[Garcia's Auto Works, Barrio Santa Rosa - Wednesday, November 18, 2072, 09:21 AM]

As he stepped out of his car upon reaching the garage, Smiley could easily see that today was going to be yet another hot one, if only for now. He wasn't the type to bother watching the weather network and for all he knew the torrential rain was just waiting for him to finish washing his car; he has had that kind of luck with the car recently. After reaching the main doorway into the garage, he knocks twice before letting himself in and immediately heading to one of the bay doors so he can let his car inside.

<That's just me coming through the door, so don't come out trying to shoot me.>

Once the bay door was yanked open, he guided his car into the shop through wireless control and shut the door. Turning around, Smiley shook his head and grinned at the sight of all the equipment around. Car lifts, air compressor, impact wrenches, welding supplies, and a rolling toolbox just like the one he owned. He considered it a bit of a shame that he's only getting access to all this AFTER he fixed his car, but figured that he'd get the chance to use them sooner than he'd like anyway. Looking around, he noted that it was basically just him in the garage at the moment.

"Hey, where the fuck is everybody?" yelled Smiley, "Sonora, you hiding or something?"

[Garcia's Auto Works, Barrio Santa Rosa - Wednesday, November 18, 2072, 09:21 AM]

"I swear it fell off the back of a truck, Sergei. And we're not selling it, just modifying - No, we don't have a li-tovarich, have you ever known me to carry a license for anything?"

Sonora paced around the empty upstairs section. Dexter was out and about getting surveillance gadgets for security, or perhaps even installing them - she wasn't sure. She'd gotten what lists she could from the rest of the lads and was on the phone with Sergei to set up a purchase meeting. Sometimes it went better than others.

"And the assault rifle. Yes, he wants a Colt. Troll-sized. We should do brunch and talk about this. Your place, perhaps?"

She heard Smiley shout from the garage, and turned her attention back to the phone. "I may be bringing a few amigos to showcase what I was talking about. We'll pay in cash, dear. I'll see you in an hour and a half?"

She cut the connection and called downstairs. "I'm up here! We've got a meeting in La Guaira at eleven! Bring that piece you wanted to modify."

[Garcia's Auto Works, Barrio Santa Rosa - Wednesday, November 18, 2072, 09:21 AM]

Hearing the voice call out to him from upstairs, Smiley started making his way up. "Yeah, I got that in the trunk along with a little something else I managed to dig up after I finished fixing my car. Good ol' Chicago Bug-zapper."

It took him a moment, but it wasn't long before he found his way up to the second floor and face to face with Sonora. "There you are. I gotta hand it to you, ya delivered big time when it came to finding this place. Got better tools that I have. Can't imagine this went for cheap." He crosses his arms as he approaches the desk to lean on it. "Where's Carne and the Old Man? Ya'll thought about the boat thing I mentioned yet? You know it'll be fun."

Smiley and Sonora
[Garcia's Auto Works, Barrio Santa Rosa - Wednesday, November 18, 2072, 09:21 AM]
Smiley and Sonora were engaged in conversation inside the office that used to belong to Garcia himself. It was mostly empty except for the dusty synthwood desk, behind which he would sit day in and day out as he dealt with customers and vendors. There was still even a placard on top that bore the former owner's name, "Sr. Ricardo García." Shelves lined the walls, now bare, but in which one could almost imagine had once held vehicle manuals, reference materials, and maybe even plaques, awards, and perhaps even pictures of the familia.

Smiley crossed his arms and leaned up against that desk as he chatted with Sonora, his weight giving the desk enough heft to scoot noisily across the floor, bunching up the rainbow-hued, floral-patterened rug underneath his desk. The rug shifted upwards, Sonora saw that it exposed part of a square outline set into the floor, the end of which had a small ring which would be used to pull it upwards. It would seem that Garcia kept some sort of secret compartment in the floor underneath his desk, one that nobody found until now.

[Garcia's Auto Works, Barrio Santa Rosa - Wednesday, November 18, 2072, 09:21 AM]

As Smiley and Sonora chatted about the new digs, she heard the desk scoot back. Looking down, she caught sight of a hidey hole, a place where only the most important things would be kept.

Things like money. And secrets.

The conversation on her end died off as she looked at the ring. "What could be in there?" she asked.

[Garcia's Auto Works, Barrio Santa Rosa - Wednesday, November 18, 2072, 09:21 AM]

Looking over to the spot Sonora was staring at, Smiley hopped off the desk, scratching his chin. "Probably some maddening secrets of the former owner. Let's find out!"

Figuring that the woman wouldn't lift a finger, he went ahead and pushed the desk completely off the trapdoor. Withdrawing his pistol and activating the new low-light flashlight mounted underneath the barrel, he gives the trapdoor ring a hard yank while keeping his weapon at the ready.

Smiley and Sonora
[Garcia's Auto Works, Barrio Santa Rosa - Wednesday, November 18, 2072, 09:21 AM]
A musty smell of forgotten things wafted up from the hole in the floor, set cunningly in between two of the supporting beams. The first object that Smiley comes across is a framed picture of a large, balding, swarthy man with a long beard. His arms are around two women: one, to his left, bore a strong resemblance to him, but even so strikingly beautiful, with large dark eyes and full lips that made her quite the heart-stopper. This had to be his daughter. To his right, a middle-aged woman with traces of gray in her black hair, fashioned into a bun on her head. Though crow's feet were at the corners of her eyes and lines were beginning to crease that face, it was evident that she, also, was once upon a time quite an attractive lady. This was more than likely Garcia's wife. Garcia beamed through the picture frame back at Smiley, his most precious assets in this world on either side of him. The love he felt for these two was nearly palpable. To Sonora, sensitive to emotionally sensitive things due to her Talents, could almost pick up on that vibe, and it brought the beginnings of tears to her eyes.

Beneath that, a handwritten letter by Garcia himself, written in pen on blank sheets of typing paper. Withered and stained with age, the paper was still legible. The ink was smeared and spattered in places where perhaps droplets of water had hit it and disfigured the writing. In Garcia's sharp, angular writing, it began with paragraph upon paragraph of entreaties to God not to forsake him in his grief and for what he was about to do, that life was no longer worth living without his beloved Amelia and his daughter, Isabella. After he had worked through those prayers and supplications, he wrote:

"...Even in this city, there are things worth living for, worth loving. I have done my best as a husband and father to care for my family and show them that the best things in life aren't material. So long as we have each other, what else would we ever need?

But this place, it was too much. I saw that one way or another, it would kill us all. And it has. I started this business as a way out. I saved up every nuyen, every dollar, so that we could leave this place and find a better life, maybe in the CAS, or in California Free State. Surely there was a place for expatriates looking for a way to leave a horrible place behind, to start over.

I was too late. Too late. My beautiful Isabella, she was taken by those Bolivar '49 jackals. Don't listen to their lies, their fucking lies. They prey on us, even as they say they protect us and fight for us. They saw how lovely she was, and they turned her into...something else. They corrupted her beauty so that men with dark souls could defile and deflower her. After several months I found her, in an alley near here, wasting away from malnutrition and bearing the physical signs of abuse and all the surgeries they made her endure. When she started to lose the will to live, they dumped her. She wanted to die in our arms and tell us how much she loved us. And she did.

Oh how my heart ached. My wife, she could not let it go. I tried to stop her, to keep her out of La Rinconada. She went there to confront them and hold them accountable. I didn't hear from her after that. Those monsters, they sent me a package. On the outside, it said "We're keeping the rest for our troubles." Inside the box was what was left of her head.

It was then I knew that I was going to die here, with them. I will not leave this city alive. But I hope that if God has the mercy I expect of Him, he will not send me to Hell, but he will reunite me with my angels. I must be with them again. I cannot bear to live my life anymore, alone, afraid, and missing them dearly.

Inside of here is my credstick. It has all my savings on it. Please, take it and leave this city. Take it and save yourself, since I could not save us. Or, if you are capable of such things, I ask that you help me get revenge from beyond the grave. Get revenge on those fucking Bolivar '49 monsters. Cause them all the harm and damage that you can, and save other women from similar fates. Do not turn your eyes like so many others in this city. That is why they are so powerful. But fight back, for me, my loves, and for all those who have lost their own angels to the demons that infest La Rinconada.

-Ricardo Garcia"

At the bottom of the hideyhole is a credstick. The LED display is very barely lit up, having almost no power left inside the credstick to light it. But the sum on it is 37,392 nuyen.

