looking duster. She walks the short distance to the address she's been given taking the time to assess the location both physically and astrally. Once she feels certain that the location is "safe" she begins a proper approach. The jeans are now red gloss the boots have heels and the T shirt is emblazoned with a cycling series of words mostly implying something about the sexual behaviour of the wearer.

::October 18, 2070::
::Renton::

"It's chill, B. I'll be there."

Ryan cuts the call as he throws a black leather clad leg over the Scorpion and settles his thin frame in the bike's wide saddle. The blond elf doesn't hesitate in kicking the chopper's engine to life and with a single quick backward glance, peeling out of the empty parking lot.

Half a mile, and several unexpected turns later, Ryan slows the Harley to an easy cruising speed and turns his mind to the newest job offer. Fate seemed to have been shining on him tonight, bring him to Renton early and even considering Dunky's garbage soycaf, the evening had been pretty good so far.

The black and green Scorpion pulls over on an abandoned side road, then Ryan absently reloads the Predator's depleted clip as he goes through his normal pre-gig mental checklist. Satisfied in his preparations, the elf re-holsters the big black pistol under his jacket, which he changes with a mere mental twitch from its former blue and yellow stripes to a deep green and black mottled pattern.

Revving the bike's massive engine, he smiles as he lets the growl echoing off the walls of the previously silent Renton warehouse district roll over him. Ryan pops the clutch, and the Harley's tires squeal as he pulls away from the curb and heads toward Lind Avenue.

"Two Hundred? What the hell for?"

The initial disappointment was now replaced with mild curiosity. What type of scam we're these guys pulling... And how could he twist that knowledge to his profit.

::October 18, 2070--0250::
::Renton::

Al had paid and tipped the driver after stopping him five blocks away from the address. He'd been a little early, and had spotted a bar.
Ten minutes and two Grolsches later, he reckoned it was time to go see about this job. His big stainless steel Zippo flared to life between cupped hands as he lit up a fresh Lucky.

The bar's gravel lot felt good under his workman's boots. He was glad he'd stopped - he always felt better going into a new place on his own two feet. He shoved his hand down the front of his faded jeans to better scratch his balls. Time to see what sort of fine establishments were to be found at 16th and Lind.

Mitch
"We're looking for a tester. You look a little hard on your luck so we'll give you five hundred bucks to meet some people and pop some pills. Nothing that'll kill you, just make you feel good for awhile."

Axe
You move from street to street, looking for a good pub to suit your tastes. Settling into Bar Krutenau, you find a selection of beers influenced by the AGS. The bartender is an unimposing man with a clean white shirt and rolled sleeves. He moves behind the bar with a practiced air, pulling beers and making conversation with the locals.

Renton
Most of the warehouses are locked down with proximity lighting that triggers near doors when you pass by. A deep thumping bass rocks the otherwise quiet neighborhood. In the alleys, you step over collapsed piles of teenagers up to twenty-somethings in drugged out bliss. Convulsions rip through the occasional body as unconscious ravers crash down hard.

Moving closer to the source of the noise, you find a large warehouse with boarded over windows, heavily covered in street art and AR noise. Two trolls in black jumpsuits with wraparound sunglasses stand near the door.

::October 18, 2070--0258::
::Renton::

Al stopped and stood in front of the two trolls, hands shoved deep in the pockets of his battered brown leather jacket. At 5 feet 6 inches in his work boots, his eye level came up just past their belt buckles. Stuck in the corner of his mouth, his filterless cigarette bounced around with a life of its own as he shouted over the thrumping beat -
"Yo, kemo sabes - name's Al. Got called about a job."

::October 18, 2070--0259::
::Renton::

Acting like just another drug hazed kid Sun hangs back a little concentrating slightly and letting the elven aspects of her features come more to the fore. She carefully watches the man approach the two trolls to get some better idea of the situation she's about to enter.

::October 17, 2070::
::Seattle::

Pesto's comm acknowledges the receipt of the meet's address from Vinnie. "Thanks Chummer", the orc says as he disconnects from the call.

