The team moves down the streets, bringing vehicles as necessary, the several blocks to McHugh's. You stride past guards who seem to become more alert as a few people walk through the door.

Holo-projections of Doughboy flicker intermittently to a tall clown, as the imaging units combat a denial of service attack.

In the corner of the restaurant several Crowley's pick at half-eaten soy burgers. They pay more attention to one of their number who is jerking slightly as the slotted chip runs death-reels.

The staff behind the counter ignore most of you but begin to take note of Mitch, Sun and Bubbles and their respective obvious odor and appearances.

Once inside Mchugh's Pesto immediate walks up to a cashier and orders a couple of dessert pies. He then looks to see what the others are up to.

Sun glances at the menu and orders "Chicken" nuggets and "chocolate" shake. Her manner makes it clear the cashier is barely fit to lick her boots clean, yet leaves him wishing for the opportunity.

Al settled for a small soykaf and found himself a seat as far away from the chipheads as possible.

Then he spent a while staring at the elf minx's face. Sun she'd called herself. That had been a neat trick she'd pulled - clothes, hair, skin, hell, even the way she walked and talked all changed in seconds. Here in the light of the McHughs, he studied her facial features to try and figure out if they, too, had changed.

After picking up her super troll sized Bimini Blue shake from the automated dispenser, Bubbles follows Al to his table, and after sitting down on the floor she pulls out an electronic device and slaps it down on the table.

The familiar electronic background buzz washes out the surrounding noise.

*** pop ***

Pesto pays for his desserts and heads over to join Bubbles and Al.

Once all six were seated, Al was quick to break the silence. He slapped his hands down on the table on both sides of his styrofoam soykaf cup. Besides the burn scars that made them appear almost to be melting, the fingernails appeared permanently tobacco-stained, brownish-yellow, accented by black grime under the tips. "So whaddaya reckon?" His voice sounded like trying to change gears without putting in the clutch. "We shoot our boy here fulla whatever is in that box, he leads us to a dealer, we squeeze that poor sap fer the name of his boss or the wherezabouts o' their kitchen, whichever he spills first, take it from there. Hell, all we need is a name fer the Cap'n an' some homemade napalm fer the cookery, and we can get our cred and call it a night."
He leaned back in his chair and interlaced his fingers behind his head - looking at the lopsided yellow-toothed grin stretched across his weather-worn face, one might think the job was already done. "Long as it's cool with the boss-lady, I say we give our dog here the scent and then...we...git...huntin'!"

"Good basic idea mon amie," says Sun, "But putting the squeeze on the dealer should be done as subtly as possible, any cohorts he has may notice any serious, obvious action towards him, how about I handle the sqeezing. I should be able to get him pleasantly pliant."

Sun glances round the team, to make sure they got the idea, delicately dipping and sliding a long nugget into her mouth before neatly biting the end off.

"By all means, toots, by all means. Ol' Al's jist layin' things out in <<heh heh>> broad strokes, as it were. Once we catch one o' these skunks, how you put the, er, heat on 'im...well...that may turn out ta be nobody's bizness but yours...jist so's we get a name an' a location with no one the wiser. Yore obviously, what kin I say, a real pro in these matters."

With each word he spoke, the small man seemed more anxious to get moving again. At first glance, his deeply lined face seemed to promise tales spanning a century of mayhem and wild misfortune, but the childlike impatience in his voice brought his apparent age down to his forties, perhaps. Although if that was accurate, he had not aged well.

"So time's wastin', an' the early bird gets the scumbag, just like it says in the Good Book. Can anyone tell me exactly what we's waitin' fer?"

*** pop ***

Raising her arm, even sitting it goes over most people's heads, and bouncing slightly, "Yes yes."

Lower her arm, and pointing at her neon yellow coated chest, "Bubbles!"

Reaching over the tables she taps the buzzing noise generator, "Work with this stuff, break, shake, make dance."

*** pop ***

"Next?"

Pesto tries to hide a smile when Bubbles explains what she does as part of the team. He quickly swallows his current mouthful of food and then pipes in with his southern drawl, "I work mainly with drones and computers."

