[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Sidestreet, Nueva Caracas; 01:37 AM]
[Commlink:Hidden Mode]

As Chaske's bike peels out of the gas-clouded alley the Amerind runs a quick diagnostic on his bike, "You know omae, this bike was built to hold one passenger. One!" Chaske swerves to avoid a car as he shouts over roar of the nightlife. He then activates the motorcycle's spoof chip and morphplate before turning back to the ork "And why the hell-" he swerves again and curses, "Fuck this, I'm too stoned to talk and drive at the same time, I'm seriously getting some munchies though. Why don't you fill me in on what the hell was going on back there."

Chaske steers the bike to a sports bar he's been to before, not too crowded but filled with enough combat bikers and urban brawlers that even if they were followed the ensuing fight would give Chaske and his passenger a few seconds to get away.

Unless it was obvious they were the targets, then bets would just be made. Or if they just waited outside with a sniper. Or if they just launched a rocket in there, which he didn't doubt they could do.

This suddenly didn't seem like a good idea anymore, but Chaske couldn't come up with anything better. Also, he was getting the munchies.

[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Julio's Cantina, Nueva Caracas - 01:40 AM]

"Yeah yeah," Coatl says in agreement with Sonora. He and the pretty lady could swap names later. He's about to start trudging after her, when he stops, an idea taking shape in his head. As quick as he can manage he turns and goes back outside to the mangled body, snatching the commlink he heard buzzing earlier, and then heading back into Julio's. Maybe it could come in handy.

Hey, she grabbed a bottle; what the hell. As he passes, Coatl grabs the first bottle he sees and can safely get his mitt around. He tips it to Julio and says, "We skip the kiss." Then it's into the back and after Sonora.

[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; El Zamural; 01:54 AM]

After following the medkit's instructions the elf without a name didn't feel much better than before. But at least the bleeding had stopped and he wasn't in pain anymore, thanks to the NoPaint.

Making himself comfortable on the backseat of Smiley's car, the Amnesiac thought about his situation.

"I need to find out who I am and what the fuck happened to me. I'm gonna tell you what little I know. I don't know if you care but we're kinda in this together now. I won't forget your help after I get my life back on track. "

"I got a trenchcoat, apparently armored, of course it's full of blood and bullet holes now. Nothing special, everybody's wearing armor these days. But I also have some kind of form-fitting body armor underneath. Looks tailor-fitted. Not something you're average guy-next-door would wear. "

While he had tended to his wounds he had noticed something about his body.
"I also appear to be pretty heavily cybered. I mean the dermal plating is hard to miss and these black spots on my knuckles seem to be cyber-spur ports."
He tried to give a mental command and with a menacing sound sleek razor-sharp blades shot out of both hands.
"Yep cyber-spurs. Also a shock hand if I'm interpreting the induction polsters in my right palm right. Let's see what else I got built in."
Another mental command brought up a diagnosis of his internal ware.
"Wired Reflexes, biologically improved muscles and a whole lot of other stuff. Quite a collection. Maybe I'm some kind of soldier or something."

Rummaging through the pockets of his trenchcoat he looked for more clues to his identity.
Holding up each item he made a short list of his possessions:

Two extra clips for the manhunter and a vibro-knife weren't worth mentioning. Maybe that stuff would help him survive but it was useless for the purpose of discovering his past.

Excitement flooded though the mysterious elf as he pulled out a commlink from an inside pocket. But as soon as he took a closer look the feeling vanished, leaving only bitter disappointment.
"It's useless. Took a bullet apparently. Or more than one by the looks of it. Maybe a hacker can do something with it but I doubt it."

A pack of cigarettes with a single stick left. Suddenly he felt a strong urge for a smoke.
Later. Got to concentrate on the task at hand now.

The next items looked more promising.
"A book of matches from a place called 'Cat's Paw'. Sounds like a strip club or something. Apparently I've been there. I should check that place out when I can walk again without painkillers."

Putting the matchbook back in his pocket he pulls out a small piece of paper.
"A receit from place called 'Hard Times'. A Bar maybe? You ever heard of the name? Must have been some drinking binge to have cost over a hundred nuyen."

The last thing to emerge from his pockets is also the most exciting one.
"An optical chip! You got a commlink I can borrow for a second? I need to know what's on there! Maybe it's connected to the shitpile I'm in right now."

[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; El Zamural; 01:54 AM]

Upon listening to the Amnesiac tell him that they were in it together, Smiley casually waved off the notion. "Don't have to tell me man, you ain't getting away from me until you pay for the damages to my car." He lets the elf prattle on about his augmentations for a moment before piping in a comment of his own, "Yeah, no shit about the soldier part. I saw your shots through the smartlink camera on my shotgun. I've seen some damn good drone punting in my time, but you gotta be gifted to make shots like that with a sawed-off shotgun at those ranges when riding in a car driving erratically as we were."

As he continues to listen, Smiley adds his own comments to the elf's discoveries.

"Broken commlink? I know a guy who might be able to salvage the data storage, so you'll at least be able to keep your list of comm-numbers."

"The Cat's Paw? Don't know that place, but I think it's within the slums at least. Prolly only five minutes away."

"I'm sorry... Hard Times? If that's a bar, it's for dudes that swing in ways I don't."

"Hah, absolutely not. You got a bullet in your head so I give you a refresher: Never put a strange datachip in your commlink. No telling if that shit has a virus or whatever. You wanna read that chip, you get a commlink you don't mind losing."

[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Apartment, Palmar de Caridad; 01:38 AM]

The line goes dead and I feel something come alive in me. Something awful and evil and dark. Something lethal. I haven't felt like this in a long time. I haven't felt alive in a long time, and right here and now, my hearth is pounding in my head. It's pounding so hard it hurts. I haven't felt like this since day my son was taken from me. When he was taken from me, it tore a chunk right out of my soul. I know all too well it was never going to heal. But right now, I feel like that hole has just been torn wide open.

I grab the table with both hands and throw it across the room. The sounds coming out of my throat aren't my own. Something else wakes up in me and starts tearing shit up. By the time I'm sorta calmed down, I don't have a single piece of furniture left intact. Lucky for me I don't own very much. I grab the armchair and haul it out the window. It goes 3 stories down and crashes in the alley. When I'm done punching the wall, I have inch long splinters jammed in my meat hand. It feels good to bleed. Like the pain is starting to trickle out.

Outside, the rain is still pouring down in buckets.

"What are you going to do daddy?"

Every drop of my blood on the carpet feels like a bomb dropping.

"I'm going to kill them. All of them. Even if I have to take this entire city down brick by brick."

He tugs on my pant's leg.

"I'm sorry son. I'm sorry you're going to have to see this..."

I feel something swell up in the back of my throat. I can't cry. I'm not physically capable of that anymore. I'm not a person anymore. I've seen toasters with less metal then me.

"I love you daddy."

I pull the splinter out of my hand in one swift motion, tearing a chunk of skin clear off. I go to the bathroom and run it under the tap. I have no idea who the man looking back at me is. He looks like a mess. He looks like a tired old man.

I swallow a handful of painkillers. Time to shape the fuck up.

