[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Street, Nueva Caracas; 12:29 PM]
With the SUV soundly taken care of, Smiley brought himself back to reality with a groan as he felt a bit of phantom pain on one side of his face, pain that felt like he took a real good slap to the chops. He looked over at the other occupants of the van, giving a grin while he rubbed what felt like an aching jaw. "Well, that was quick. Guess I really can make things fly." He sent yet another text message out:
@Sangre<<Hey, nevermind the following part. All taken care of. We're going to check for survivors and then come to you, just tell me where you headed.>>
After unfolding the stock on his shotgun, he looks over to Sonora, "Hey, help Carne find a gun and the both of you get out and cover me. Going to ask the driver to swap insurance info."
Once out the van, he cautiously approaches the overturned SUV in a practiced stance; knees bent slightly, shotgun at the ready with stock firmly pressed against the shoulder, and rolling his balance from one foot to the other as he took each step. The merc that taught him this stance always said it was good for making it easier to leap behind cover or drop prone when bullets started flying downrange towards you, but for anyone observing Smiley it mostly looks like he's dancing some sort of a jig while he walks ahead to the back of the SUV, at which point he then gingerly taps his fingers against the metal to make sure nothing zaps him when he tries to open the rear hatch.
Full Version: Caracas: Hole in the Heart
[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Dirty Apartment Building, Nueva Caracas; 12:29 PM]
Gramps was annoying. He was barking orders like he was a general or something and Mono and Sangre his fucking foot soldiers. But now wasn't the time for quarreling. It never was, the elf thought grumpily.
Firstly he had to stow all the crap he just took from the atzlan assholes. He slung the sniper rifle across his back and put their prisoner's pistol and commlink in his trenchcoat pockets. Being left with two assault rifles, the one he brought and the one he had just captured, Sangre decided to hold one of them in each hand.
That's gotta look badass...
Then he quickly took point and led the group down the stairs. The riot outside didn't surprise him. He couldn't really blame those people, after all he and this bunch of strangers he had ended up with were kind of responsible for this whole situation. Without them the assassins wouldn't have blown up the street. But once again, there was no time to deal with it and the mob would certainly not listen to any explanations anyway. So he just let the occasional rock bounce of his armor and dermal plating and ignored the people as much as he could.
Arriving at Smiley's sedan Sangre kicked off the dead man from the windshield before he squeezed himself inside with all his new weaponry. Reading the messages on his commlink he turned towards Gramps.
"Smiley just messaged. He has the van and apparently taken out the enemy backup. Give me a meeting point to tell him!"
Gramps was annoying. He was barking orders like he was a general or something and Mono and Sangre his fucking foot soldiers. But now wasn't the time for quarreling. It never was, the elf thought grumpily.
Firstly he had to stow all the crap he just took from the atzlan assholes. He slung the sniper rifle across his back and put their prisoner's pistol and commlink in his trenchcoat pockets. Being left with two assault rifles, the one he brought and the one he had just captured, Sangre decided to hold one of them in each hand.
That's gotta look badass...
Then he quickly took point and led the group down the stairs. The riot outside didn't surprise him. He couldn't really blame those people, after all he and this bunch of strangers he had ended up with were kind of responsible for this whole situation. Without them the assassins wouldn't have blown up the street. But once again, there was no time to deal with it and the mob would certainly not listen to any explanations anyway. So he just let the occasional rock bounce of his armor and dermal plating and ignored the people as much as he could.
Arriving at Smiley's sedan Sangre kicked off the dead man from the windshield before he squeezed himself inside with all his new weaponry. Reading the messages on his commlink he turned towards Gramps.
"Smiley just messaged. He has the van and apparently taken out the enemy backup. Give me a meeting point to tell him!"
[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Scene of the Accident, Nueva Caracas; 12:29 PM]
Biomonitor: Cardiac anomoly detected! Heart rate critical! SEEK TREATMENT
Shitshitshitshitshitbreathebreathebreathebreathewhere'smyinhaler?!
Sonora scrambled for her inhaler in her pocket, clutching at her chest and heaving before she could take a hit of the medicine prescribed to her. The last 120 seconds had been ones of unbridled terror. Not the tame 'ooh, Trogslasher 6 is scaaary' terror. Not HALO jumping terror. HALO jumping without a chute terror came remotely close.
This was the terror of being in a van with two people she hardly knew, barely having time to buckle in before the van roared off in pursuit of the getaway vehicle she'd spotted and MadredeDios-vans-are-not-supposed-to-do-that, complete with the audio track of screeching rubber on the asphalt, metal and glass against one another, and a cacophanous crescendo as the much heavier van impacted against their quarry and came to rest on its side in front of them.
Only by a force of will so great it allowed her to shank a spirit in the metaphorical and astral kidneys did she not wet her pants. Still, it was a close call.
Chingame. What was I thinking?
After a few moments of panicked breathing, the biomonitor chimed in with its stoplight detection system moving from an angry red to a cautious yellow. Sonora longed for a bright emerald, shining hope and prosperity into her decaying heart.
The green of a stable biological status would be nice, too.
Huffing breaths in between every word, she said "And you said Loco was a stupid name. It fits you perfectly!"
As Smiley got out of the car, Sonora looked back at Coatl and gestured towards the car on its side.
"He wants to exchange information, I think we should provide-ow, mierda- transport to a nice gurney where we can ask him questions. Maybe his car can still drive, too. We can make a sale of it to some friends of mine."
Creeping out of the car, Sonora pulled her Colt once more and advanced on the car behind Smiley. "Have Carne grab him, he's got a weapon or two on him and you've got the shotgun!"
Out of the corner of her eye, she caught something that she'd reflect back on later:
Three young pendejos with pink mohawks, hooting and cheering at the accident.
Biomonitor: Cardiac anomoly detected! Heart rate critical! SEEK TREATMENT
Shitshitshitshitshitbreathebreathebreathebreathewhere'smyinhaler?!
Sonora scrambled for her inhaler in her pocket, clutching at her chest and heaving before she could take a hit of the medicine prescribed to her. The last 120 seconds had been ones of unbridled terror. Not the tame 'ooh, Trogslasher 6 is scaaary' terror. Not HALO jumping terror. HALO jumping without a chute terror came remotely close.
This was the terror of being in a van with two people she hardly knew, barely having time to buckle in before the van roared off in pursuit of the getaway vehicle she'd spotted and MadredeDios-vans-are-not-supposed-to-do-that, complete with the audio track of screeching rubber on the asphalt, metal and glass against one another, and a cacophanous crescendo as the much heavier van impacted against their quarry and came to rest on its side in front of them.
Only by a force of will so great it allowed her to shank a spirit in the metaphorical and astral kidneys did she not wet her pants. Still, it was a close call.
Chingame. What was I thinking?
After a few moments of panicked breathing, the biomonitor chimed in with its stoplight detection system moving from an angry red to a cautious yellow. Sonora longed for a bright emerald, shining hope and prosperity into her decaying heart.
The green of a stable biological status would be nice, too.
Huffing breaths in between every word, she said "And you said Loco was a stupid name. It fits you perfectly!"
As Smiley got out of the car, Sonora looked back at Coatl and gestured towards the car on its side.
"He wants to exchange information, I think we should provide-ow, mierda- transport to a nice gurney where we can ask him questions. Maybe his car can still drive, too. We can make a sale of it to some friends of mine."
Creeping out of the car, Sonora pulled her Colt once more and advanced on the car behind Smiley. "Have Carne grab him, he's got a weapon or two on him and you've got the shotgun!"
Out of the corner of her eye, she caught something that she'd reflect back on later:
Three young pendejos with pink mohawks, hooting and cheering at the accident.
[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Dirty Apartment Building, Nueva Caracas; 12:29 PM]
The old guy started barking orders like he was in charge. Fuck, for all Mono knew, he was in charge. regardless, what he was saying made sense. Get off the rooftop, get out of sight, watch for danger. Run. Hide. Watch your back. This guy's orders were El Mono's goddamned ten commandments. The crowd, though, that was something else. When the first chunk of asphalt flew, it took a supreme effort of will for the twitchy ork not to just run and leave these assholes to their fate. But the information the prisoner might have was enough to make him stay. Too bad the fucking crowd thought they were the ones who had blown up the street. Fucking assholes were throwing shit at the heroes that had stopped the motherfuckers that did it. No sense trying to explain it to them, either. Mobs weren't generally likely to listen to reason, and even if they did, they'd tear the man responsible to pieces with their bare hands, and then they'd never know what he knew. Once again, the old man was on the ball. Some immediate personal fear could buy them the time they needed. Too bad the car didn't exactly blend in. Once they were moving, he'd point out that they needed to change vehicles. For now, running was more important than hiding.
Climbing into the back seat next to the weakly struggling man, El Mono pressed the Fubuki to his temple. "Fucking still and quiet, amigo. If you think I won't kill you in cold blood, you might want to think about the way I shot you in the back earlier. This time, you will not survive."
The old guy started barking orders like he was in charge. Fuck, for all Mono knew, he was in charge. regardless, what he was saying made sense. Get off the rooftop, get out of sight, watch for danger. Run. Hide. Watch your back. This guy's orders were El Mono's goddamned ten commandments. The crowd, though, that was something else. When the first chunk of asphalt flew, it took a supreme effort of will for the twitchy ork not to just run and leave these assholes to their fate. But the information the prisoner might have was enough to make him stay. Too bad the fucking crowd thought they were the ones who had blown up the street. Fucking assholes were throwing shit at the heroes that had stopped the motherfuckers that did it. No sense trying to explain it to them, either. Mobs weren't generally likely to listen to reason, and even if they did, they'd tear the man responsible to pieces with their bare hands, and then they'd never know what he knew. Once again, the old man was on the ball. Some immediate personal fear could buy them the time they needed. Too bad the car didn't exactly blend in. Once they were moving, he'd point out that they needed to change vehicles. For now, running was more important than hiding.
Climbing into the back seat next to the weakly struggling man, El Mono pressed the Fubuki to his temple. "Fucking still and quiet, amigo. If you think I won't kill you in cold blood, you might want to think about the way I shot you in the back earlier. This time, you will not survive."
[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; in Smiley's crowd, Nueva Caracas; 12:30 PM]
Both greenhorns get in the car, and contrary to my hopes, none of them sit behind the wheel. So by the looks of things, I guess I get to be the designated driver. I stick the carbine between the front seats, and hope to God I'll fare better than a few minutes ago.The kid barely closes his door that I'm peeling rubber and heading down the streets like a bat out of Hell. Come to think of it. I've never quite understood that expression. I mean, seriously, why would they have bats in Hell in the first place. Poor bats; must give them such a bad rep for no reason. So yea; we peel away like a bunch of robbers out of a bank. Makes more sense. At least, to me. We're about three or four blocks down before my brain decides to chime in.
I glance toward the elf.
“Sorry partner, what was that?”
He repeats himself, with annoyance dripping out of his voice. I tell him to tell to his girlfriend to meet us five blocks up of where I'm going to meet Morris' men. Or women. We don't discriminate in the DSI. After all, we're the good guys. Or so I like to pretend. The ride prooves itself to be somewhat smoother than anticipated, letting me ease off the gas a bit. I still keep my eyes on the road. You never know.
“Hey kid, that was some nice half decent work back there.” I tel the ork in the back seat.
I feel like I should tell him a bit more, but with out little tied up friend on the floor, I ain't real comfortable. They might not sit real well with the knowledge I'm bout to handoff our man to my people. They might actually react pretty poorly to the idea. Can't totaly blame them. Nevertheless, right here and now, I ain't got no room to manoeuver, and other immediate worries. There'll be time later. Hopefully.
I need to think of a plan, and fast. At the rate we're blowing this city up, there won't be anything left to fight over.
Heck; maybe that should be the plan...
Both greenhorns get in the car, and contrary to my hopes, none of them sit behind the wheel. So by the looks of things, I guess I get to be the designated driver. I stick the carbine between the front seats, and hope to God I'll fare better than a few minutes ago.The kid barely closes his door that I'm peeling rubber and heading down the streets like a bat out of Hell. Come to think of it. I've never quite understood that expression. I mean, seriously, why would they have bats in Hell in the first place. Poor bats; must give them such a bad rep for no reason. So yea; we peel away like a bunch of robbers out of a bank. Makes more sense. At least, to me. We're about three or four blocks down before my brain decides to chime in.
I glance toward the elf.
“Sorry partner, what was that?”
He repeats himself, with annoyance dripping out of his voice. I tell him to tell to his girlfriend to meet us five blocks up of where I'm going to meet Morris' men. Or women. We don't discriminate in the DSI. After all, we're the good guys. Or so I like to pretend. The ride prooves itself to be somewhat smoother than anticipated, letting me ease off the gas a bit. I still keep my eyes on the road. You never know.
“Hey kid, that was some nice half decent work back there.” I tel the ork in the back seat.
I feel like I should tell him a bit more, but with out little tied up friend on the floor, I ain't real comfortable. They might not sit real well with the knowledge I'm bout to handoff our man to my people. They might actually react pretty poorly to the idea. Can't totaly blame them. Nevertheless, right here and now, I ain't got no room to manoeuver, and other immediate worries. There'll be time later. Hopefully.
I need to think of a plan, and fast. At the rate we're blowing this city up, there won't be anything left to fight over.
Heck; maybe that should be the plan...
Dexter, El Mono, and Sam
[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; in Smiley's Car, Nueva Caracas; 12:35 PM]
As Dexter coaxed Smiley's car into motion, rocks and debris thrown by the angry citizens further pelted and dinged the outside of the already battered and tormented sedan. One particularly large chunk of asphalt sailed through the air and smacked hard into the passenger side rear window, shattering it.
The whole time the abducted would-be assassin was being stuffed into the car, he writhed and fought against his captors. At the threatening, menacing words from El Mono, he went limp, and ceased struggling. A look of hopelessness combined with acceptance of what was to come passed over his face. He shut his eyes and laid there, still as a tombstone.
Dexter crossed town without any further hassle -- though it did seem as though Smiley's axle was squeaking a bit. Maybe the brakes needed a little touched up, too. And maybe it needed a front-end alignment... it did feel as though the car was pulling a wee bit too the left.
[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; in Smiley's Car, Nueva Caracas; 12:35 PM]
As Dexter coaxed Smiley's car into motion, rocks and debris thrown by the angry citizens further pelted and dinged the outside of the already battered and tormented sedan. One particularly large chunk of asphalt sailed through the air and smacked hard into the passenger side rear window, shattering it.
The whole time the abducted would-be assassin was being stuffed into the car, he writhed and fought against his captors. At the threatening, menacing words from El Mono, he went limp, and ceased struggling. A look of hopelessness combined with acceptance of what was to come passed over his face. He shut his eyes and laid there, still as a tombstone.
Dexter crossed town without any further hassle -- though it did seem as though Smiley's axle was squeaking a bit. Maybe the brakes needed a little touched up, too. And maybe it needed a front-end alignment... it did feel as though the car was pulling a wee bit too the left.
Sonora, Smiley, and Coatl
[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; in Smiley's Car, Nueva Caracas; 12:35 PM]
Smiley and Sonora approached the SUV laying on its side, the passenger side looking straight up at the sky and the roof oriented towards them. Each step that the two took towards the fallen automobile crunched through glass and maneuvered around dangerous bits of shredded metal and debris, choice pickings from the vehicles that slammed into each other.
Upon closer inspection, the driver looked as if he didn't make it. His head was laying on the driver's side window, which itself was shattered with the impact his cranium had made against it. Cracks spread outward from the epicenter of the collision of skull and glass, as well as a spurted ring of blood, which was now working into the lines. The shorn man's head even looked a bit... deformed, maybe slightly flatter on the side laying down. And his eyes bulged out of his socket slightly, giving a dead stare straight ahead out of the windshield.
((Perception Checks, both Sonora and Smiley))
[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; in Smiley's Car, Nueva Caracas; 12:35 PM]
Smiley and Sonora approached the SUV laying on its side, the passenger side looking straight up at the sky and the roof oriented towards them. Each step that the two took towards the fallen automobile crunched through glass and maneuvered around dangerous bits of shredded metal and debris, choice pickings from the vehicles that slammed into each other.
Upon closer inspection, the driver looked as if he didn't make it. His head was laying on the driver's side window, which itself was shattered with the impact his cranium had made against it. Cracks spread outward from the epicenter of the collision of skull and glass, as well as a spurted ring of blood, which was now working into the lines. The shorn man's head even looked a bit... deformed, maybe slightly flatter on the side laying down. And his eyes bulged out of his socket slightly, giving a dead stare straight ahead out of the windshield.
((Perception Checks, both Sonora and Smiley))
[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; near Dexter's Van, Nueva Caracas; 12:35 PM]
While looking over the wreck, he was momentarily interrupted when he finally got a reply from Sangre, but he caught something out the corner of his eye. Smiley opens up the rear hatch on the SUV and grinned manically when he laid eyes on the contents. "Holy shit, I think we killed ol' Saint Nick, because the back is loaded to the brim with christmas presents! Let's see..." He withdraws a large .50 caliber rifle, looking it over. "Dunno why they had TWO of these things, but thanks Nicky. Here, hold onto this one."
He tosses the very heavy sniper rifle to Sonora with a grunt, and pulls out a bulky AA-16, "Finally a decent hunting shotgun!"
Resting the shotgun against his shoulder, he takes a quick inventory of the remaining contents, "Five M23 clips filled with APDS, three AA-16 drums and four loose shells of Ex-Ex ammo, three clips for the Barrett, pair of really big sticks with bits sticking out the side, and what look like a pair of crates that normally carry rockets." He looks over to Sonora with the grin still on his face, "I'd say this is far trade for not taking him alive. Comeon, let's pack up quick so we can meet up with the others." He grabs an armfull of AA-16 drums and heads back to the van.
"Hurry up Carne, we need you to move some shit!"
While looking over the wreck, he was momentarily interrupted when he finally got a reply from Sangre, but he caught something out the corner of his eye. Smiley opens up the rear hatch on the SUV and grinned manically when he laid eyes on the contents. "Holy shit, I think we killed ol' Saint Nick, because the back is loaded to the brim with christmas presents! Let's see..." He withdraws a large .50 caliber rifle, looking it over. "Dunno why they had TWO of these things, but thanks Nicky. Here, hold onto this one."
He tosses the very heavy sniper rifle to Sonora with a grunt, and pulls out a bulky AA-16, "Finally a decent hunting shotgun!"
Resting the shotgun against his shoulder, he takes a quick inventory of the remaining contents, "Five M23 clips filled with APDS, three AA-16 drums and four loose shells of Ex-Ex ammo, three clips for the Barrett, pair of really big sticks with bits sticking out the side, and what look like a pair of crates that normally carry rockets." He looks over to Sonora with the grin still on his face, "I'd say this is far trade for not taking him alive. Comeon, let's pack up quick so we can meet up with the others." He grabs an armfull of AA-16 drums and heads back to the van.