Al sighed inwardly. He was ready for work, but if the boss lady wanted a roll call, well, she was paying the bills.

Looking at the ork, he asked, "Ya got a handle ta go with that resume, pal?"

Pesto gives a little chuckly and says, "Oh sorry, my name is Pesto."

"Alrighty then, Pesto, pleasure's all mine," all croaked, extending one hand and lighting a cigarette that had suddenly appeared in his mouth with the other. "I'm Al, but hell, that ain't no secret."

Indicating Sun he said, "Now this one, she done already covered her share o' show 'n' tell, an' mighty well, I might add. So that leaves you two," he said, turning to the male elf and the bloodhound. "What'r'ya? The strong silent types or somethin'?"

*** pop ***

"Anyone got some tags? Don't want to lose track of our drug hound when he takes his trip."

Bubbles pulls out a small electronic device, a standard tag eraser, "Burn them mostly."

"Anyone got some other kinds of tags?"

Looking over there voluntary subject, "Maybe we can bleed him and take some blood if one of you does that kind of stuff?"

*** pop ***

Having gotten nothing but silence from the two men, Al was on the verge of getting offended when Bubbles' query broke the long silence. Nine months and he still wasn't used to this whole fancy-pants world of tags and wifis and the rest of the new-fangled post-Crash nonsense, but the blood thing sounded more up his alley...

"Hell yes, I kin get his blood, 'ceptin' muh kit's back at muh doss. That, bit o' hair, some nail clippin's maybe, an' ol' Al'll throw somethin' together, keep a good eye on this feller."

"Can any of us use Ritual magic to track him with that?" says Sun, her accent still breathy and oh so French, she produces an earing and rolls it across the table, "Stealth tag, not hardened sadly, but hard to find."

"Easy as pie, toots," Al explained through tobacco-ravaged vocal cords. "Ya make this little doll thing, see, so it looks like 'im, an' ya use some real parts of 'im, an' then the doll leads ya to 'im. Like fishin' with dynamite."

He paused to watch the vixen's earring wobble to a stop in what looked like a gang-tag gouged into the table-top. "Course, whole lot simpler with that there doohickey."

"I will also put an eye in the sky to help keep track of our friend here", Pesto chimes in as the group starts to put the preliminary pieces of a plan together. "Also we can keep an eye on his commlink", the orc adds.

Mitch sighs, "I don't much go for the whole comlink thing. Too many bad memories with that type of shit. 'sides those things cost a fortune. Money best spent elsewhere."

He glances around at the others, "Why make this so complicated? Let's keep it nice and simple. I'll take a hit of this shit and see what happens. If it actually does somehow "lead" me to the dealers, and that sounds like sci-fi bullshit to me, but if it does. Then I'll go where it takes me and meet up with them. Maybe buy some more of this shit and I scout the place out. After that I'll book it back to where ever we are set-up and fill you guys in on the whole situation. Security, numbers, civilians, etc..."

He takes another drag from his smoke as he waits to see what they all think, "Oh, and the name's Mitch by the way. No street name or anything like that. People usually pay me to get hurt, take a beat down or shit like that. I'm also good at getting people to talk."

"Mitch my new friend, that is a job description I kin appurciate," Al rasped. "Problem with yer plan is, though, if'n ya go in all nekkid like that, seems ta me we's all back ta square one if'n ya go an' git yerself croaked. An' worse'n that if'n some witchery-wielder sucks our names outta yer drug-addled noggin."

The skinny man with sallow, sandpaper skin took a deep drag off his Lucky, coughed a little, and added with a grin - "An' o' course, as a distant cousin ta such consid'rations as those, there is always the potentiality we might wanna ride in an' save yer sorry ass if things should indeed go that far south."

Leaning forward slightly, the troll narrows her eyes, "You just want to go alone and snag all the good loot for yourself!"

*** pop ***

Mitch grins at Al, "Yah, If they croak me that would be a problem, but hell, if their making any money out a' this shit then they've got to have high turn over. People coming and going all the time. Can't expect them to be geeking all their customers can we? But that said, it would be nice to have the calvery on stand by should thing go wrong."

