Bass

The intermittant electric crackle is enough to keep even the most stalwart of sleepers awake. No matter the protests, the offers of capilulation, or the outright threats though,

Wretch the owner of The Dive just won't get the old neon sign fixed. He says it adds to the ambiance of his smokey little hole in the wall. The problem is that the sign happens to sit right outside of the window of Bass's tiny apartment, and the guy never shuts it off, even during the smog choked Puyallup days. The only good thing that can really be said about The Dive is that it marks one of the few places in all of the most downtrodden of Seattle's Barrens that has somewhat reliable wireless. It was in a failed effort to attract what he called city folk that Wretch handed over some of his squirreled away nuyen to NeoNet to get a node put in, and he's been cursing the decision ever since.

Wretch's misfortune, it would seem, is Bass' gain. Even since the wireless node went online, he'd experienced a new level of convinience. It meant no more trudging to the bus terminal three blocks over to check his messages. Of course it also meant spam, since the local proto-hackers were more than happy to exploit Wretch's lack of technical know-how. It's while wading through a selection of especially vicious sex ads - mainly for Changeling hermaphodite shows - that Bass finds it. He almost deletes the message from

Mallet as the Ork's rather ham-fisted style of posting looks rather like the proto-hacker spam, but his mug is distinctivly ugly, even amongst the porn.

When he opens the message, Bass is treated to Mallet's usual barrage of talk. `Allo allo my son, it's been, what, two weeks you haven't contacted me? Too long, my son, too long. 'course I could have contacted you, caught up on old times 'n all, but you know how it is. Busy wit' this and wit' that, keeping all my ducks in a row. Never seen a duck, come to think of it, outside of the trid. 'ave you? Anywise, I reckon I've got something for you. Some right proper geezer dropped a message my way, said you should drop his way.

Said he's got a backstage pass waitin' for you at Seahawk Stadium 'an you should be checkin' at Will Call for 'em, say you're some fellow named Mr. Johnson or somesuch. You been workin' for someone else on the side, done someone a favor I don't know about? You save someone's life 'ave you? Either way 'ol Mallet won't be mad, just call me, ok. I'll see if I've got any work lined up needs a walking tank 'awrite?`

Bone

On this day, like any other day, the realization that good jobs are too far and few between comes around noon. It comes around the time that the power browns out in the middle of lunch being nuked. It's been happening all over the city, worse with every passing month. The popular theory is that someone is putting the squeeze on the Governer, but either way it makes for one heck of an annoyance when it happens. Soy just isn't the same half nuked.

Thankfully any further musings upon the nature of soy and the great brownout problem are cut off by the one reliable thing despite the other utility issues the city faces. An AR window opens up in Bone's vision with a familiar face tripping the priority interrupts of a spam free day. It's Mario, looking a bit puzzled.

`Magandang tanghali chica, I'm not sure what to make of this. Some corporate type just paid me a televisit, seems he was looking for you and got me instead. Said he had something for you, a backstage pass to some concert at Seahawk Stadium, and that you could pick it up at the Will Call with the name Johnson.`

The Doc scratches at his chin, as if to try and sort it all out. It looks like he's been having one of those mornings.

Hardcase

Service training, it doesn't really matter what kind of service, conditions a person. When you serve the government long enough you develop an internal clock like no other. It's the kind of clock that gets you to your diner reservations just on time to be early, and the kind that doesn't let you sleep in. Frustrating as that is, though, Hardcase wakes to find a message waiting for him. It's from Halo, there's no mistaking the iconography; even a 'hey contact me' message from the girl would be pure art. In this case, though, it seems she didn't want contact. It came in on the sly, no alerts.

`Someone I've had the privelege of working with only once before, but have heard rumblings about all over the Matrix, has contacted me, looking to get in touch with you. I thought it might be best if you follow up on this yourself, get the lay of the land from a non-digital perspective before you ask me anything. There is a backstage pass waiting for you at Will Call. Give your name as Mr. Johnson.`

There was a phantom smile on the lips of Halo's icon at the last bit, as she was well aware of the irony.