"Hurry up Carne, we need you to move some shit!"
[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Chacao District Border, 13:01PM]
Men and their toys.
Sonora, Smiley and Coatl made quick work of the ordnance in the overturned SUV. The appearance of a large troll on the scene and the elf woman handing a sizable AMR to him caused the crowds to stay back until well after they had left, when the cucarachas came with their welding torches and tools to disassemble the van into a stain of blood and broken glass on the pavement within record time. The body was carried off by the truly desperate, trying to get to La Rincondada before the sun went down and the manageable evil turned into the true demons that stalked the ruined streets.
The van easily handled the addition of more weaponry. Sonora did her best to distance herself from it. She didn't trust any of it, especially when she saw the macuahuitl hefted out. Those things were meant to take the heads of neighboring tribes, conquistadors, and more recently people like her. Fuck that.
The meet was meant to be nearer to the 'good' part of town. Chacao district was one of the few that rose above the refugee-strewn squalor that was the majority of the city. The rich made it their playground, the banks kept their money there, commodities (legal ones, anyway) were traded at the Bolivar Stock Exchange and what little greenery of the city was left started here and ran up the slopes of El Avila where the oligarchs of the city kept their homes.
The transition from poverty to wealth was a slow one from where they started. Whorehouses, hole in the wall bars and crumbling tenements gave way to nightclubs, restaraunts and mirrored condominum towers as if it were a slow lapse trideo.
Smiley had said little about the other team, which generally meant a good thing. Sonora had a momentary twinge of guilt when she realized they had all but stolen Gringo's van and machine gun and left them an increasingly dilapidated car in return.
As well as a crazy Elf with an assault rifle. Perhaps two moments of guilt. Still, no news was good news and they did end up here on Smiley's recommendation so this must be where they were getting the hell out of the hot zone until she could find a place to hide for a few days, prehaps plan the next move, and find out what the deal with the Gringo was.
Men and their toys.
Sonora, Smiley and Coatl made quick work of the ordnance in the overturned SUV. The appearance of a large troll on the scene and the elf woman handing a sizable AMR to him caused the crowds to stay back until well after they had left, when the cucarachas came with their welding torches and tools to disassemble the van into a stain of blood and broken glass on the pavement within record time. The body was carried off by the truly desperate, trying to get to La Rincondada before the sun went down and the manageable evil turned into the true demons that stalked the ruined streets.
The van easily handled the addition of more weaponry. Sonora did her best to distance herself from it. She didn't trust any of it, especially when she saw the macuahuitl hefted out. Those things were meant to take the heads of neighboring tribes, conquistadors, and more recently people like her. Fuck that.
The meet was meant to be nearer to the 'good' part of town. Chacao district was one of the few that rose above the refugee-strewn squalor that was the majority of the city. The rich made it their playground, the banks kept their money there, commodities (legal ones, anyway) were traded at the Bolivar Stock Exchange and what little greenery of the city was left started here and ran up the slopes of El Avila where the oligarchs of the city kept their homes.
The transition from poverty to wealth was a slow one from where they started. Whorehouses, hole in the wall bars and crumbling tenements gave way to nightclubs, restaraunts and mirrored condominum towers as if it were a slow lapse trideo.
Smiley had said little about the other team, which generally meant a good thing. Sonora had a momentary twinge of guilt when she realized they had all but stolen Gringo's van and machine gun and left them an increasingly dilapidated car in return.
As well as a crazy Elf with an assault rifle. Perhaps two moments of guilt. Still, no news was good news and they did end up here on Smiley's recommendation so this must be where they were getting the hell out of the hot zone until she could find a place to hide for a few days, prehaps plan the next move, and find out what the deal with the Gringo was.
[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Chacao District Border, 13:01PM]
Enemy targets taken out, military weapons captured; today was a good day, at least it was to Smiley despite all the damage to his car. The whole thing still nagged at him from the back of his mind. These guys were equipped to occupy an entire postal code, even had anti-vehicular weaponary. Yet every last one of them were killed and their equipment stolen by their own targets. Either these 'Cuachicqueh' were the absolute worst Black Ops assassins he's ever seen, not that he's seen many at all, or they weren't taking any of their targets the least bit seriously. Thats definately going to change after they realize nobody returned to report success OR failure...
Just like old times. Sorta.
It's not long before he arrives at the parking garage indicated by Sangre, west of Gematria and 10 kilometers along the main boulevard just like he said. Opening the driver-side door, he steps out and gives a quick shout, "Hey, Old man Alamo? Sangre? You two here?"
Enemy targets taken out, military weapons captured; today was a good day, at least it was to Smiley despite all the damage to his car. The whole thing still nagged at him from the back of his mind. These guys were equipped to occupy an entire postal code, even had anti-vehicular weaponary. Yet every last one of them were killed and their equipment stolen by their own targets. Either these 'Cuachicqueh' were the absolute worst Black Ops assassins he's ever seen, not that he's seen many at all, or they weren't taking any of their targets the least bit seriously. Thats definately going to change after they realize nobody returned to report success OR failure...
Just like old times. Sorta.
It's not long before he arrives at the parking garage indicated by Sangre, west of Gematria and 10 kilometers along the main boulevard just like he said. Opening the driver-side door, he steps out and gives a quick shout, "Hey, Old man Alamo? Sangre? You two here?"
[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Chacao District Border, 13:01PM]
The ride had been quiet, nobody was in the mood for small-talk. Arriving at the parking garage it doesn't take more than a minute or two for the van containing the rest of their strange team to appear. Reacting to Smiley's shout Sangre got out of the car and looked towards the rigger.
"Yeah we're here alright. We got some unexpected company along the way though..." The elf thrust his thumb towards Mono and their prisoner.
"Guess we need some kind of hiding place. We need to analyze this fucked up situation because I don't have any fucking idea anymore what the hell is going on. And I think our guest could answer some questions in that regard."
The ride had been quiet, nobody was in the mood for small-talk. Arriving at the parking garage it doesn't take more than a minute or two for the van containing the rest of their strange team to appear. Reacting to Smiley's shout Sangre got out of the car and looked towards the rigger.
"Yeah we're here alright. We got some unexpected company along the way though..." The elf thrust his thumb towards Mono and their prisoner.
"Guess we need some kind of hiding place. We need to analyze this fucked up situation because I don't have any fucking idea anymore what the hell is going on. And I think our guest could answer some questions in that regard."
[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Chacao District Border, 13:01PM]
I step out of the car, slinging my carbine across my body. In a few seconds, everything is either going to be all smooth sailing, or people are going to get shot and a world of hurt is going to rain down on us. I pray to whatever God still cares about this crummy part of the world that I don’t have to fight my way out of this.
I get the rear passenger door open and pull our friend out. He barely stands on his own two feet, which is all fine by me. Just means I ain’t gonna have to worry about him trying to hop away to freedom. Or worst, throw himself down the stairs or something shit like that. These fanatical taco eaters tend to do that short of stuff. I’m just thankful there ain’t no cortical bomb in his head. Like I have time to pick brain matter out of my beard.
I drag him to the van, pretending like it’s a real normal thing I do on a daily basis.
“The situation is pretty fuckin clear pal. Like I told your lady friend over there” I point at the girl, so he doesn’t get confused with Paco “these guys are part of a corp hitsquad. They’ve got a few beefs here and there, and they decided this was ripe time to settle ‘em scores.”
I grab my prisoner and dump him on the floor of the van. His head makes a nice thump. I sling my carbine off and jab him once in the stomach with the stock. I ain’t quite sure why I just did that. Seemed like the appropriate thing to do. I feel a little calmer now. Hurting him is like scratching an itch I guess.
“You and your girlfriend have got nothing to do with ‘em. S’far as I can tell, they don’t got no intel on you, and didn’t even know you existed until today. They sure as fuck are going to notice now though.”
I look at the ork.
“And you, well, maybe they know who the fuck you are, but they ain’t in town for you.”
I finally give the girl and the troll my attention.
“You two, on the other hand... This hitsquad was meant for your ass. And unless they’ve changed their regular mission doctrine, they ain’t gonna stop until they’ve got you twice as dead as roadkill.”
I spit on the floor.
“And these guys mean business. The fact that everyone is alive is a fuckin’ miracle.”
I get my real serious face on. Which come to think of it is pretty much my everyday face.
“Don’t make the mistake of thinking you’re real badasses. You all got real fuckin’ lucky today. And I mean it. These guys are good at what they do, and they ain’t afraid to level entre city blocks to get you. Next time, you might not see ‘em coming.”
I sling my carbine back on my shoulder.
“Now, I know none of ya know me. And I ain’t the kind to pretend I really know any of you. If you want to live, then go to ground. Hide. Get the fuck out of this town.”
I look at the girl and the troll, again.
“But that don’t count for you. Like I said; they won’t stop for nothing. Which is why I’m here.”
The girl gets her mouth half way open before I cut her.
“Pope. Dexter Pope. I’m here to keep you two alive. And no, I ain’t gonna tell you who I work for.”
The azzie wriggles like a worm in the van.
“Here’s the deal. I’m going to hand off our friend here” I jerk my thumb at the van “to my people. They love Azzies, and they know how to squeeze ‘em dry. Whatever this guy know, I’ll know in a few days time. If anything concerns any of you, I’ll keep you in the know.”
I spit again.
“You and you” I say to Sonora and Coalt “get in the van. I’ll introduce you to some friendly folks.”
I step out of the car, slinging my carbine across my body. In a few seconds, everything is either going to be all smooth sailing, or people are going to get shot and a world of hurt is going to rain down on us. I pray to whatever God still cares about this crummy part of the world that I don’t have to fight my way out of this.
I get the rear passenger door open and pull our friend out. He barely stands on his own two feet, which is all fine by me. Just means I ain’t gonna have to worry about him trying to hop away to freedom. Or worst, throw himself down the stairs or something shit like that. These fanatical taco eaters tend to do that short of stuff. I’m just thankful there ain’t no cortical bomb in his head. Like I have time to pick brain matter out of my beard.
I drag him to the van, pretending like it’s a real normal thing I do on a daily basis.
“The situation is pretty fuckin clear pal. Like I told your lady friend over there” I point at the girl, so he doesn’t get confused with Paco “these guys are part of a corp hitsquad. They’ve got a few beefs here and there, and they decided this was ripe time to settle ‘em scores.”
I grab my prisoner and dump him on the floor of the van. His head makes a nice thump. I sling my carbine off and jab him once in the stomach with the stock. I ain’t quite sure why I just did that. Seemed like the appropriate thing to do. I feel a little calmer now. Hurting him is like scratching an itch I guess.
“You and your girlfriend have got nothing to do with ‘em. S’far as I can tell, they don’t got no intel on you, and didn’t even know you existed until today. They sure as fuck are going to notice now though.”
I look at the ork.
“And you, well, maybe they know who the fuck you are, but they ain’t in town for you.”
I finally give the girl and the troll my attention.
“You two, on the other hand... This hitsquad was meant for your ass. And unless they’ve changed their regular mission doctrine, they ain’t gonna stop until they’ve got you twice as dead as roadkill.”
I spit on the floor.
“And these guys mean business. The fact that everyone is alive is a fuckin’ miracle.”
I get my real serious face on. Which come to think of it is pretty much my everyday face.
“Don’t make the mistake of thinking you’re real badasses. You all got real fuckin’ lucky today. And I mean it. These guys are good at what they do, and they ain’t afraid to level entre city blocks to get you. Next time, you might not see ‘em coming.”
I sling my carbine back on my shoulder.
“Now, I know none of ya know me. And I ain’t the kind to pretend I really know any of you. If you want to live, then go to ground. Hide. Get the fuck out of this town.”
I look at the girl and the troll, again.
“But that don’t count for you. Like I said; they won’t stop for nothing. Which is why I’m here.”
The girl gets her mouth half way open before I cut her.
“Pope. Dexter Pope. I’m here to keep you two alive. And no, I ain’t gonna tell you who I work for.”
The azzie wriggles like a worm in the van.
“Here’s the deal. I’m going to hand off our friend here” I jerk my thumb at the van “to my people. They love Azzies, and they know how to squeeze ‘em dry. Whatever this guy know, I’ll know in a few days time. If anything concerns any of you, I’ll keep you in the know.”
I spit again.
“You and you” I say to Sonora and Coalt “get in the van. I’ll introduce you to some friendly folks.”
[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Chacao District Border, 13:01PM]
Before Dexter is done with his warnings and exposition, yet another large van rumbles into the parking garage. It takes the turn up onto the group's level quickly, tires screeching as it rounds the curve. Two men can be made out sitting in the front of the van, both wearing dark, black shades.
The van slows to a stop some twenty meters from them, and the driver flashes his lights one, two, three times.
Dexter receives a simple text message from Morris:
<<My men have visual confirmation. Seems you've got a crew with you, now. Until further notice, treat them like mushrooms: feed 'em shit and keep 'em in the dark. Let's not blow our cover just yet. Bring that spic Azzie bastard over now.>>
Before Dexter is done with his warnings and exposition, yet another large van rumbles into the parking garage. It takes the turn up onto the group's level quickly, tires screeching as it rounds the curve. Two men can be made out sitting in the front of the van, both wearing dark, black shades.
The van slows to a stop some twenty meters from them, and the driver flashes his lights one, two, three times.
Dexter receives a simple text message from Morris:
<<My men have visual confirmation. Seems you've got a crew with you, now. Until further notice, treat them like mushrooms: feed 'em shit and keep 'em in the dark. Let's not blow our cover just yet. Bring that spic Azzie bastard over now.>>
[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Chacao District Border, 13:01PM]
Well, speaking of the devil.
I reach into the van, and throw the guy over my shoulder like the nice sack of burritos he is. My shoulder is starting to complain under the strain. Well fuck you to shoulder! Maybe you should fuck off like my wife!
I walk over to the van, slide the door open, and dump the son of a bitch. I stroll back like there's nothing to it. I couldn't be more casual if I stopped to take a piss.
"Come on people, we ain't got all fuckin' day."
Well, speaking of the devil.
I reach into the van, and throw the guy over my shoulder like the nice sack of burritos he is. My shoulder is starting to complain under the strain. Well fuck you to shoulder! Maybe you should fuck off like my wife!
I walk over to the van, slide the door open, and dump the son of a bitch. I stroll back like there's nothing to it. I couldn't be more casual if I stopped to take a piss.
"Come on people, we ain't got all fuckin' day."
[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Chacao District Border, 13:01PM]
What the fuck? Who did this gringo think he was? Wait... scratch that. Some questions are not better left unasked.
"What the fuck?" El Mono made a vulgar gesture at the old man. "Who does this gringo think he is?" Yeah, that was better. May as well keep going now. Make the point as clear and unambiguous as possible.
"Look, amigo, I know I was following orders back there, and maybe that put you in a mindstate of being in charge. Fuck, for all I know, you are in charge of these folks here. You are not in charge of me. I did what you said back there because what you said made sense. Start making sense now, and I'll go along with it some more. Fuck, you make a habit of it, and I might just make of habit of following orders. Stranger shit has happened in the last 24 hours, and that's a fucking fact... but right now, I don't know you, I don't know those people," Mono waved at the van, "and I don't see any pressing reason to just let you haul off with this fucker and hope you tell us something useful later on."
Yeah, so he was outnumbered and outgunned here, but once he got on a roll, El Mono just kept right on rolling.
"I don't know you, and I don't know who 'your people' are. What I do know is this: whether or not these particular assholes are in town for me, the assholes dressed just like them last night were. That tells me something I think just might be important. Either you don't know the whole story, you don't know a damned thing, or you're lying to us."
Yeah, so maybe it was stupid, but it needed to be said. Mono didn't trust this guy or his people, and didn't see any compelling reason to pretend otherwise. Sure, he was an enemy of Mono's enemies, but that didn't exactly prove his friendship. For all Mono knew, these people just got off on killing people with weird haircuts. Sure, run and hide was almost exactly what he had planned to do next, but that would be after getting some answers out of this fuckface. If Mono didn't think he had information worth knowing, he would have shot the bastard instead of kicking him.
What the fuck? Who did this gringo think he was? Wait... scratch that. Some questions are not better left unasked.
"What the fuck?" El Mono made a vulgar gesture at the old man. "Who does this gringo think he is?" Yeah, that was better. May as well keep going now. Make the point as clear and unambiguous as possible.
"Look, amigo, I know I was following orders back there, and maybe that put you in a mindstate of being in charge. Fuck, for all I know, you are in charge of these folks here. You are not in charge of me. I did what you said back there because what you said made sense. Start making sense now, and I'll go along with it some more. Fuck, you make a habit of it, and I might just make of habit of following orders. Stranger shit has happened in the last 24 hours, and that's a fucking fact... but right now, I don't know you, I don't know those people," Mono waved at the van, "and I don't see any pressing reason to just let you haul off with this fucker and hope you tell us something useful later on."
Yeah, so he was outnumbered and outgunned here, but once he got on a roll, El Mono just kept right on rolling.
"I don't know you, and I don't know who 'your people' are. What I do know is this: whether or not these particular assholes are in town for me, the assholes dressed just like them last night were. That tells me something I think just might be important. Either you don't know the whole story, you don't know a damned thing, or you're lying to us."
Yeah, so maybe it was stupid, but it needed to be said. Mono didn't trust this guy or his people, and didn't see any compelling reason to pretend otherwise. Sure, he was an enemy of Mono's enemies, but that didn't exactly prove his friendship. For all Mono knew, these people just got off on killing people with weird haircuts. Sure, run and hide was almost exactly what he had planned to do next, but that would be after getting some answers out of this fuckface. If Mono didn't think he had information worth knowing, he would have shot the bastard instead of kicking him.
[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Chacao District Border, 13:01PM]
“Like I said kid, the name’s Dexter. Dexter Pope. That’s who I was last time I check. Mind ya, it’s been a while, so I might be wrong. I'm the guy you want on your side if you plan on staying in one fuckin' piece.”
I shift my weight on the ball of my feet.
“I ain’t got no reason to lie to ya kid. No reason at all. I recognize the fact you probably saved part of my ass back there, so I ain’t gonna bullshit you. I ain’t very good at bullshitting. They didn’t teach me that.”
I nod toward Sonora.
“I know what you can do. Read me and tell ‘em.”
What the hell I mean. Maybe they'll believe her. Young guys trust chicks with nice asses. I mean... I ain't got much to lose. At this range, I can always be on top of the kid before he knows it.
“Like I said kid, the name’s Dexter. Dexter Pope. That’s who I was last time I check. Mind ya, it’s been a while, so I might be wrong. I'm the guy you want on your side if you plan on staying in one fuckin' piece.”
I shift my weight on the ball of my feet.
“I ain’t got no reason to lie to ya kid. No reason at all. I recognize the fact you probably saved part of my ass back there, so I ain’t gonna bullshit you. I ain’t very good at bullshitting. They didn’t teach me that.”