At the POP of Bubbles gum he turns his attention to her, "Look at me. If I could take out a fucking drug den full o' gangsters by my lonesome and then make off with the loot do you think I'd be playing fucking bloodhound for you guys for 500 bucks?"

"Four hundred. Nuyen," corrected Al. "But I can't help thinkin', with you out on the pointy end an' all, maybe now that we's all innependent sub-contractors an' whatnot..." By this point Al was already starting to regret saying anything, but he plowed ahead anyway. "Maybe some rethinkin' o' the distribution o' wealth might be in order. 'Woe unto them 'at oppresses the hired hand in his wages,' that's what the Good Book has ta say on the matter...an' there's more'n a couple o' practical reasons too, if'n ya stop ta think on it some. But that's jist ol' Al tossin' in his two red cents - ain't no call ta pay no nevermind. I jist keeps to muhself, do what the boss says. Quiet as a mouse. Blink an' you'll miss me."

Al got nothing but blank looks all around. When not even Mitch piped up on his own behalf, Al stood and scratched his ass. "All I'm sayin' is, this guy's takin' equal risk, he should git an equal cut. But hey, ain't no never mind neither way fer me. I'm gon' go drain the elephant." He raised his disposable coffee cup toward Bubbles and Sun and bowed slightly with a smirk. "Ladies."
And then he was off to explore the first-world finery of the McHughes facilities, a trail of tobacco smoke wafting in his wake.

Bubbles shrugs, "No problem with evens."

"Share and share is fair, but there's sharing and sharing. Some things hard to split evens."

After a couple of minutes, Al was back at the table. Noticing some odd looks in the direction of The Elephant, he shrugged at an inch-wide wet spot on the front of his faded and threadbare Levis. "Hey, you know how it is - no matter how many times ya tap yer peg, a few drops run down yer leg."

He turned a chair around and straddled the back, facing the group. "Well, I reckon ya's all had time ta discuss my little contract revision - the boss lady here's got the same deal as afore - she keeps ever'thin' an' anythin' 'at catches her radiant fancy. She's also the one 'at gets paid by the Cap'n, but all that money goes to us'n.
"Our new friend Mitch here, on t'other hand, we forgit about his four hunnerd nuyen and cuts him in on an equal share o' the Cap'n's cash - that whut we got already, and that whut we's gon' git soon as we quit our jawin' an' git ta work."

He paused to take a swig of soykaf, but ended up turning his head and spitting it on the floor. Pushing the cup away from himself in disgust, he continued. "Okay, any objections? Din't think so. So here's what's next. Them of us with rides, right on. Them of us without, we go with Pesto here. Anybody like me with tools ta collect, they go an' do that. We ron-day-voo in one hour. Where? you might reasonably ask. The answer is somewhere Queen Bubbles selects that is roughly ten blocks from wherever the Cap'n's goons found Mitch here. If they wuz lookin' fer a dog 'at could hunt inna swamp, they'd go lookin' fer a swamp dog." Al paused just long enough for a long and wet coughing fit. He used the time to light up a new Lucky. "I'm reckonin' wherever they went lookin' fer him, our friendly neighborhood candy-dealers ain't far off. Once we's all hooked back up, we kin work out the nitty gritties."

He stood up, though he was so short it hardly made any difference. His ancient brown leather jacket was open, revealing a yellowed and coffee-stained T-shirt that hung loose on an emaciated frame. "Well, whadda y'all waitin' fer, the Second Coming? Ya got more talkin' ta do, reckon y'alla ya got these new-fangled wifi wonders, ya can damn well use those. Pesto, mi compadre, where's the ride?" he concluded, already headed for the nearest exit.

Pesto chuckles to himself as Al gets up and heads off. He looks at the others and as he gets up he says, "Well I guess that takes care of that. If anyone is coming with me I think we should catch up to Al before he gets too far ahead."

The orc then heads out of the fast food joint and leads the way to his van. Once there he takes a quick look around and then disengages the alarm so that everyone can get in.

Mitch slides into van as he gives Pesto the directions back to his part of town.