Now if I could just remember where the fuck I put that razor…. I just hope it wasn't stuck in the armchair that's 3 stories down, in the pouring rain.

Sue used to say I always overreacted when it came to the kids. I disagree.
I look at the old man.

How does the world look soldier?

I take a deep breath.

"Light n' bright…. Light n' bright."

[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Caracas; 03:28 AM]
In a matter of minutes the torrential rains ceased, as if the Man Upstairs finally realized he'd left the Waterworks on and got around to turning them off. Without the steady fall of the heavy rains to cool off the night, the heat began to rise in hazy, rippling waves. Roadways were suddenly dangerous for all the steam rising off the streets. The fog could have been cut with a chainsaw and an arc-welder, and probably outlasted either. The merest exposure to the suddenly intolerable humidity and blazing heat was enough to squeeze a person dry for every drop of sweat and leave them feeling weak and dizzy. Breathing the air was like drowning in a sewer and swallowing a mouthful of shit.

In short, it was perfect circumstances for the real predators to come out. The cover of night and the concealment of the fog made visibility almost non-existent. In the ghettos of El Zamural and La Rinconada the true slayers came out to hunt. Dens of ghouls and other infected saw the conditions as favorable for grabbing a quick post-midnight snack. Men with black hearts and bloody hands went looking for what sweet suffering they could inflict on the weak and the lost. The smart inhabitants stayed behind locked doors, if they were even fortunate enough to have those. Others stayed in their ramshackle favelas within the glow of the numerous trash barrel fires, hoping that the illumination would keep the monsters at bay for fear of exposure.

Meanwhile in Nueva Caracas nobody ever really slept at night. There was good money in getting the juans into a warm bed for the night or even for an hour. The whores turned tricks like a revolving door, then turned to their pimps for something to numb the pain of their bodies or even their souls. Strippers would pretend to like somebody for the length of a song, and the fake smiles would remain so long as the yen kept flowing. In some parts of the neighborhood, the most used-up flesh was being guided out into remote, deserted corners and then dumped, left crying and lost while the shadows came to swallow them up. Some of them might make it to safety before sundown. Some of them might be seen again. Those not looking to get their rocks off might just step into a seedy dive to see what watered down liquor they could imbibe before last call. Or maybe they were just looking for a dark corner to shoot up in.

There was a recurring theme this night. The drug Tempo had, indeed, made quite the impression in town. In fact one could even go so far as to say it was something of a hit. But the source was drying up. Word on the street had various reasons as to why: some said it was the suppliers trying to drive prices way up, and others said that the dealers were running out. A few even whispered that the dealers themselves were disappearing or being killed, with rumors of arsons and mysterious deaths being supplied as evidence. Entire shipments were vanishing overnight. And with the drying up of the supply, the demand rose like the mercury in thermometers around the city. Those addicted became shambling automatons, whose entire existence was now dedicated and fixated on finding another fix. If they found somebody with a fix, murder was not out of the question.

In the menacing dead of night, our lost souls found themselves drawn further into the sordid narrative of this city.

Having narrowly escaped La Policía's forces, Smiley and the mysterious elven street sam discovered a back alley street doc well within the El Zamural neighborhood. Though the elf did his best to staunch his own bleeding, he needed some real medical assistance or else his injuries would eventually bring him down.

Coatl and Sonora managed to stick to the shadows and meander their way back to Sonora's doss. La Alianza was purportedly looking for at least one of them, but now both were involved. Survival is the name of this dangerous game, and sometimes it's hard to win if you don't even know the faces of your hunters.

Stephen drove his bike across town to the Cat's Paw, a more "upscale" brothel in an area of town that seemed content to just supply a room for you to screw in. He could tell by the masked guards in front of the door that this wasn't your average cathouse.

Dexter, locked and loaded and ready to do murder, made it across town to a building with the words Gematria Applied Analytics on the marquee, located in the heart of Chacao. This was the front for the CAS DSI's local operations, and within would be Morris to give him some answers.

Chaske and El Mono, an unlikely pair, managed to find a popular sports bar, The Final Round, located within Nueva Caracas. While Chaske hoped for safety in numbers, El Mono could not help but think that everyone was in on the conspiracy that centered around him and sought to destroy him. Had he really gotten away from those men, or were they now here in this bar, trying some new angle since a direct frontal assault had failed..?

The night was far from over...

[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; An alleyway street clinic, El Zamural; 03:28 AM]

After pulling up to the alley, Smiley wipes the sweat off his brow while muttering: "How the fuck do these nights keep seeming hotter than the days?" He slips off the windbreaker jacket he wore, revealing the shoulder holster rig and sleeveless muscle shirt underneat, and tosses into the back before stepping out of the car and going to the left-side rear passenger door, pulling it open and offering a hand to the mysterious elf covered in bandages, "Come on now, your Holey-ness. We got a doctor's appointment."

Once the elf climbs out of the car, Smiley closes the door and helps lead him down into the clinic after activating the anti-theft system in his car and making sure the audio warning is deactivated.

[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; An alleyway street clinic, El Zamural; 03:28 AM]

The amnesiac gave a weak smile in recognition of the play on words. He grabbed the Manhunter and shoved it into the waistband behind his back before he achingly climbed out of the car, accepting Smiley's help. He felt vulnerable without his armor on. Of course if he got into a fight in his condition armor wouldn't save him but he still couldn't shake the feeling.

"Better keep your gun ready. Maybe the doc thinks my organs, riddled as they are, are more valuable than what I could possibly pay. Which is nothing by the way. You'll have to put this on my tab too." he said with an apologetic grin.

The entrance of the "clinic" was only a few feet away but to the elf without a name it felt like miles. The pain was gone but the drug had made his whole body go numb and every limb seemed heavy as if something was chaining him to the ground. After what seemed like an eternity the strange duo reached the battered door and the elf pressed the buzzer on the outside with trembling fingers.

Sonora's Doss, 03:30 AM
Biomonitor: Stable

The bedroom door was closed. It had been so since the duo had arrived back at the doss, the sounds of mattress coils squeaking indicitive of a profitable night for Sonora's roommate.

The doss itself wasn't much to look at. On the third floor of a crumbling tenement, the floors remained bare plasticrete in some places, other places covered by a threadbare rug, an old towel, even a welcome mat in front of the dingy sink in the kitchenette. Natural Vat Reddimeal packages were stacked in the freezer and discarded remnants of those and cheap soybeer containers were stacked in the wastebasket to be taken to the recycling chute at the end of the hall.

The AR overlays were slightly kinder, providing an 'Old West' motif to the one-bedroom. Plasticrete became gnarled wooden floors, the one window that led to the fire escape instead showed a desert mesa with a railroad track in the distance. The combination fridge/freezer/oven didn't change much - nothing really could change that pile of crap - but the AR tried to overlay a caucasian bartender, balding, wearing a shirt with a vest, an apron, and eternally cleaning a glass tumbler. Sonora immediately apologized for the physical and augmented state of the place - the overlay certainly wasn't her idea. If it were, it would've been Monte Carlo, or perhaps Morocco.

If it was her idea, she wouldn't have been here in the first place.