I nod toward Sonora.
“I know what you can do. Read me and tell ‘em.”
What the hell I mean. Maybe they'll believe her. Young guys trust chicks with nice asses. I mean... I ain't got much to lose. At this range, I can always be on top of the kid before he knows it.
[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Chacao District Border, 13:01PM]
When Dexter dumps the Azzie goon into the van, he catches a glimpse of two dark-suited men wearing mirror shades. Both of them had the bearing of men who were used to games of state, and had the training (and possibly some enhancement) to be truly dangerous. One of them stretches out a roll of duct tape, while the other grabs the door. Before he shuts it, he whispers to Dexter: "Morris sends his regards, Mr. Pope. We'll take this from here." And then he practically shuts the door in Dexter's face. Before the van even pulls off, everyone can hear the shorn-headed Azzie screaming
Morris sends Dexter another text:
<<Package has been received. I counted six of you out there altogether. Take this and split it up between all of you. Maybe this'll smooth over any unease they might have. I had to beat some bean counters over the head, but I get what I want in the end. Tell everyone there may be more in the future if they keep their mouths shut.>>
Dexter gets the notification of a nuyen transaction in his comm's AR, to the tune of
30,000.
When Dexter dumps the Azzie goon into the van, he catches a glimpse of two dark-suited men wearing mirror shades. Both of them had the bearing of men who were used to games of state, and had the training (and possibly some enhancement) to be truly dangerous. One of them stretches out a roll of duct tape, while the other grabs the door. Before he shuts it, he whispers to Dexter: "Morris sends his regards, Mr. Pope. We'll take this from here." And then he practically shuts the door in Dexter's face. Before the van even pulls off, everyone can hear the shorn-headed Azzie screaming
Morris sends Dexter another text:
<<Package has been received. I counted six of you out there altogether. Take this and split it up between all of you. Maybe this'll smooth over any unease they might have. I had to beat some bean counters over the head, but I get what I want in the end. Tell everyone there may be more in the future if they keep their mouths shut.>>
Dexter gets the notification of a nuyen transaction in his comm's AR, to the tune of
30,000.
[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Chacao District Border, 13:01PM]
I wave at the van at it drives away.
That guy is fucked. I chuckle to myself, wishing I could be there when they start breaking him in.
I sling the carbine off my back and slid it inside my van. My body is starting to ache for a drink.
"How 'bout this then."
I look back at the ork.
"How 'bout I told you you could have 5 grand, right now? How 'bout I told you there would be more to come, if you kept your fuckin' mouth shut?"
I fold my arms across my load bearing vest.
"I mean, if you don't want 5 grand, I can give you a bullet instead. You just tell me where you want it. Shit, I can even give you two of 'em if you ain't sure where you want it."
I wave at the van at it drives away.
That guy is fucked. I chuckle to myself, wishing I could be there when they start breaking him in.
I sling the carbine off my back and slid it inside my van. My body is starting to ache for a drink.
"How 'bout this then."
I look back at the ork.
"How 'bout I told you you could have 5 grand, right now? How 'bout I told you there would be more to come, if you kept your fuckin' mouth shut?"
I fold my arms across my load bearing vest.
"I mean, if you don't want 5 grand, I can give you a bullet instead. You just tell me where you want it. Shit, I can even give you two of 'em if you ain't sure where you want it."
[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Chacao District Border, 13:03PM]
Sonora was pleased. Two months' rent in a day, weapons she could probably offload to Sergei and some calls she'd have to make. Sister Mary would know of a place they could set up to be a safehouse for a period - it would have to be large and last a while, if what Gringo is saying is true.
Shorned Ones came for her, and came for Coatl, and it was intervention of a higher power (Confederate, it sounded like) and Fate that kept them alive when so many others died. She did not trust Gringo - she did not trust any of them, yet - but 5,000 was a good enough start.
Gringo didn't let her get a word in edgewise while he made his dramatic explanation. Sonora watched while another van pulled up with two mirror-shaded men inside, taking the Shorned One from the bedraggled team and locking him inside. The trained operative was already screaming as the van left. Even those passers-by didn't notice. Just another day in Caracas, just another soul sent to La Rincondada to be sold in El Hipódromo at the mercy of Bolivar '49, and would likely be eaten alive in the Poliedro de Caracas, the warren's gladiatorial arena.
Sonora had heard tales of it in her years in the city - had even gone there once or twice. Within the domed building men are put into pits to fight for their lives versus other men, creatures, ghouls...The stink of blood and sweat left a pall over the building, and only served to fuel the frenzied adrenaline of the thousands of residents who went there to forget their hellish lives outside the place that the policia dared not go.
In fact, it was there that her flight from La Alianza had mistakenly begun, stealing that ten-spot of Tempo from the dealer while trying to improve the payout for a nameless man ostensibly working with Bolivar '49. In the pits, the house always wins - and she had made enough for her rent, food and medication that month.
And so now here they all were - a grizzled white man demanding they go for a ride in his van after giving them5,000, candy to tempt the children of the shadows. Nothing good could come of this, Sonora thought, but it was up to them to ensure it was worse for the Azzies following them. Despite this...Gringo perhaps needed to be taken down a peg for blathering so readily about her secrets.
"You want me to 'read' you? All right. All right, I will do this."
Sonora walked once around Dexter, slowly, calculating, observing. Most importantly, not getting into the van as he demanded.
"You're a soldier. A career soldier, one who joined for the honor of his country and not to pay some bills. You're good at what you do, but as you're alive and everyone here is none the worse for wear that much is obvious, yes? You're looking for something more.
"You're consumed by pain. Guilt. Depression. The wrinkles in your eyes tell me you're tired of the world, but the tic at the end says there's a rage you're repressing. You've been fighting for years, but in reality you've been running. Something in your past is eating you alive and you would rather die than face it.
"You once held rank with your military. Not an officer's rank, but perhaps a Sergeant. You expect people to do what you say, but you don't overthink. You don't think, you merely act. You are right, you are no liar. You have no time for it, and you expect your plans or the ones handed to you from your superiors to be followed out to the letter.
"You're impatient. Tense. You stand ready to spring into action. You continue to scan the area, treating everything as a threat, and as a result everyone treats you as the same. You have no respect for someone unless they meet your standards. Little respect for women. Less for anyone of Aztlan heritage, corporate or no. You aren't here to 'protect' us. Carne and I are means to an end, a way to get the people you want to kill to come to you. Exactly as your higher-ups intended. You're hoping to die here, and to leave this city in flames when you do. Caracas isn't a metropolis to you. It's your funeral pyre."
Sonora shook her head. "We are all people, Dexter. We are not mindless drones to do your bidding. If you expect us to go with you, then you will stop this...melodrama and be straight with us. Everyone here wants to kill Azzies. Make money. Not die. Save perhaps you."
She leaned against the sliding door of the van.
"And stop blabbing about me to people, pendejo. The first rule of this place is to hold your secrets close to your heart."
Sonora was pleased. Two months' rent in a day, weapons she could probably offload to Sergei and some calls she'd have to make. Sister Mary would know of a place they could set up to be a safehouse for a period - it would have to be large and last a while, if what Gringo is saying is true.
Shorned Ones came for her, and came for Coatl, and it was intervention of a higher power (Confederate, it sounded like) and Fate that kept them alive when so many others died. She did not trust Gringo - she did not trust any of them, yet - but
5,000 was a good enough start.Gringo didn't let her get a word in edgewise while he made his dramatic explanation. Sonora watched while another van pulled up with two mirror-shaded men inside, taking the Shorned One from the bedraggled team and locking him inside. The trained operative was already screaming as the van left. Even those passers-by didn't notice. Just another day in Caracas, just another soul sent to La Rincondada to be sold in El Hipódromo at the mercy of Bolivar '49, and would likely be eaten alive in the Poliedro de Caracas, the warren's gladiatorial arena.
Sonora had heard tales of it in her years in the city - had even gone there once or twice. Within the domed building men are put into pits to fight for their lives versus other men, creatures, ghouls...The stink of blood and sweat left a pall over the building, and only served to fuel the frenzied adrenaline of the thousands of residents who went there to forget their hellish lives outside the place that the policia dared not go.
In fact, it was there that her flight from La Alianza had mistakenly begun, stealing that ten-spot of Tempo from the dealer while trying to improve the payout for a nameless man ostensibly working with Bolivar '49. In the pits, the house always wins - and she had made enough for her rent, food and medication that month.
And so now here they all were - a grizzled white man demanding they go for a ride in his van after giving them
5,000, candy to tempt the children of the shadows. Nothing good could come of this, Sonora thought, but it was up to them to ensure it was worse for the Azzies following them. Despite this...Gringo perhaps needed to be taken down a peg for blathering so readily about her secrets."You want me to 'read' you? All right. All right, I will do this."
Sonora walked once around Dexter, slowly, calculating, observing. Most importantly, not getting into the van as he demanded.
"You're a soldier. A career soldier, one who joined for the honor of his country and not to pay some bills. You're good at what you do, but as you're alive and everyone here is none the worse for wear that much is obvious, yes? You're looking for something more.
"You're consumed by pain. Guilt. Depression. The wrinkles in your eyes tell me you're tired of the world, but the tic at the end says there's a rage you're repressing. You've been fighting for years, but in reality you've been running. Something in your past is eating you alive and you would rather die than face it.
"You once held rank with your military. Not an officer's rank, but perhaps a Sergeant. You expect people to do what you say, but you don't overthink. You don't think, you merely act. You are right, you are no liar. You have no time for it, and you expect your plans or the ones handed to you from your superiors to be followed out to the letter.
"You're impatient. Tense. You stand ready to spring into action. You continue to scan the area, treating everything as a threat, and as a result everyone treats you as the same. You have no respect for someone unless they meet your standards. Little respect for women. Less for anyone of Aztlan heritage, corporate or no. You aren't here to 'protect' us. Carne and I are means to an end, a way to get the people you want to kill to come to you. Exactly as your higher-ups intended. You're hoping to die here, and to leave this city in flames when you do. Caracas isn't a metropolis to you. It's your funeral pyre."
Sonora shook her head. "We are all people, Dexter. We are not mindless drones to do your bidding. If you expect us to go with you, then you will stop this...melodrama and be straight with us. Everyone here wants to kill Azzies. Make money. Not die. Save perhaps you."
She leaned against the sliding door of the van.
"And stop blabbing about me to people, pendejo. The first rule of this place is to hold your secrets close to your heart."
[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Chacao District Border, 13:03PM]
While the prisoner exchange was made and the others talked on, Smiley just paced back and forth a bit while hanging his arms off the barrel and stock of the massive autoshotgun pearched on his shoulders. For what little he knew of the fine details of their situation, he knew the processes. Even the mercs and Ares teams that helped fight the Japanese back in San Fransisco took in opportunity targets and whatnot. High-level officers would survive and end up on trial as scapegoats; grunts didn't, just got executed afterwards if they were lucky.
He shifted his attention back to the rest of the group in time to hear Sonora describe the old man in full. He couldn't help but smirk, glad he hadn't been given this treatment back at the restaurant. Might of had something embarassing revealed. After she was done, he stepped in before Dexter could speak up.
"Well put, Sonora. Just in case you had a senior moment for a second there, what she's saying is 'don't be an asshole', Alamo." He drummed his fingers against the hard ceramic of his AA-16, "The fact of the matter is you obviously need us, otherwise you wouldn't bother. You'd get your little MIB buddies to blow shit up and be done. You're here to do damage, but ain't nobody back home wants to take the blame for the shit you're about to pull."
Smiley takes a few steps up to Dexter, looking him up and down. "I mean, look at you. Big tough soldier, a war hero no doubt! Where's all the honor your former life had, huh? Where's the artillery support, the extraction chopper for when it's all over? The fellow troops you trained with? You stuck with us, hombre, the best of the bottom of the barrel." He looks to the rest of the group, "Just saying is all."
He walks away from the old man and over to the van, "Just out of curiousity, anybody here know what to do in order to survive in the underground during a fucking military invasion and occupation? 'Cause rest assured by the end of the week the docks of Caracas will be loaded with Azzie warships offloading the artillery they need to cover any movements into that godforsaken jungle that surrounds us. Tanks will roll through the streets and those Cuachi's are suddenly going to have drone hordes and gunship helicopters backing them up. Luckily for us, most of the tanks SHOULD be heading through Bogotá instead as it's directly on the border. Still, drone hordes and gunships will fuck anybody up." He hefts the shotgun off his shoulders and presses the stock on the ground, leaning on it as if it were a walking cane before continuing on.
"We need a place to hide, all of us. Communal hideout we can come to after doing shit like we just did, stockpile shit we obtain, and abandon should we get tracked to it; You all should keep seperate safehouses for when that happens, by the way. There's about thirty thousand nuyen in cash still in my car, that should be able to get us a downpayment on a real nice, out of the way place with a nice big garage. Hell, if we can get some place just beyond the Muralha Verde with a boat dock, that might actually be better. Might."
"Good news is, we at least don't need to do much shopping for new guns." He gestures at Sonora to move away from the sliding door so he can open it, retrieving an assault rifle clip and tossing it to Dexter. "We didn't manage to take the getaway driver alive, but there's five clips of what's in the one you got, another Barrett, couple Azzie whacking sticks, and nearly a dozen rockets that we looted sitting in that van." He grins over at the old man, "You're welcome, asshole."
"Oh, and it's Smiley, not fucking Paco."
While the prisoner exchange was made and the others talked on, Smiley just paced back and forth a bit while hanging his arms off the barrel and stock of the massive autoshotgun pearched on his shoulders. For what little he knew of the fine details of their situation, he knew the processes. Even the mercs and Ares teams that helped fight the Japanese back in San Fransisco took in opportunity targets and whatnot. High-level officers would survive and end up on trial as scapegoats; grunts didn't, just got executed afterwards if they were lucky.
He shifted his attention back to the rest of the group in time to hear Sonora describe the old man in full. He couldn't help but smirk, glad he hadn't been given this treatment back at the restaurant. Might of had something embarassing revealed. After she was done, he stepped in before Dexter could speak up.
"Well put, Sonora. Just in case you had a senior moment for a second there, what she's saying is 'don't be an asshole', Alamo." He drummed his fingers against the hard ceramic of his AA-16, "The fact of the matter is you obviously need us, otherwise you wouldn't bother. You'd get your little MIB buddies to blow shit up and be done. You're here to do damage, but ain't nobody back home wants to take the blame for the shit you're about to pull."
Smiley takes a few steps up to Dexter, looking him up and down. "I mean, look at you. Big tough soldier, a war hero no doubt! Where's all the honor your former life had, huh? Where's the artillery support, the extraction chopper for when it's all over? The fellow troops you trained with? You stuck with us, hombre, the best of the bottom of the barrel." He looks to the rest of the group, "Just saying is all."
He walks away from the old man and over to the van, "Just out of curiousity, anybody here know what to do in order to survive in the underground during a fucking military invasion and occupation? 'Cause rest assured by the end of the week the docks of Caracas will be loaded with Azzie warships offloading the artillery they need to cover any movements into that godforsaken jungle that surrounds us. Tanks will roll through the streets and those Cuachi's are suddenly going to have drone hordes and gunship helicopters backing them up. Luckily for us, most of the tanks SHOULD be heading through Bogotá instead as it's directly on the border. Still, drone hordes and gunships will fuck anybody up." He hefts the shotgun off his shoulders and presses the stock on the ground, leaning on it as if it were a walking cane before continuing on.
"We need a place to hide, all of us. Communal hideout we can come to after doing shit like we just did, stockpile shit we obtain, and abandon should we get tracked to it; You all should keep seperate safehouses for when that happens, by the way. There's about thirty thousand nuyen in cash still in my car, that should be able to get us a downpayment on a real nice, out of the way place with a nice big garage. Hell, if we can get some place just beyond the Muralha Verde with a boat dock, that might actually be better. Might."
"Good news is, we at least don't need to do much shopping for new guns." He gestures at Sonora to move away from the sliding door so he can open it, retrieving an assault rifle clip and tossing it to Dexter. "We didn't manage to take the getaway driver alive, but there's five clips of what's in the one you got, another Barrett, couple Azzie whacking sticks, and nearly a dozen rockets that we looted sitting in that van." He grins over at the old man, "You're welcome, asshole."
"Oh, and it's Smiley, not fucking Paco."
[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Chacao District Border, 13:03PM]
"...the best of the bottom of the barrel. I like that. Smiley, right?" El Mono grinned, wearing the new title like a fucking badge of honor. Hell, considering where he grew up, that's exactly what it was. He'd heard a million cops try to claim the "best of the best," but he spent his life in the neighborhoods those putos wouldn't even look at without SWAT backup. In the trid-flicks, special forces military types always claimed it, and in the last twenty-four hours, he'd seen what happened to those types on the mean streets of Caracas. All that fancy training didn't mean shit down here. Guts, cojones, and a metric ton of luck, that's what mattered down here. Here at the bottom of the barrel, being the best wasn't measured in fancy gear and expensive training. It was measured in survival. Mono was alive, and those assholes weren't, and that's all that counted.
He couldn't help but chuckle a bit at the chica's assessment of the old man. He didn't know shit about "what she could do," but everything she said made perfect sense to him. Hell, it was almost exactly what he had thought, if he had thought about it more than to slap a trid stereotype on the man. Hers was more detailed, but more or less the same, really. El Mono decided he liked her. Hot chica with an attitude and a gun. Some poor fool was going to fall in love her and then die before this was all over. Hope the unlucky bastard at least got to sleep with her first. That Smiley hombre was the wild-card. Making shit up as he goes with all the good lines. Fan favorite. Most likely to survive, though a pretty good chance of looking like he ate it in the climactic battle then popping up just as the credits roll. Grizzled old soldier. Angry chrome head. Up-and-coming street kid with something to prove. If someone was going to die, it would likely be one of these three. Unfortunately, that included El Mono. Fuck. Street kid dies a hero, but dead is dead. Old man was kind of a racist. Maybe he turns a new leaf and dies saving some brown person, but just as likely, it's some brown person dying to save him that changes his mind. Fuck. Oh well. Maybe they could get some fucking bruja on the team. Goddamned wizards always die, right? Well, except Brimstone, P.I., but that fucker was just too badass to die.
"Whatever, old man. Nothing buys bygones faster than cred. Just watch the fucking threats. You may be all hardass soldier-boy, but you sleep same as anyone else. See? Anyone can make threats. How about this: lay off that talk about putting bullets in your teammates, and I keep covering your ass. You keep up the threats, and one day you turn around, and I'm not there. One of those Azzy assholes is instead." El Mono glances around at the rest of the group, most of whom seem to have had just about more than enough of this gringo's shit already. If they put up with him, they must have a reason. "Fuck it, I'm in."