[Garcia's Auto Works, Barrio Santa Rosa - Wednesday, November 18, 2072, 09:22 AM]

The credstick firmly grasped in his fist, Smiley re-reads the letter with the help of the flashlight on his gun. He almost lets a smirk escape him when Garcia mentioned CalFree being a better place than Caracas. Heh, it's only better from the outside old man. Besides, it's not like there'll be anything left of the place in a decade or so. He reaches up to hand the note over to Sonora before climbing out of the hole and dusting himself off.

"Looks like the former owner of this place ran into some tough times with Bolivar '49 and wanted to remind us that the enemy of our enemy may be our friend, but they are still just assholes who deserve two in the head." He looks at the credstick in his hand, then to Sonora, and decides to pocket the thing for now. After all, he didn't let her handle the last big score of money so there's no point in starting right now.

"Willingly left money behind for whoever found the note, begging the recipient to flee the city or fight the Bolivar lest more innocent people die to their twisted tastes. Gotta love how he gets into trouble with the one gang we're hoping to help us solve our, or at least your problems with La Alianza and Aztlan." Smiley gives his Colt 2066 a quick spin before putting it back into it's shoulder holster and withdraws a pack of cigarettes. "Mister Garcia does have a point you know. The smart move probably would be to just leave; fake your death, get a new face and some gene therapy to hide your identity, go someplace fancy. This place is a shithole and I can't imagine you owing anything to the great city of Caracas."

Patting himself down, Smiley mutters a few curses when he realizes his still doesn't have a lighter. "Hell, I could get you out of here no problem. I know smuggling routes like the back of my hand and if it flies, floats, or rolls I can drive it."

[Garcia's Auto Works, Barrio Santa Rosa - Wednesday, November 18, 2072, 09:24 AM]

A black SUV pulled up a couple of blocks away from the garage and Sangre exited the vehicle, carrying multiple duffle bags, including one that was quite large. He gave the driver, one of Alejandro's guards that didn't look too happy about being reassigned to chauffeur duty, a slightly ironic goodbye wave and waited until the car had turned the corner before he started walking towards his destination. He didn't mistrust Alejandro but it was still better to be careful and let no one know their exact location.

When he arrived at the garage he was aching and sweating from caryying the weight of all the bags containing his freshly aquired equipment. But almost surprised he realized that this didn't change the fact that he was in a good mood for the first time since he'd woken up in that alley three days ago. He'd had a great night and reconnected with someone from his past, even if Alejandro unfortunately couldn't tell him that much about who Samuel Mendez really was. But it was a start and it was a good feeling to know that someone in the world had been missing him.

Samuel Mendez. That name still didn't sound familiar. It was the name of the person that should have died in that alley. Not his name anymore. He had been reborn on the cold asphalt of Caracas' streets, christened with blood. His name was Sangre. Born in blood and liable to perish in blood too, at the current pace. Maybe he could go back to being Samuel after finding out what had happened to him. Maybe.

He quenched his dark thoughts that threatened to sour his good mood and entered the building. Upon seeing all the machinery he couldn't help but grin sarcastically. I'm pretty sure Smiley's gonna be needing all this again very soon. His car is a real damage magnet...

Standing in the doorway he put down his heavy luggage and took out his commlink, sending a message to Voz.

<I'm here. Where are you?>

[Garcia's Auto Works, Barrio Santa Rosa - Wednesday, November 18, 2072, 09:30 AM]

It had been a Viking, once, but was no longer recognizable as anything made by the Harley Davidson company. The big bike was, in a sense, a metaphor for the city: flashy and expensive mod-work had adorned it once upon a time, before neglect and age and rust had settled in and undone all of that fine care. It ran, but barely. It wasn't anything you'd gloat about. It would be passed up for flashier bikes.

Coatl, of course, didn't think in metaphors. He just knew it was big enough to support his bulk. The.... previous owner... was currently laid out in an alley with a concussion to be gotten over. Coatl had taken the starter-fob from him and followed AR directions as best he could to find the address Sonora had sent out. Once he found the place he kept driving--he went out about a mile past the Auto Works and found an alley to ditch the bike in, before circling back on foot, keeping an eye out for tails.

He may not be smart but he knew enough not to lead the enemy right to his door.

Coatl entered the building, pausing where Sangre had been just a few minutes before. "Knock, knock," he called out loudly. Then he knocked his ham-hock fist against the wall. Just to make sure the bases were covered.

[Garcia's Auto Works, Barrio Santa Rosa - Wednesday, November 18, 2072, 09:22 AM]

Sonora gave a rather unladylike snort as she read the letter. She saw Smiley pocket the credstick. No skin off her nose - it simply meant he was fronting the money to the Church and to Sergei when the time came. She wasn't running a fucking charity - she'd already blown two and a half months' worth of her previous rent share getting this place.

A twinge in her chest reminded her that the two and a half months' worth of rent didn't really matter in the dwindling long run.

The picture of the family was already starting to affect her. The trouble with her Talent is that she started to see paths, possibilities, and they were ones that she couldn't forget. They probably could've made it all the way up to Confed and settled, perhaps in Dallas and wrenched on smugglers' T-Birds for a living. Isabella could've had a future with Horizon, moving into Pueblo, dropping jaws and turning heads all over the world with the right education. Instead, Sonora could see young Isabella, her thick dark locks falling around her porcelain face, lying faceup in an alleyway. Dying in her father's arms, her lungs filled with blood and semen.

Garcia's wife, her liver in an executive's body, her heart in a socialite's. The rest, so much meat to feed the ghouls. Garcia himself, wrapped in a white linen sheet with red stains at the cranium, buried in a small grave outside of the mausoleums and loam that marked Catholic property. The city claims another soul and hungers for more.

Sonora's mood was already starting to darken. Maybe Smiley's bogarting of the credstick was hitting a sore spot, his dumb luck and huevos netting him more in two days than she'd seen in years. Already, she was looking forward to draining that bottle.

"My problems with La Alianza would've disappeared in a heartbeat with that credstick," she said. "Then you two had to go and rob the Paw. No amount of money is going to solve that problem now."

And this smug crap with Bolivar '49. What the hell was this? Sonora was going to set this straight.

"The one gang that can help? You think this is some fucking movie? Every one of the gangs in Caracas has a heart just as black as the Azzies, and we can't do anything to them because they're the one defense this fucking city has when Aztlan rolls in, if they even do."

Her commlink beeped with a message. She didn't even look at it and just yelled, "Upstairs!"

Sonora thought about crumpling the note up and tossing it aside, but instead folds it neatly along its creases and leaves it on the desk.

"Running takes money, Smiley. If I had any, I would be resting on a divan somewhere in the Riviera, letting my harem of cabana boys fight one another for the privelage of fanning my face."

She turned to leave the office, swiping her bottle of Oaxaca from the desk where it sat next to the note.

"Instead I'm running for my life with an unlikely crew of hombres and norteamericanos who treat me like some vapid muneca or a damsel in distress. Save the charity for the other SINless and pay your share on the fucking building. We meet to get your guns at eleven."

Sonora walked out of the office, taking a hit from the bottle as she did so. Fuck it. It was happy hour somewhere.

[Garcia's Auto Works, Barrio Santa Rosa - Wednesday, November 18, 2072, 09:22 AM]

Smiley shook his head and smirked as Sonora walked out of the office in a huff. Not exactly the response he was expecting, but then again she declined the offer to leave nonetheless. Better that then him having to explain it, as he didn't really think of any reasons for her to stay back there. He yelled his last bits at her after she left.

"I already got my guns, that's everyone else you're thinking of. For the record I ain't treating you like no fucking damsel or muneca, just re-stating the obvious facts. I ain't got no bullshit misconceptions that any one gang could be considered 'the good guys' of a silly action flick, and just so you know they are not the only defense this city has. Caracas will be fine during the invasion anyway. Either the patrones will get a few merc companies or the city will be absorbed by Amazonia. The real reason we want Bolivar is because they're cheap, conveniently close, and they are easily capable of doing what we say if we just dangle a few shiny things in front of them. We want them to help us, the city don't need shit from us. Don't get shit confused, Sonora."

Looking down at the unlit cigarette in his hands, Smiley flicks it out into the corner of the room before grabbing the folded note on the desk with a sigh. Shouting all that at her probably wasn't going to do any good aside from keeping her annoyed, but that might be handy anyway. Besides, once DevilBwoy finally put the bong down and told Smiley what he needed to know about this shipment, she'll at least be less likely to try and smack him. Gotta aim for the little victories first.

Without another look at the note, he tosses it down the trapdoor and gives a mock salute, "Adios Garcia, you're in a better place either way." before kicking the trapdoor shut unceremoniously and heading out of the office and back down to the garage.