The tattered couch was made of some synthetic microfiber, covered as it was in blankets and pillows. Sonora's bed away from bed, as the two singles in the bedroom were pushed together by about five in the evening when the two roommates would wake up and get Carmen ready for work. If she ever needed to sit and relax a while during work hours (which was becoming increasingly common), the couch was the place to do it. Easy to hide the Colt as well if a Juan tried to get fresh, decide she was dessert. They always backed off before getting a .40 S&W in the cojones. The cops didn't mind the occasional gunshot as it was, they only came down here to get their rocks off or make a high-profile bust when a muneca got wise to one of her Juans and called a tip in. It was good for five, maybe six hundred 'yen if it was a dealer who made the wire.

They didn't do it often unless it was an independent pusher. Anyone in with the Cartels wasn't to be fucked with.

So there were the pair, Sonora sitting at the tiny dining table near the kitchenette. The bottle of Oaxaca was open and perhaps two fingers drained, the table itself holding the summation of her life that she couldn't leave behind.

Two changes of clothes. A knife. The rebreather. The last of her inhaler medication. Her gun. Each had memories of old crews tied to them, different memories to the medication. Her posessions barely filled half of a small bag, but that was the way of things.

"La Alianza," she said as she took out a small compact and a hand mirror, laying them on the table. "They're going to be looking for me...so I suppose it's time to not look like me.

"I'll be a few minutes, Carne." she said to Coatl. "Tell me a bit about yourself."

She recalled what she'd looked like and what she wore to the pit fight in question, remembering the bubbly nitwit that was so excited about the Troll that took the dive. Wide-eyed, clearly elven (because everyone listens to attractive elven women, natch), hair curled like that old flatscreen star, Cher in that Eastwick vid. No time to dye her hair, but a braid would keep it out of her way. She started to sculpt her face, her flesh and bone suddenly malleable enough to become, with enough makeup, someone else entirely. Add a ballcap and glasses, and she would look like a delivery rider with the right outfit. It would be perfect.

[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Sonora's Doss, 03:31 AM]

Following in after Sonora, the troll took a look around the spartan flat and made no comment. He had no basis to judge. The place might not have carpet but the roof wasn't leaking and it had enough juice running for an AR overlay, so it was the Ritz-Carlton compared to his. He eyed the couch, looked towards the bedroom with its squeaking springs and paid-for passionate cries, and took up a place against the wall. Coatl leaned on it carefully; the place looked fairly solid but he wasn't about to risk falling through the 'crete to the street.

Coatl kept his position as Sonora gathered her things, taking occasional swigs from the bottle he'd grabbed at Julio's (rum, actual rum from the Carib League; not the best he'd had, but certainly the best he'd come across in several years--she could keep her Oaxaca and he would gladly stick to this). The handle of the machete jutted uncertainly from his pants. He shut his image link off, eliminating the unconvincing AR from his sight; he preferred to see the real world in all it's grey, depressing glory.

Silent, he watched her set her things on the table, rolling his eyes slightly when she brought out the compact. Women and their fucking makeup, he thought; but his boredom became amazement when she began to actually... shift... her face around. He'd never seen anything like it, and it was alternately fascinating and disgusting. After a few moments he had to actually look away. Coatl had made a lot of faces shift, himself, but usually they put up a bit more resistance--seeing it come so easy was discomfiting.

"You aren't la polizia," he says, slowly, taking another drink from the rum. Some may have figured it out sooner but he needed more time to put the pieces together. With a talent like that she was almost certainly not a streetwalker, either, but he kept that comment to himself. Knowing this about her now, he wonders exactly how much is safe to say to her. Certainly she can't be told who he is, let alone the whole story. "You are running from la Alianza. I am looking for some people, who maybe are with the Alliance in some way. Maybe we solve each other's problems, neh? They come to find you, you point me at them, I kill them and maybe get to kill the people I look for. Everybody happy, or dead. Mostly dead. Not us though, we the happy ones."

He lifts the bottle, draining the last of the rum, and wipes the back of his hand across his lips. "You can call me Coatl," he says while looking back to where she works. "And you, pretty lady? What do I call you?"

[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Caracas; 03:28 AM]

I went to Yucatan with the firm hope that I would die. That I would be killed in combat. That I would die a soldier's death. When Morris came into the picture and told me he needed a reliable man in Caracas, I had no reason to refuse. No reason at all. I was a man looking for a way to die, and Caracas was as good of a place as any. It was actually pretty fuckin' worst than all the other places. That's beside the point though. That was almost five years ago. I'm old, that's a true fact. But having been here for five god damn hell hot years, I feel older. There are way too many players in Caracas, and you ain't suppose to last for long. Guess I'm one of the exception. Apparently, you need 'em to make rules.

I'm thankful for the thick fog that covers the streets. I can feel every tiny bead of water stick to my skin. I'm thankful cause a hell of a lot of people can't see shit in this fog. I can though. And I know, again, that I'm the exception to the rule. I've walked these streets so many times, it feels surreal now. My boots hit the pavement, and I head off. I don't even think about where I'm going. I don't even think about the roads I'm taking, the places I'm avoiding and dodging along the way. My body just knows what to do, and where to go. When you live somewhere long enough, you start to become that place. I feel diseased, like this fuckin' town.

Against all instincts and training, my thoughts slip away. Daydreaming is a really bad thing. Sure way to get you killed. I know it, because out there in the jungle, I've killed people who were daydreaming. Sentries thinking about home. Guards thinking about their families. Guerrillas wishing for a shower and a bed. Most of them never saw me coming. For those who did, I feel somewhat bad. I ain't a very pretty sight. Especially when it's the very last thing you see before getting 8 inches of steel rammed straight into your skull. I think about Sue. I think about Emma and Catherine. I think about Arthur. I think about the life we could've had. I think about all the sacrifices I made to keep them safe. I think about the monster I've become in order to protect them. And I know it was all in vain. It was all for nothin'. Nothin' at all.

Catherine won't talk to me. Sue still holds me responsible for everything, even if she's never said so. Even when we fought. She never said it, but I saw it her eyes. Every single time she looked at me. I saw it. Emma… My beautiful little Emma. Every time we talk, she tries to convince me to let her come visit. Or that I should move to Seattle. I wish I could. I wish so much. But there's nothing for me back there, in the civilized world. I should've been dead a long time ago, and pretending to be alive somewhere else ain't going to change a thing. Won't change the past. Won't make the future any brighter. I haven't talked to her in six months. She's turning 18 next month. I cringe at the thought. I cringe at the fact my kids have grown up without me. Because of what I am. Because of how I failed them. The revolver at my side feels heavier and heavier. I can still do it. Pull it out, put it under my chin and pull the trigger.

But I can't. Not right now at least. There are people, out there, responsible for what happened. People who know what happened. People who can tell me why, and how. I'm going to find those people, and make them suffer. The Hell I send them to will seem like a vacation after I'm done with them. No matter who they are, I'm taking them down with me. All of them. I'll drag them all down to Hell with me.