He looked back to Smiley and got to business. "I ain't gonna lie to you. I know fuck-all about war and invasions and occupation. I got a fucking P-H-D in hiding out, though. Army's got a lot of shit the cops don't, so to me, it looks like the same thing, only you gotta run faster and hide deeper. Drones and air patrols, the cops have. Army might have better sensors, but cops have thermal and night-vision, and if they pull out the big guns, they have shit that can see through walls, even. Fucking broadband radar or whatever the fuck. Figure the army has all that, too. Probably can see your face and pull your ID out of a computer while they're at it, too. Fuck all that. Can't recognize a face under goggles and a breather unless their shit is a lot better than I think it is. Don't even stand out in the crowd, either. So everyone gets them. Different ones. Don't look the same as each other. A big place might be nice, but that shit stands out in Caracas. What you want is two or three shitty apartments where they don't ask questions or get in your business, then knock out some walls so it's one big apartment. You hide in the jungle, you want to look like the jungle, right? Same in the city. Don't stand out. Dexter Dexter over there might need to get a fucking tan."
"...the best of the bottom of the barrel. I like that. Smiley, right?" El Mono grinned, wearing the new title like a fucking badge of honor. Hell, considering where he grew up, that's exactly what it was. He'd heard a million cops try to claim the "best of the best," but he spent his life in the neighborhoods those putos wouldn't even look at without SWAT backup. In the trid-flicks, special forces military types always claimed it, and in the last twenty-four hours, he'd seen what happened to those types on the mean streets of Caracas. All that fancy training didn't mean shit down here. Guts, cojones, and a metric ton of luck, that's what mattered down here. Here at the bottom of the barrel, being the best wasn't measured in fancy gear and expensive training. It was measured in survival. Mono was alive, and those assholes weren't, and that's all that counted.
He couldn't help but chuckle a bit at the chica's assessment of the old man. He didn't know shit about "what she could do," but everything she said made perfect sense to him. Hell, it was almost exactly what he had thought, if he had thought about it more than to slap a trid stereotype on the man. Hers was more detailed, but more or less the same, really. El Mono decided he liked her. Hot chica with an attitude and a gun. Some poor fool was going to fall in love her and then die before this was all over. Hope the unlucky bastard at least got to sleep with her first. That Smiley hombre was the wild-card. Making shit up as he goes with all the good lines. Fan favorite. Most likely to survive, though a pretty good chance of looking like he ate it in the climactic battle then popping up just as the credits roll. Grizzled old soldier. Angry chrome head. Up-and-coming street kid with something to prove. If someone was going to die, it would likely be one of these three. Unfortunately, that included El Mono. Fuck. Street kid dies a hero, but dead is dead. Old man was kind of a racist. Maybe he turns a new leaf and dies saving some brown person, but just as likely, it's some brown person dying to save him that changes his mind. Fuck. Oh well. Maybe they could get some fucking bruja on the team. Goddamned wizards always die, right? Well, except Brimstone, P.I., but that fucker was just too badass to die.
"Whatever, old man. Nothing buys bygones faster than cred. Just watch the fucking threats. You may be all hardass soldier-boy, but you sleep same as anyone else. See? Anyone can make threats. How about this: lay off that talk about putting bullets in your teammates, and I keep covering your ass. You keep up the threats, and one day you turn around, and I'm not there. One of those Azzy assholes is instead." El Mono glances around at the rest of the group, most of whom seem to have had just about more than enough of this gringo's shit already. If they put up with him, they must have a reason. "Fuck it, I'm in."
He looked back to Smiley and got to business. "I ain't gonna lie to you. I know fuck-all about war and invasions and occupation. I got a fucking P-H-D in hiding out, though. Army's got a lot of shit the cops don't, so to me, it looks like the same thing, only you gotta run faster and hide deeper. Drones and air patrols, the cops have. Army might have better sensors, but cops have thermal and night-vision, and if they pull out the big guns, they have shit that can see through walls, even. Fucking broadband radar or whatever the fuck. Figure the army has all that, too. Probably can see your face and pull your ID out of a computer while they're at it, too. Fuck all that. Can't recognize a face under goggles and a breather unless their shit is a lot better than I think it is. Don't even stand out in the crowd, either. So everyone gets them. Different ones. Don't look the same as each other. A big place might be nice, but that shit stands out in Caracas. What you want is two or three shitty apartments where they don't ask questions or get in your business, then knock out some walls so it's one big apartment. You hide in the jungle, you want to look like the jungle, right? Same in the city. Don't stand out. Dexter Dexter over there might need to get a fucking tan."
[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Chacao District Border, 13:04PM]
Smiley nods to the ork, hearing him out. "Yeah, it's true that armies are a lot like better equipped cops, and yet they aren't. For one, cops have to yell 'Freeze' before shooting you, soldiers don't even like you hearing the shot itself. Cops are to avoid collaterial damage when possible, soliders will blow up entire districts so long as they don't get too many civillian casualties. Other than that, yeah, what you said. Don't stand out before your able to do damage, have an escape route, and so on."
"Anyways, the reason I mentioned a place just beyond the Verde is... Well, only an idiot would go out there despite not being an Amazonian native, so nobody would look there first. And if it's a pre-existing structure is there, probably an old smuggling route nearby that could lead back into the city. Might need to cut and slash a way to a nearby route if the place hasn't been used recently though. I know a guy who might know of such a place, but we might have to kick out whoever still claims it."
Smiley nods to the ork, hearing him out. "Yeah, it's true that armies are a lot like better equipped cops, and yet they aren't. For one, cops have to yell 'Freeze' before shooting you, soldiers don't even like you hearing the shot itself. Cops are to avoid collaterial damage when possible, soliders will blow up entire districts so long as they don't get too many civillian casualties. Other than that, yeah, what you said. Don't stand out before your able to do damage, have an escape route, and so on."
"Anyways, the reason I mentioned a place just beyond the Verde is... Well, only an idiot would go out there despite not being an Amazonian native, so nobody would look there first. And if it's a pre-existing structure is there, probably an old smuggling route nearby that could lead back into the city. Might need to cut and slash a way to a nearby route if the place hasn't been used recently though. I know a guy who might know of such a place, but we might have to kick out whoever still claims it."
[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Chacao District Border, 13:04PM]
Sonora stood aside as the others said their piece. She'd known then barely an hour, and it seemed that there were about four alpha-dog attitudes vying for supremacy. That could pose a problem later on, she reflected while she watched them lay into Dexter one after the other. The exercise was cathartic for the rest of them, but for her it was an insight to the psyche of all the men currently working with her on this.
And what was exactly this? Sonora wasn't sure, but she knew it involved killing Azzies. For her and Coatl, it involved killing smugglers and Alianza as well, and she was sure there was a way to pit all three against one another with a little bit of legwork and a whispered word into the right ear at the right time. Such was her stock in trade.
She half-listened as the conversation turned to where they would hide. Sonora was already thinking about where to go next, and what the team needed. A large space enough for everyone to rest, a large garage for the cars, and ideally a place that the Azzies would not be able to find them.
Somehow they'd managed to move in two cars' worth of men close enough to try and shoot her and Coatl. How? How long had they been in town?
Think, chica. The dead pusher found you, you haven't been hiding. It's time to leave Nueva Caracas for a while. Focus on where you should go next.
"We can't hide out of town," she said. "They'd be able to bring too much to bear against us if they didn't have to hide their entry into the city. They're probably coming in through La Guaira, and we could...probably get some warehouse space around there to keep eyes on the containers coming in.
"Or...we could hide out in La Rinconada. Bolivar '49 won't let any Azzie within a kilometer of the place, but there nobody goes out alone, or unarmed. The last time I was at El Hipodromo I had Brother Ezekiel there for protection of body and soul. I suggest we avoid that place unless absolutely necessary.
"We can find some refuge at Catedral de San Pedro Apóstol in La Guaira. I know people there, who know me. I'll leave it up to you."
Sonora stood aside as the others said their piece. She'd known then barely an hour, and it seemed that there were about four alpha-dog attitudes vying for supremacy. That could pose a problem later on, she reflected while she watched them lay into Dexter one after the other. The exercise was cathartic for the rest of them, but for her it was an insight to the psyche of all the men currently working with her on this.
And what was exactly this? Sonora wasn't sure, but she knew it involved killing Azzies. For her and Coatl, it involved killing smugglers and Alianza as well, and she was sure there was a way to pit all three against one another with a little bit of legwork and a whispered word into the right ear at the right time. Such was her stock in trade.
She half-listened as the conversation turned to where they would hide. Sonora was already thinking about where to go next, and what the team needed. A large space enough for everyone to rest, a large garage for the cars, and ideally a place that the Azzies would not be able to find them.
Somehow they'd managed to move in two cars' worth of men close enough to try and shoot her and Coatl. How? How long had they been in town?
Think, chica. The dead pusher found you, you haven't been hiding. It's time to leave Nueva Caracas for a while. Focus on where you should go next.
"We can't hide out of town," she said. "They'd be able to bring too much to bear against us if they didn't have to hide their entry into the city. They're probably coming in through La Guaira, and we could...probably get some warehouse space around there to keep eyes on the containers coming in.
"Or...we could hide out in La Rinconada. Bolivar '49 won't let any Azzie within a kilometer of the place, but there nobody goes out alone, or unarmed. The last time I was at El Hipodromo I had Brother Ezekiel there for protection of body and soul. I suggest we avoid that place unless absolutely necessary.
"We can find some refuge at Catedral de San Pedro Apóstol in La Guaira. I know people there, who know me. I'll leave it up to you."
[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Chacao District Border, 13:04PM]
"Seems like no matter where we go, we're not really evading these Cuachi's so much as trading them for another problem." Smiley said after waiting for Sonora to say her piece. "Although, out of those choices... I'm almost tempted to go with the warehouse at the shipping yard. Bit risky as we'll be hiding in plain sight as far as the Cuachi's are concerned, but it puts us nice and close to the waters, which is what we need for something I got in mind. Something that'll get us some extra money, maybe deal a blow to those other guys after you, and hopefully get me in real good with a guy I know. Win us some unusual friends too."
He withdraws his cigarettes, sticking one between his lips and patting himself down for a light but to no avail. "We won't do that thing yet, as I kinda want to fix my car and get some things first but... You all like boats, right? 'Cause this idea of mine involves grabbing one. While it's in-transit."
"Seems like no matter where we go, we're not really evading these Cuachi's so much as trading them for another problem." Smiley said after waiting for Sonora to say her piece. "Although, out of those choices... I'm almost tempted to go with the warehouse at the shipping yard. Bit risky as we'll be hiding in plain sight as far as the Cuachi's are concerned, but it puts us nice and close to the waters, which is what we need for something I got in mind. Something that'll get us some extra money, maybe deal a blow to those other guys after you, and hopefully get me in real good with a guy I know. Win us some unusual friends too."
He withdraws his cigarettes, sticking one between his lips and patting himself down for a light but to no avail. "We won't do that thing yet, as I kinda want to fix my car and get some things first but... You all like boats, right? 'Cause this idea of mine involves grabbing one. While it's in-transit."
[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Camila's, Nueva Caracas, 13:00ish]
Commlink PAN: Passive
The scrawny Latino man pulled open the door and stumbled into the hall. He braced himself on the wall with one hand, in the other was his armored vest and his few meager belongings. Coughs erupted from the lower part of his diaphragm as he attempted to drown Gabriela's banter out of his head and get his bearings.
"Alright alright! You want fake tits and a new twat because the mileage on that one is well past worn! Fine! Don't go fucking overboard woman, if I wanted to fuck a machine I'd go over to Palmar de Caridad!" He reached over and grabbed the door, slamming it shut behind him as he sought to gain his balance in the hall. JUst because he poured a lot of his money into the establishment as a purveyor of services did not mean he needed this headache with two very loud demons bickering loudly in his head. On one hand, there was the throbbing pulse of information that seemed to flow into his mind; on the other, his brain was screaming at him for more Bliss. Make it all go away for awhile.
"Fuck you brain. I don't do what you tell me to do. You do what I tell you to, you got it, eh?" Alex said to his brain as he walked into the front room. He smiled warmly at Camila and the orc that served as physical security for the establishment. He pulled his armored vest on over his shirt that was still unbuttoned down the front and secured it.
The technomancer strode out of the front of the establishment and looked up and down the street. His stomach snarled at him, reminding him he had not eaten in at least two days. A quick check of his balance showed a whopping 50 Nuyen to his name. "Well, that'll probably get something in my stomach for n.. I SAID FUCK YOU BRAIN!" He shouted in midsentence at a craving that attempted to direct him to the nearest Bliss dealer. He strode down the street with purpose to find some place to buy lunch.
Commlink PAN: Passive
The scrawny Latino man pulled open the door and stumbled into the hall. He braced himself on the wall with one hand, in the other was his armored vest and his few meager belongings. Coughs erupted from the lower part of his diaphragm as he attempted to drown Gabriela's banter out of his head and get his bearings.
"Alright alright! You want fake tits and a new twat because the mileage on that one is well past worn! Fine! Don't go fucking overboard woman, if I wanted to fuck a machine I'd go over to Palmar de Caridad!" He reached over and grabbed the door, slamming it shut behind him as he sought to gain his balance in the hall. JUst because he poured a lot of his money into the establishment as a purveyor of services did not mean he needed this headache with two very loud demons bickering loudly in his head. On one hand, there was the throbbing pulse of information that seemed to flow into his mind; on the other, his brain was screaming at him for more Bliss. Make it all go away for awhile.
"Fuck you brain. I don't do what you tell me to do. You do what I tell you to, you got it, eh?" Alex said to his brain as he walked into the front room. He smiled warmly at Camila and the orc that served as physical security for the establishment. He pulled his armored vest on over his shirt that was still unbuttoned down the front and secured it.
The technomancer strode out of the front of the establishment and looked up and down the street. His stomach snarled at him, reminding him he had not eaten in at least two days. A quick check of his balance showed a whopping 50 Nuyen to his name. "Well, that'll probably get something in my stomach for n.. I SAID FUCK YOU BRAIN!" He shouted in midsentence at a craving that attempted to direct him to the nearest Bliss dealer. He strode down the street with purpose to find some place to buy lunch.
((As requested, Sonora's initiation for downtime.))
Catedral de San Pedro Apóstol, La Guaira - Some Time Later
"Child, you are troubled. Tell me, what is it that weighs so heavy on your soul?"
The booth was blessedly dark, the dark wood and stone having a cloying comfort that some small part of her enjoyed. As the slide was pulled back to expose the shadowy latticework that told her a priest was on the other side, she unconsciously started to read the figure.
He was older, she could tell from his breathing. The slight pop of arthritic joints filled her ears, and her mind's eye started to paint in the details. She knew this man, one of the older priests. He enjoyed spending his hours tending to the gardens outside during the cathedral's slow times. One of the younger brothers would come get him if someone came needing succor - Sister Mary tended to handle most of the other visitors that came here nowadays. His hair was gray, becoming wispy as he aged but his face was clean shaven with an aged straight razor made of white bronze - she had seen it once, some time ago. On Wednesdays and Sundays he would perform Mass - not that she'd ever gone, as that was not her purpose here.
The cathedral was one of the few small pieces of good fortune she had amidst the heap of misery that Caracas, or even Fate in general had given her. Historians told of a time when the city was a paradise, but that was well before dwarves, elves and dragons - well before the invention of automatic weapons. Or perhaps even semi-automatic weapons. Sonora was shaky on her history.
It was still a Catholic dioscese, but visitors tended to flock to the larger cathedral in Caracas, which was typically filled to overflowing near-daily. This particular cathedral had fallen into disrepair before Sister Mary and her associates had arrived. They, too, were members of the Church - or so they claimed. There were several fine pieces of art and sculpture that Sonora had delivered to them in the dark of night, electrons signifying substantial nuyen exchanged hands, and Abuelita was shared with kind words. She saw some of the pieces later, in a Vatican art museum.
That was neither here nor there, however - as that highway to the past was now closed to her, nor was it the point of her visit. He wanted to know what was troubling her, and so did she - a mental block, a geas on her soul.
===
A Temple in Kowloon- Some Years Earlier
"What troubles you, hm?"
Sonora sat before a wizened figure in a bright robe. Both were outside a small temple, the statue of a smiling Buddha drawing visitors of the mundane (and some Awakened) variety. He sat upon a stone, she sat on the ground before him.
"My past," she replies. "I do not kill directly with my Talent, but…people die around me."
"Is that all?" the monk responded. "That is merely part of the Great Cycle."
She had spent quite a sum finding the man only known as Xiao Weng and he certainly lived up to his name. Not a hair remained atop his head, though he had a long, wispy beard of white and a face full of wrinkles and smile lines. This monk had lived a happy life tending to his temple with his brothers, training them and others, and entertaining the kids when they came to visit and ‘find religion’.
She had already been there some months with the man, practicing breathing exercises and discussing the nature of the body. She had learned to read and mimic body cues with her time in an Aztechnology ‘charm’ school, but the wizened monk knew much more. Under his tutelage she had learned to use her mind’s eye to visualize the face she needed, and focus her Talent to make it happen. The monk had teased her the day she had first learned.
"Ha! You should have taken sculpture in that school of yours!" he had said.
The most productive of her time had been spent in a darkened temple hall before some pots that held incense sticks, meditating on the blocks she had from her time in the school. Xiao had seen the troubles behind her eyes with a single look, and he refused to speak on them. It was up to her to fight her way through the blocks she and the Azzies had put on her when she refused to do their bidding – and when she left. It was there she met the monk for the last time before the pains in her heart and a message on her commlink bid her to come to Caracas to seek treatment - the doctors at RAM had agreed to see her. He had left a real paper scroll for her the last day she had gone to the temple.
"Fill the hole in your heart with acceptance," it had said.
===
"My Talents," she replied to the priest inside the confessional booth. "I have seen many people die in the past few days, some trying to kill me, others merely there whom I was talking to. Because of me, of my Talents…Am I evil, Father? For being able to speak to people? I have only shot a tire with a gun, I only carry a knife in defense of self, yet people keep dying."
The aged priest took some time to respond, and when he did the words were measured with care.
"Child...Every action we take in this world leads to a consequence. You grieve for these souls that have fallen, that I can tell. That is what separates us from those doomed to a life of sin. It is our belief in a higher power, in ourselves to be able to change, and repent our ways. You must grieve for those who have passed, but accept that they have. Accept that you have talents, and accept that it is you that can change the world with them in some small way.
"You have power, my child, as all creatures before God have power. Use it well, and accept that you can."
Acceptance.
Acceptance
Acceptance.
In her mind's eye, her Talent prodded her for attention, and showed her what she had been missing.
Catedral de San Pedro Apóstol, La Guaira - Some Time Later
"Child, you are troubled. Tell me, what is it that weighs so heavy on your soul?"
The booth was blessedly dark, the dark wood and stone having a cloying comfort that some small part of her enjoyed. As the slide was pulled back to expose the shadowy latticework that told her a priest was on the other side, she unconsciously started to read the figure.