Breaker

Mornings in the bar, is there a better way to end a sleepless post-concert night? If there is, it doesn't seem so evident. The 13th Guage Bar and Grill was open early because it had never closed, it seemed it rarely did. Soup, as ever, was on, and in honor of one hell of a show the night before Breaker was enjoying a bowl on the house. It takes Johnny a good ten tries to get ahold of his attention, as they'd both been so close to the speakers. But when he does he's waving him over, having just set down a good old fashioned phone.

When he says it the first time, it's all but impossible to catch.

The second time comes out dull.

Then he yells. `Some guy just called, said you should check out the Will Call at the Stadium, tell them you're a Mr. Jonston? Seems like someone thought you deserved a backstage pass, you lucky bastard.` The yelling's far from friendly, but there's a hint of jelousy to the gruff tone.

Gabriel

`Gabriel, my son. It's good to see you.` Pater Antonirez wrings his hands together, a happy gesture of restrain, not wanting to simply hug the elf that has just walked into the small chapel. `I'm sorry I couldn't talk to you over the matrix, but I'm afraid someone's seen fit to destroy our node. I had the message passed on through a friend, and I hope he wasn't too rude.`

The ever-present weary smile doesn't fade as the Padre gestures for Gabriel to follow him, walking back to his office. `I had a rather interesting visit this yesterday. Two rather large men, neither of whom seemed too interested in salvation. They said they had something for you, concert tickets of some sort. They wanted you to stop by Will Call at the stadium. I believe they wanted you to use the name Mr. Johnson.` A concerned look crosses the Padre's face. `I do hope this doesn't mean trouble for you.`

Asp

The problem wih trying to keep one's pulse on the flow of information that pulses through Seattle's arteries is that there is so much of it as to drive a man mad. Even the most seedy of sources must be paid attention to if one wants to see some promise. And of course, opening up one's AR presense to that sort of trashloid invites a whole realm of spam, info-miners, and various other degenerate information.

It would have been easy for Asp to ignore the posting as just another piece of spam, but it was in one of his private feeds, one on a Horizon message board no less. He would recognize the style right away, as anyone with an eye for text would. The message was from Francis, but delivered in such a way that only someone familiar with the Director would be able to make sense of it.

Buried within the codewords and run on sentances is a simple message. `Check out Seahawk Stadium, present yourself as Mr. Johnson at Will Call.`

Why? It doesn't elaborate, but sometimes a good lead is just worth following...

Jeff hadn't expected to have the ringing in his ears after a show ever again when he got his ears installed, and that fear almost led him away from his investment. He then remembered that he could bootleg the music and listen to it whenever and where ever he wanted and that's all that he needed to convince himself. But the ringing was a welcome surprise the first time he heard it after coming back from a concert. He was lost in the euphoria that comes with adrenaline coursing through your veins and the ringing of his ears. It was always better than any other high that Jeff had experienced.

But being broken from that trance to hear news better than that night's concert? Well hell, today was just his day. The news of a backstage pass had Jeff grinning from ear to ear with a grin that could be called childish -- you could see the gleam of a small street urchin in his eyes when he heard those golden words: 'backstage pass.' He had to really help himself from lording it over Johnny. Oh did Jeff want to. But Johnny, he loved metal almost as much as Jeff, and Johnny was one of the few friends Jeff had. The only words he could think of to pass his lips without sounding like an ass were an astonished "No shit?!!"

He took a couple seconds to take this in. "Now, Johnny likes the jokes," he thought. "But this ain't no Johnny joke."

Jeff looks at Johnny deadpan serious; "If this is some sick Johnny joke of yours, I'm gonna come back here, shoot yer ass, and eat all of your fragging soup. Then, just to spite you, I'll bring an honest-to-dog grill in this dump." He flashes a wily smile and darts out the door and toward Stadium. Destiny waits for no man, after all.

Bass grumbled slightly as the message had come tto him during the middle of his midday nap/ jam session. His great troll sized bass guitar lay across his lap and a carton of half-eaten soy noodles sat discarded at his feet. He rose slowly from his comfy chair, the one he had knocked off some ghostly faced squatter a couple months back when he had moved into this dump. The nap had been a luxury for him, as a short power outage had killed the electric crackle of The Dive's neon sign and he would take any sleep he could get.