[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Somewhere in Nueva Caracas]

Alex’s feet carried him through an undetermined path in the streets of Nueva Caracas. He wanted to do something to help these people; his people, but his mind seemed lost on what to do. Every moment he began to formulate plan, it would slip away from him just as quickly. The glaring number of his remaining nuyen reminded him he had neither the funds for bliss or to enjoy Gabriela’s company; so screwed he metaphorically was.

Alex stopped at an outdoor diner and took in the surroundings. He ordered himself the cheapest drink they offered and retreated to a corner of the establishment where others would leave him alone. Periodically sipping on the drink, he let his mind reach out to the pulsing information that flowed around him. He sifted through the various strands of information, stopping momentarily to try and note anything of interest in the stream.

<<There is no hope. Suicide is your only way out.>>
<<Shut up.>> Alex commanded. The voice was back, riding the streams with him in the back of his mind. He was not entirely sure what it was; all he knew was that it made him feel grossly inadequate and out of place. One of his deepest fears is that he would someday heed the voice’s advice in a moment of weakness. That’s all it took, one moment.

He drifted over the strands of commlink chatter, discarding anything that seemed pointless or out of sort. That was not where the.. <<One shot to the temple, Alex.>> interesting information would be. No, it was down below; a stream wrapped in what appeared to be the Matrix equivalent of a <<Alex, you can’t ignore me.>> bulletproof jacket.

“FUCKING SHUT UP!” Alex screamed at no one in particular, yanking his chair backwards and standing up at the table. He blinked in confusion as the fear slowly began to recede from his mind. The technomancer held his hands up to the owner to signal everything was fine, and sat back down. In the back of his mind, he could hear the voice laughing as it grew smaller in the flow of the stream.

With a sigh, he slipped his mind loose again to continue with his information gathering.

[El Mono's hideout, Nueva Caracas - Wednesday, November 18, 2072, 09:21 AM]
Awake: 56 hours 51 minutes

El Mono sat in his hideout, blocks away from home thinking about the shit that had gone down. No fucking way he was going home after the last 36 hours, even if it had been 1am, not 1 pm when Smiley dropped him off back at his bike. He'd ridden around town a few times to see if anyone was following him, then hit a street vendor to pick up one of those hearing enhancing earpieces he'd heard about during a late-night infomercial. It was probably bullshit but fuck it, you never know if you don't try, right? It was probably hot, too, but pretty much everything was down here - Hell, Mono wouldn't be surprised if the noodles he'd had for dinner were stolen. Seriously, fuck this town.

Fuck this town for taking his family from him. Fuck this town for forcing him to live like this. For never letting him rest. For making him sleep with one eye open. For trying to kill him. For fucking throwing rocks at him for killing that asshole who shot off a rocket in the street. Fuck this town and everyone who lived in it. Fucking Azzies could have it for all El Mono gave a shit right now. They could roll in with tanks and t-birds and dragons and blood mages and whatever the fuck else they had.

All day and all night, his thoughts went around and around. All those fuckers he had met in the last day and a half: fuck them, too. Fuck them for being the only link he had. Now that he had a line on who it was that was after him, he couldn't just let it go. He had to find out what was going on. Fuck them for giving him this chance. Whoever was after him was also after that chica and he troll buddy. If he could find out why they were after those two, maybe he could work out what they wanted with him. Fuck those two for whatever these bastardos wanted with them.

Yeah, it was a rough life El Mono had been living, but it was his. He knew how to live it. He had worked his shit out. He had it worked out. No more riding the fucking rails he'd laid down. Now he had to do something different, work it all out again. Fuck them for turning his life upside-down. "And fuck me for letting them."

Fuck it. May as well get it out of the way. El Mono fired off a quick message. "Chica, it's Mono... I think we have a few things to talk about. Get in touch when you're free."

[Garcia's Auto Works, Barrio Santa Rosa - Wednesday, November 18, 2072, 09:22 AM]

Sonora's commlink was still beeping. There were two messages now, one dated right after the other. Sangre was downstairs, that much she had figured. The other...

She wandered into another one of the empty rooms away from Garcia's office, dialing back the number left on the message. It seemed the Ork from the previous day wanted to talk.

"Hola, Mono. It's Sonora. Would you like to talk over the phone, or meet us at La Guaira for brunch and some shopping for things like the men yesterday were carrying?"

[Garcia's Auto Works, Barrio Santa Rosa - Wednesday, November 18, 2072, 09:22 AM]

That didn't take long. Must be getting a good connection today. "I could eat. Meet you in twenty minutes?" He'd wanted to ask who all "us" was, but too much chatter over an unsecured line (he had loved that phrase ever since he'd heard it in Kunoichi 2: Rumble in the Jungle) was a security risk. Well, so long as it wasn't that old gringo, he felt alright asking her what he wanted to know. If she wanted him to share information as well, though... well, that would depend heavily on who was there and even then, he'd probably keep most of his story to himself.

Alex
[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Somewhere in Nueva Caracas]
When Alex erupted in the diner, all conversation sheared off as if sliced with a monofilament wire. The other customers, mostly large, scruffy men with the bearings of criminals and drug dealers, all gave Alex a steely glare, and then resumed their normal chat and eating as if nothing happened. The owner, an obese ork straining the seams of his knock-off suit jacket, stopped by Alex's table and said in a whisper, "Please lower your voice, and watch your language. This is a family restaurant." With a self-satisfied nod, the ork waddled away, back into the kitchen, whereupon he instantly began laying into the cook staff, hurling abuses and insults at them.

When finally Alex was left alone once again, he began searching for the voices and sounds of that digital world once again, like a person dipping his fingers into a pool of water. He inserted his attentions and his consciousness and let the signals wash over him, overlaying his perceptions of reality.

Alex began searching for signals, sniffing them out to see what was being said in those communications. Most of it was garbage. One guy near the diner was watching - of all things - ghoul porn. It was interesting to see what two horny infected could do with ten kilos of raw hamburger meat when the mood came over them. Another signal was just a person playing an interactive tic-tac-toe game on a malware infected site that was surreptitiously leeching pennies at a time from his bank account. One was a teenage elf posting nude pictures to her MyFace v6.5 profile. "For a Good Time, call Lola!" the captions to the photos said.

Shit. Utter shit. That's what most of it was. That is, until Alex by pure happenstance, began sniffing a signal coming from here, within the diner.

<<I'm telling you, amigo. It was the same guy who knocked over the Paw, or at least one of them.>> The caller's voice was emphatic, and Alex could even pick out the person holding the conversation, a burly human covered with scars, sitting by himself in a corner, a half-empty beer in front of him. Though he was attempting to subvocalize, he was pounding on the table for emphasis, and not all of his words were below the threshold of hearing. An errant few were loud enough to pair up with what was being said across the line.

The voice on the other end responded: <<Well chingame. You saw him kill all those people?>>

<<No, I ran to see what all the explosions and gunfire and shit were, and there's all these bodies everywhere. Then I see him and a couple others - even a gringo! - hauling a guy out of the building. They get into this fucked up car and leave just as everyone's gettin' real pissed off at the guy, throwing rocks and stuff at them. I threw a couple at him myself. Lost my job because of that puto.>>

<<And you saw him in Barrio Santa Rosa? I dunno, man. That's a little too close to Chacao for comfort. I seen sketches of him. La Polizia are looking for him, running around like their asses are on fire. They'd spill over into that neighborhood like a flood if they got word he was there. Can't imagine he'd hole up there. That'd be muy estupido.>>

<<Just saying what I saw. You can believe it or not.>>

[Garcia's Auto Works, Barrio Santa Rosa - Wednesday, November 18, 2072, 09:22 AM]

"Sounds good," Sonora replied. "We'll be heading out to La Guaira soon, pick something on the way."

Alex
[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Somewhere in Nueva Caracas]

Alex sighed as he sorted through the various signals. The ghoul porn caught his attention; and he sat and watched with puzzled attention due to the sheer strangeness of the performance. The conversation about the shot up elf slid his attention back to the other strands of information that he was sorting through.

Certainly sounded like the guy that he was looking for. Alex took another drink from the bottle that sat in front of him and stared quietly at the table as he mulled over his next move. The technomancer sat quietly, listening in on the conversation between the two until they terminated the connection.

Once over, Alex cut through the tables and paid for his drink.

‘Barrio Santa Rosa sounds like the place to start,’ he mulled over to himself quietly.

The streets before him bustled with life as people went about their general day. Whores plying their wares, dealers trying to push their latest shipment, and a few street vendors trying to sell what passed as food to passersby. Alex ignored them as he slipped his way through the crowd; being very careful to stay away from the mouths of any alleys as he did.