When I finally get to Gematria Applied Analytics, the sign is off and all the blinds are pulled. Of course. It's the wee fuckin' hours of the morning. What sort of office, decent or not, would be open at such an hour. I know there ain't going to be a single soul at the reception desk, so I don't even try. The building's probably buzzing with activity, but from out here, the place ain't nothin' but deserted. So I go round back, try the loading dock buzzer. I leave the thumb of my meat hand on the buzzer just longer than I should. I know I have to so it can confirm who I am… but I also like the fact that I might be pissing people off by ringing this thing. There's no answer, but I can hear a faint click. I look round. There's about three dozen sensors eyeing me up and down, from who knows where looking at who knows what. I picture Morris looking at me like God looking at an ant. I picture myself walking into his office and punching him in the face to get his attention. He ain't a bad guy. Not by a long shot. But if I found out he's been sitting on that intel for longer than 10 minutes, I'm ripping his balls off and shoving them down his throat. Don't ask. Yes. I've done it once. Nasty business.

[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; The Final Round, Nueva Caracas; 03:30 AM]
[Commlink:Hidden Mode]

It was hard finding a bar seedy enough that a hidden PAN wouldn't attract attention while also being safe enough, relatively speaking, that Chaske and El Mono could speak privately without having to worry about being dragged into a barfight. He didn't know enough about this ork to go flashing a SIN he might have to trash after the meet, anyways.

Chaske waits for the ork to get off the bike before he activates the anti-theft system and turns to look at the bar. Most of the neon lettering was dim or black, but in AR it was all as bright as the day it was made. The building had been here for a while, it was blaring obvious that the foundation had sunk at least a foot along the north side.

Entering the bar Chaske was pleasantly surprised to see old 20th century televisions hanging from the ceiling showing games from around the world. The quality was terrible, but they all had AR overlays showing the games in higher definition. Chaske decides he liked this place.

The place was fairly spacious, which was good, and the walls were lined with booths. Chaske heads for one in the back and allows the ork to have the seat that offers the best view of the bar and the entrance while Chaske simply turns on his helmet's ultrawideband, giving him a crystal clear view of everything within a hundred meters. With a breath of relief Chaske slumps against the seat and sets his helmet beside him. He quietly peruses the virtual menu and selects a basket of hot wings and a beef flavored burrito along with two bottles of beer to wash it down with.

"By the way, omae," Chaske says with a vacant smile and glassy eyes, "you're paying."

Sonora's Doss, 03:35 AM
Biomonitor: Stable

"Coatl," Sonora said. She liked the fit of the name on him, it certainly fit the bill of the Troll. He was certainly a tower of beef, but...There would be time for nicknames later. "I go by so many names, it's hard to remember! Call me Sonora."

She smiled. It was the best she could do under the circumstances. She had heard the Troll's comment about being a cop, two hours old perhaps but still a valid concern. His insights on the current situation were also well thought-out, being at the front of her mind since Machete's untimely demise.

"I need to find some information on who is chasing me, and who you are chasing. If they are one and the same, bueno. I will shake down my people for information, and if it is good information then..."

She started to smile as she tapped in the code to call Sergei. "Then we see if we can set La Alianza on one another."

[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; The Final Round, Nueva Caracas; 03:30 AM]

Well, the rain had stopped, at least. Replaced by fucking fog so thick you had to use a backhoe to dig yourself a spot to sit, but that was a good thing. So far as Mono knew, it would block vision even for cyber-types and wizards... at least, it did in the trid-flicks. Who the fuck knew a wizard to find out if it was true? Unless they had ghouls working for them. Ghouls could always see through the fog in those things, and word on the street said it was true. Mono had never seen a ghoul, and he prayed it would stay that way, but everyone knew Caracas had more than it's share. Too many people died in this town for anyone with half a brain to think otherwise.

"By the way, omae," Chaske says with a vacant smile and glassy eyes, "you're paying."

Well, at least that answered the question of whose side this guy was on. If it was a trap, he'd be trying to act like a chum. Offering to buy drinks and such. Demanding a free lunch (or dinner... or whatever) for saving your life is what a normal person would do... and them probably ask for more later, too. Unless that's exactly what the dude wanted him to think... Don't want to seem too keen. Don't be obvious, or you'll blow your cover. Could go either way at this point. Best not to get too comfortable, just in case. Keep an eye on entrances and exits, and a hand near the gat at all times.

"Yeah, I guess I owe you one, amigo." Scanning the menu for something cheap and plentiful (and not being happy with the results), he ordered a couple of grease-flavored Soy-ppetisers™ and a pitcher of synth-cervesa. "So why'd you do it? You don't know me. You don't owe me anything. Ain't many folk in this town willing to help out a stranger like that."

[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; The Final Round, Nueva Caracas; 03:30 AM]
[Commlink:Hidden Mode]

Chaske takes the opportunity to look over the ork he rescued, not having had the time before with the whole 'racing for his life' thing. The excitement and adrenaline of the past two hours did quite a bit to flush the Bliss from his body, even so Chaske was still a bit on edge. As much as he'd love to knock back another tablet the memory of the comm-chatter from before echoed in his mind. Compromising with himself he takes a small tin with a PCC logo from his tactical vest and places a small pinch of its contents under his nostrils. As he snorts the substance his muscles visibly relax and a content sigh escapes his mouth.

"Didn't have much reason not to," he says slowly as he closes the tin and puts it back in its pouch, "I was just getting settled for a trip when some crazy static caught my attention. Decrypting it showed it to be a comm signal. Orders to kill any witnesses on sight, among other things." Chaske settles back in the booth and takes a deep, relaxing breath.

He continues to speak slowly, almost irritatingly so. "Anyways, you turned me into a witness when you ran into me," he says as he points a finger at El Mono, "so I figured to get the hell out of Dodge, and seeing as we were both going the same direction.. he trails off with a shrug. "I'm interested in who's after you, and why. From what little I could divine over their chatter they are grade A mercs, Black Ops type. They aren't the type to leave loose ends hanging, loose ends being me. So yeah...who are they? What should I expect if they come looking for me?" he asks lazily.

[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; The Final Round, Nueva Caracas; 03:32 AM]

Well, that fit the facts as best as [b]El Mono knew them. Sure, this guy might be a plant, fishing to see how much he knew about the organization that was after him, but it would have to be the greatest trap of all time to have known what alley he would turn down... unless they had a whole pack of guys just lying around, waiting to be tripped over. That would be a big op, though. Fuck it, holmes, sometimes you just have to roll the damned dice and hope for the best. Just don't bet all your chips the roll, right?

El Mono glanced around before answering. "Look, amigo: this is some heavy shit, I think you know. I ain't gonna lie to you, I ain't never seen them pull out all the stops like this before. Fucking pendejos really stepped up their game this time around. They used to want to take me alive, I'm pretty sure - never stuck around long enough to ask 'em, though. Hell, maybe they still do. Killin' witnesses ain't the same as killin' the target, right? Still, I figure they ain't too keen on friendly conversation after I shot up their boy earlier, so one way or another, they're probably lookin' for blood now. You wanna know who's after me and why? Well that makes two of us."