He listened to the message from Mallet again, just to make sure he had heard correctly. Well, it seemed the drek ugly ork had come through for him once again. As much as Bass grumbled about the fixer, the man had helped him out a lot since he evac-ed from The Spikes, and he considered Mallet as close to a real chummer as you could find in the shadows.

Bass had never been to the Seahawk Stadium, but he knew of the place. It was where all the big time rockers played. Like last month when Cudgel, the heaviest troll metal band around, had played on their tour around the world. Bass had tried his hardest to make the nuyen for the tickets, but work was slow and there had been a recent rush for sneaky fraggers and apparently no use for a big ol' tank like himself. Well, now that something was finally biting he was sure as hell going to reel the fragger in.

Bass donned his heavy armored jacket, stowed the assortment of throwing knives in it's depths and slung his guitar over his shoulders as he silently stretched and downed the last of the cold soy noodles. He pulled his long hair back and tied it inbetween his back curved horns and massaged the last of the sleep from under his eyes. Finally he stuffed his commlink away in his pocket and put on his sunglasses, tuning in the image link and vision enhancements and put in his earbud headphones, cuing up the hearing enhancements as well the newest song by Cudgel, I Bit The Fragger's Head Off Cause He Looked At Me Like An Elf. All set, he left his rundown apartment, hopped on his Harley Chopper, and headed to the Stadium.

Getting out of bed, his customary place for browsing news feeds in the morning, temporarily minimized most windows on his AR, and ordered up breakfast and a large a cup of espresso from his machine. He did some mandatory push-ups and other workout, and had breakfast still soaked in sweat. He has no idea why, but he always enjoyed food more when he was sweaty. Something about the primal transition from action to feeding, maybe. He enjoyed sex most after having eaten a good meal, too. What the hell, it pleased him, and there was no-one around to be displeased by it. He tuned into a local music station, letting the “get-up and work with a smile!” style morning program do its thing. Thank you, Horizon.

The day outside didn't look to promising, but you never knew with Seattle. He could change his view to whatever pleased him, but he tended to prefer his actual view, even though it was of nothing but a long, straight street, trashcans and a myriad of cars streaming along. Somehow, it all seemed more real than the super-realistic AR feeds. Perhaps it was all the flaws. “Or all the stories,” he suggested to no-one in particular before getting up and hitting the shower.

In the shower, he took a new look at Francis's message. 'So, Mr. Hernandez, what's so important you'll take your time to tell me all the way from Denver?' he wondered in his head. Whenever Francis dropped a hint, it was always something good. The man knew his business. Exactly what though, remained a mystery. Asp suspected the director sometimes enjoyed being enigmatic solely for the purpose of being so, reliving earlier days of his career or something like that. Everyone needed their stress-relievers, and he didn't really mind anyway.

That made him think of the little plastic bag of white stuffed in one of his bedroom drawers. He discarded that thought quickly though. It was way too early in the day for that stuff, and he'd had a calm day yesterday anyway. He felt a small want lingering, though, and decided to get a fix later on.

Ready to get to work, he donned a couple of jeans, a beige sweater and his black armored jacket. The one thing really nice with black was that all other colors – he insisted black was a color – went well with. Grabbing his legal SIN and commlink, he headed out the door after making sure his Ares Predator was loaded with gel. Killing people always caused a mess with the police, and it was something he'd rather avoid anyway. Just as an extra safety measure, he grabbed the shock glove too.

Locking his bike out of the garage, he brought up traffic reports to find the fastest way to the Seahawk Stadium. It wouldn't be his first time there. He had covered a lot of concerts there, mostly doing snooping or unconventional interviews, such as with Cudgel's bodyguards and crew just last month. Then of course, there was the less savory deals going on around a show like that too. He'd played middle man and messenger boy at a couple of those too. As long as it payed and he wouldn't have to play too rough, Asp was always in.

"Oh, kumusta ka?" Bone asked how Mario was doing around the mouthful of soy, itself sitting at a wonderfully unpalatable temperature between 'nuked and cooked' and 'corpse-cold'. All but giving up on the idea of lunch in her heart, she settled to a more comfortable position on the old canvas hammock she called a bed as she continued her AR chat.