He was older, she could tell from his breathing. The slight pop of arthritic joints filled her ears, and her mind's eye started to paint in the details. She knew this man, one of the older priests. He enjoyed spending his hours tending to the gardens outside during the cathedral's slow times. One of the younger brothers would come get him if someone came needing succor - Sister Mary tended to handle most of the other visitors that came here nowadays. His hair was gray, becoming wispy as he aged but his face was clean shaven with an aged straight razor made of white bronze - she had seen it once, some time ago. On Wednesdays and Sundays he would perform Mass - not that she'd ever gone, as that was not her purpose here.
The cathedral was one of the few small pieces of good fortune she had amidst the heap of misery that Caracas, or even Fate in general had given her. Historians told of a time when the city was a paradise, but that was well before dwarves, elves and dragons - well before the invention of automatic weapons. Or perhaps even semi-automatic weapons. Sonora was shaky on her history.
It was still a Catholic dioscese, but visitors tended to flock to the larger cathedral in Caracas, which was typically filled to overflowing near-daily. This particular cathedral had fallen into disrepair before Sister Mary and her associates had arrived. They, too, were members of the Church - or so they claimed. There were several fine pieces of art and sculpture that Sonora had delivered to them in the dark of night, electrons signifying substantial nuyen exchanged hands, and Abuelita was shared with kind words. She saw some of the pieces later, in a Vatican art museum.
That was neither here nor there, however - as that highway to the past was now closed to her, nor was it the point of her visit. He wanted to know what was troubling her, and so did she - a mental block, a geas on her soul.
===
A Temple in Kowloon- Some Years Earlier
"What troubles you, hm?"
Sonora sat before a wizened figure in a bright robe. Both were outside a small temple, the statue of a smiling Buddha drawing visitors of the mundane (and some Awakened) variety. He sat upon a stone, she sat on the ground before him.
"My past," she replies. "I do not kill directly with my Talent, but…people die around me."
"Is that all?" the monk responded. "That is merely part of the Great Cycle."
She had spent quite a sum finding the man only known as Xiao Weng and he certainly lived up to his name. Not a hair remained atop his head, though he had a long, wispy beard of white and a face full of wrinkles and smile lines. This monk had lived a happy life tending to his temple with his brothers, training them and others, and entertaining the kids when they came to visit and ‘find religion’.
She had already been there some months with the man, practicing breathing exercises and discussing the nature of the body. She had learned to read and mimic body cues with her time in an Aztechnology ‘charm’ school, but the wizened monk knew much more. Under his tutelage she had learned to use her mind’s eye to visualize the face she needed, and focus her Talent to make it happen. The monk had teased her the day she had first learned.
"Ha! You should have taken sculpture in that school of yours!" he had said.
The most productive of her time had been spent in a darkened temple hall before some pots that held incense sticks, meditating on the blocks she had from her time in the school. Xiao had seen the troubles behind her eyes with a single look, and he refused to speak on them. It was up to her to fight her way through the blocks she and the Azzies had put on her when she refused to do their bidding – and when she left. It was there she met the monk for the last time before the pains in her heart and a message on her commlink bid her to come to Caracas to seek treatment - the doctors at RAM had agreed to see her. He had left a real paper scroll for her the last day she had gone to the temple.
"Fill the hole in your heart with acceptance," it had said.
===
"My Talents," she replied to the priest inside the confessional booth. "I have seen many people die in the past few days, some trying to kill me, others merely there whom I was talking to. Because of me, of my Talents…Am I evil, Father? For being able to speak to people? I have only shot a tire with a gun, I only carry a knife in defense of self, yet people keep dying."
The aged priest took some time to respond, and when he did the words were measured with care.
"Child...Every action we take in this world leads to a consequence. You grieve for these souls that have fallen, that I can tell. That is what separates us from those doomed to a life of sin. It is our belief in a higher power, in ourselves to be able to change, and repent our ways. You must grieve for those who have passed, but accept that they have. Accept that you have talents, and accept that it is you that can change the world with them in some small way.
"You have power, my child, as all creatures before God have power. Use it well, and accept that you can."
Acceptance.
Acceptance
Acceptance.
In her mind's eye, her Talent prodded her for attention, and showed her what she had been missing.
[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Chacao District Border, 13:04PM]Sonora makes her case, and I'm damn glad she does. She goes on and lays flat out who I am. And damn, does that broad fuckin' gets it. She crosses all her T and dots all the I. Well, almost. She's one hell of a little firecracker, and as she goes on about who I am, I can't help but smile at her. Everything she says is darn right true. I feel to know someone else around here as a head solidly on her shoulders.
I wait for her to be done. I've never been one to be impressed by words. Deeds are what get me. And she just did.
I'm about to say something before Paco jumps in. He goes on a on, venting like a scared little civilian. I let him. It'll do him good. The kid's probably scared out of his life, which I guess I can understand. Come to think of it, not really. But maybe it'll make him feel better to release all that pent up anger at someone. God knows I can take it. Stopped really caring about what people say around 2060. So he goes on, and mainly listens to himself speak. Some of that shit, I ain't even real sure where he gets it. I've been running on my own, without support, for the past 6 years. I don't expect a hand out. None what so ever. He finally introduces himself. At least, he does have a little shred of manner.
Apparently, Smiley's talks get the ork kid all pumped up, so he jumps in as well. Now, he's mighty entertaining, and I can't help but smile at him as he talks. He's got fire, that's for sure. And guts. Which is good. Properly aimed, this guy could do some serious damage. He gets all rilled up. Good. Need some energy going.
Once everyone finally quiets the fuck up, I pick up the conversation. I start by laughing a lot. I'd probably cry a bit if my eyes weren't all chromed up.
“Well that's all fuckin' great. Glad to see you people all have enough balls to hold your ground. Probably not all the sharpest knives in the drawers, judging by your ideas, but you might all have enough fire in you to live this throught.”
I turn to Sonora.
“That was mighty damn impressive mam'. Fuckin' acurate as it can be without listing my bootsize.”
I lean against the side of the van. Somehow, this girl reminds me of Catherine.
“Actually, you only got my views on women wrong. But the rest is right on the ball, mam. Yes, you are bait. But seein' the way you held your ground today, I got nothin' but reasons to keep you well alive and fed as long as I can afford to.”
I scratch at my bread a bit. Maybe I should get to shaving it. With all 'em kids around, it just makes me look even older.
“So, now that we're all done fuckin' strutin' around trying to gauge who's got the bigger dick, let's get down to business.”
“You” I point to Smiley “get exactly what the fuck we're up against. Now, as long as the Azzies don't actually roll into town, the sorta get up they had today should be as heavy as it gets. When the shit really hits the fan, we'll either need an army of our own, or a crap ton of luck.”
“And you 'mam” I jerk my head toward Sonora “are correct about where we need to move. Bolivar '49 are probably amongst our best bet. I got an in with them, and if I can convince a few people here and there, we might even be able to provide them with weapons and training. But until that's fuckin' squared out, it'll be like taking a walk through a shit minefield.”
I chew a bit on the inside of my cheek.
“I'll see if I can get my hands on a decent thing with a roof that doesn't leak too much. In the mean time, lets split up in two groups.”
I jerk my head toward Smiley, Mono and the elf.
“Contrary to those two, you guys can still somewhat fly under the Azzie radar. You should be able to move around town with some ease, so you stick togheter.”
I motion to Sonora and Coalt.
“We'll go to ground, while everyone wrangles what they need to. We meet back here in 3 days time, same time, and figure out what's the next move.”
Strangely enough, I feel like part of me just got 20 years younger. Like I'm back in the field. Like I'm back fighting a war, rallying the boys before the battle.
Yea. Just like old times. Except, I was young in the old times.
I wait for her to be done. I've never been one to be impressed by words. Deeds are what get me. And she just did.
I'm about to say something before Paco jumps in. He goes on a on, venting like a scared little civilian. I let him. It'll do him good. The kid's probably scared out of his life, which I guess I can understand. Come to think of it, not really. But maybe it'll make him feel better to release all that pent up anger at someone. God knows I can take it. Stopped really caring about what people say around 2060. So he goes on, and mainly listens to himself speak. Some of that shit, I ain't even real sure where he gets it. I've been running on my own, without support, for the past 6 years. I don't expect a hand out. None what so ever. He finally introduces himself. At least, he does have a little shred of manner.
Apparently, Smiley's talks get the ork kid all pumped up, so he jumps in as well. Now, he's mighty entertaining, and I can't help but smile at him as he talks. He's got fire, that's for sure. And guts. Which is good. Properly aimed, this guy could do some serious damage. He gets all rilled up. Good. Need some energy going.
Once everyone finally quiets the fuck up, I pick up the conversation. I start by laughing a lot. I'd probably cry a bit if my eyes weren't all chromed up.
“Well that's all fuckin' great. Glad to see you people all have enough balls to hold your ground. Probably not all the sharpest knives in the drawers, judging by your ideas, but you might all have enough fire in you to live this throught.”
I turn to Sonora.
“That was mighty damn impressive mam'. Fuckin' acurate as it can be without listing my bootsize.”
I lean against the side of the van. Somehow, this girl reminds me of Catherine.
“Actually, you only got my views on women wrong. But the rest is right on the ball, mam. Yes, you are bait. But seein' the way you held your ground today, I got nothin' but reasons to keep you well alive and fed as long as I can afford to.”
I scratch at my bread a bit. Maybe I should get to shaving it. With all 'em kids around, it just makes me look even older.
“So, now that we're all done fuckin' strutin' around trying to gauge who's got the bigger dick, let's get down to business.”
“You” I point to Smiley “get exactly what the fuck we're up against. Now, as long as the Azzies don't actually roll into town, the sorta get up they had today should be as heavy as it gets. When the shit really hits the fan, we'll either need an army of our own, or a crap ton of luck.”
“And you 'mam” I jerk my head toward Sonora “are correct about where we need to move. Bolivar '49 are probably amongst our best bet. I got an in with them, and if I can convince a few people here and there, we might even be able to provide them with weapons and training. But until that's fuckin' squared out, it'll be like taking a walk through a shit minefield.”
I chew a bit on the inside of my cheek.
“I'll see if I can get my hands on a decent thing with a roof that doesn't leak too much. In the mean time, lets split up in two groups.”
I jerk my head toward Smiley, Mono and the elf.
“Contrary to those two, you guys can still somewhat fly under the Azzie radar. You should be able to move around town with some ease, so you stick togheter.”
I motion to Sonora and Coalt.
“We'll go to ground, while everyone wrangles what they need to. We meet back here in 3 days time, same time, and figure out what's the next move.”
Strangely enough, I feel like part of me just got 20 years younger. Like I'm back in the field. Like I'm back fighting a war, rallying the boys before the battle.
Yea. Just like old times. Except, I was young in the old times.
[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Chacao District Border, 13:04PM]
While he was waiting for some sort of response to his mention of hijacking boats, Smiley ended up getting the unexpected reply of laughter from the old man. When Dexter started talking again though, he didn't really acknowledge anything Smiley mentioned outside of his mention of the doomsday prophesy of the Aztlan invasion. Whatever, old man don't care what a spic thinks unless he's part of whatever makes Sonora and Coatl special. Fuck him. His loss to dismiss me so easily.
Reaching into the van, he withdraws the three shotgun drums and loads one into his AA16 before tossing the other two into his car. "Right. You three go get the hideout, we'll get everything else. Still say the whole hijacking a boat thing is a good idea, but whatever, you guys sleep on it." He opens the driver side door to his sedan, but stops himself from entering for a moment. "Everybody give me their comm-numbers and such, going to slave all your 'links to mine. That'll put us in a secure network provided everyones in mutual range. This allows silent communication and makes it so anyone who wants to hack you guys has to get through me first. Ya'll don't look like the technical types so yeah, do it."
Looking over to Sangre and El Mono, he waves the two over. "Let's go boys, I'll drop you off where you want before I head off to get this thing fixed."
While he was waiting for some sort of response to his mention of hijacking boats, Smiley ended up getting the unexpected reply of laughter from the old man. When Dexter started talking again though, he didn't really acknowledge anything Smiley mentioned outside of his mention of the doomsday prophesy of the Aztlan invasion. Whatever, old man don't care what a spic thinks unless he's part of whatever makes Sonora and Coatl special. Fuck him. His loss to dismiss me so easily.
Reaching into the van, he withdraws the three shotgun drums and loads one into his AA16 before tossing the other two into his car. "Right. You three go get the hideout, we'll get everything else. Still say the whole hijacking a boat thing is a good idea, but whatever, you guys sleep on it." He opens the driver side door to his sedan, but stops himself from entering for a moment. "Everybody give me their comm-numbers and such, going to slave all your 'links to mine. That'll put us in a secure network provided everyones in mutual range. This allows silent communication and makes it so anyone who wants to hack you guys has to get through me first. Ya'll don't look like the technical types so yeah, do it."
Looking over to Sangre and El Mono, he waves the two over. "Let's go boys, I'll drop you off where you want before I head off to get this thing fixed."
Phantom
[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Nueva Caracas, 13:04]
Phantom left Camila's in search of a spot of lunch, walking the short distance to the central boulevard through Nueva Caracas. He followed it -- or more accurately, he followed the smells of the various restaurants and sidewalk kiosks cooking up food all along the main stretch. Nueva Caracas wasn't just the endless stream of seedy bars and brothels that some made it out to be. After all, you can't fuck on an empty stomach.
During his search for food, he passed by the most renowned of all Nueva Caracas's whorehouses, the Cat's Paw. Normally the establishment, which was busy 24/7, took the lion's share of of business in the neighborhood, and catered to the more elite players in town. It was also Camila's primary competition. Sometimes men just wanted to pay extra to make sure the whores were clean.
The fact that business had suddenly picked up drastically at Camila's hadn't registered to Phantom. When he passed in front of the Cat's Paw and saw not a car, and not a soul outside, things clicked. Was the Cat's Paw shut down? And why, if so? It was known all over town that the place was a cash cow. Even the normally active Matrix node associated with the club was now gone. Phantom had been in it a few times and knew it existed. So why was it, too, down?
So many mysteries, so little time. The dual hunger he had for both food and a hit of Bliss were tugging him along, past the lifeless Cat's Paw. Coming into view now were several of his tried and true food slingers.
Of course, he also noticed a nervous hum in the streets. A few people were running down the sidewalk, looking fearfully over their shoulder. Faces full of trepidation were peering carefully through blinds or from behind curtains. And curiously, the smell of something burning hung in the air. Not the smell of tortillas put too long on the grill, but something more acrid, and ominous.
Was that a plume of smoke in the distance? It looked somewhat old, as if the wind had started to disperse it. Somewhere in the distance, not far from where he was, he also caught the faint cacaphony of voices crying and wailing in unison. While he had been busy at Camila's, something serious had happened here in Nueva Caracas.
[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Nueva Caracas, 13:04]
Phantom left Camila's in search of a spot of lunch, walking the short distance to the central boulevard through Nueva Caracas. He followed it -- or more accurately, he followed the smells of the various restaurants and sidewalk kiosks cooking up food all along the main stretch. Nueva Caracas wasn't just the endless stream of seedy bars and brothels that some made it out to be. After all, you can't fuck on an empty stomach.
During his search for food, he passed by the most renowned of all Nueva Caracas's whorehouses, the Cat's Paw. Normally the establishment, which was busy 24/7, took the lion's share of of business in the neighborhood, and catered to the more elite players in town. It was also Camila's primary competition. Sometimes men just wanted to pay extra to make sure the whores were clean.
The fact that business had suddenly picked up drastically at Camila's hadn't registered to Phantom. When he passed in front of the Cat's Paw and saw not a car, and not a soul outside, things clicked. Was the Cat's Paw shut down? And why, if so? It was known all over town that the place was a cash cow. Even the normally active Matrix node associated with the club was now gone. Phantom had been in it a few times and knew it existed. So why was it, too, down?
So many mysteries, so little time. The dual hunger he had for both food and a hit of Bliss were tugging him along, past the lifeless Cat's Paw. Coming into view now were several of his tried and true food slingers.
Of course, he also noticed a nervous hum in the streets. A few people were running down the sidewalk, looking fearfully over their shoulder. Faces full of trepidation were peering carefully through blinds or from behind curtains. And curiously, the smell of something burning hung in the air. Not the smell of tortillas put too long on the grill, but something more acrid, and ominous.
Was that a plume of smoke in the distance? It looked somewhat old, as if the wind had started to disperse it. Somewhere in the distance, not far from where he was, he also caught the faint cacaphony of voices crying and wailing in unison. While he had been busy at Camila's, something serious had happened here in Nueva Caracas.
[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Nueva Caracas, 13:06]
Commlink PAN: Passive
Alex paused at a food vendor and bought a slop of something cheap. He dared not look at it while he ate it lest his stomach finally officially revolt from the sludge they called food. The Bliss cravings subsided a bit as his stomach got a bit more full. The Cat's Paw being shut down was an interesting development in the area, though he mourned the loss of the easily accessible node that it often provided.
He took a fairly quick appraisal of the overall situation at hand and swore quietly to himself. "Well fuck, I miss everything interesting." A smirk crossed his face as he realized he likely would have been unconscious had he said that around Gabriela.
The wails of the mourning and screams of the dying seemed to play a horrendous opera in his ears, but he wasn't focusing on that. Instead, Alex was walking slowly along to find some Matrix signals that could tell him what was going on in the neighborhood. While he attempted to locate a steady stream, he fired off a quick message to Camila through his commlink.
<<Cat's Paw appears to have been shut down. No idea why. Thought you might want to know.>>
Commlink PAN: Passive
Alex paused at a food vendor and bought a slop of something cheap. He dared not look at it while he ate it lest his stomach finally officially revolt from the sludge they called food. The Bliss cravings subsided a bit as his stomach got a bit more full. The Cat's Paw being shut down was an interesting development in the area, though he mourned the loss of the easily accessible node that it often provided.
He took a fairly quick appraisal of the overall situation at hand and swore quietly to himself. "Well fuck, I miss everything interesting." A smirk crossed his face as he realized he likely would have been unconscious had he said that around Gabriela.
The wails of the mourning and screams of the dying seemed to play a horrendous opera in his ears, but he wasn't focusing on that. Instead, Alex was walking slowly along to find some Matrix signals that could tell him what was going on in the neighborhood. While he attempted to locate a steady stream, he fired off a quick message to Camila through his commlink.
<<Cat's Paw appears to have been shut down. No idea why. Thought you might want to know.>>
[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Chacao District Border, 13:04PM]
El Mono nods at Smiley and climbs into the front passenger seat. "For what it's worth, amigo, I got no problem with 'jacking some boat. I mean, I don't know shit from fuck about sailing, but I've heard of worse plans..."
Normally, it took a lot for Mono to trust someone, but this Smiley... well, trust was too strong a word, but Mono certainly took to him a lot faster than he did to most people.