He let his feet carry him to the Barrio, though he was not entirely sure of what he would do once he arrived there.

[Garcia's Auto Works, Barrio Santa Rosa - Wednesday, November 18, 2072, 09:30 AM]

Coatl can hear the others' voices above him. He closes the door behind himself and walks further into the shop, looking around. Instantly he feels at home: Dig that air compressor. Check the cherry-red rolling toolbox. He could do good work here. Fix up some vans, accessorize their guns; Smiley had mentioned a boat heist, and damn if that idea didn't get the troll's blood pumping. He knew boats. He could do good work with boats.

Yeah, this could work. Nice little center of operations. Spare parts, spare weapons, spare ammo, all in its proper place. Get some work done, stash some gear, maybe torture a puto or two.

Coatl cracked his knuckles. He could hardly wait.

((Double Post))

[Garcia's Auto Works, Barrio Santa Rosa - Wednesday, November 18, 2072, 09:30 AM]

Sangre hauled his heavy bags of weaponry and equipment onto a work bench and then paused to wipe the sweat off his forehead. With a look of pure unadultered excitement he looked at the largest of the bags that contained his newest toy.

A fucking Ares Thunderstruck! How the hell did Alejandro get his hands on one of those...On second thought I don't really care, I just want to try it out on something. I guess I won't have to wait too long for an opportunity the ways things are looking right now.

Carefully he took the enormous rifle out of it's container, treating the weapon with the kind of awe and admiration that other people might feel for sacred artifacts or the like. He slipped the shoulder strap on and hefted the weapon at his hip, testing it's handling and weight. He could almost envision the destruction that a shot from this technological miracle would cause. Blue lights were blinking on the interface, indicating that everything was in order and ready. The only thing marring the perfection was the missing smartlink system. The integrated laser sight looked almost crude and primitve in comparison to the sophisticated technology used in all other parts of this futuristic agent of destruction.

How the hell does someone design this super high-tech weapon and not install a smartlink system into the basic configuration? Everybody that has access to a weapon like this is almost certainly well trained and equipped enough to require one of those. Well, I will correct that deficit soon enough.

He paused in his musing when he saw Coatl enter the garage. Still holding the Thunderstruck in his arms he turned towards the troll and nodded a greeting.

"Hey there."

Then he went back to marveling at the glory of his toy. Things were definitely looking up.

[Garcia's Auto Works, Barrio Santa Rosa - Wednesday, November 18, 2072, 09:30 AM]

You wouldn't think that people do it in real life, but when Coatl raises one beefy hand in greeting to Sangre he stops before his eyes go agog and his jaw drops open slowly. He's staring, of course, at the holy relic in Sangre's arms. "Is... is that...?" he asks, and the tone of his voice makes evident that the next words from his mouth are something along the lines of "the Blessed Mother?" or "a solid gold His Holiness?"

But he can't actually finish the sentence. He just gapes.

Wednesday, November 18, 2072: H&G Holding Company, La Guaira, 11:53 AM

La Guaira was once a glimmering jewel on the ocean that knew exactly what its worth to Venezuela was. As the established 'main port' to the city of Caracas, enterprising colonists dredged the harbor to create a deepwater port and a seaside tourist attraction.

Over the years, the tourist attraction went away, hotel towers being replaced with corporate ones, warehouses expanding like an undulating worm of corrugated metal and chain link fencing. Shipping containers became structures in themselves, piled six, eight, ten high in yards guarded by dogs and men with guns.

Once, KondOrchid was the corporation in charge. A double-A rated extraterritorial shipping magnate, it was one of the largest in the world. If you wanted goods to sail overseas, chances are it would be on one of their ships. Using their money and power, La Guaira turned from the resort into the closest approximation of a corporate enclave that the region would see - Everyone had a stake in the area. With 23 million people and growing as refugees streamed in from land, air, and sea - well, you would be foolish to ignore that kind of market share!

One thing the corporate offices couldn't take away was the smell. What was once a light smell of salt and water in the air turned into brine from so much stagnant ocean, mixed with diesel fumes and other fuel oil. On a good day, the winds blew in from the east and carried the stink away into the Caribbean. On a bad day, they blew from the north, and everyone got a lungful of atmosphere so thick one could serve it on a platter to the touristas flying into Bolivar International nearby.

Yet, despite the dogs, men with guns, and the shining corporate towers, the port was a study in contrasts. For every shining beacon there was a dark alleyway where black market goods, fresh off the boat were sold. Flowery speeches in corporate parks were perverted into whispered dealings in smoking back rooms. For every landscaped plot, there was a trash-strewn pier where the smaller ships moored and offloaded their dark cargoes bound for the hellhole in La Rinconada, Palmar de Caridad, or even to sate highbrow appetites in Chacao District or El Ávila.

Because of the dichotomy of the port, security was more or less a joke. As long as you had reason to be in the cargo zones, you weren't bothered. As long as you didn't mess with corp property, they didn't care what you did. When the sun went down, the market that the locals had named El Extraño opened.

Translating to 'The Bizarre,' El Extraño flirted with the classical lyrics 'If you've got the money, honey, we've got your disease.' The slices of cargo that freighter captains kept as 'spoilage' ended up here, both legal and not. For the right amount of nuyen, you could get livestock - real, living beasts! - on the hoof, optical chips full of books, name-brand commlinks, shoes and clothes, and a myriad of other 'white market' items.

On the flip side, one could acquire drugs, guns, BTLs, or even choice bits of cyberware to later get installed around the city. The one rule El Extraño had was "No Meta Trafficking." People didn't get sold here, that's what La Rinconada was for.

During the day, the goods were stored in holding companies that controlled offloading zones and warehouses. One such warehouse, rumored to be run by the Vory, was known as "здравствулте! и до свидания холдинговая компания," or for those that didn't speak Russian (and read Cyrillic) - The Hello and Goodbye Holding Company.

Sergei explained it to Sonora once. "We tell them hello and take their money, and sell them the weapons to say 'goodbye' to anyone against them." Sergei did have a bit of a sense of humor.

The company itself was rather small, just two warehouses in a loading yard that had shipping containers piled about four high around the perimiter. They were used as guard towers, where angry looking Russians patrolled in their black turtlenecks and AK-97's, fulfilling every Vory stereotype they could think of. Sergei could usually be found in one of the warehouses, cataloging or yelling at his assistants to do it for him, smoking a lavish cigar and looking over his wares in a Soviet army uniform so old that it could may very well have been pulled off of an artillery officer in Afghanistan over a hundred years ago.

Today, one of the tables where he usually had a stack of guns and ammunition had been cleared away, replaced by a buffet. Sergei was a gracious host when it came to people spending money, and Sonora had given him quite the list to work with.

[Wednesday, November 18, 2072: H&G Holding Company, La Guaira, 1:49 PM]

Brunch had turned into lunch, and lunch had been productive. Sergei had called in one of his smiths, a silent and shrapnel-scarred blonde by the name of Anja, who was accompanied by Sergei's equally silent but three times as large number two man, Iosef. One was obviously protective of the other, Sonora realized as she was wordlessly notified via commlink that any move on 'her' man would be met with the finest in Russian sabotage.

It was flattering. Anja did good work when she was molified, and once Sonora had studiously ignored Iosef to talk with Sergei, the modifications on the weapons went quickly and the showcase of swag, as it was colliquially known, made its way from table to packing crate to be stashed in the vehicles they had brought. Sonora would look at one and the other, letting the others do their shopping as she saw potential for certain items, many ending in disaster for the ones holding it. One tended to get an immortality complex when they were waving around a flamethrower, she reflected, at least until the high-caliber sniper round punched through the fuel tank. Munitions canisters with stencils of 'Property of U.S. Army' or 'Собственность русских воиск' added to the vehicle's carry weight, though the super-sized Colt fit in Coatl's hands as if it belonged there.

Which, now, it did.

The end of the visit came with a hefty price tag, which Sonora thumbed over to Smiley, unofficial treasurer for the-what was it? A group? A jeesh? An uncontrollable manifestation of circumstance? The last one sounded good, but for the time being it would have to be a team.

Anja did add one nice thing for Sonora, as a truce offering - Vision Enhancement coating to her glasses, tacked onto the price Sergei had charged. Form finally followed function.

[Garcia's Auto Works, Barrio Santa Rosa - Wednesday, November 18, 2072, 03:01 PM]

Once everyone had finished getting their weapons modified and fufilled their impulse shopping desires, it was all onto Smiley's responsibility to pay the tab and get everyone back to the garage. He didn't like having to pay for everything, but he wasn't about to get shot for stiffing someone on a fee he could easily afford, though it was hard not to give a glare to Sonora as he was sure she was taking some pleasure in setting him up like this, but he quickly put it all behind him for now. After all, he could always get her back later.