On their way to the location indicated by Mitch, Al had Pesto stop off in a rundown neighborhood on the hill overlooking the International District. Al got out and disappeared into a dark apartment building, and emerged just a minute or so later. He'd ditched the jeans for a pair of olive-drab khaki trousers with bulging cargo pockets, but otherwise he looked the same. Over one shoulder and across his chest was an old Army surplus satchel bag. In one hand he carried a long package wrapped in plastic, which his two companions would soon see were a shotgun and a hunting rifle. In his other hand was a six-pack of Grolsch.

Dropping his butt into a seat he popped the tops of three cans - "Drink 'em if ya got 'em, gents."

Mitch greatfully grabs one of the brews and takes a swig, "Now this is my kind of job."

"I'll see people in an hour." Sun heads out heading home on her bike, a quick change to her real face and a few moments inside to pick up some gear, most notably swapping her fingerless gloves for PVC full length opera gloves, Sun notes the charge level on them as she slips them on. By the time Sun meets back up with the team she's back into her bouncy blonde form.

Pesto programs the autopilot in the van with their destination and then turns around to grab one of the brews. As he lifts it up he looks at the others and says, "Here is to a successful run." The orc then takes a big swig of beer.

Bubbles slurped the rest of her shake as everyone left. Idly she triggered her scan to pick up the earing the elfie chick had shown everyone earlier. Looking at the ARO tracker she flipped through a set of random persona images for it. She settled for a bright red dung beetle.

Getting up and tossing her shake into the garbage, just before she went out through the security doors, she stood and faced the group of chipheads that had stared at her earlier.

*** POP ***

Grabbing her elbow with one hand she flipped up her bright orange arm and gave the group an enormous troll middle finger.

"East Simpson Trogladyte Knights RULE!"

She ran out the door.

Sitting in the back of Pesto's van at the rendezvous point waiting for the others to arrive, Al opened the second round of beers and passed them around.

After taking a long draught, Al held the can up to the light that spilled into the van through a streetlamp, eyeing the design appreciatively. "Fuckin' Grolsch - drink of kings, I tell ya. An' ya know whut? The fact of its not only bein' the hands-down tastiest brew inna world, but also simultananeously the cheapest, makes me wanna shake...umm...shake...well...someone's hand. Hell, with tasty bev'rages like this ta be had, I can't fer the life o' me figger what these kids today need chips an' fancy dealer-detectin' drugs fer. Oh an' HEY - that reminds me," he said, jabbing a lit cigarette - which had not been there a few moments earlier - through the air in Mitch's direction, "you best take care when ya do yer samplin' tonight. I heard lately 'bout some new shit onna streets 'at's got folk ODin' they selves right up ta the Pearly Gates on a right regalar basis - so watch yer dose. Hell, one o' my best friends of sev'ral months done took one damn pill, an' his head like to exploded, not ta mention they done lost three tusker waitresses" - he punctuated his comment with a No offense intended nod to Pesto - "ta this new shit down at Humpty's Dump. Ya know that place, out near Pier 59?"

::Tacoma--0500::

By the time the group begins meeting back up with each other, there is a faint glimmer of purple against the blackness in the Eastern sky. Dawn is coming, though you probably have about an hour before the Sun itself breaks the horizon.

The neighborhood is rundown with squatters taking over half the buildings and street species stalking alleys looking for easy prey.

Thump

Thump

Bubbles knocked on the van with the flat of her palm while still seated on her growler. Sparkling neon and chrome rainbow that almost glows with it's own internal light.

Al hauled the cargo door open for Bubbles, shutting it quickly behind her to ward off the bitter dawn chill.

Now they were five.

Rubbing his hands together and then blowing into cupped palms, he growled around the cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth - "So what's holdin' Pretty Boy up? He stop fer a dad-blasted manicure? Anybody got his number?"

::Tacoma--0503::

Seemingly summoned from the darkness by Al's words, several commlinks flare to life as incoming messages populate from the missing gunfighter.

Business with trogs, will catch up.

Sun takes in the message, and registers the fact that the rest of the team messages at the same time. "So Flint is delayed do we start this party without him?"

"Yer damn straight we start without him. Hell, I warn't even privy to his name till you jist said it. Anyway, it's you carryin' the Cap'n's cred, right toots? An' you were hankerin' fer a bigger share..." Al let his voice trail off meaningfully.