El Mono nods at Smiley and climbs into the front passenger seat. "For what it's worth, amigo, I got no problem with 'jacking some boat. I mean, I don't know shit from fuck about sailing, but I've heard of worse plans..."
Normally, it took a lot for Mono to trust someone, but this Smiley... well, trust was too strong a word, but Mono certainly took to him a lot faster than he did to most people.
Alex
[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Nueva Caracas, 13:06]
Camila shoots a message back to Phantom:
<<I thought it weird we were so busy last night. I guess we're going to get some overflow since they're shut down. I wonder what caused it.>>
Interestingly enough, Alex was already dipping his fingers into that digital realm, letting his mind wander through the signals of bits and bytes that made up Caracas's sometimes unpredictable and lackluster Matrix grid. Alex sorted through the news, blog posts, local user-submitted content hubs. Slowly the events he pieced together made up something resembling a story: apparently somebody big, maybe the owner, maybe the manager, of the Cat's Paw was assassinated last night. Some of the more oddball conspiracy theorists blamed it on foreign black ops specialists, though they were quickly derided and their online reputations took hits accordingly.
One online news source claimed that the establishment had been robbed. A user submitted video, taken from somewhere across the street, that shows a couple of guys standing in front of a sedan and wielding large firearms. The sound is of poor quality, and the video slightly grainy, but it is obvious that they are shaking down the guards. The man standing next to the driver's side door can be heard yelling out, "Everybody pays!" Meanwhile a tall, tan-skinned elf wearing shot-up body armor and wearing head dressing was waving around his own automatic weapon and cowing the guards in front of the Cat's Paw, intimidating them into doing his bidding. The video goes on for some time, showing the eventual payday of the robbers, as well as the guards slowly trickling away after the payout. The timestamp shows this as having occured around 04:22 AM in the morning.
[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Nueva Caracas, 13:06]
Camila shoots a message back to Phantom:
<<I thought it weird we were so busy last night. I guess we're going to get some overflow since they're shut down. I wonder what caused it.>>
Interestingly enough, Alex was already dipping his fingers into that digital realm, letting his mind wander through the signals of bits and bytes that made up Caracas's sometimes unpredictable and lackluster Matrix grid. Alex sorted through the news, blog posts, local user-submitted content hubs. Slowly the events he pieced together made up something resembling a story: apparently somebody big, maybe the owner, maybe the manager, of the Cat's Paw was assassinated last night. Some of the more oddball conspiracy theorists blamed it on foreign black ops specialists, though they were quickly derided and their online reputations took hits accordingly.
One online news source claimed that the establishment had been robbed. A user submitted video, taken from somewhere across the street, that shows a couple of guys standing in front of a sedan and wielding large firearms. The sound is of poor quality, and the video slightly grainy, but it is obvious that they are shaking down the guards. The man standing next to the driver's side door can be heard yelling out, "Everybody pays!" Meanwhile a tall, tan-skinned elf wearing shot-up body armor and wearing head dressing was waving around his own automatic weapon and cowing the guards in front of the Cat's Paw, intimidating them into doing his bidding. The video goes on for some time, showing the eventual payday of the robbers, as well as the guards slowly trickling away after the payout. The timestamp shows this as having occured around 04:22 AM in the morning.
[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Nueva Caracas, 13:08ish]
Commlink PAN: Passive
<<Buzz on the street is that the owner or manager of the place got shot dead and some guys robbed the place. Must have brass ones to want to piss off the people behind the Paw. This shitty feed makes it hard to see much detail other than he looks like shit and is an elf. Which could be about any of your patrons, eh?>>
Alex narrowed his eyes and peered at the old smoke clouds. Curiousity nagged at him but he knew damned well how being curious could end in Caracas. He let out a hearty laugh at no one in particular as he picked his way through the people, heading towards the old smoke cloud that drifted lazily in the hot afternoon air.
"Today is as good as any day for the cat to die," he thought as he moved down the street.
Commlink PAN: Passive
<<Buzz on the street is that the owner or manager of the place got shot dead and some guys robbed the place. Must have brass ones to want to piss off the people behind the Paw. This shitty feed makes it hard to see much detail other than he looks like shit and is an elf. Which could be about any of your patrons, eh?>>
Alex narrowed his eyes and peered at the old smoke clouds. Curiousity nagged at him but he knew damned well how being curious could end in Caracas. He let out a hearty laugh at no one in particular as he picked his way through the people, heading towards the old smoke cloud that drifted lazily in the hot afternoon air.
"Today is as good as any day for the cat to die," he thought as he moved down the street.
[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Chacao District Border, 13:04PM]
Sangre had only been half-listening while everybody was yapping on and on about whatever. He didn't really care about the old man's personality and shit so he just ignored the talking and leant back against Smiley's battered car, thinking about his next steps towards figuring out his past.
When a decision was made to split up the elf was in agreement. But first he needed to ask the elf chick something.
"Yeah splitting up is fine with me. Voz, you said something about you knowing someone who can supply weapons and the like. I you can reach him please introduce him to me once you're in hiding"
Then he got into the by now almost completely window-less sedan.
Sangre had only been half-listening while everybody was yapping on and on about whatever. He didn't really care about the old man's personality and shit so he just ignored the talking and leant back against Smiley's battered car, thinking about his next steps towards figuring out his past.
When a decision was made to split up the elf was in agreement. But first he needed to ask the elf chick something.
"Yeah splitting up is fine with me. Voz, you said something about you knowing someone who can supply weapons and the like. I you can reach him please introduce him to me once you're in hiding"
Then he got into the by now almost completely window-less sedan.
[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Chacao District Border, 13:04PM]
Sonora transmits her commlink info to the rest of the folks gathered, opening the passenger-side door to Dexter's van.
"I'll call some people. I know someone who can get us some real estate, and someone else who should be able to handle equipment. Even move the hard cash you two have in those bags."
She slid into the passenger's seat, rolling down the window and looking out at the others.
"I know someone who can do ID's too. Send me a list of what you need. We'll want a central account I can draw from for purchasing, palm greasing, information payoffs - things like that. I can have that set up as well, I'll send you a time and place to be with the money. Mierda, I haven't done this in years.
"Oh, and if you want to be there for equipment pickup, let me know. My people shouldn't mind."
Sonora transmits her commlink info to the rest of the folks gathered, opening the passenger-side door to Dexter's van.
"I'll call some people. I know someone who can get us some real estate, and someone else who should be able to handle equipment. Even move the hard cash you two have in those bags."
She slid into the passenger's seat, rolling down the window and looking out at the others.
"I know someone who can do ID's too. Send me a list of what you need. We'll want a central account I can draw from for purchasing, palm greasing, information payoffs - things like that. I can have that set up as well, I'll send you a time and place to be with the money. Mierda, I haven't done this in years.
"Oh, and if you want to be there for equipment pickup, let me know. My people shouldn't mind."
Alex
[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Near Taqueria de la Rosa, Nueva Caracas; 13:08ish]
When Alex followed that plume of smoke to its source, he came upon a scene of chaos, or rather, one that was about an hour old. The road he was on dead-ended right across from a place called Taqueria de la Rosa, an open front-style restaurant that looked as if it would've been an inviting place for lunch, had there not been copious blood stains all over the floor. A DocWagon ambulance was out front, its lights flashing as the two very large, obviously armored technicians were loading a covered stretcher into the back. A mustached man wailed and wrung his hands as he watched, and several women wept into each others arms nearby.
There were several other such ambulances lining the streets. Something had gone down here. A large chunk of the street about two blocks down from the Taqueria was missing, as if it had been blasted out. He could make out DocWagon techs poking through some of the rubble, one even disgustedly lifting up what appeared to be a handful of intestines and pulling out what appeared to be the remnants of a DocWagon biomonitor.
There was one La Polizia vehicle in attendance, down at the corner of the street near the Taqueria. Two officers stood nearby, taking statements from a small crowd of people. The DocWagon technicians loading bodies, or leftovers thereof, into their vans didn't seem to phase either of them, and one of them yawned sleepily and disinterestedly as he went through the motions, interrupting the citizen giving their summary of events.
[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Near Taqueria de la Rosa, Nueva Caracas; 13:08ish]
When Alex followed that plume of smoke to its source, he came upon a scene of chaos, or rather, one that was about an hour old. The road he was on dead-ended right across from a place called Taqueria de la Rosa, an open front-style restaurant that looked as if it would've been an inviting place for lunch, had there not been copious blood stains all over the floor. A DocWagon ambulance was out front, its lights flashing as the two very large, obviously armored technicians were loading a covered stretcher into the back. A mustached man wailed and wrung his hands as he watched, and several women wept into each others arms nearby.
There were several other such ambulances lining the streets. Something had gone down here. A large chunk of the street about two blocks down from the Taqueria was missing, as if it had been blasted out. He could make out DocWagon techs poking through some of the rubble, one even disgustedly lifting up what appeared to be a handful of intestines and pulling out what appeared to be the remnants of a DocWagon biomonitor.
There was one La Polizia vehicle in attendance, down at the corner of the street near the Taqueria. Two officers stood nearby, taking statements from a small crowd of people. The DocWagon technicians loading bodies, or leftovers thereof, into their vans didn't seem to phase either of them, and one of them yawned sleepily and disinterestedly as he went through the motions, interrupting the citizen giving their summary of events.
[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Near Taqueria de la Rosa, Nueva Caracas]
<<Commlink PAN: Passive>>
The scene unfolding before him was much the same as many others he had to witness in the streets of Caracas. Authority that did not care whether the citizens of the city lived or died, DocWagon technicians fulfilling their obligations, and the throng of citizens that had gathered to witness it all. Likely nowhere to be found when the mustached guy’s lover or child got wasted.
“Probably a child,” Alex mused quietly to himself, “Lovers are fairly replaceable.”
The technomancer slipped a bit further into the crowd until he was almost across from Taqueria de la Rosa. He studied the mourning man intently, casually glancing past the huddled group of women that wept. For a brief moment he locked eyes with the man, and a divine force called to him from on high. A brief breath of light air caressed his neck, and ear; a force he attributed to an angel whispering in his ear.
“I will be the savior of these people, so that they need not mourn the loss of their children anymore.”
The slow, steady descent of Alex’s mind inverted sharply. His thoughts began to come faster, more erratically than they had in the past. He barely noticed as his mind screamed through idea after idea, having hundreds of thoughts per minute as he continued to study the mourning man. The crunching of the rubble of the streets beneath his feet marked his exit from the area as he wandered back with this divine purpose in his mind.
<<Commlink PAN: Passive>>
The scene unfolding before him was much the same as many others he had to witness in the streets of Caracas. Authority that did not care whether the citizens of the city lived or died, DocWagon technicians fulfilling their obligations, and the throng of citizens that had gathered to witness it all. Likely nowhere to be found when the mustached guy’s lover or child got wasted.
“Probably a child,” Alex mused quietly to himself, “Lovers are fairly replaceable.”
The technomancer slipped a bit further into the crowd until he was almost across from Taqueria de la Rosa. He studied the mourning man intently, casually glancing past the huddled group of women that wept. For a brief moment he locked eyes with the man, and a divine force called to him from on high. A brief breath of light air caressed his neck, and ear; a force he attributed to an angel whispering in his ear.
“I will be the savior of these people, so that they need not mourn the loss of their children anymore.”
The slow, steady descent of Alex’s mind inverted sharply. His thoughts began to come faster, more erratically than they had in the past. He barely noticed as his mind screamed through idea after idea, having hundreds of thoughts per minute as he continued to study the mourning man. The crunching of the rubble of the streets beneath his feet marked his exit from the area as he wandered back with this divine purpose in his mind.
[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Onboard a yacht in La Guaira docks, 20:44PM]
The cabin of the colorfully painted yacht had ganja smoke hanging thickly towards the roof. Sitting in one chair, Smiley reclined while holding a shotglass of spiced rum against his forehead while resting his feet ontop of a metal coffee table bolted two the ground, knocking over one of the smoke grenades that were resting on the top.
"Hey, nah don be tryin' te set dat shit off in mi boat!" Barked out the rastafarian across from rigger, tossing the stub of his joint out the window. "Dat not de kinna smoke that keep mi calm, yah?" DevilBwoy gave Smiley a grin while crossing his arms. "'Sides, nah mah fault ye had to rebuil' yeh damn car. Dat shit all 'cause'a yah, mon."
In response, Smiley flipped off the rastafarian pirate in front of him before drinking his shot and putting the shotglass on the ground. "Yeah yeah, you just uppity 'cause the news reports still say I got it." Looking around, Smiley noted the empty bird perch in the corner of the room and points it out, "What the fuck happened to your parrot? Was here when I last needed to visit you."
DevilBwoy stares bemusedly, tapping the fingers of his one hand on his elbow. He makes a visible effort to speak with less of an accent as if to make his words more serious. "It fuckin' die two days after you pistol-whip it. Asshole."
"Oh..." Smiley says slowly, eyes darting away from the pirate for a moment before he follows up. "Well shit, the fucking bird deserved it. When I was trying to teach it to say 'Pretty boy', the smartass said 'What are you, gay?'. In hindsight, I shouldn't of expected it to apologize and I could of hit it a little softer." He pauses for a moment, shaking his head and leaning forward and speaking up again. "Anyways, came here for more than smoke, drink, and reminising. I'm uh... Kinda curious about whats coming into Caracas lately. I mean, any particular group commission a large shipment of guns or something? Gangs maybe?" He takes another pause, trying to think well back. "Also wondering if you ever heard a group called the uh... Yankee, no... Yanqui Drowners."
The cabin of the colorfully painted yacht had ganja smoke hanging thickly towards the roof. Sitting in one chair, Smiley reclined while holding a shotglass of spiced rum against his forehead while resting his feet ontop of a metal coffee table bolted two the ground, knocking over one of the smoke grenades that were resting on the top.
"Hey, nah don be tryin' te set dat shit off in mi boat!" Barked out the rastafarian across from rigger, tossing the stub of his joint out the window. "Dat not de kinna smoke that keep mi calm, yah?" DevilBwoy gave Smiley a grin while crossing his arms. "'Sides, nah mah fault ye had to rebuil' yeh damn car. Dat shit all 'cause'a yah, mon."
In response, Smiley flipped off the rastafarian pirate in front of him before drinking his shot and putting the shotglass on the ground. "Yeah yeah, you just uppity 'cause the news reports still say I got it." Looking around, Smiley noted the empty bird perch in the corner of the room and points it out, "What the fuck happened to your parrot? Was here when I last needed to visit you."
DevilBwoy stares bemusedly, tapping the fingers of his one hand on his elbow. He makes a visible effort to speak with less of an accent as if to make his words more serious. "It fuckin' die two days after you pistol-whip it. Asshole."
"Oh..." Smiley says slowly, eyes darting away from the pirate for a moment before he follows up. "Well shit, the fucking bird deserved it. When I was trying to teach it to say 'Pretty boy', the smartass said 'What are you, gay?'. In hindsight, I shouldn't of expected it to apologize and I could of hit it a little softer." He pauses for a moment, shaking his head and leaning forward and speaking up again. "Anyways, came here for more than smoke, drink, and reminising. I'm uh... Kinda curious about whats coming into Caracas lately. I mean, any particular group commission a large shipment of guns or something? Gangs maybe?" He takes another pause, trying to think well back. "Also wondering if you ever heard a group called the uh... Yankee, no... Yanqui Drowners."
Smiley
[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Onboard a yacht in La Guaira docks, 20:44PM]
"De fuckin' Yanqui Drownahs? Yah, I an' I know of 'em. Deh ain't so much active 'round heah as deh used ta be, yanno, but deh 'bout. Heard deh was in bed wid Babylon, yanno, de Aztechnology bwoys up nort', turned informah. Too much politricks fuh me. Kinna deh broke up aftah some sheet went down, but sometimes I get ordahs from 'em an' I fill 'em. Know a coupla dem. Deh in town still. Buncha hot steppahs, deh're." DevilBwoy narrowed his eyes and gave Smiley a suspicious glare. "An' rhaatid! Why do ya want ta know where de Yanqui Drownahs are?"
[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Onboard a yacht in La Guaira docks, 20:44PM]
"De fuckin' Yanqui Drownahs? Yah, I an' I know of 'em. Deh ain't so much active 'round heah as deh used ta be, yanno, but deh 'bout. Heard deh was in bed wid Babylon, yanno, de Aztechnology bwoys up nort', turned informah. Too much politricks fuh me. Kinna deh broke up aftah some sheet went down, but sometimes I get ordahs from 'em an' I fill 'em. Know a coupla dem. Deh in town still. Buncha hot steppahs, deh're." DevilBwoy narrowed his eyes and gave Smiley a suspicious glare. "An' rhaatid! Why do ya want ta know where de Yanqui Drownahs are?"
[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Onboard a yacht in La Guaira docks, 20:44PM]
"I don't want to know where they hiding so much as I want to know if they're still doing jobs." Smiley says as he fishes out his pack of cigarettes from his pants, lighting one up with a lighter sitting on the metal coffee table. "As for the why... Well shit, I'm getting tired of not doing anything now that Tempo has gone bust. I'm getting back into the game of supplying bulk orders, yanno?"
Taking a drag from his cigarette, he leans back in his chair again. "Besides, got me a crew of sorts now. One of them says those guys are bad news. You basically told me that they're selling out anyone with them if it gets them a buck from Aztechnology, and in case you been hitting the bong too hard to keep up with the news Aztlan and Aztech are going to storm into this port any day now and raise more hell than you and I could dream of. Snitches working for assholes that will be interupting our business is bad for business."
"See, what I wanna do, is intercept a shipment of theirs. Preferably one ment for La Alianza, don't ask why them because I can't give a proper explination yet. However, if me and my crew can raid this shipment and take the boat, I'm more than willing to let you keep the boat and maybe... 45 percent of the cargo, tops. Don't have to pay me nothing, just tell me what I need to know."
Reaching out, Smiley tapped some ashes off the cherry of his cigarette onto the metal table. "I mean, these guys aren't your friends are they? They ain't no good, and they can't be paying you or any of the other Carrib League 'privateers' the 'safe journey' fee."
"I don't want to know where they hiding so much as I want to know if they're still doing jobs." Smiley says as he fishes out his pack of cigarettes from his pants, lighting one up with a lighter sitting on the metal coffee table. "As for the why... Well shit, I'm getting tired of not doing anything now that Tempo has gone bust. I'm getting back into the game of supplying bulk orders, yanno?"
Taking a drag from his cigarette, he leans back in his chair again. "Besides, got me a crew of sorts now. One of them says those guys are bad news. You basically told me that they're selling out anyone with them if it gets them a buck from Aztechnology, and in case you been hitting the bong too hard to keep up with the news Aztlan and Aztech are going to storm into this port any day now and raise more hell than you and I could dream of. Snitches working for assholes that will be interupting our business is bad for business."