After driving through the crowded sun-beaten streets of Caracas back to the garge, he insists Sangre to open the garage door, saying that "You didn't bring enough Gauss Rifle's for the rest of the class, then you gotta pay the penalty." as if it was a proper reason. When the door opens, he parks Dexter's still scratched-up van inside and climbs out to help Sangre shut the gate again.

Smiley turns to the rest of the group, "So, now that we're properly kitted out to fight a war, anybody got plans to test our new toys? 'Cause I do if ya'll don't. I swear it'll be fun, and might help us win some favors from big groups."

[Garcia's Auto Works, Barrio Santa Rosa - Wednesday, November 18, 2072, 03:01 PM]

Sangre was unloading his equipment from the van when Smiley made his pitch. A devious smile creeped across the elf's face as he gently petted the bag containing his gauss rifle, which had been equipped with a smartlink system by the russians.

"Hell, I'm just looking for a reason to use this baby on something! Besides our cash is mostly gone and favors is one thing you can never have enough of around here. So let's hear your plan!"

Hopefully it'll be as effective as the Cat's Paw thing was...

[Garcia's Auto Works, Barrio Santa Rosa - Wednesday, November 18, 2072, 03:01 PM]

It was true, Sonora took some pleasure in watching Smiley squirm and foot the bill. Despite his protestations, it was clear he didn't trust the woman, and the glare she got when he had to shell out the money he had found inside Garcia's hidey hole gave her a rather clear indication of how she was going to have to handle him.

She said little on the trip back; Mono still wanted to talk to her and she didn't like leaving him hanging. Everyone else seemed happy enough with their toys, and Sonora had gotten her glasses modified in the deal - so there was nothing much else to do until they returned to the garage and started unloading.

When Smiley started into his pitch for making more money and Sangre enthusiastically agreed before even hearing it, Sonora reserved judgement. She'd hear the pitch, see how it fit, think of possible drawbacks and go from there. That it was classified as 'playtime' already put her on edge, and it had been a bad enough day as it was.

"All right," she said, crossing her arms and leaning against the van, "Let's hear what you have to say."

[Thursday, November 19, 2072, 06:01 PM; Barrio Santa Rosa]

Caracas found itself featured in newsfeeds and nightly news broadcasts around the world, for the dubious honor of being not 500 kilometers from a massive troop build-up near the Aztlan border. Investigative journalism and leaked satellite photography indicated Armageddon levels of military deployment around Lake Maracaibo. While the military presense was previously being kept secret, now that the cat was out of the bag, it was widely reported as the assets belonging mostly to Aztechnology, the UN, Interpol, and other allied international agencies.

A thundering wave of fear had Caracas by the balls. The city practically hummed with the nervous energy that those facing death have in their final moments. Nueva Caracas and the outlying neighborhoods were filled nearly to bursting with patrons looking for that last fix or that final lay before the military hordes came storming in, laying waste to everything in their path, scorched earth-style. Nearly every brothel, from the ragged apartment entrepreneurial ventures to the established, classy joints, had lines out the door. The working gals were worn ragged and still had a long night ahead of them. Though their bodies screamed in agony, usually a quick hit of something numbingly pleasurable and a thought about the profits they'd bring in were enough to keep them going. Small time drug dealers were quickly running out of product. Bars were going dry.

And yet not everyone was submitting to their baser instincts. A notable proportion of the city was opting to stay indoors or in their communities, hoping to hide out with their families and be the lucky ones who avoid the bombs, mortars, rockets, machine-gun fire, and whatever else were going to ravage the city of Caracas. The churches and local diocese were also posting record attendances, as the faithful sought to get right with God before everything came to an end.

La Guaira was quickly emptying out. Very few ships wanted to be in port when the shit hit the fan, especially those registered to reputable corporations or states. Yachts and ships of luxury were sailing away in haste, taking their playboys and sex tourists back to the nations whence they came. Ironically, the rapid clearing out of the ports made for giant holes in security. Smugglers and pirates found themselves entering and leaving without any scrutiny, easily avoiding having to pay the usual matracas for the benefit of staying out of the eyes of the local officials. Where there is chaos, there is also dinero to be made after all.

Even as the city was whipping itself into a wild-eyed frenzy, local news reports had finally picked up on the errantly high number of arsons going on in Caracas. Warehouses in El Zamural had been burning for days now, fueled by whatever illicit materials were still inside. Granted Caracas wasn't exactly famous for its city services, so the fire department, such as it was, was lax in getting over to areas of town considered "unessential." The fires had been spreading, engulfiling entire city blocks. Enterprising individuals were taking photos from near the summit of El Avila, and one could see on the Matrix shots of the city skyline, and the raging urban wildfires blazing all over. Columns of smoke reached up into an overcast sky, touching leaden clouds that any other time would be pouring rain, but for reasons of taunting irony, were not.

Also of note were the sheer number of murders and assassinations. Victims were being found even in the "safer" areas of town, found slain in gruesome and very public ways. Headless bodies dumped from speeding vehicles in Chacao. Elite aristocrats and local oligarchs found in their posh penthouses, exsanguinated and with their hearts pulled through gaping holes in their chests. No witnesses had been allowed. Any that might have stumbled upon the scenes of these brutal acts had been found with their throats slit and their eyes put out. The bodies of children among those had even some of the stoniest criminals gnashing their teeth with indignation.

Amidst this backdrop of carnage, chaos, and disabling terror, Alex found himself wandering the streets of Barrio Santa Rosa, searching for a man that might lead to him bringing some retribution to the wounded citizens of Nueva Caracas. The fires blazing throughout the city, some not that far from here, were causing acrid, eye-burning smoke to waft down the streets and alleyways. Shadowed outlines of figures skulking in the darkening streets appeared and disappeared alternatingly, looking for easy marks given the confusion. While normally a lone man walking these streets might have provided a tempting target, luck provided easier marks, and the shrieks of those facing predation were the bitter-sweet call that signaled that he had once again avoided being assaulted.

Meanwhile, back at Garcia's Auto Works, the power was cutting out for seconds at a time, before flickering on again for a few minutes. The local power grid was under assault as the already weakened infrastructure was taking more of a beating. Only the trashcan fires already blazing in the favela around back were the only constant source of illumination; they kept the building from being plunged into darkness whenever the lights winked out. Worried cries could be heard from all around, especially in those citizens in the shantytown next door. Loved ones had gone missing, food was even scarcer than usual, and one voice in every three was breaking down into hysterical sobs. They provided an accompanying symphony for the gloom swallowing the heart of Caracas this night.

A long night was ahead of everyone, apparently.

[Thursday, November 19, 2072, 06:01 PM; Barrio Santa Rosa]

Coatl stood at one of the windows on the second floor of Garcia's, looking out over the city's darkening skies and the illuminating glow of spreading flames. He could hear the hungry crying out; they were just a stone's throw away. The troll wasn't completely cold-hearted, and it tore him up to hear them like this, but he couldn't help them. How could he? He might be seen if he went out to buy them food; but if he just gave them the money, told them to go gather edibles, he knew they wouldn't. They'd fight over the cash, or hoard it, as though either would do them any good. As though money would be worth anything in the hell that was coming.

Oh, yes; he was sure of it. Caracas was already Hell taken form on Earth--these next few weeks and months would just finish the job.

So instead he listened to them cry in hunger and call out in vain to a God who had abandoned them for greener pastures. And Coatl promised, in that deadbeat deity's stead, to kill as many of the monsters as he could. Smiley's boat plan sounded like a good start.

[Thursday, November 19, 2072, 06:01 PM; Garcia's Auto Works, Barrio Santa Rosa]

Yesterday had marked the first day Sonora hadn't needed her medication in about six months. The last time was a fluke, marked by her remaining in bed almost an entire day since Carmen had scored a VIP trip with one of the playboys in El Avila. Without a need to get up, there wasn't a need to get stressed out, to need to calm down. This time, she'd lost the afternoon trying to figure out how the hell she was going to contribute to this cockeyed plan of Smiley's to hit arms runners resupplying La Alianza. They bought from a lot of people, Sergei inculded, so the intel on the boat might very well be a lost friend, and she couldn't afford that.

Sonora scanned the newscasts over the course of Thursday. Military buildup around Lake Maracaibo, fueled by the oil assets and being run by Aztechnology. It had sparked a degree of lawlessness she'd never seen before; as if metahumanity's higher functions had been pruned from the metroplex's consciousness and dangled in front of the megacorps like a ripe strawberry.