"Now here's whut I reckon - we find one o' these candy-vendors right quick, we jist might catch one jist as he's layin' off fer the night - and I say might 'cuz if'n we keep lollygaggin' about we ain't catchin' nothin' but a case o' goldurned pneumonia out here." As if to punctuate the point, he let fly with a long, gurgling coughing fit.

"Now I ain't hardly got no opinion o' may own," he continued, finally regaining control of himself, "and natcherly am jist ruminatin' out loud here, but all that talk earlier about keepin' a good eye on our new partner Mitch here jist underscored how much I hate to send 'im out all by his lonesome. So if'n it's all the same to y'all, ol' Al'll jist tag along with 'im. Now, I kin guess wha'cher thinkin' - ain't no way a picture o' vigor and manful power such as myself is gon' pass for a strung out drug fiend, but jist alla you leave that to me - 'cuz what you don't know is that ol' Al is a professional actor. Human chameleon if'n ya will, much like Sunny here."

He turned to the bouncy blond - "An' speakin' o' you, precious, assumin' you kin do that quick-changin' act o' yers inta somethin' besides a ravishin' corrupter of men, an' seein' as how ya got that swell bike fer in case we end up all motorized, I figured you fer our shadow. That leaves the drone cover ta you, Pesto my equal-opportunity friend, an' supervisin' us all from this here mo-bile command post is the boss-lady, whom I hope will take no offense when I suggest she is perhaps not sufficiently non-descript to accompany Sunny as our tail. Besides - seen lots o' dead riggers whut din't have no one watchin' their meat."

Finally, Al turned to Mitch - "So I reckon it's time fer you to secrete that cute little pearl tracker somewheres about yer person and then shoot, suck or swallow some portion o' the Cap'n's narcotic smorgasbord - an' remember whut I said about watchin' yer dose. Provided, that is, that there are no objections to ol' Al's quiet musings - though if there are, they're more'n welcome."

Cocking her head as she listens to the gargled speech, she grins at the tusker momentarily, then bristles, "Bubbles very sneaky! Not caught yet!"

Patting Pesto, "But stay watch little tusker, no one else play with tusker body while head in matrix."

After the group is gathered in the van and Al starts laying out the plan, Pesto goes to the back of the van and starts double checking the readiness of his drones. Even though he looks like he is not paying attention to the man he quickly puts a thumbs up when his part of the plan comes up.

The orc cocks an eyebrow at Bubbles as the troll pats his shoulder and talks about no one playing with his body. He then smiles at the others and with his characteristic southern drawl says, "Ok I am ready here, Clara is all ready to go."

Sun smiles, "I just like to know where we stand. And for the record I wanted us all to have a more money. Now sweety look after this for me." She tosses the earring to gently over towards Mitch.

Mitch snatches the earing out of the air and gives it a quick once over.
"Sure thing, dollface." He then clips the small ring inside on of the many holes and rips in his jacket, completely hiding it from sight.

He then flips open the small drug box and looks over the supply. "Any suggestions?" he asks the group.

"Heh, yer funeral, yer poison, kemo sabe," Al rasped through tobacco-ravaged vocal cords. He reached over to where he'd stowed his army surplus satchel beside his weapons, which were still wrapped in plastic. Placing the satchel in front of him, he started digging handfuls of shotgun shells and deer-rifle rounds out of his cargo pockets and dumping them into the olive-drab bag. Once he was done with that, he replaced the bag and zipped his disintegrating leather jacket up to his throat. "Ready when you are, amigo. Dawn's comin' on fast."

Mitch nodded and picked a pill at random tossing it into his mouth and chasing it down with a swig of beer.

He waits for a second, to see if there is any immediate effect.

Sun concentrates on Mitch as he take the pill, letting her perception drift into the astral, trying to detect any change in his aura that could be linked to the drugs supposed effects.

The bulldog van tilted and shifted as several hundred of kilos shifted it's center of gravity. With a creak of complaining paneling Bubbles sits on top and leans over and peers inside.

"Turn green yet?"

Mitch burps, "Not yet..."