"Some 'corporate type' talaga? Huh... I might afford real food this month." She mused, continuing to stomach the soy while using the old shipboard technique of lying to herself that it was flan or something edible.

"Thanks for letting me know, I'll invite you over for sinigang if this pays. I know a guy who knows someone who might be able to get the pork and the tamarind."

Finishing up the idle chatter, Bone threw the empty soy container across the apartment-cum-garage and winced when it missed its mark and clattered among the pile of other empties lying around the container, their contents leaking onto the Imperial Japanese flag she used as a soak-rag for the garbage.

Fumbling about on the roll-away toolchest next to her hammock that she co-opted as an end table for her pack of Yuenhuan Yellows and a lighter, Bone rolled out of her hammock like the damn hammock-sleeping pro she was before lighting up her bi-hourly nicotine fix.

Cancer stick still smoldering, she threw on an old jacket over the two-day-old shirt and fatigue pants number she'd been sporting and pulled the black watch cap down over her ears before yanking the tarp off her ride, a sweet little 'gently used' Bulldog she'd been spending her free time on. Bone smiled, she'd trick the van out one day, when she didn't have to worry about making ends meet.

It was the usual essentials after that. Pistol, fake ID, grocery list on paper of all damn things. Seahawk Stadium, she thought as she hopped in and started up the van, I hope you got a band that doesn't suck - something...retro, I hope.

"Motherfragger, motherfragger, the fraggin' Star can't touch me...lay off my hoop slitch, lay off my hoop" The lyrics of Cudgel's Stars and Pipes resounded in Bass' ears as he flew down the 167, skirting the edge of Tacoma headed towards Downtown. Bass rarely stepped in Tacoma anymore, especially not on the main streets, not since he got himself out of the Spikes. So instead he took the long way to Downtown. The wind whipped through his hair as he transfered to the 181, then the 99 as he made his way into the heart of Seattle. His PAN was alive with green crystalline overlay of the skyscapers, Emerald Fraggin' City wth so many corporate fraggers battling to be the faceless Wizard that it kept Bass in a fairly steady amount of jobs.

The Seahawk Stadium stood thirty meters above the street levels, looming its massive hulk over the smaller buildings around it. The Stadium reminded Bass of a Dwarf among the larger buildings of the distrtict, the Human and Elf Skyscrapers, the short stocky Dwarf Stadium, and the Troll sized former Renraku Arcology. That fraggin' building still scared the drek out of him. Bass turned his gaze back to the approaching Stadium and tried to see who was advertised as the headliner tonight. Even if the proposal for the job went bad he hoped that he could at least enjoy a good show out of it.

Case stored the contact data and then eliminated the message from his message dump. He stood and stretched, activating the voice activation system on his commlink, as he got out of bed and pulled on his robe. He headed for the kitchen to fix himself a cup of kaf to get started, dropping his commlink into his pocket.

"Activate Agent program, J.Edgar. J.Edgar, run a search of public news data bases for current events occuring at the Seahawk Stadium, Seattle Metroplex news media only. Give me a list of the top ten returns."

He finished his soykaf off in the shower and idled in front of the mirror in his boxers, gazing at his reflection. In his mind's eye Case was tall muscular and dashing, the picture of respected authority, enough to turn any woman's eye and to instantly command respect from men. In the meat world his reflection showed a thin man of meidum height and build, who looked neither fat nor athletic, with a thin hairless chest and baby fine blonde hair framing a face that tended to cause forgetfullness rather than respect or longing. He sighed to himself and made yet another mental note to start working out regularly again, rather than just doing the minimal jogging/push-up/sit-up regime he currently maintained. It was a mental note he made weekly and soon forgot.

Knowing he was going to be working today he decided to dress accordingly, and selected a set of black jeans and hiking boots rather than slacks and loafers. He kept the royal blue polo shirt to add color to an otherwise drab ensemble. He knew he'd look very 'corp-casual GQ' but he wanted to make the right impression on any future employer and a T-shirt just didn't seem the way to go. He'd leave off the armored synthleather and pistol until he headed out to face the world.