Pausing to take a swig of the watered-down beer, the ork furrowed his thick brows. "Fact is, I dunno who the fuck they are or why they're after me. They been after me a long time, though. Years. Must be somethin' important, they ain't given up yet, right? Like I said, though, I never asked. I know they got some serious cojones, though, and the cred to back it up. Dudes like those mercs or whatever don't come cheap, I think. Plus, I know they got some serious mojo in the ranks, too. Fuck me I'm gonna stop and ask a wizard why he's after me. I fucking run like Hell soon as I see 'em, and you'll do the same if you're smart."

That should do. Enough info to put some fear into anyone sane, and more or less true so far as Mono knew so far. Not too much, though. If this was a scheme to find out how much he knew, they'd be left guessing at least some. With luck, they'd guess wrong.. maybe wrong enough to let him slip away once and for all. If this guy was just in the wrong place at the wrong time, hopefully enough to keep him breathing for a bit. Least he could do if this dude really did just save his life.

El Mono and Chaske
[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; The Final Round, Nueva Caracas; 03:32 AM]
The Final Round was proud of its set-up for watching the games. Its name was a reference to the fact that the games they preferred to show and rally around were the bloody, full contact versions. On one screen was a combat biker match being replayed from a recorded earlier broadcast from Seattle. Another screen was showing a bloody, gladiatorial-style pitfight between two heavily cybered opponents; it was being broadcast on a pirate signal somewhere out of Aztlan. Both combatants were as good as raw hamburger meat for all the wounds they bore, and somebody's ear was laying on the ground nearby in a bloody puddle. It also looked as if somebody's eye was going to need a cyber replacement, being as the shredded remnants of it dangled out of an otherwise empty and bloody socket. The other screens showed games and fights much in the same vein, and whenever somebody was dealt a grievous injury, the entire room erupted in cheers and howls. A few bookies walked among the bodies taking wagers, then typing in open air to record the bets in their personal augmented realities.

Even at this time of night it was full of patrons cheering and jeering. It was easily the most populated bar within a few miles, a perfect locale for two guys on the run to get lost in. As the night wore on the customers began to trickle out, but the room still had quite a few eager bodies in it, glued to the screens.

At some point during Chaske and Mono's escape, the comm channel that Chaske had cracked open had disappeared, either because he moved out of its broadcast area or because it was shut down at the source. He hadn't heard much else from the chatter before it winked out aside from instructions to find the third Strike Team and move back to their rendevous location.

The fake cervesas on tap in this place were awful, watered down brews that tasted like they'd been filtered through devil rat fur and then tea-bagged by a homeless troll for "flavor." A bit spilled from El Mono's glass onto the table; when later a cockroach crawled up onto the table and into the small puddle, it quickly flipped over onto its back, legs writhing furiously, before it gave one last seizure and was dead.

((Both Chaske and El Mono need to make Perception+Intuition rolls. The distraction modifiers are negated in this test.))

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

Sam and Smiley
[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Alley Street Clinic, El Zamural; 03:32 AM]
Smiley followed the directions he discovered on the Matrix straight to the street doc's location. The alley was completely devoid of any light, being as the street lights were conveniently positioned as to ensure none of their illumination made it within. With the bloody elf in tow and worse for wear, Smiley supported his weight and they both hobbled down towards the door.

Smiley rapped on the door. Nothing happened right away. Then there were sounds of scuffling and commotion from within, immediately followed by footsteps on creaking floors. The door opened inwards abruptly and before the both of them was a scruffy, disheveled, unshaven man wearing a butcher's apron smeared with blood. He wore bloody latex gloves on his hands, and in one he was holding an open bottle of tequila. He wavered on his feet unsteadily and peered into the darkness with glassy eyes, first at Smiley and then the elf.

"Ah... you're... lookin' a little beat up, amigo," the doc said in a slurred voice. "Jus'... come on down here. We'll get you sorted out."

The street doc's "clinic" was a large, modified basement. Mold and rot were evident in the walls and in the beams above; they looked as if they could give at any moment, causing the floor above to come thundering down on all their heads. There were a few operating tables around, not even screened from each other and clearly visible from any point in the room. Some diagnostic equipment and other healthcare-involved machinery were at stationed at various points. On one table was the hacked up body of a young man, clearly split open from neck to nuts with his ribcage cracked wide open. Splintered ribs stuck up from the opening.

"Don't mind him," the doctor waved dismissively. "Couldn't pay the bill." The street doc chuckled at his own joke, and walked over into the corner of the room. He went to a cardboard box that he upended, dumping the contents onto the damp floor with a series of resonating clangs. He started to pick out instruments: scalpels, scissors, and some object that looked something like a hacksaw with spikes on it. Oh, and he grabbed a blood pressure cuff, too.

"So, uh..." The doctor paused to burp, then resumed. "Uh, tell me what's bothering you?"

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

Coatl and Sonora
[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Sonora's Doss, Nueva Caracas; 03:35 AM]
The matress springs stopped squeaking from within the bedroom in Sonora's doss. Muffled voices resonated through the thin walls and single-panel door, but giggling was distinctly heard. A few moments later the smells of ganja started seeping out into the living area. Carmen usually sparked up when she was done pleasing another, and she was more than likely sharing a blunt between them to seal the deal.

Meanwhile Sonora was making a call to her arms dealer friend, Sergei. He answered almost right away.
<<Chto za huy! Who fucking calls at four in the fucking morning?>>
Despite his anger he sounded as if he'd already been awake. Sonora had never been able to catch him off guard, either away from his comm or sleeping. Calling him never went straight to voicemail. Some had doubts as to if he ever really slept at all.

Meanwhile, the commlink that Coatl grabbed off of Machete previously in the evening began buzzing again. Somebody was calling.

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

Dexter
[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Gematria Applied Analytics, Chacao; 03:30 AM]
The door opened with a click, allowing Dexter inside. He knew the way to Morris's office, of course. The elevator required a thumbprint to activate, which Dexter supplied with his meat hand. He also knew that the scanners sampled the DNA for a match and tested it for standard bodyheat signatures. Though sleepy-seeming on the outside, within the DSI spared no expense when it came to security.

The dark hallway stretching out towards Morris's office was lined with scanners, detectors, cameras, and the occasional automatic drone turret. Even though he was authorized to be here, the guns still tracked Dexter as he made his way to the meeting with the man himself, as if to remind him to be on his best behavior.

The door was wide open, and the smell of those goddamn awful cigarillos was spilling out into the hallway. Morris sat behind the desk in his spacious office. Everything inside was neatly and precisely placed, with nothing indicating that any sort of disarray or chaos occured within. Morris was a man who paid careful attention to details, and liked for everything to be in its proper place. Even people.

When Dexter entered, Morris rose and extended his hand in greeting.

"Yeah... guess you can clean up when you want to," he drawled in that snarky tone of his. He was in Smug Asshole Mode currently. "So, looks like we're getting down to brass tacks."

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

Stephen
[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; The Cat's Paw, Nueva Caracas; 03:30 AM]
((+1 Background Count))

Stephen clung to the shadows and stayed some distance away from the entrance to The Cat's Paw, preferring to take the more circumspect and careful route. From where he stood, the guards appeared not to have seen him. In fact they more or less stood standing there, assault rifles in arm, and just glanced around while people made their way in and out of the front door without being stopped.