"See, what I wanna do, is intercept a shipment of theirs. Preferably one ment for La Alianza, don't ask why them because I can't give a proper explination yet. However, if me and my crew can raid this shipment and take the boat, I'm more than willing to let you keep the boat and maybe... 45 percent of the cargo, tops. Don't have to pay me nothing, just tell me what I need to know."
Reaching out, Smiley tapped some ashes off the cherry of his cigarette onto the metal table. "I mean, these guys aren't your friends are they? They ain't no good, and they can't be paying you or any of the other Carrib League 'privateers' the 'safe journey' fee."
[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; a hovel in Nueva Caracas, 20:45PM]
While his former compatriots are being discussed, unbeknown to him, in a yacht in the harbor, Coatl has hunkered down in his doss to try and put the day's events together. The others all have places to go and people to meet with, but Coatl stands out a bit in a crowd and has decided that (as boring as it is) it's safest to spend his time in his flat, waiting until he's needed.
There was talk today of boats and safehouses, of arms deals and explosives. While he can see the appeal in all of these things he's found that revenge has narrowed his focus and his needs somewhat. He has his blades: they let him get up close and personal. And when he catches up to the Drowners, that is exactly where he is going to want to be. Up close. To see the sweat on their brows and the fear in their eyes. To feel the warmth of their blood on his hands.
His right arm lays on a table, de-activated, access hatches opened and wires pinned back so he can work at it. He's three cigs in to a new pack of Yehuans; those, and a belt of cheap scotch, have helped calm him and keep his left hand steady as he does the familiar maintenance. Tighten this. Pin this back. The arm had been fine when he'd bought it, but his time in that Azzie hell-hole had played hell on it, and the doctors saw no reason to actually fix the damn thing. He'd watch them go through the process enough that he knew what needed to be done, even if he didn't really understand a lot of what he was doing. He knew enough to get by and keep it working--to make sure the key wires stayed in place, and that nothing was sliced beyond repair whenever he popped a blade.
Everything beyond that was incidental.
Sonora had mentioned knowing someone who could get equipment, and he'd passed a request on to her--nothing fancy, just an M23, made in his size. He'd used Colts before and trusted them; plus they were everywhere, and that meant cheap. Once he had more cash maybe he'd upgrade to something bigger, and make the Colt his sidearm. But that was all for later.
She'd also mentioned making a kitty for the team, and he tossed a thousand nuyen her way for it. It was a small start but it would grow. The troll figured he'd be putting a lot into it. His needs were simple.
Coatl sat, and smoked, and soldered wires down, and waited for the days to pass before they all met again and rained lead and fire on this town.
While his former compatriots are being discussed, unbeknown to him, in a yacht in the harbor, Coatl has hunkered down in his doss to try and put the day's events together. The others all have places to go and people to meet with, but Coatl stands out a bit in a crowd and has decided that (as boring as it is) it's safest to spend his time in his flat, waiting until he's needed.
There was talk today of boats and safehouses, of arms deals and explosives. While he can see the appeal in all of these things he's found that revenge has narrowed his focus and his needs somewhat. He has his blades: they let him get up close and personal. And when he catches up to the Drowners, that is exactly where he is going to want to be. Up close. To see the sweat on their brows and the fear in their eyes. To feel the warmth of their blood on his hands.
His right arm lays on a table, de-activated, access hatches opened and wires pinned back so he can work at it. He's three cigs in to a new pack of Yehuans; those, and a belt of cheap scotch, have helped calm him and keep his left hand steady as he does the familiar maintenance. Tighten this. Pin this back. The arm had been fine when he'd bought it, but his time in that Azzie hell-hole had played hell on it, and the doctors saw no reason to actually fix the damn thing. He'd watch them go through the process enough that he knew what needed to be done, even if he didn't really understand a lot of what he was doing. He knew enough to get by and keep it working--to make sure the key wires stayed in place, and that nothing was sliced beyond repair whenever he popped a blade.
Everything beyond that was incidental.
Sonora had mentioned knowing someone who could get equipment, and he'd passed a request on to her--nothing fancy, just an M23, made in his size. He'd used Colts before and trusted them; plus they were everywhere, and that meant cheap. Once he had more cash maybe he'd upgrade to something bigger, and make the Colt his sidearm. But that was all for later.
She'd also mentioned making a kitty for the team, and he tossed a thousand nuyen her way for it. It was a small start but it would grow. The troll figured he'd be putting a lot into it. His needs were simple.
Coatl sat, and smoked, and soldered wires down, and waited for the days to pass before they all met again and rained lead and fire on this town.
Alex
[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Near Taqueria de la Rosa, Nueva Caracas]
As Alex walked past the bored La Polizia taking statements, he caught snatches of the statement a plump, mournful-looking woman was giving to one of them.
"...fucking monsters, they killed my little niña! Three of them! They all got in a car and drove away!..."
The cop looked supremely bored, glancing here and away occasionally while he pretended to listen, and he rocked on his feet while the lady nattered on between sobs. She set to describing the men she saw running out of the apartment building. The first was, in her words, a "old gringo" with a chrome arm, and the second a sinewy ork guy. But the last person caught Alex's ear...
"...an elf, tall, hispanic like us. He had a bandage on his head, and holes in his coat, and he had big gun, like that." The woman gestured at the officer's assault rifle, slung over a shoulder, then wiped her tear-covered face.
This sounded suspiciously, scarily close to what he'd seen in the video. An elf that looked much like that was among those involved with shaking down the Cat's Paw just the night before. Somehow, the two events must be connected: the Cat's Paw robbery and the massacre that had gone on in this street now an hour gone.
[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Near Taqueria de la Rosa, Nueva Caracas]
As Alex walked past the bored La Polizia taking statements, he caught snatches of the statement a plump, mournful-looking woman was giving to one of them.
"...fucking monsters, they killed my little niña! Three of them! They all got in a car and drove away!..."
The cop looked supremely bored, glancing here and away occasionally while he pretended to listen, and he rocked on his feet while the lady nattered on between sobs. She set to describing the men she saw running out of the apartment building. The first was, in her words, a "old gringo" with a chrome arm, and the second a sinewy ork guy. But the last person caught Alex's ear...
"...an elf, tall, hispanic like us. He had a bandage on his head, and holes in his coat, and he had big gun, like that." The woman gestured at the officer's assault rifle, slung over a shoulder, then wiped her tear-covered face.
This sounded suspiciously, scarily close to what he'd seen in the video. An elf that looked much like that was among those involved with shaking down the Cat's Paw just the night before. Somehow, the two events must be connected: the Cat's Paw robbery and the massacre that had gone on in this street now an hour gone.
Smiley
[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Onboard a yacht in La Guaira docks, 20:44PM]
DevilBwoy shook his head and replied to Smiley. "Eh, it is like me said, dey is broken up now. I take dem ordahs but dey ain't active like so long ago. But yanno, I t'ink dey still sell like ya said ta de Alianza. Might be I coul' let ya know when me hear somet'in', mon. I call you, not de uddah way 'round, ya dig?"
[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Onboard a yacht in La Guaira docks, 20:44PM]
DevilBwoy shook his head and replied to Smiley. "Eh, it is like me said, dey is broken up now. I take dem ordahs but dey ain't active like so long ago. But yanno, I t'ink dey still sell like ya said ta de Alianza. Might be I coul' let ya know when me hear somet'in', mon. I call you, not de uddah way 'round, ya dig?"
Sam
[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; El Zamural, 21:13PM]
Rifling around in that fucked up sieve of a brain of his, Sam latched onto something of a faint ghost of a memory, mostly just a name: Alejandro Mariposa. Sam made his way deep into the neighborhood of El Zamural, walking on feet that seemed to guide him of their own accord. He walked down the lanes in between the enormous sections of favelas, the large communal shantytowns where the impoverished residents banded together for their own protection. At this time of evening, the people were beginning to call it a night, and to light the trashcan fires that served as night lights and guardians against those that might prey on them. A few of the people watched him with nervous eyes, clutching their children together protectively in case he was a predator. A few of the bolder ones were furtively hiding rocks behind their backs, ready to pelt him en masse should he show signs of aggression.
But Sam left them behind, and found himself behind a run-down warehouse a couple of blocks away from the favela. He knew exactly where to find the double doors set at an incline into the ground, leading to stairs that went down into a hallway to the basement. Looking up, he saw the cameras following him that whispers in the back of his brain told him were there. He let them watch, and he strode up to a seriously armored, steel-reinforced door. When he reached to knock, he heard the door buzz, and the lock on the other side disengage. The door swung in about fifty millimeters, and he pushed through.
Rows and rows of tables were covered with gear of all types, from ganger-level street armor to reinforced, state-of-the-art military weaponry. Grenades, rockets, ammunition. There was a plethora of goods here, all for purchase. Beyond the tables was a counter, behind which an extremely feminine-looking man, shirtless but wearing a vest and clad in a pair of hotpants, was standing. Both nipples were obviously pierced, and he had been extremely liberal in his application of lipstick and eyeshadow.
When his eyes fells on Sam, he pressed a hand to his chest and let out a cry of surprise.
"Oh Samuel, baby! It's been so long! I thought you'd never show up again!"
The man, Alejandro, put a hand on his hip and then gave Sam a suddenly no-nonsense, disapproving look.
"You challenge me to find that piece of equipment for you, show me the time of my life, and then vanish! Well, you said I couldn't get it done, and I got it! I hope you're happy, mister!"
But Alejandro walked up to Sam, and his glare vanished as he threw arms around the man. With a disturbingly soft, concerned, and maybe intimate voice, Alejandro whispered, "I'm so glad to see you again."
[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; El Zamural, 21:13PM]
Rifling around in that fucked up sieve of a brain of his, Sam latched onto something of a faint ghost of a memory, mostly just a name: Alejandro Mariposa. Sam made his way deep into the neighborhood of El Zamural, walking on feet that seemed to guide him of their own accord. He walked down the lanes in between the enormous sections of favelas, the large communal shantytowns where the impoverished residents banded together for their own protection. At this time of evening, the people were beginning to call it a night, and to light the trashcan fires that served as night lights and guardians against those that might prey on them. A few of the people watched him with nervous eyes, clutching their children together protectively in case he was a predator. A few of the bolder ones were furtively hiding rocks behind their backs, ready to pelt him en masse should he show signs of aggression.
But Sam left them behind, and found himself behind a run-down warehouse a couple of blocks away from the favela. He knew exactly where to find the double doors set at an incline into the ground, leading to stairs that went down into a hallway to the basement. Looking up, he saw the cameras following him that whispers in the back of his brain told him were there. He let them watch, and he strode up to a seriously armored, steel-reinforced door. When he reached to knock, he heard the door buzz, and the lock on the other side disengage. The door swung in about fifty millimeters, and he pushed through.
Rows and rows of tables were covered with gear of all types, from ganger-level street armor to reinforced, state-of-the-art military weaponry. Grenades, rockets, ammunition. There was a plethora of goods here, all for purchase. Beyond the tables was a counter, behind which an extremely feminine-looking man, shirtless but wearing a vest and clad in a pair of hotpants, was standing. Both nipples were obviously pierced, and he had been extremely liberal in his application of lipstick and eyeshadow.
When his eyes fells on Sam, he pressed a hand to his chest and let out a cry of surprise.
"Oh Samuel, baby! It's been so long! I thought you'd never show up again!"
The man, Alejandro, put a hand on his hip and then gave Sam a suddenly no-nonsense, disapproving look.
"You challenge me to find that piece of equipment for you, show me the time of my life, and then vanish! Well, you said I couldn't get it done, and I got it! I hope you're happy, mister!"
But Alejandro walked up to Sam, and his glare vanished as he threw arms around the man. With a disturbingly soft, concerned, and maybe intimate voice, Alejandro whispered, "I'm so glad to see you again."
[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Onboard a yacht in La Guaira docks, 20:45PM]
Smiley nods to DevilBwoy, "Alright, no problem. Just cross your fingers they shipping guns. I know guns don't sell for as much per kilo that drugs would, but chances are we'll be needing the cargo for our own means. I only got an autoshotgun and you and your boys only got AK's and machetes, and those are about as effective as throwing your shoes when it comes to Azzie military vehicles and drones."
Tossing a wad of nuyen onto the table, Smiley starts stuffing the smoke grenades into one of the duffelbags that used to contain the stolen money. "Thats your money for the grenades and about a hundred extra as sort of an apology for killing your bird. You should get a monkey instead." After giving the pirate a friendly wave, he climbs up to the deck of the yacht and taps one of the men guarding the boat on the shoulder, holding out his hand so the guy will give him back his Colt 2066. With the pistol back in his possesion Smiley leaps off the boat and onto the concrete dock with an unsteady landing.
Well, if all works out that oughta be Sonora and Carne willing to do this thing. Now how the hell are we going to do this without setting off a high alert and getting a few dozen reinforcements chasing us down? Wonder if anyone aside from me is good at hacking security systems and blocking distress calls.
Smiley nods to DevilBwoy, "Alright, no problem. Just cross your fingers they shipping guns. I know guns don't sell for as much per kilo that drugs would, but chances are we'll be needing the cargo for our own means. I only got an autoshotgun and you and your boys only got AK's and machetes, and those are about as effective as throwing your shoes when it comes to Azzie military vehicles and drones."
Tossing a wad of nuyen onto the table, Smiley starts stuffing the smoke grenades into one of the duffelbags that used to contain the stolen money. "Thats your money for the grenades and about a hundred extra as sort of an apology for killing your bird. You should get a monkey instead." After giving the pirate a friendly wave, he climbs up to the deck of the yacht and taps one of the men guarding the boat on the shoulder, holding out his hand so the guy will give him back his Colt 2066. With the pistol back in his possesion Smiley leaps off the boat and onto the concrete dock with an unsteady landing.
Well, if all works out that oughta be Sonora and Carne willing to do this thing. Now how the hell are we going to do this without setting off a high alert and getting a few dozen reinforcements chasing us down? Wonder if anyone aside from me is good at hacking security systems and blocking distress calls.
[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; El Zamural, 21:13PM]
Huh?! This was definitely not what he had expected to find when the name Alejandro Mariposa had surfaced in his mind. He wondered what this guys behaviour implicated about their relationship in the past. Surprisingly he did not feel repulsed by the man's intimate actions, but rather relaxed and at home, even a bit attracted. But for now the most important thing was that the latino seemed to know him.
Softly he removed himself from Alejandro's embrace and put an arm's length between them. "Sorry to have worried you. But the situation is kinda complicated..."
He hesitated for a moment, unsure if he should tell the whole truth. I don't know anything about him. He could even have something to do with my situation, though it's unlikely. But I'll never get anywhere if I don't lay my cards on the table. And somehow I feel like I can trust him...
"The short version is this: I woke up yesterday in an alley, shot up and with a bullet in my head, which is still there by the way, and I have no idea how I got there, who I am or even what my name is." Well maybe that part is solved now, assuming the guy used my real name.
"The police is after me and now apparently even some Atzlan black ops, though that was probably just bad luck. The only reason I found this place is that I really need equipment to survive all this shit and somehow your name found it's way out of the remnants of my scattered brain. Please tell me everything you know about me!"
Huh?! This was definitely not what he had expected to find when the name Alejandro Mariposa had surfaced in his mind. He wondered what this guys behaviour implicated about their relationship in the past. Surprisingly he did not feel repulsed by the man's intimate actions, but rather relaxed and at home, even a bit attracted. But for now the most important thing was that the latino seemed to know him.
Softly he removed himself from Alejandro's embrace and put an arm's length between them. "Sorry to have worried you. But the situation is kinda complicated..."
He hesitated for a moment, unsure if he should tell the whole truth. I don't know anything about him. He could even have something to do with my situation, though it's unlikely. But I'll never get anywhere if I don't lay my cards on the table. And somehow I feel like I can trust him...
"The short version is this: I woke up yesterday in an alley, shot up and with a bullet in my head, which is still there by the way, and I have no idea how I got there, who I am or even what my name is." Well maybe that part is solved now, assuming the guy used my real name.
"The police is after me and now apparently even some Atzlan black ops, though that was probably just bad luck. The only reason I found this place is that I really need equipment to survive all this shit and somehow your name found it's way out of the remnants of my scattered brain. Please tell me everything you know about me!"
Samuel
[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Alejandro's Bazaar, El Zamural, 21:13PM]
Alejandro gave Sam a disbelieving look when at first he started going into his explanation. But when the arms dealer began looking more closely at the elf - the bandaged head, the holes in his coat, and the general poise of a man riding a wave of fatigue - Alejandro clasped his hands together and gave Sam a sympathetic look.
"Oh my poor papucho. You really have run into some trouble, haven't you? Here, come with me." Alejandro gave a sort of signal wave to two heavily armed guards wearing balaclavas who almost blended in with the corners of the room. Their ready-to-kill stances shifted into a sort of cautious ease.
Alejandro took Sam by the hand and lead him past the tables of gear, behind the counter, and into a back room. There was a large table in the middle. A rugged, beige tarp covered some large object, but concealed everything but a general shape from view. Otherwise the room seemed to be a sort of personal lounge or living space for Alejandro. The dealer pushed Sam onto an overly plush couch strewn with tasseled cushions. Then he immediately went towards a stocked bar and started pouring drinks, one for himself, and one for Sam. When he returned, he kept a martini for himself, and handed Sam his own beverage.
"Here you go. Your favorite. Well. Your name - at least what you've told me - is Samuel Mendez. You kept your cards close to your chest, but you let that slip, along with the fact you're from Texas, in the CAS. I never met you before two months ago. You just showed up into town. Far as I know you asked questions and were looking for some serious ordinance, and you found me. We hit it off," and Alejandro blushed a bit. "But despite our...relationship, I've always made sure I acted like a professional. I always worked hard to get you what you needed."
Alejandro bounced up from his seat, quickly setting his martini aside. "For instance. You dropped alot of nuyen down on a prepayment for this thing," and he gestured to the table. "You said I couldn't get it, and I was set to prove you wrong. You promised me the night of my life if I got it for you. Well. Here it is." Alejandro jerked the tarp off, uncovering a state-of-the-art Ares Thunderstruck Gauss Rifle, set into a stand to keep it held straightforward. Several clips full of depleted uranium rounds were already stacked into beside it, and several backup battery packs were still in their original boxes. One battery pack was already hooked into the back of the weapon, keeping several green LEDs lit on the diagnostic panel of the rifle to indicate that it was in good condition and on standby.
"I don't take you as the kind of guy to fake amnesia to get out of a deal. Even so, I won't let this one slide. For one evening, you are mine!. In return, I send you home with a smile on that lovely face of yours, and let you take this with you. And I help you with whatever problems you are having."
Alejandro reached up and trailed an affectionate finger along Samuel's jawline.
"That doesn't sound too bad, does it, papucho?"