Part of her knew how this would play out, the big picture. Aztechnology's black operations teams infiltrated the city, removing any concrete opposition that wouldn't deal with them and bribing those that would to collude. The public would abhor these strikes, violent and graphic as they were, and blame those that were able to fight off the Shorned Ones. Collateral damage was simply a buzzword. Their PR machine would twist it, handle it, declare their targets to be terrorists and the cause of the violence in the Caracas streets. It would not be a lie, either - if they had the temerity to simply die, or better yet - not have ever crossed Aztechnology at all - then the violence would be minimal.

As emergency services broke down, the chaos would spread. The collective psyche of the people would drive them to base instincts: Hunt, fight, kill, screw, sleep. Hoard. The city would erupt in chaos, as it already has, and the excuse would be provided to the "Coalition of the Concerned" to unpack their APC's, and tanks, and helicopters. Troops wearing Aztechnology colors would be augmented by El Azul for legitimacy. KondOrchid had already given them the excuse - The Olaya Cartel, running Tempo all over the planet under the umbrella of AA corporate status. They would barely have to fire a shot, instead dropping ReddiMeal packs, Cervezas Aztecas, and MediCarro fast response units to provide 'for the well being of the citizens of Caracas'. With the rich hiding in their compounds and unable to react, the people would overwhelmingly press to become just another property of Aztechnology, guided into the 22nd century with a hand covered in the blood of the innocent. Just another property to buffer against Amazonia.

The only question remaining in that part of Sonora's mind was what Amazonia would do. They didn't have the resources to take the city, they didn't have the interest to hold it, and they didn't have the power to ignore Aztechnology's push against Caracas. Their responses, Sonora surmised, would be limited in scope but terrible in destructive power.

She stood next to Coatl, watching the cityscape begin to burn. Seventy-two hours at most, Sonora estimated, before Aztechnology would move in and Amazonia would either cause Lake Maracaibo to swallow them whole, or use the clouds above to create a typhoon powerful enough to wipe out the city.

Clowns to the left of us, jokers to the right, and here we are. Stuck in the middle.

[Thursday, November 19, 2072, 06:01 PM; Barrio Santa Rosa]

The hours had passed in the blink of an eye, as they always did when Alex’s mind raced in over-drive. Chaos and bedlam was erupting everywhere around him but his mind would not stay focused no matter how hard he tried. The normal hell that Caracas always was seemed to be cascading into an entirely new hell, deep beneath the sub-sector of the eighth level.

He walked towards the edge of the street and as far away from the alleys as possible. The Colt Manhunter he depended on was in the palm of his right hand, coated in light sweat. The revolver he carried was stuck in his waistband. Any small glimpse of movement near him set him on edge and almost jumping out of his skin.

That was how he carried himself to the dilapidated area known as Barrio Santa Rosa, Manhunter still clutched firmly in hand. His breath came quicker as his agitation rose. It only took a slight movement in the alley he stood next to pop off two shots at whatever stirred inside of it. Stopping to look a bit closer.. nothing.

Alex shook his head and continued off down the street. All impulses to become a champion of the people, a herald of their plight, or their cause; it was all gone. Lost in the past several hours of the manic break that the technomancer was climbing through. He wanted to find the elf in the trench-coat though. Not wanted, needed. Every fiber of his being screamed at him to do so. There was no reason in Alex’s mind anymore. Now, it was just a puzzle. How to find the ones he sought.

He sighed and stopped to lean up against a wall, pistol still in hand. His eyes narrowed as he began to sift through the communications drifting through the waves around him. Alex wasn’t sure what he would fine, but he was certain it would bear better fruit than asking if anyone had seen a shot up elf and a piece of shit car.

[Thursday, November 19, 2072, 06:01 PM; Garcia's Auto Works, Barrio Santa Rosa]

In the upstairs office of the Garcia's Auto Works garage, the sound of a rubber SuperBall bouncing off the wooden floor, chipped drywall, and roof overhead echoed out to anyone passing by. Inside the office Smiley was trying to keep himself occupied as he waited for the intel for his latest plan. Over and over he'd toss the ball and after a three-part rebound catch it without fail thanks to his augmented reflexes, but it didn't do a good enough job of keeping his mind occupied.

He had heard the news, it was impossible not to what with all the panic erupting on the streets. Lake Maricaibo filled to the brim with miltary assets, Aztechnology was on the move and it was going full steam. Smiley had hoped the initial deployment would of been little more than the basics: Artillery, a battallion of ground troops, couple of tanks and helicopters. Such a thing would of given them more breathing room until the heat turned up, but it looks like this was the reward for being optimistic and hopeful. If they try to bring everything into Caracas, things will get tight and there'll be fewer cracks to slip through. Hell, for all he knew the shipment they were planning to hijack was going to enevitably get intercepted.

But even so, the whole thing felt like an old shoe. The scale was definately bigger, but it all seemed so familiar. It all brought him back to San Fransisco, back to the day where he dropped out of school at sixteen and went into the underground to fight back at the Japanese that gave him attitude, that oppressed his friends, imposed bullshit laws and curfews and showed utter contempt and cruelty to any metahuman that happened to cross their path on a bad day. Meta's like his youngest brother. He briefly wondered if his first offical act that'll get him noticed by Aztech would be jamming a Defiance shotgun into the back of an young officer and pulling the trigger; just like it did with the Japanese back then.

Ah, good times.

Regardless, the situation wasn't entirely bleak for him or the rest of the crew. Aztech's got numbers and power, but there's plenty of evidence that things aren't going as planned for Aztech. After all, Sonora and Coatl are still alive. It's not much on it's own, but there's a good chance the lot of them could make Aztech's problems snowball from here. Sticking it to the second largest corporation in the world and getting away with it, now that would be fun.

Descending the stairs and stepping into the garage, Smiley idly bounces his SuperBall up-and-down off the floor as he looks over to Sonora. "Don't ask why I'm asking but... How good are you at impersonating Aztlan and Aztech military officers?"

In Smiley's mind, it was good to come up with contingency plans and new ploys as you moved along, as it helps keep his thoughts on what's important. He just wished that a certain disgrace to Blackbeard would give him the intel he wants already so he can at least pursue the first plan he had.

[Thursday, November 19, 2072, 06:01 PM; Garcia's Auto Works, Barrio Santa Rosa]

Sonora's musings were cruelly interrupted by the sound of a SuperBall bouncing off the concrete floor. Well, perhaps part of her musings; ever since she went to confession she found her attention more easily split among several topics. The newsfeed blared in one ear and occupied one eye while she watched Smiley throwing his ball around like--well, that particular metaphor didn't need to go any farther.

"Soldiers weren't in the circles I was in, but... Depends on how far I go with it. Get me a uniform that fits, or might be a little baggy, a commlink...I can get into plenty if people aren't paying attention. Give me some time to tail one, see how she walks, talks, acts...I could convince anyone who didn't know better."

An idle command to her commlink swapped the newsfeed to her search engine, telling it to go sniff out 'Aztech military lingo' and report back with a list of commonly used acronyms and phrases.

"If it was corporate executive? Easier. I wouldn't have to change much for that. I could pretend I was a journalist from the company PR department doing some fluff piece on los libertadores. I bring two of you along to be video and sound crew? We could go anywhere."

[Thursday, November 19, 2072, 06:02 PM; Garcia's Auto Works, Barrio Santa Rosa]

"Not much difference between an executive and a military officer..." Smiley replies in between bounces, "The only key differences is that an officer shouts louder. Should be fine so long as you remember to keep up the Bavarian Fire Drill. The soldiers we're about to be neck-deep in are trained to follow orders no matter what, they aren't trained to question the who or the what so long as it seems like the right person yelling at them at the time." He ceased bouncing his SuperBall and crossed his arms and shifted his weight onto one leg.

"Besides, an executive won't get around as much as we might need to. We'd need to be anywhere, not just at photo opertunities."

[Thursday, November 19, 2072, 06:02 PM; Garcia's Auto Works, Barrio Santa Rosa]

Sonora rolled her shoulders in a shrug, half paying attention to the search bar starting to spit back results.

"The yelling I can do," she replied. "I could probably even make you suck on that ball of yours. Keeping them occupied is easy enough..."

She pointed to herself, with the lack of anything really considered muscle on her arms, a waist thin enough that she could easily be carried in one arm (as it had happened several times already) and the body of someone who was thin because she simply didn't eat all that much.

"But I don't exactly have the body of an officer," Sonora finished.