He casted Mind Probe on one of the guards and attempted to read his thoughts. The guard stopped and put a hand to his head as if massaging away a headache.

"Man, I can't wait until I'm off duty. Coupla them girls in there look pretty tasty, and I'm harder than a dikoted nightstick."
"How come 1 plus 1 isn't 11? Am I the only person who's thought of this?"
"Wonder how much pussy Mr. Ramirez gets running this place. Must be good to be the boss."

The Mind Probe wasn't strong enough for Stephen to dig through the guard's mind, though some of the surface thoughts appeared useful enough.

"...Why do I feel so funny? Somebody doing something to me?"

The other guard noticed his partner's unease and looked over at him.

"Yo, hombre. You alright? You ain't pukin' up on me again, are you?"

[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; The Cat's Paw, Nueva Caracas; 03:30 AM]
((+1 Background Count))

Stephen stepped out from behind the corner, and walked towards the bouncers. I'm getting sloppy. Not thinking straight. Maybe come back another night, maybe get it right next time. I wish this hangover would go away... He brushed the rain off his coat, looking them up and down. They don't seem particularly smart. Just big. Too big for me to do anything about. At least I know something they don't.

Stephen pulled the goggles off and put them inside his coat. He could barely keep his hand from shaking. He couldn't tell if it was because this was the first break in the case for as long as he could remember, or because he hadn't had a drink in a while. He'd have to do something about the drinking, he wasn't sharp anymore. He kept making mistakes. Eventually, one of those mistakes would cost him when it counted. And then he'd be in a fight for his life. So far, he'd been lucky. Well, relatively. His sister was still dead, and he still didn't have any answers. Lucky in the sense that someone hadn't gut-shot him and left him to die in the gutter in this hell hole. It's important to appreciate the little things.. He thought to himself, as he walked up to the bouncers, giving his best "don't fuck with me" look.

"I'm here to see Mr. Ramirez. He's expecting me."

I hope this works. Normally I come up with a backup plan. What's my backup plan here?

[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Alley Street Clinic, El Zamural; 03:33 AM]

Upon escorting the mysterious elf at his side to an operating table, Smiley turns to face the street 'doctor'. "Well, you see, our friend His Holey-ness here seems to of taken a bullet or nine not too long ago, including one in his head. So we was ho- Uh, sorry..." He brings his hand up to rub his temples for a moment before pointing to the cut up body laying on the slab, "Could you put a tarp or something over that guy? Reminding me of some battlefield injuries I seen, it's distracting."

Waiting for the doctor to actually cover up the body, Smiley sighs when the doctor merely places the cardboard box that was upended earlier over top the person's head. "Yeah, great. Much better." He takes a few steps around the room, looking around. "Anyways... We need you to give him some proper medical attention. Take out what bullets you can, stop the bleeding, that kind of shit. Shouldn't be too hard, I mean you do have formal education on treating injuries and whatnot, right?"

As he waits for a response to the last question from the tipsy street doc, Smiley crosses his arms. The whole place reeked of blood and hard liqour, or maybe that was all coming from the doc and was strong enough to overpower what other odors came from this 'clinic'. It all did anything but put Smiley at ease, and he started to wonder why he cared enough to see this unknown stranger get proper medical attention. The elf's wires alone could probably pay for whatever repairs his car needs, and who knows what else is in the elf's battered body that could fetch a price. He pondered just letting the doc inject some hardcore poison instead of anesthetic, get money from the guys cyberware... Nah, not going to happen. I've seen that movie before, always ends badly. Besides, it might be more helpful to have as good a marksman as him owe his life to me.

[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Alley Street Clinic, El Zamural; 03:33 AM]

"Uh, tell me what's bothering you?"

Upon hearing that sentence from the clearly drugged out street doc the amnesiac froze for a few seconds. Then a white hot ball of fury exploded inside him and everything turned blood red. It had been piling up since he woke up in that damn alley and the stupid question was the straw that finally broke the camel's back.

"What's bothering me? You wanna know what the fuck is bothering me? Maybe it's the fact that I woke up two hours ago lying in a pool of blood, not being able to remember anything? Or maybe it's the fact that since then I have spent my time being chased around and shot at? Or maybe, just maybe, IT'S THE FUCKING BULLET HOLE IN MY HEAD, WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU THINK IT IS YOU WASHED-UP HOMELESS BUM OF A "DOCTOR"? So get your fucking head out of your ass and do your job or I'll swear to god I will CARVE OUT YOUR FUCKING HEART WITH A TEASPOON!"

Trembling with rage the elf faced the target of his misplaced aggression, his fists clenched up so firmly that his knuckles showed all white, slowly comning to the realization that insulting the only doctor available to cure his life-threatening injury wasn't his smartest idea of the night. Not that he had had many smart ideas at all.

Stumbling, then catching himself on Smiley's shoulder, the elf stammered: "I dont'...know...where that came from. Must be the blood loss. Or the bullet in my brain. Or something. Sorry."
Strangely the doctor's only response seemed to be some beeping noise. The elf shook his head in confusion.

Sonora's Doss - Nueva Caracas, 03:35 AM
Biomonitor: Stable

<Sergei, it's Sonora,> she started. The ghost of a smile crossed her lips at his anger. Sneaky fucking Russian - one of these days she was going to set a ping every hour on the hour to catch him sleeping.

Well, if she lived through the next twenty-four hours. The thought of a second stopwatch with even less time on it counting down brought the words out in a jumble.

<I know it's early, Sergei, but I'm in a bind. You're the one with the knowledge of every group in town - I need a bit of an infodump on La Alianza, primarily who the big players are, where they hang out, and who wants them out of the picture. They're-->


Sonora heard the buzz of a commlink that wasn't immediately clear to be Coatl's.

<Chingame. They're pretty ticked about a ten-spot of Tempo, and I need to do a little quick-thinking.>

Sonora's Doss - Nueva Caracas, 03:35 AM

Coatl looked down at his pants as they began to make noise. It took several seconds for him to remember about the stolen commlink--it had been a couple of hours since he nabbed it. He took it out and looked at it, trying to recall exactly what his big plan had been with this. There'd been an idea in there somewhere...

The big troll looked at the caller ID, although he had an idea who was calling--and it probably wasn't the guy's wife, wondering why he was still out wildcatting at this hour when he no longer had a dick. Should he answer it? La Alianza could probably trace the comm if he answered. Or could they do that if it was just turned on? Maybe he should turn the comm off so they weren't followed.

The comm's been buzzing for several seconds while he slowly ponders these options. Finally he accepts the call, but he doesn't speak; he just lets whoever's on the other end say their peace.

[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Gematria Applied Analytics, Chacao; 03:30 AM]

He doesn't offer me a chair, and I don't sit down. I do my best to keep my hands in my pockets. All I want right now is to haul Morris over his desk and within an inch of my face. But I don't. Morris' been good to me the past 5 years. I ain't holdin' any illusion; we ain't friends. But what we are both somewhat decent professionals, with some sort of mutual respect for each other's job. And we're patriots.

Morris is lucky, cause my mood has brightened a bit.
I go for the polite approach.