Still, he thought to himself, you're going to be working tonight, which means you're only half dressed.

He reached into his sock drawer and retrieved a small medallion, a delicate pure silver ribbon shaped into a Futhark rune of ingwaz centered on a rare perfect garnet and lovingly enscribed with other Futhark runes. He caressed it for a moment, a feeling of pride at the beautiful piece, feeling its own magical aura rubbing along his own, then he hung it around his neck. Holding it his hand he brought to mind the pattern of a detection spell and focused upon connecting that energy pattern to the web of energy emmanating from his focus. Once the patterns were aligned his drew mana through his own aura and connected all three together, spell, focus, and his own arua creating a circuit through which energy and information could flow. The drain from the spell caused his vision to waiver and his head to pound but he shrugged it off, feeling the focus take up the energy burden of the detection spell.

Deciding that a nap was in order he popped a couple of Tylenol9s and flopped into his lounger, telling J.Edgar to hold his calls for an hour and wake him then.

When each runner arrives in turn an overly cheerful ticket agent (overly cheerful because let's face it, handing out tickets to concerts you probably don't get paid enough to go see yourself can't be all that much fun) flashes a smile and doesn't bat an eyelash at the fact there have been half a dozen people named Mr. Johnson that day for tickets. She doesn't ask for I.D., she doesn't hesitate, she simply checks the number of tickets to be issued against the number she's already doled out, and she hands over a small cube, sugar packet sized. The second the packet is handed over, an AR window opens with details. The window is the size of a standard envelope, rimmed with electric green. Emblazoned on the center is a logo recognizable to anyone into the scene, and plenty of people who aren't and just watch enough Trid. It reads: "Matrix Dreams - All Access Pass. Johnson Party." The packet obviously contains some form of RFID tag for staff to read, and for anyone close enough who doesn't have one to be envious.

The bubbly agent directs the runners to an entrance just down the way, and informs them the concert won't be starting for another hour and a half, so they have plenty of time to poke around before-hand. She also lets slip that the band has already arrived, and they're doing a sound check. Heading into the entrance, means being met right away by a solid slab of ugly muscle. Standing at nearly eight feet tall, Cobain is one scary looking Trog. He's dressed all in black, and his shirt looks like it's about to rip clean off, it's so stretched. He grunts when approached, and his eyes dip to the side, a telltale that he's scoping the window for passes, running a verification agent. After a moment he nods.

`The boss'll be a few minutes. Follow me.`

He doesn't wait for an answer, he just takes off with strides long enough that if one doesn't follow he'll leave them in his dust. A maze of tunnels and halls later and several doors lead to a rather spacious lounge with the feel of an ultra-exclusive nightclub. Better yet, there's a full bar.

`Boss'll be a few. Everything's free here.`

Free!? Bass' face lights up with the words. He quickly scopes the bar out, an obviously high class and ultra wiz bar of the kind that he has only dreamed about stepping foot into before this moment. Upon reading the ticket he had sent a quick search out for anything about this Matrix Dreams that would be playing tonight. He knew that sure as drek they weren't part of the Goblin Rock scene, but maybe they would still be pretty frosty. At least th ebar was worth the trip down here and he was going to make sure he got his fill from it before he left. Not till after the meet though he reminded himself as he moved towards the open bar. He simply ordered a beer for now, a little australian import called Drop Beer. It tasted slightly of menthil, but besides that it was pretty good stuff.

He scanned the room over again, checking for any hidden surprises or gadgets or drek that he should know about. He checked everything closely and discretely as he made his way to a troll sized chair and dropped his frame into it, taking his bass guitar off his back, but keeping it within grabbing range if he needed to beat someone's dome in.

"Girl could get lost backstage in this place." Bone gripes. The cloyingly distinctive stench of reprocessed, unfiltered Chinese tobacco hanging around her from having smoked in the van on the way to the meet.

Feigning disinterest in the ritz and glamour of the upscale watering hole, Bone nodded in silent greeting to the other 'Johnson's' in the room and headed up to the bar, seating herself on the stool and overlooking the selection. Her jaded veneer cracked only when she finally laid eyes on the bottles of San Miguel. Grabbing a few, she took great advantage of the offered gratis hospitality. Nothing like free imports from home, she thought as she quaffed the light, malty beverage.