As his van is warming up Pesto reviews the address against his map of Seattle. Figuring that he has plenty of time before the meet he programs a long easy drive to the address into his navigation system and then engages the auto pilot. With a satisfied sigh he settles comfortably into the drivers seat and catches a cat nap.

Beep Beep, Pesto wakes up as the navigation system informs him that he is nearing the destination. The orc takes over driving the van and finds a good place to park where he can take a look at the meet site. Pesto first examines all of the AR activity associated with the building. Then he keeps an eye on who goes in and out of the building. Finally with about twenty minutes to go before the meet he heads out. Before he leaves his van he gets Tina (his steel lynx) set up to respond to anyone but him entering the van.

Once ready he heads outside, sets his alarm and approaches the trolls. "Hoi chummers, my name is Pesto and I have a meeting inside" , he says as he stops in front of them.

::October 18, 2070--0300::
::Renton::

The glow paint on her yamaha growler leaving a bright after trail as she passes through the alley, the cut pipes boosting the naturally load rumble as she steers around a slack limb. A twitch of her trollish hands kicks the bike forward before a twist of the handle bars and a stamping down on the brake pedals initiates a sliding stop just beside the warehouse doors.

A smooth twisting dismount combined with flipping out the kickstand and mentally commanding the motor to shut off ends with Bubbles standing grinning at the two trolls in shades.

"You two need some color!"

*** POP ***

::October 18, 2070::
::Renton::

The Harley secure in a nearby alley, Ryan casually strolls toward the warehouse, and the familiar sounds of a rave in full swing. At another time he would gladly have immersed himself in the scene, losing himself in the crush of bodies and wave upon wave of driving music, but tonight he was here for work.

A slight smile briefly crosses the elf's finely sculptured features as he eyes the trolls at the entrance, the successful outcome of his earlier, self-appointed task still fresh in his mind. Stopping in front of the pair, Ryan gives each a brief, dismissive glance before pointedly directing his gaze past them toward the warehouse's interior.

"I've been invited."

::October 18, 2070::
::Renton::

A delicate blonde elf drops in behind the male elf, she flicks her blonde hair carlessly away from her face, "Me too," she says huskily, then glancing at Ryan, "Do you think we have the same date?"

::October, 18 2070::
::Downtown::

Mitch sizes up the two guys making the offer. He trusted them about as far as he could-- Say, was that an unfinished cigarette? He bent down and picked up the half finished smoke from the damp alley ground and took a good drag from it.

"500? For 500 nuyen you could shoot me up with fuck'n asbestos for all I care. Where do I sign up?"

::October, 18 2070::
::Downtown::

Ryan casts a glance toward the cute blonde elf, a slight smile pulling at the corners of his mouth, his emerald eyes sparkling even in the dim lighting.

"Could be." He pauses for just a moment, his grin widening slightly as he catches her eye before continuing with a quick wink. "But if not ..."

::October, 18 2070::
::Renton::

Sun smiles back at Ryan "I sure we can come up with some sort of arrangement."
She walks past Ryan through the door letting her left hand brush against his arse and hip, almost making it seem accidental.

::October, 18 2070::
::Renton::

Ryan hangs back, admiring the view and taking the opportunity to cover his momentary surprise at Sun's response. Running his fingers through his own short but shaggy blonde hair, the elf cocks an eyebrow toward the pair of trolls, then casually follows her through the doorway.

Renton
The bouncers look over each of you, mentally inventorying threat levels. Satisfied, they let you past them into the club.

Within the rave, the floor looks like it was swept clean before the evening started. Now bodies in various stages of dress and undress pulse and grind to the rhythmic noise being created by the slim caucasian ork male with blue dreadlocks who is mixing. He jives to the music that seems to be custom mixed hands moving through digital displays as he threads sources together bending the music in a similar fashion to the bending light from chameleon cloth on the dancers bodies.