[Thursday, November 19, 2072, 06:02 PM; Garcia's Auto Works, Barrio Santa Rosa]

"Yeah, we all kinda noticed that you look like the type of woman who doesn't get respectable work." Smiley replied with a grin, "Don't go taking that too seriously now, it was a joke."

He looked Sonora up and down for a moment and shrugged, "Not really a big deal. Just gotta artificially fill out a uniform and wear a coat or something overtop that. Jeez, you act as if you never impersonated an officer in an occupied city before. Besides, if we're lucky then most of the time we just need you to speak over a radio frequency. You can drop your voice an octave if necessary, right?"

[Thursday, November 19, 2072, 06:02 PM; Garcia's Auto Works, Barrio Santa Rosa]

One useful tidbit about Smiley talking this much is that it gave Sonora ample opportunity to sample his voice. When he asked whether or not she could drop her voice an octave, she gave fleeting thought to how his voice resonated in his larynx, and how she could replicate it.

When she responded, it was in a reasonable approximation of Smiley's own voice.

"I can get by."

Smiley
[Thursday, November 19, 2072, 06:02 PM; Garcia's Auto Works, Barrio Santa Rosa]
Before Smiley was able to respond back to Sonora, his commlink began to vibrate and hum, and an indicator flashed up in his AR vision:
<<Incoming Call From: DevilBwoy>>
It had not even been trying to connect for several seconds before Smiley was being pelted with text messages from DevilBwoy as well:
<<Rhaatid! Answer da damn comm!>>
<<Fuckin raasclot, hurry't up!>>
<<Don' make me vex, mon!>>

[Thursday, November 19, 2072, 06:02 PM; Garcia's Auto Works, Barrio Santa Rosa]

As the Incoming Call warning on his commlink starts beeping, Smiley nearly has a panic attack. "Fucking finally!" he holds up a finger to Sonora, "Give me a second, it's the guy."

<Hey hey, calm down man, was just chatting with the Evil Me from bizzaro-world. Tell me you got what I've been waiting for.>

[Thursday, November 19, 2072, 06:02 PM; Garcia's Auto Works, Barrio Santa Rosa]The stool I got myself ain't the most comfortable. Not matter which part of my butt I stick on it, it seems to lean at a pretty peculiar angle. Still mostly amazed it's holding up. Maybe it's made of the same thing they made Smiley's car out of. I swear, that kid's ride is probably as beaten up as my old bones. Not that they're standard issue anymore, mind you.

But anyways. I'm sitting there, pushing rounds into clips. I might have enough bullets lying around to kill God, if they ain't packed in a clip, they won't do us much good when the shit hits the fan. And by the looks of the weather outside, we're a few days away from a major class A shit hurricane. Sonora and Coalt are both watching the best of reality trid outside the window. Just by the look on their faces, I know they fully understand the situation. I thumb another round in the magazine. We could all make a run for it. Hop the border and try to live it out in the jungle. Like that would be any better... We're about one step away from being thrown into the fire, and we still don't gel as fuck.

As far as I'm concerned, last time we all got out alive, it was sheer fuckin' luck.

I push another round in. Damn I wish I had a full trained fireteam with me. And I ain't real picky; a few green marines would still go a long way. Like that's ever going to happen. The bosses back home won't ever show the flag here. This piece of shit town ain't worth a damn to them. I can't help but agree with them. The entire place can burn to the ground for all I care. I ain't here to save anyone. I ain't here to protect anyone. I'm just here for payback.

I put the topped off mag on the table in front of me. I crack my neck from side to side and run my tongue over my upper gums. I haven't had a drink since this morning, and it's starting to show. I grab what's left of the cigar I was smoking earlier and stick it in the corner of my mouth.

I've always liked the smell of matches. Not too sure why. It's almost comforting.

I ain't quite sure where Smiley was going to go with his talk about Azzie officers. That kid has a really fucked up sense of reality. And I mean really fucked up.

The stool groans under my weight as I shift toward the window.

“Mighty big storm we've got coming our way.”

I take a long pull on what's left of the cigar.

“I don't know about you kids, but I could sure as hell use a drink.”

My knees groan like the stool when I get up.

"How about I take you two out for one last drink before all the bars burn down?"

[Thursday, November 19, 2072, 06:02 PM; Garcia's Auto Works, Barrio Santa Rosa]
DevilBwoy's image appeared in the lower right of Smiley's vision, a ghostly, digital image of of the rasta's head grinning back at him. The square window was replete with a thick fog of smoke, no doubt being exhuded by the huge ganja-filled spliff in between his lips.
<<'Bout time! Me foun' ya hot-steppin' Yanqui Drownahs. T'night, heah a' deh docks, down roun' deh end near Port 40, where all deh uddah pirates an' rude bwoys tie off.>>

Port 40. That place had quite the reputation. It was the world's worst kept secret that Port 40, which didn't officially exist, was a haven for illicit criminal and smuggling activity. Quite dangerous even by Caracan standards, the only reason the bureaucrats and bean counters even went down that way -- with armed guards, mind you -- was to collect on the matracas that ensured that it would stay unofficial.

<<Dey are pickin' up guns fuh deh Alianza. Su-su roun' deh way say Alianza be fortifyin' positions fuh de incomin' sheetstorm, an' de Drowna bumbaclots are deliverin' 'em. Shoul' be t'ree a' 'em.>>

DevilBwoy looked immensely pleased with himself. As a reward, he put the spliff back in his mouth and took a deep pull, weed turning into ash as his infinite lungs filled with the sacred herb.

---------------------------------

Smiley's end of the conversation went mute as he suddenly appeared to be paying more attention to something else, perhaps a commcall of some sort. That left Sonora back to her own thoughts.

A noise caught her attention just then. A distant wailing - no, a whistle, pitched so high as to be almost beyond normal hearing, though she caught it. Peering through the window past Coatl, she could make an object hurtling down through the sky at an incredible velocity. Before she could utter a cry of recognition identifying it as a mortar shell, she saw it crash down into a cluster of shacks in the backyard shanytown.

The blast caused several of the crude structures to vanish in the blast. Her high-tuned perception caught small chunks of people flying through the blast along with the other debris. Several nearby houses, now slanted and warped from the blastwave, caught aflame, and people began fleeing from them like ants from a kicked mound, flailing as they tried to put the flames out from their bodies.

Women began wailing for lost children. Husbands wrung their hands and howled at the leaden sky for their lost wives. The cries of the injured began to resemble those of the chaos near the Taqueria a few days past. Several people whom were almost entirely covered with flame stopped trying to put themselves out, and merely fell over as they succumbed to the fire. The flames became so bright to her eyes, causing her to squint. Brighter they became, until she was nearly blinded by it. She closed her eyes, the blazes having left purple after-images burned in.

When she looked back through the window, everything was back to normal. Nobody was dying. The buildings had not been bombed. The residents of the favela were doing what they had been all along - huddling for safety.

Coatl had not stirred, showing no indication that he shared what Sonora had seen.

---------------------------------

Alex resumed his aimless meandering of the Barrio, gun held in hand as he sought... something. Something to put him on the path towards redeeming the people of Nueva Caracas, those slain in the bloody gunbattle. Alex stalked the streets in a manic, insomniac haze, the world moving as if in slow motion, or slogging through amber. Lights blurred and blinded his eyes, and the smoke wafting down the streets burned them. Tears streaked down his face, dripping off onto the ground that was as of yet still dry, the clouds still obstinately holding back all that rain.

Alex let his attentions go into that digital gestalt all around him, trying to mentally grasp those errant whispers that tickled the backs of his mind like little feather touches. His altered mind often caused him to act in peculiar ways or put him down a path of dubious wisdom, but somehow those same flaws and faults resulted in a biochemistry suited towards listening to the bits and bytes all around him.

Transmissions blanketed the area, though it was tough going to listen to them. Sometimes as soon as he began paying attention to a signal source, it was abruptly vanish as the lights flickered off and on all around him. It was frustrating work, trying to listen to the whispers around him, only to have them wink out right as he put his attentions on them, like an apparition or illusion only visible from the corner of one's eye, but one that disappeared when looked straight at.

But he found one that stood out, a solid signal, one not tied to the grid. As he focused on it, he found it garbled, the whispers not intelligible, but like some sort of gibberish, a madman's jigsaw rantings, or a Pentacostal preacher howling in tongues. A wave of dizziness passed over Alex as the garbled signal caused a moment of disorientation. But he fought through it, and let his mind try and make sense of the source.

Moment by moment, the strangeness of the transmission peeled away, like the layers of an onion's skin. The mind that makes words and sentences was suddenly absorbing the meaning of the signal like a dry sponge soaks up water. He was hearing the words of a man speaking in a heavy Jamaican patois accent, and the image of a dreadlocked rasta hung in his field of vision.