"If that means you're about to tell me every single fuckin' thing you know about my son; then yea, we're getting' down to brass tacks."

Dexter
[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Gematria Applied Analytics, Chacao; 03:30 AM]
With a visible effort Morris prematurely shunted his Smarmy Bastard side and got into his more direct and business-like personality. With a sigh, he withdrew his untaken hand and took his own seat, nodding to Dexter to do the same.

"You've been bagging Azzies for a long, long time. The success you've had against them in your ops over the years has pissed them off, to put it lightly. You've cost them quite a bit in terms of the bottom line and in face. Time and time again you were a ghost, embarassing them repeatedly, and putting bullets in the brainpans of their best operatives. Each one of those trained soldiers you shuffled off to the next world represented a huge loss in man hours and money spent training them, and more than a handful were awakened, which is a nightmare for HR recruiters to come by."

Morris withdrew his shades and rubbed his reddened, tired eyes. He'd evidently been up a while. He continued talking however, putting no pauses in his exposition.

"We have a few moles, deep cover operatives within Aztlan, even well into Tenochtitlan itself. Some of them are so deep they don't even realize they are, with all the deep-level mental reprogramming we've done on them. They're sleepers waiting for triggers and opportunities, and occasionally they'll send us a big jackpot of paydata when Aztlan information security lapses. We got one of those recently."

Morris did pause them, and he looked straight into Dexter's eyes. Morris only did this when he was about to be open to the point of risking himself, when some tiny part of him decided that altruism was the nobler course of action. "Your son was part of an Aztechnology-funded campaign to retalliate against some of the nation's enemies. They didn't want you to die. You had pissed them off way too much for that. They did not want to destroy your body. They wanted to destroy your soul. The Azzies wanted you to hurt and feel pain down to the very core of your being, to destroy you mentally and emotionally. It pains me to say that based on your dossier, both what we've had on you and what the Azzies had, that they were successful.

"The files don't say what eventually became of your son. I do know he was smuggled into Tenochtitlan itself. Whether or not he's alive..." Morris trailed off and held his hands out helplessly. He even wore a sympathetic expression; it looked strange on his face, as if he weren't used to it.

"I tell you this because it leads to something else, something relevant to the conversation. Maybe you can use it to motivate yourself in this next batch of operations. See, what we also got from that paydata is that Aztlan has some political aims here in Caracas. This shit with the drug Tempo and the actions by various cartels and criminal organizations has destabilized the region. Amazonia and Aztlan both are beating their chest, and Caracas looks to be right in the middle of what may become a very bloody war. To get the town ripe for the plucking, Aztlan and Aztechnology have sent special black ops teams here to Caracas. They're all over the place, killing people, either enemies or targets of opportunity. Aztlan is settling as many scores as they possibly can, and they have a very, very long list of names. Your name is also on that list."

Morris slid an optical chip across the table. "That's a special chip, keyed to work only in your commlink. It's also got enough white phosporous in it to flash burn a commlink into a useless heap in anybody else's. That's MOST of the information we received from the upload. Some of it isn't relevant, or is just plain useless. But everything having to do with your case is in there, as well as the known strike teams in the area and their list of targets.

"I'll be in touch with you, Mr. Pope, and help guide you in your counterops. And you need to watch your back out there. This isn't cat-and-mouse on either side. You're wolves, each hunting the other. Now, any questions?"

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

Sonora and Coatl
[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Sonora's Doss, Nueva Caracas; 03:35 AM]
Sergei muttered some choice Russian curses under his breath, but when he reponded to Sonora his tone was greatly moderated.
<<How soon you need this by? I don't quite have entire file in my ass, could take some time. It also costs money. The more money you give me, the bigger the file. I work harder for a cute devotchka like yourself, of course. Or for just a small fee I tell you everything I know over the comm.>>

The door to Carmen's bedroom opened up, the girl herself stepping out wearing nothing but a faint smile and a bikini bottom. She was also puffing on a giant blunt that seemed as if it were proportioned for a troll. Sure everyone says you can't get addicted to grass, but Carmen seemed determined to prove them wrong at times... Upon seeing the Coatl she let out a little squeak of surprise and ducked back behind the door, peering out from around the corner.

"I'm sorry! I didn't know Sonora had company!" Of course her surprised faded a bit, and she started giving Coatl an appraising look and pursing her lips thoughtfully.

Coatl, meanwhile had answered the comm, or rather, connected the call and kept his mouth shut to see who said what.
<<I can hear you breathing.>>
The voice was a low, creepy, sinister-sounding rasp belonging to a man.
<<You took Luiz's commlink. I'm guessing you had something to do with us finding his body out in the street. Last time I cut somebody's head off I finished the job. His was only hanging on by a little bit of meat. Since you have his comm, I have to ask if you also have his money.>>

Carmen's curiosity surpassed her sudden modesty, and she trotted out of the bedroom and up to Coatl. She jerked a thumb at the bedroom and said, "He's leaving soon. You know, you're quite the hunk. Once he's gone, we could, you know..." And she gave the big guy a suggestive wink. "I'm good for another round."

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

Sam and Smiley
[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Back Alley Street Clinic, El Zamural; 03:33 AM]
At Smiley's question, the doctor grunted something noncommital in response. Then louder, "Heh. Formal training. Yeah, sure."

When Sam went on his rant, the doctor began to look obviously shaken, and he cupped his hands over his ears, smearing them with blood. "Who the fuck are you barking at, pendejo? That's a fuckin' heart monitor. You really are beat up, aren't you?"

The doctor stripped off his gloves and washed his hands in a dirty sink in the corner of the basement. The water looked brown, but he at least squirted some dish detergent on his hands. "Need you to hop up on the table, and remove your clothes, even your shorts. And don't make any loud noises. When I'm this drunk loud noises make my hands shake." The doc nodded over at Smiley. "You help him. Chingame he's gonna die like that other guy over there did, and then I'll have two bodies to get rid of."

The doctor stripped off his bloody apron and made some overtures towards sanitation, even wiping some of the blood smeared across his face off with a towel. He then put a surgical mask over his face and slipped two brand new latex gloves on over his hands before grabbing a stainless steel tray and sliding it over to the operating table.

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

Stephen
[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; The Cat's Paw, Nueva Caracas; 03:31 AM]
((+1 Background Count Outside, +2 Inside))

When Stephen approached the guard he had Influenced and spoke, the guard nodded at him. "Uh, yeah sure."

"Wait, who the fuck is this jerk-off, and why's he seeing Ramirez?" The other guard looked Stephen up and down. "He looks like a regular customer."

The first guard merely shrugged his shoulders. "Fuck if I know or care, holmes. I get told he's to see the jefe, who am I to argue? Follow me," he says, and turns towards the large, wooden double doors. He opens one of them and leads Stephen into the den of depravity behind.

The Cat's Paw was a large building, a good ten stories tall. When Nueva Caracas went into the shitter and the seedier part of society moved in, several entrepreneurial flesh traders decided to set up the Big Daddy of all cathouses in this former five-star hotel. The lobby opened up into a large, open social area, complete with a bar at the other end. The lights were dim and the music was contemporary club-friendly neo-tribal techno-pop. Some of the ladies, giving previews of what they had to offer, danced on poles around the room. One voluptuous ork chica was up on raised dais, shaking her ample assets around for everone to check out.