Watching the periphery, you can notice more bouncers moving drugged out bodies off the floor from where they have collapsed and leaving out the back door. The bar does a bustling trade in water bottles and various liquids as pushers and dealers work the crowd in the center of the dancing masses.

Mitch
The two thugs smile and gesture for you to follow them.

"Come with us sir."

They escort you back to a silver SUV where the first voice you had heard belongs to an athletic man in his mid-twenties with red hair and a tattoo of a scorpion along the back of his left hand.

"Get in, were going to go meet those people we mentioned."

He steps in to the SUV and holds out a hundred nuyen in hard currency as he notices your slight hesitation about getting in the vehicle.

Axe
The barman looks over to you.

"Hey big fella, what can I get for you?"

He wipes his hands on a bar rag as he pulls out a clean pint glass.

::October 18, 2070 -- 0300::
::Renton::

THRUMKAKAKAKATHRUM
KAKAKAKATHRUMKAKA

Al shook his head slowly as he took in the scene before him. Not shocked - nothing shocked him anymore - just appalled. Ain't these kids never heard o' beer?

THRUMKAKAKAKATHRUMKAKA
THROOMBAKABAKATHRUMKAKA

Damned damper maxed and still couldn't rightly hear himself think.

KIKAKIKATHOOMPUPUTHOOM


Whoever had called him knew his number, knew his friend, and knew where he lived. They sure as hell knew what he looked like. And he didn't exactly blend in here - hell, the oldest person in the place must be ten years his junior, and he sure as hell wasn't dancing - if that was what you called it.
He leaned against the wall to wait for the welcoming committee.

THRACKATHRACKATHRACKA
THWOMMMMM.....B'B'B'BRAMTACKATACKA
TACKATHOOMTAKA

::October 18, 2070 -- 0300::
::Renton::

Pesto walks into the club and is assaulted by the loud sounds someone calls music. He looks around the place and all he can see are bodies thrashing about. This is definately not my scene, the orc thinks as he finally locates a bar. Pesto makes his way through the crowd and after finally getting the attention of one of the bartenders he orders some water. The orc then leans against the bar to wait for what will come next.

::October 18, 2070 -- 0300::
::Renton::

With a whoop, well what anyone watching might think would be a whoop if you could possibly hear anything produced by natural metahuman vocal cords inside of the building without the latest Mitsuhama ears and software audio dampeners and enhancers, the troll takes two steps into the room, then breaks into a full tilt run at the crowd.

*** POP ***

A moment before colliding with a gangly elf in black leather pants and a scarified torso she launches herself into a full somersault, her head hanging centimeters above the shaven headed young elf the rest of hundreds of kilos of troll rotate and spins through the space above his head, landing with what should be a resounding thump, but isn't, in front of him.

*** POP ***

Shocked the gangly elf pauses in his gyrations, long enough for Bubbles to mouth something at him as she pinches his ribs with an exaggerated expression of disappointment. She pats him on his rump to get him moving and starts moving through the crowd again in a series of handstands, flips and spins.

::October 18, 2070 -- 0300::
::Renton::

Sun raises a perfect eyebrow at the gymnastic troll on the dance floor, the turns and mouths something to Ryan that though drowned out by the noise, is clearly some along the lines of "So you going to buy me a drink then."

Sun concentrates slightly shutting the music off with her sound fliter, and scanning the crowd without really seeming to.

::October 18, 2070 -- 0300::
::Renton::

Long accustomed to this type of environment, Ryan isn't bothered at all by the thumping music, and has no problem catching the cute elf's intent.

"How could I possibly refuse?"

He bows deeply, then cocks his elbow for Sun as he nods his head in the direction of the bar, though the affectation is slightly spoiled when the elf can't quite suppress a cheeky grin.

Sun elegantly accepts the offered arm, with a wry smile of her own she leans to whisper into Ryan's ear "Charming and a sense of humour, I hope we're here for the same thing. Better make mine a Virgin Mary for now." He accent is odd almost Irish or Scots with the distinct twang of the Tir.