[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Alejandro's Bazaar, El Zamural, 21:13PM]
Alejandro gave Sam a disbelieving look when at first he started going into his explanation. But when the arms dealer began looking more closely at the elf - the bandaged head, the holes in his coat, and the general poise of a man riding a wave of fatigue - Alejandro clasped his hands together and gave Sam a sympathetic look.
"Oh my poor papucho. You really have run into some trouble, haven't you? Here, come with me." Alejandro gave a sort of signal wave to two heavily armed guards wearing balaclavas who almost blended in with the corners of the room. Their ready-to-kill stances shifted into a sort of cautious ease.
Alejandro took Sam by the hand and lead him past the tables of gear, behind the counter, and into a back room. There was a large table in the middle. A rugged, beige tarp covered some large object, but concealed everything but a general shape from view. Otherwise the room seemed to be a sort of personal lounge or living space for Alejandro. The dealer pushed Sam onto an overly plush couch strewn with tasseled cushions. Then he immediately went towards a stocked bar and started pouring drinks, one for himself, and one for Sam. When he returned, he kept a martini for himself, and handed Sam his own beverage.
"Here you go. Your favorite. Well. Your name - at least what you've told me - is Samuel Mendez. You kept your cards close to your chest, but you let that slip, along with the fact you're from Texas, in the CAS. I never met you before two months ago. You just showed up into town. Far as I know you asked questions and were looking for some serious ordinance, and you found me. We hit it off," and Alejandro blushed a bit. "But despite our...relationship, I've always made sure I acted like a professional. I always worked hard to get you what you needed."
Alejandro bounced up from his seat, quickly setting his martini aside. "For instance. You dropped alot of nuyen down on a prepayment for this thing," and he gestured to the table. "You said I couldn't get it, and I was set to prove you wrong. You promised me the night of my life if I got it for you. Well. Here it is." Alejandro jerked the tarp off, uncovering a state-of-the-art Ares Thunderstruck Gauss Rifle, set into a stand to keep it held straightforward. Several clips full of depleted uranium rounds were already stacked into beside it, and several backup battery packs were still in their original boxes. One battery pack was already hooked into the back of the weapon, keeping several green LEDs lit on the diagnostic panel of the rifle to indicate that it was in good condition and on standby.
"I don't take you as the kind of guy to fake amnesia to get out of a deal. Even so, I won't let this one slide. For one evening, you are mine!. In return, I send you home with a smile on that lovely face of yours, and let you take this with you. And I help you with whatever problems you are having."
Alejandro reached up and trailed an affectionate finger along Samuel's jawline.
"That doesn't sound too bad, does it, papucho?"
[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Alejandro's Bazaar, El Zamural, 21:13PM]
Sitting on the plushy couch, Samuel (the thought that this was his name was strange, it did not sound any more familiar to him than any other name) was surprised at how relaxed and at ease he felt in the presence of this unusual man. Even if his mind did not remember the latino, his body certainly did and it was sending umistakable signals.
A detached part of him was still wondering about everything he had learned just now, wondering why he had come into town and what he had planned to do that required firepower of the magnitude of that thing sitting on the table. But that part was quickly pushed aside by more primal thoughts and desires. There were a hundred and more rational reasons not to do what he was about to do, after all he'd forgotten everything about this man and no way of knowing if what he had been told was true. But he didn't care. He was tired, incredibly tired and longing for a human connection.
He took a sip from his drink, then put it aside and moved closer to Alejandro with a smile on his face.
"Well what kind of man would I be to break a promise to a friend. Besides after all the shit that happened to me over the last two days I could really use a night off. We can talk business later, let's have some fun!"
Sitting on the plushy couch, Samuel (the thought that this was his name was strange, it did not sound any more familiar to him than any other name) was surprised at how relaxed and at ease he felt in the presence of this unusual man. Even if his mind did not remember the latino, his body certainly did and it was sending umistakable signals.
A detached part of him was still wondering about everything he had learned just now, wondering why he had come into town and what he had planned to do that required firepower of the magnitude of that thing sitting on the table. But that part was quickly pushed aside by more primal thoughts and desires. There were a hundred and more rational reasons not to do what he was about to do, after all he'd forgotten everything about this man and no way of knowing if what he had been told was true. But he didn't care. He was tired, incredibly tired and longing for a human connection.
He took a sip from his drink, then put it aside and moved closer to Alejandro with a smile on his face.
"Well what kind of man would I be to break a promise to a friend. Besides after all the shit that happened to me over the last two days I could really use a night off. We can talk business later, let's have some fun!"
Alex
[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Near Taqueria de la Rosa, Nueva Caracas]
Alex leaned back against a wall and stared at the ground as he listened to the people around him, trying his best to overhear the witness statement. The description of the elf he recognized as the guy from the user video. There was no surprise for Alex at the complete and total disregard for the people of this area, both by the elf and by the law enforcement. After all, they had neither money nor power. The only ones that had that were the rich, the corporations, and the gangs. His own internal monologue kept getting disrupted by the drifting in and out of the wireless around him.
He was not foolish enough to think that he could take on the gangs, or even this elf with the firepower. They would leave his carcass in the street. The two pistols he carried in his belt-line felt comfortable, but he knew he was outgunned when it came to that avenue of conflict. A sigh passed his lips as he slid his hands into his pockets and walked down the street; his mind racing a thousand miles a minute. So many routes to navigate towards what he felt he should do.
A smile played at his lips as his mind started to hatch out a plan. It would likely be long, tedious, and difficult; but what the fuck else did have to do?
Alex laughed to himself as he walked away from the crime scene and back towards Camila’s.
[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Near Taqueria de la Rosa, Nueva Caracas]
Alex leaned back against a wall and stared at the ground as he listened to the people around him, trying his best to overhear the witness statement. The description of the elf he recognized as the guy from the user video. There was no surprise for Alex at the complete and total disregard for the people of this area, both by the elf and by the law enforcement. After all, they had neither money nor power. The only ones that had that were the rich, the corporations, and the gangs. His own internal monologue kept getting disrupted by the drifting in and out of the wireless around him.
He was not foolish enough to think that he could take on the gangs, or even this elf with the firepower. They would leave his carcass in the street. The two pistols he carried in his belt-line felt comfortable, but he knew he was outgunned when it came to that avenue of conflict. A sigh passed his lips as he slid his hands into his pockets and walked down the street; his mind racing a thousand miles a minute. So many routes to navigate towards what he felt he should do.
A smile played at his lips as his mind started to hatch out a plan. It would likely be long, tedious, and difficult; but what the fuck else did have to do?
Alex laughed to himself as he walked away from the crime scene and back towards Camila’s.
[Garcia's Auto Works, Barrio Santa Rosa - Wednesday, November 18, 2072, 08:32 AM]
Sonora wandered around what looked like was going to be her new home. Her bottle of Oaxaca was another finger emptier from when she had visited it last as it sat on a desk in what used to be the owner's office, a pleather office chair cracked from age and heat seated behind it. The air inside the building was stale and carried strong odors of motor oil, vulcanized rubber and mold.
The building itself could've been a small warehouse, once. It sat behind a rusting chain-link fence topped with barbed wire, slats of wood pressed against the chain link created a 'privacy barrier' so passers-by couldn't see which of the stable of cars in the yard they wanted to take. A rusting drive chain sat next to a motor that could move the sliding gate to the open and closed position - it had broken in the 'open' position, exposing a paved lot good enough for almost two dozen cars if you allowed no room for opening and closing the doors. The whole lot was surrounded by trees that gave the building some shade, and there was what looked to be a shantytown slowly growing off the back-end of the fence, though it was headed away from the building and not towards it.
A bay of four large garage doors faced the parking lot, none of which had any type of windows or viewports, but the gear system to open them up still looked to be in operable condition. Pulling on a long chain loop that linked to the gear system would open one of the doors and with a little bit of engineering an electronic system could be installed to substitute the elbow grease the team would have to use to get their vehicles inside.
Sister Mary and her team of assistants - two nuns from the convent, a strapping young volunteer Sonora would have loved to talk to if he wasn't a man of the cloth, and the comforting 250-kilo presence of Brother Ezekiel - had gone above and beyond their normal calling to help her out. They had released a small army of housekeeping drones that battled what looked to be a few years' worth of dust and grime, and bit by bit the detritus accumulated from neglect gave way to a smooth concrete floor in the vehicle bays, and what looked to be stick-on vinyl flooring in other areas. After they had left with the $12,500 that she had paid them - or was going to, Sonora had taken stock of what remained in the place, and was pleasantly surprised at the working condition of the equipment. Two working hydraulic car lifts, a 250-gallon air compressor with several hoses in good condition, a nearly-full set of impact tools, a locked rolling toolbox with a full set of wrenches, ratchets, screwdrivers, torque wrenches and everything else that would have fetched nearly5,000 on the open market. There was even a few machines that were used for welding bodywork, with attachements for oxyaceteline. Large racks for tires were against the back wall, with spaces for toolboxes in between at every bay. Whoever Garcia was, he had enough gear here to have a successful auto repair business in the area - had he not fallen on times harder than most people could bear.
Sonora knew none of this. She did know there were two car lifty things, a giant tank with air hoses, a toolbox she found the keys to in the office that was filled with tools, some boxes with welding masks resting on top of them. More importantly, she found the wooden stairs that led to a second floor above the offices where what looked to be small parts for cars used to rest on racks; racks a good size for a weapons stockpile. There was also a second bathroom with a full shower and a few rooms that had old carpeting and insulation - rooms that could be used as a sleeping area.
The non-garage area held the owner's office with a metal desk that looked like it was old back in the 1970's, let alone 2072. There was a small seating area with another old desk that they could turn into...something, she wasn't sure what. One of the bays had a few 'cooking' accountrements stored in it - a 55 gallon barrel that had been converted into a barbecue, a dying refrigerator that still had three Cervezas Nationales off-brand swill inside just below ambient temperature, and a hot plate that may have been lifted from a university. Sonora left it all alone - if it wasn't prepared by someone else, by and large she wasn't interested in it. That didn't mean she didn't cook, but she would be damned if she was taking that job with all the boys around.
The neighborhood was suprisingly quiet. Barrio Santa Rosa was in an interesting limbo - close proximity to Chacao District meant there was money here, and a lot of people commuting, and its other relative proximity to Nueva Caracas meant that most of the money didn't actually stay here. It had enough police presence just outside of the neighborhood to keep people in line, and the criminal element held an easy truce - the old hands no longer interested in the cutthroat power struggles, racketeering, prostitution and rampant violence that gripped the city settled down here and went quiet so as to not bring down the wrath of La Alianza or Bolivar '49.
Residences gravitated towards low-story tenements and small, one-bedroom ranchos that shared two walls with the ones next to them. It fostered a dual-nature with the residents of the barrio - they would band together long enough to take care of certain problems, like a crumbling wall or downed tree - but they wanted to be left alone otherwise. The majority of the people here worked jobs downtown or in Chacao, not as high-profile movers and shakers, but the invisible people who knew the secrets. The valets and maids, the severs and croupiers who waited on the elite, made enough in tips and wages to move out of the place but blew their money on drogas y munecas to blind their senses to misery.
A failed bid for park expansion in the neighborhood left it was swaths of open land here and there. Cultured grass and trees disguised shanties from scavenged corrugated aluminum, street signs and leftover wood from wrecked buildings. The 55-gallon barrel - the second highest export from the Maracaibo refineries, other than the oil that came in them - was used for can fires, water storage, dry goods storage, even cut in half and used for cribs and small childstorage bedding. Refugees had a hard time getting to the area to set up as there simply wasn't enough allure to the area, not enough room, not enough space to make the shanties grow into a true hellish favela like one would see in La Rinconada.
On the upswing, the refugees, the paying residents and even the smaller gangs got together and came to a compromise: They would make one large, open-air meeting place that the gangs would declare neutral ground, a place for business. Thus, El Mercado was born. A farmer's market, anyone with space and access to water would grow what small amounts of crops they could - rooftop gardens and greenhouses were rife in the area, and even the shantytowns turned patches of the parks they stayed into land to keep chickens or crops for feed. Money was accepted, but barter was preferred. In this manner, those that didn't work in the places of the rich could still have a balanced meal. Ears of corn could be traded for eggs, or even a whole chicken if they'd gotten a windfall. A mother could get goat's milk for her child in exchange for a knitted shawl. Weapons wouldn't be found here - one would have to go to a dealer or La Guaira for that, though one could convince the security for drogas if they were really hurting.
Now that they had a doss, Sonora could get to work stocking it. She'd compiled the list of things everyone wanted and sent it to Sergei with an invitation to do lunch near his place the following day so she could handle the final transactions and try to finagle introductions to armorers and other sub-suppliers that would and could do customization work. He'd probably want to know both why and how she came into all this money and what she was planning with enough explosives and armaments to level a neighborhood.
She sent a text out to the numbers she'd acquired from the rest of the team.
<We have a place. Come by when you can, I need a ride to stock it with everything you've asked for.>
Sonora wandered around what looked like was going to be her new home. Her bottle of Oaxaca was another finger emptier from when she had visited it last as it sat on a desk in what used to be the owner's office, a pleather office chair cracked from age and heat seated behind it. The air inside the building was stale and carried strong odors of motor oil, vulcanized rubber and mold.
The building itself could've been a small warehouse, once. It sat behind a rusting chain-link fence topped with barbed wire, slats of wood pressed against the chain link created a 'privacy barrier' so passers-by couldn't see which of the stable of cars in the yard they wanted to take. A rusting drive chain sat next to a motor that could move the sliding gate to the open and closed position - it had broken in the 'open' position, exposing a paved lot good enough for almost two dozen cars if you allowed no room for opening and closing the doors. The whole lot was surrounded by trees that gave the building some shade, and there was what looked to be a shantytown slowly growing off the back-end of the fence, though it was headed away from the building and not towards it.
A bay of four large garage doors faced the parking lot, none of which had any type of windows or viewports, but the gear system to open them up still looked to be in operable condition. Pulling on a long chain loop that linked to the gear system would open one of the doors and with a little bit of engineering an electronic system could be installed to substitute the elbow grease the team would have to use to get their vehicles inside.
Sister Mary and her team of assistants - two nuns from the convent, a strapping young volunteer Sonora would have loved to talk to if he wasn't a man of the cloth, and the comforting 250-kilo presence of Brother Ezekiel - had gone above and beyond their normal calling to help her out. They had released a small army of housekeeping drones that battled what looked to be a few years' worth of dust and grime, and bit by bit the detritus accumulated from neglect gave way to a smooth concrete floor in the vehicle bays, and what looked to be stick-on vinyl flooring in other areas. After they had left with the $12,500 that she had paid them - or was going to, Sonora had taken stock of what remained in the place, and was pleasantly surprised at the working condition of the equipment. Two working hydraulic car lifts, a 250-gallon air compressor with several hoses in good condition, a nearly-full set of impact tools, a locked rolling toolbox with a full set of wrenches, ratchets, screwdrivers, torque wrenches and everything else that would have fetched nearly
5,000 on the open market. There was even a few machines that were used for welding bodywork, with attachements for oxyaceteline. Large racks for tires were against the back wall, with spaces for toolboxes in between at every bay. Whoever Garcia was, he had enough gear here to have a successful auto repair business in the area - had he not fallen on times harder than most people could bear.Sonora knew none of this. She did know there were two car lifty things, a giant tank with air hoses, a toolbox she found the keys to in the office that was filled with tools, some boxes with welding masks resting on top of them. More importantly, she found the wooden stairs that led to a second floor above the offices where what looked to be small parts for cars used to rest on racks; racks a good size for a weapons stockpile. There was also a second bathroom with a full shower and a few rooms that had old carpeting and insulation - rooms that could be used as a sleeping area.
The non-garage area held the owner's office with a metal desk that looked like it was old back in the 1970's, let alone 2072. There was a small seating area with another old desk that they could turn into...something, she wasn't sure what. One of the bays had a few 'cooking' accountrements stored in it - a 55 gallon barrel that had been converted into a barbecue, a dying refrigerator that still had three Cervezas Nationales off-brand swill inside just below ambient temperature, and a hot plate that may have been lifted from a university. Sonora left it all alone - if it wasn't prepared by someone else, by and large she wasn't interested in it. That didn't mean she didn't cook, but she would be damned if she was taking that job with all the boys around.
The neighborhood was suprisingly quiet. Barrio Santa Rosa was in an interesting limbo - close proximity to Chacao District meant there was money here, and a lot of people commuting, and its other relative proximity to Nueva Caracas meant that most of the money didn't actually stay here. It had enough police presence just outside of the neighborhood to keep people in line, and the criminal element held an easy truce - the old hands no longer interested in the cutthroat power struggles, racketeering, prostitution and rampant violence that gripped the city settled down here and went quiet so as to not bring down the wrath of La Alianza or Bolivar '49.
Residences gravitated towards low-story tenements and small, one-bedroom ranchos that shared two walls with the ones next to them. It fostered a dual-nature with the residents of the barrio - they would band together long enough to take care of certain problems, like a crumbling wall or downed tree - but they wanted to be left alone otherwise. The majority of the people here worked jobs downtown or in Chacao, not as high-profile movers and shakers, but the invisible people who knew the secrets. The valets and maids, the severs and croupiers who waited on the elite, made enough in tips and wages to move out of the place but blew their money on drogas y munecas to blind their senses to misery.
A failed bid for park expansion in the neighborhood left it was swaths of open land here and there. Cultured grass and trees disguised shanties from scavenged corrugated aluminum, street signs and leftover wood from wrecked buildings. The 55-gallon barrel - the second highest export from the Maracaibo refineries, other than the oil that came in them - was used for can fires, water storage, dry goods storage, even cut in half and used for cribs and small child
On the upswing, the refugees, the paying residents and even the smaller gangs got together and came to a compromise: They would make one large, open-air meeting place that the gangs would declare neutral ground, a place for business. Thus, El Mercado was born. A farmer's market, anyone with space and access to water would grow what small amounts of crops they could - rooftop gardens and greenhouses were rife in the area, and even the shantytowns turned patches of the parks they stayed into land to keep chickens or crops for feed. Money was accepted, but barter was preferred. In this manner, those that didn't work in the places of the rich could still have a balanced meal. Ears of corn could be traded for eggs, or even a whole chicken if they'd gotten a windfall. A mother could get goat's milk for her child in exchange for a knitted shawl. Weapons wouldn't be found here - one would have to go to a dealer or La Guaira for that, though one could convince the security for drogas if they were really hurting.
Now that they had a doss, Sonora could get to work stocking it. She'd compiled the list of things everyone wanted and sent it to Sergei with an invitation to do lunch near his place the following day so she could handle the final transactions and try to finagle introductions to armorers and other sub-suppliers that would and could do customization work. He'd probably want to know both why and how she came into all this money and what she was planning with enough explosives and armaments to level a neighborhood.
She sent a text out to the numbers she'd acquired from the rest of the team.
<We have a place. Come by when you can, I need a ride to stock it with everything you've asked for.>
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