<<.......Drownahs. T'night, heah a' deh docks, down roun' deh end near Port 40, where all deh uddah pirates an' rude bwoys tie off....>>

[Thursday, November 19, 2072, 06:02 PM; Garcia's Auto Works, Barrio Santa Rosa]

Smiley shook his head and grinned at the Rasta puffing away in his AR view. He peered over to Coatl, snapping his fingers to get some attention. "Guess what man, it's them. Your friends the Drowners. The game is afoot now!" He steps over to the trunk of his car, opens it, and pulls out the recently modified AA-16 he stashed inside. "Where the fuck is El Mono hiding? He a key player in this, we gonna need a snoop."

<Don't go celebrating yet, Bwoy. I still gotta actually take the boat, which I was hoping to get en route so we wouldn't have to worry about backup being there. Anyways, what do you mean when you say there's three of them? Three drowners? Three boats? What you mean?>

Smiley
[Thursday, November 19, 2072, 06:02 PM; Garcia's Auto Works, Barrio Santa Rosa]
<<T'ree a' deh Drownahs. I t'ink dere's five a' dem left outta deh crew. T'ree will be a' Port 40 ta pick up. Ya owe meh. Dis infuhmation made meh 'ave ta cock it up with deh cute skettle workin' in deh Imports an' Excise Depar'ment.>>

DevilBwoy reaches towards the camera projecting his image to Smiley and he pans it to the right. In the background is a bed, situated in the lower levels of his yacht, where he sleeps. Of course, rather than being in the bed himself, there is the image of a naked, quite attractive-looking elf woman, sleeping on her back. The burgandy silk sheets on his bed are pulled only up to her stomach, exposing large breasts that slowly rise and fall with her every breath. Her hair looks quite tussled, and though she sleeps she has a rather satisfied smile on her face.

DevilBwoy pulls the camera back to his face, his grin even larger than it was before.

<<Bein' ya frien' is hard a' times. Me has ta' deal with all kinna sufferation fuh yeh!>>

[Thursday, November 19, 2072, 06:02 PM; Garcia's Auto Works, Barrio Santa Rosa]

"Three of your Drowner friends are attending so... Yeah, everyone bring extra bullets. Someone tell Sangre he can't bring the gauss rifle though, I don't want anything accidentally punching through the ship hull and destroying our loot." Added Smiley to his previous statement after getting some clarification, he starts waving people along, "Get your gear together and put on your angry faces, it's time to shoot people again!"

<Damn man, how do you ever survive doing me any favors? Anyways, I'll try and get everyone to the docks post haste, just get a meeting place for us later. Maybe one of those nice islands off the coast you guys like to hide in. Bring Premium Rum with awakened ingredients. Call you when I-Oh wait! You got the model name of the boat they using? Figure I might do some homework on the way there.>

While awaiting DevilBwoy's answer, Smiley pulls out a large box filled with parts of a disassembled drone, a White Knight LMG, and finally an Aztechnology Striker that he quickly tosses over to Dexter. "Hold onto that just in case. Got some Chicago-grade bug zappers for that thing."

Smiley
[Thursday, November 19, 2072, 06:04 PM; Garcia's Auto Works, Barrio Santa Rosa]
<<Deh boaht called deh "Leviat'an" deh one ya a' wantin'. Me cat back deah,>> and DevilBwoy jerked his head back in the direction of the sleeping woman, <<She say deh Drownahs meetin' dat boaht a' deh Port an' retrievin' deh shipment from uddah smugglahs. Deh Drownahs a' jus' middlemen. Nah... anyt'in' else ya wan'... or kin I get me anuddah roun' a' glamity from me gal back deah?>>

---------------------------------

Alex
[Thursday, November 19, 2072, 06:04 PM; Barrio Santa Rosa]
Listening to the exchange on this line, Alex heard a familiar voice. Not the one of the rasta in his field of vision, but that of the other, the one talking to him over the line, whose face he could not see. The voice teased the back of his mind, and he had to concentrate as best he could in his state to figure out where he'd heard it before.

As he closed his eyes (fighting off sleep as he did so) he recalled to his vision a video he had seen, of a man standing outside of a beaten sedan in front of the Cat's Paw as it was being robbed. The man had screamed, "Everybody pays!" The voice he was hearing on the line... that voice belonged to that man. And that man had accompanied that elf, the one people said were responsible for the deaths several days ago.

Yes, he was closing in. So close now. It wouldn't be long now before he found his quarry.

[Thursday, November 19, 2072, 06:04 PM; Barrio Santa Rosa]

A smile crept over Alex’s weary face as recognition of the voice began to sink into his mind. The technomancer knelt and began pulling together strands of information from around him; weaving them into a form. Steadily, the shape of a hound began to form out of the bits and pieces of data that he was scouring from the noise around him. He smiled quietly at his creation and made a motion as if to pet the image. Anyone looking on in the meat-space would see a disheveled Latino man, holding a fire-arm petting what appeared to be an invisible animal of some sort in front of him.

Alex motioned towards the half of the conversation that he could identify and pointed. “Go find! Good boy!” As the binary dog took off into the streams of the Matrix that hummed around him, he paused for a moment to take in the sights. People were deathly afraid of what was to come, something that was looming in the air and on the horizon. Unfortunately for Alex, he was rarely ever able to create a disassociation between the hell that was Caracas and the hell that was his mind. He scratched the side of his head with the barrel of his Manhunter and sighed.

With resignation he continued to stroll down the street, listening for bits and pieces of information from the binary hound he had let loose to find his quarry.

Alex
[Thursday, November 19, 2072, 06:04 PM; Barrio Santa Rosa]

The virtual hound darted off down the street to vanish around the corner of the street, the view of him obstructed by some warehouses with the windows and doors boarded up. The hound was barking as he ran, and the sounds of him attenuated over the distance he covered, but was still audible even at quite a distance.

As Alex covered ground to find the hound, he wandered through several smoke-filled alleys around the outskirts of a nearby favela, steering clear of the fearful and borderline paranoid denizens. A lone man wandering with a gun in his hand was enough to set their already frayed nerves at ease, and he could see the men and women steeling themselves in case they had to die to take him down for the good of the community.

The incessant barking brought him eventually in front of a chainlink fence, before what was an automobile mechanic's shop once upon an aeon. The fence surrounded a yard that separated the shop from the street, and he could barely make out lights from within. The faded marquee above the front door declared it "Garcia's Auto Works."

The hound prowled the yard in front of the auto shop, on the other side of the fence. He stalked back and forward, tongue lolling out of his mouth as he looked expectantly at Alex, then to the shop, and then back to him again.

The caller was inside...

[Thursday, November 19, 2072, 06:05 PM; Barrio Santa Rosa]

The technomancer stopped to study the marquee for a moment, absently petting the virtual dog’s head with his fingertips. With a thought, he let the bits of data he had woven together spray apart back into the regions of the Matrix. Alex looked up and down the fence for a gate or hole; failing that, he climbed over the fence and dropped to the ground on the other side. The Manhunter and Asp he carried were both tucked in his front waist-band.

He strode to the nearest door and banged loudly on it with a balled fist. “HEY! MISTER EVERYBODY PAYS! YOU HOME?!” Alex yelled at the door.

*((To/If anyone opens the door))

The man on the other side of the door looked as though he hadn’t slept in days. His dark eyes were wild, flicking constantly around as though he was looking for something he couldn’t find. He wore a buttoned shirt under an armored vest that did not appear to be buttoned evenly; and a pair of pistols were stuck in his belt. The pants he wore were worn and starting to show through in several thread-bare areas.

[Thursday, November 19, 2072, 06:02 PM; Garcia's Auto Works, Barrio Santa Rosa]

The troll looks up at the offer of a drink. A big grin creases his face, and he pulls away from the table to amble over to the old man. This gringo could be all right, he thinks--sure, the man is gruff, but he knows what he's doing and he wants to spread some liquor around. Those are good things to keep around.

But before he can accept the generous offer Smiley is snapping his fingers. Coatl hears "Drowners" and thoughts of booze are put aside. Three of them? He wonders who it will be. Puck? Gabriela? He wonders if they'll remember him before he blows everything they ever were out the back of their worthless skulls.

He gives Smiley an understanding nod and grabs some empty banana mags from nearby. Dexter had the right idea: Coatl begins popping rounds in, knowing he's going to be throwing lead around tonight. The springs resist more with each bullet fed into the magazines, almost like the bullets are eager to be freed from the confinement. Don't worry, little ones--you'll have your chance.