Hardcase looked over the room and the other 'Johnsons' who'd arrived, taking the time to get an expensive Tir imported brand of mineral water. He wore his dark electric glasses and AR gloves so he wasn't worried about finger or retinal prints being left. A small icon stood in ghostly relief in the lower right corner of his vision, his agent program's icon appeared to be a round balding fat man in a dark rumpled suit, constantly chewing on a half smoked cigar, more of Halo's work. He activated the icon through his subvocal microphone.

"Agent J.Edgar, spoof data trail, every three minutes until further notice. Activate handheld scanner and display result visually."

Out loud he told the others in the room.

"Well, at least this gig looks like it ought to pay well enough, if they can afford this."

As he settled into one of the soft couches he looked around the room and tried to appraise the other runners, but their appearance gave away little.

A closer look is in order. With that thought he drew a deep breath and slipped his perceptions into the astral and re-assessed his fellows.

Bass grinned as he offered his hand back to Asp, "Name's Bass, and this here," referring to the troll sized bass next to him, "she's my baby. Had her custom built meself, all tricked out if ya get mah drift omae." Bass let his vision drift slightly behind his sunglasses, turning his vision into the astral to get a better look at the rest of the crew.

The man on the couch with the water glowed with some magic, but the other two that had arrived looked mundane, but with all the fancy metamagics on the street nowadays who could know. It also appeared as if the water drinker was checking him out astral too, so Bass lowered his glasses for a second and gave the man a massive grin before returning to normal vision.

"Hopefully this thing do pay pretty good, I could go for some nice cred in mah pocket, like I'm sure you chummers could too," Bass spoke to Asp, but made sure his voice was loud enough for Hardcase to hear as well, as it was directed more at him than at Asp or the girl.

Hardcase grins slightly, catching the troll peeking into astral space, he examined the man's aura.

Definitely physical that one. He thought, rising from the couch to join the improtu conference by the bar. He took up space away from the others, not wanting anyone to feel crowded.

"I'm Hardcase, or just Case as you please. Either way I agree with my large soon-to-be-friend here, a decent payday would be a nice thing."

He paused long enough to drain most of his water.

"Of course, exactly what kind of work is involved will be interesting. This type of setting isn't where I usually start contract negotiations, it's far more pleasant."

He sat and called up the results of J.Edgar's headline search to see what was going on at the Stadium this evening, pulling the data up into an AR window.

Bone nodded to Asp, her astral aura registering plain and dull as dishwater. Stuffing a few extra bottles of brew away for the classy touch of loot and plunder necessary to any meet with free food and drink, she meandered over to the gathering knot of runners, open beer bottle in hand.

"We doing introductions already? The name is Bone, by the way." The woman's English was accented and skewed any number of ways natives to Asia stereotypically mangle it, but laregly understandable.

"Wells, now that we all know each other," Bass said, his deep voice echoing slightly around the cavernous room, "that only leaves ours employer to be introduced, though I am guessing a Mr Johnspn iz his name." Bass took another swig of his beer he checked the rest of the crew out. Hardcase was obviously there for the mojo, and hisself for the heavy liftin', but what pf the other two. He couldn't put the specialties Asp or Bone in order, but they had to have their uses. He wanted to know why they were here, so he probed in a subtle way, "So what yous tink this job iz chummers? For them to call on us....whatcha tink theys need done?"

"Me, I specialize in getting the job done." Bone replies in an easygoing tone, returning the smile but not the handshake, opting for a nod of the head instead. "No matter what the job is."

Looking for a waste-bin, Bone ditches her empty bottle. "This is all of us, then?"

"Not quite," said a slightly late and sweat-caked Breaker as he walked in dudded in a mesh shirt, dark jeans, and no visible weapons aside from a bulge in his pocket.

A veteran of the metal scene, the backstage of the Stadium was no surprise to Breaker as he made a beeline to the bar and a bottle of vodka, making sure to flex and press the mesh shirt against his back and showing off his favorite tattoo, he turned around and leaned against the bar. "Sounds like you're trying to start the party without me. I'm Breaker, pleased t'meet ya," he said with a sneer that could be likened to that of Billy Idol.