Renton
A tall human male in his thirties, tall with wiry muscles like braided steel in black fatigues and a combat harness walks into the club from front door where you entered. His pale skin catches the shimmering light and you can see the discipline and purpose that seems to quash most sense of humanity. He comes across as a man who everything is an o-plan at various stages of implementation.

"Come with me," he says as he moves past the bar. Heading across the dance floor, the gunman walk with an economy of movement, where dancers seem to simply not be in his path. He makes direct eye contact with the bumping and gyrating troll, giving a pointed look to the door near the restrooms marked "NO ACCESS."

Once inside, the sound is noticeably dampened. Several metal folding chairs are arrayed around a small desk, which the man leans against facing the chairs.

"Sit down, we have much to discuss."

Renton

Sun follows the man carrying her drink loosely in her hand, her movements are graceful and self consciously sexy, once in the room she wrinkles her nose at the basic furniture, the turns a chair round so she can sit on it leaning over the back. She lets the hand holding the drink dangle freely except when she periodically takes a swig of the red liquid. She watches her 'host' with a certain lazy interest, sometimes turning away from him to flash a flirty smile at Ryan.

Mitch grabs the note and quickly slips it into a pocket before sliding into the back seat of the SUV. "Let's roll."

::Renton::

*** POP ***

After waving good bye to the nearest tusker with whom she'd been gyrating asynchronously, Bubbles switched to a lower key rhythm more in match with the crowd as she moved purposefully towards the meeting room. Outside the door she paused, looking regretfully at the restrooms before slipping into the room. She set aside the folding chair and sat on the floor, her head easily on level with anyone sitting down in a chair. Without checking the flavor, Bubbles grabs a jumbo dispenser of bubble gum from her pocket and empties the entire container into her mouth and starts chewing with some effort as she cranes her neck and twists and turns her head to look at everyone and everything as the room fills.

*** pop ***

Even though the music wasn't really what he was into Pesto soon finds himself bobbing his head while watching the convoluted movements of the dancers. He is so engrossed in following the AR traffic from the patrons that he almost misses the summons from the reason he is here.

He downs the rest of his water and then quickly catches up to the small group as they enter the meeting room. Once inside he sits down on one of the chairs and waits.

Downing his drink in a single gulp, Ryan then casually follows Sun and the pale human into the meeting room. Pausing at the entrance, the blonde elf briefly considers taking up a post right next to the door, but quickly discards that idea. Instead he strolls over to the far right, adjusting the chair's angle slightly to better face the entire room before taking a seat.

Al shuffled into the room, entering last. It was a lot better lit than the club proper, giving him a clearer picture of the others in this little cattle-call.

On the right side of the room were a couple of blond elves, both in uncomfortable-looking black trousers. The male sat in the gunfighter-spot wearing a jacket with some sorta green and black camo pattern. The female's spike-heeled red boots were far apart as she leaned over the back of a chair drinking a Bloody Mary. Something downright improper was scrolling across her tight T-shirt, and Al made up his mind right then to keep an eye on this one.

On the other side was an ork feller, but Al couldn't hardly notice him, eclipsed as he was by the Technicolor Glory that was Bubbles, sitting near him on the floor. Al had noticed the troll dominating the dance floor earlier, and had wondered if they were here for the same party, but then figured he'd bide his time - seemed like the kinda place she'd come to on her own anyhow. He'd met her not long ago in some cheap joint on the bad fringes of Downtown, and she'd definitely left an impression. They'd talked some biz but he didn't know her real well.

Slouching down into a chair in a corner without ever taking his hands out of his pockets, a big chunk of ash dropped off of his Lucky and onto his knee. Well, looks like ol' Al's gon' be the only round-ears in this outfit...'Ceptin' o' course for the Cap'n there... he thought as he gave the guy in black the once over through heavy-lidded eyes. Military, or wished he was. Maybe ex.

Well, let's jist hope this here gig's a little better organized than the last one....