'Bass, Bone, Breaker, fuck, seems I'm stuck with the god-damned B-team here. Where the hell do they get these god-damned names from, anyway? And how the hell did I get stuck with Asp? Oh right. Fucking Bliss. Fucking fake SIN. Oh well, at least there's Case to plug up the other end of this stuttering alphabet'.

He wanted Bliss, he wanted the Johnson, and this rocker dude barging in late and sneering was just too much. “Look, buddy. This ain't the artist's lounge. We're doing business with the management here, not waiting for the groupies. And you're a good couple of hours early for that too”. He realized his hand has instinctively fallen to his pistol grip, but it was too late to do anything about that now. 'Fuck, talk about overreacting, man...'

Bass was quick to react to what could become a heated 'arguement' between two of his maybe-soon-to-be-teamates. He quickly rose from his comfy chair, grabbing his bass guitar in one hand and slinging it up to rest on his shoulder as he moved in between Breaker and Asp.

"Now, why the frag won't you two settle the drek down and wait all peaceful like for the Johnson like the rest of us," Bass said smoothly, his uneducated sounding accent almost completely gone from his voice. "We are all here to do business, so why don't we act like business men, eh?"

He stood toweringly inbetween the two men waiting for some sort of agreement for peace, hoping that it came before the Johnson showed up, because this drek surely wasn't business like.

Breaker stood up straight and widened his stance. The sneer had all but left his face as he fired off a glare at Asp. "Look, omae," he spat the word. "You've got a problem with me I'm right here. I didn't come here to be insulted by some little fragger like you."

He looked the troll in between them up and down. "Look. I ain't got a problem with you, but if drek happens and you're in the way you might be gettin' hurt so I'd back off and let us settle our affairs if I were you."

"And if I were you, I would sit down, shut the drek up, partake of some of the free booze from the bar and wait for our Johnson to show up. This is neither the time nor the place to be letting your ego get the best of you omae. If you have to be getting violent, wait till after the meet, when we are all far away from here," Bass stood his ground against the smaller human, his calm demeanor holding strong against the human's verbal assaults.

"Just so you know, if either of you," he said, his gaze going from Breaker to Asp and back again, "cost me so much as a nuyen from this run, I ain't going to be mister happy troll no more, wakarimashita?"

“Look Sonny, I got a problem with guys who show late, barge in, and sneer. Late ain't good, it leads to all sorts of shit. Barging's noisy, plus it makes paranoid people like me edgy. Sneering is just impolite, especially when you're combining it with late and noisy. You stop doing that, and stop pretending like you own the place, I'm sure we'll be fine. But if we're going to be working together, I'd appreciate it if you toned that attitude down a couple of notches. You don't, and something's going to fuck up. Someone's going to get hurt. It's probably not going to be you, but someone around you. One of those someone's me, and I don't like getting hurt because some cocky punk with a few pieces of cyberware decides to show of his 'ware.

“Now, that straightened out, I'm Asp”, he continued, offering his hand. “The big guy who's stepping in for the Star Peacekeeping Patrol here is Bass. I wouldn't pick on him if I were you. I'll let the others introduce themselves”.

Breaker let out a sigh and then a laugh. "Alright, I'm cool." He went to reach for Asp's hand but realized that the vodka was still in it, switched, and grabbed it. "Again, nice t'meet ya Asp. I'm no pushover and it ain't because of the 'ware, though, chummer. Don't put me so low."

He put up smile that still somewhat resembled a sneer and took a swig from the bottle of vodka. "As for you," he growled at the troll. "Nice shredder you got there. You play much?"

Bass' shoulders relaxed slightly at the exchange between the two humans and he even smiled at the question by Breaker.

"Yeah, I play it like a sweet troll chica, hard fast an wit a cigarette at da end," Bass replied as he brought the bass down from his shoulder in front of him. The acid green finish shined nicely in the phosphorent light of the backstage bar while Bass held it in front of himself. "I an't playin wit no band right now though, just got out of a bad group a bit back and I want ta see what else iz out there, ya know?"