The ladies were many, and diverse. Babes of every ethnicity, meta- and bodytype strutted around looking to see if the various juans were in the market for what they were selling. There were even a some young men available for those that leaned that way, and there were eager patrons leading them off into rooms as well.

The background count in worse in here than out in the streets, but in a totally different way. The sheer depravity and unbridled lust that went on in this establishment twenty-four-seven created an astral environment of... pure horniness. The psychoactive charge of mana swirling around behind the Veil had all the traces of non-stop indulgence of flesh and ecstacy. As he followed the guard, Stephen became quite noticeably aroused. His pants fitted a little tighter, and his skin became a little flushed. Sweat started to bead up on his forehead.

The guard stopped at an elevator, which he activated with a key hanging off his belt. Noticing Stephen's "reaction," to this place, he commented, "Yeah, lotta the chicas do that to me, too. There's this one troll babe I can't wait to bang, been saving up for weeks to rent her for the night. I think I'd die happy if I were smothered in between her giant..."

The elevator ride up to the top floor was made to seem longer as the guard ranted on about the object of his affection. He described in vivid detail her proportions, and the shape and density of the dermal deposits along her backside. The guard quivered a bit when he talked about how he once saw her throw out a rough customer herself, and described in agonizing, unnecessary detail about just HOW much it turned him on.

When the elevator dinged for the top floor, the guard almost didn't notice. He turned to Stephen and timidly asked, "D-do... do you think she'll like me?"

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

El Mono and Chaske
[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; The Final Round, Nueva Caracas; 03:33 AM]
As Mono and Chaske sat huddled in their booth discussing the night's events, a man strode into the bar just beyond the doorway, then stopped. He stood right beyond the threshold and scanned the entire room as if looking for somebody. With a look of disappointment on his face he turned to exit, and then stopped dead in his tracks as he gazed over at the booth where both Chaske and Mono sat. A look of recognition spread across his face, which was then replaced by a look of murder.

Chaske was oblivious to this scene playing out by the entrance, but not Mono, his paranoia having trained him over the years to keep his eyes on every entrance and exit at all times simultaneously, no matter how much work it was.

The man pressed a button on his commlink and then began moving his mouth as if in conversation with somebody in a commcall, and then quickly strode out of the door the way he came, bumping into a new arrival on his way out.

"Watch where ya going, fuckin' puto!" the customer barked behind him, and then made his way straight to the bar to watch some games.

[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; The Final Round, Nueva Caracas; 03:32 AM]
[Commlink:Hidden]

"Why'd I do it? Chaske asks with a far off smile at something from his past. "I don't know, man. I don't know. A bunch of things, you know? Can't really explain, too many things. Just..reminded me of something from my past." Chaske lets out short bark of a laugh. "Here I am in the ass pit of the world and I'm still being reminded of things from back then. He says with a sigh before looking around for his food. "So, you screwed with a wizard? Or just his sister?" he says with a slightly more serious tone, "Because, damn, omae. Sending professionals out after you, and for years? You must really have torqued that dude off."

[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Back Alley Street Clinic, El Zamural; 03:34 AM]

"Uh, right." Smiley muttered as he escorted the mysterious elf back to the free operating table, "Comeon now man, do what he says real quick. Don't like it any more than you do." He looks around the clinic, looking for something in particular. "Hey Doc, this guy's bloodstained clothes are kinda inviting to anyone who has a thing for eating meta's, so I don't suppose theres a flats vending machine that still works anywhere around here or..." He stops for a moment, looking over to the dead body laying on the other operating table with a box over it's head.

Smiley turns to face the dead body, pointing at it for the doctors sake as he speaks up again. "This poor bastard don't need his shirt and pants, does he? What about his commlink? Where his personal effects at?" He pauses again, reaching up to scratch his head. "In fact, who the hell is he? Some ganger looking for an upgrade but couldn't pay?"

[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Back Alley Street Clinic, El Zamural; 03:34 AM]

"Why is the doctor beeping at me?" the elf confusedly asked Smiley while the rigger led him to the operating table. "Everything is swirling."

[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Back Alley Street Clinic, El Zamural; 03:34 AM]

"Just take off your clothes and get on the table, try to avoid screaming, and you'll be fifteen bullets lighter before you know it.", said Smiley, letting off a bit of a sigh afterwards. "And don't go slow with the undressing, ain't nobody here for a show."

[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Sonora's Doss, Nueva Caracas; 03:35 AM]

The woman's offer was certainly intriguing, but he had to focus on one thing at a time and Coatl had the feeling the commcall is more important. At least right now. If Sonora ended up spending much more time on her call...

He held up one thick, rough finger to Carmen in a "wait a tick" gesture. Turning away from her a bit, he said into the commlink, <<If that stupid fucking cacorro had any money, he'd have kept his head and his 'link. I gave him chance and chance to pay, but he kept abusing my kindness. So I had to take it out in trade. Wouldn't do to have little boys thinking they could keep my money from me. What? He owe you money, too? That's too bad. Tell you what, his body still plenty fresh; go on and sell him off to the canibales, they give you a good deal.>>

He glanced over at Sonora and idly wondered how much this girl with the nice tits charged. The part of his mind in charge of the commcall was wondering just what the hell he was thinking. Truthfully, he didn't know, but finding out was going to be fun.

[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Back Alley Street Clinic, El Zamural; 03:35 AM]

Since he left his trenchcoat, shirt and body armor in the car after taking them off to apply the bandages, the elf only needed to lose his boots, pants and underwear before he climbed on the operating table butt-naked except for the gun, which he laid down close-by within his reach.

While lying down he looked at the eviscerated body on the other table and then at Smiley, the message clear. Don't let me end up like him.

Sonora's doss - Nueva Caracas, 03:35 AM
Biomonitor: Stable

<Sergei,> Sonora started as she could hear Coatl rumbling something, <How about the one-hundred 'yen file with the major bits? I have a feeling the details will come up on their own from there.>

She took a look at Carmen, happily puffing on her blunt and couldn't help but shake her head and smile. Dress size was about all they shared; the streetwalker's outlook on life was unnaturally optimistic, despite working on her back in this South American hellhole. Sonora sometimes wondered if she wasn't some scion from Europe, slumming it just for the thrill and getting her rocks off by being paid to wade through the muck of metahumanity.

She could've had one of her amigos follow-up, but Carmen was just too nice to do that to.

Hm. If she lost the bad peroxide blonde dye-job, she could probably make the telenovelas with a good ID wipe, Sonora reflected. When I hit it big, I'll see what I can do.

[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; The Cat's Paw, Nueva Caracas; 03:35 AM]
((+1 Background Count Outside, +2 Inside))

Stephen patted the Bouncer on the back, after hearing his gruesome description. "I'm sure she will; so long as your cred is good, she'll give you the night of your life." Stephen left him in the elevator alone, and entered the hallway on the top floor as the doors closed behind him. Whoever "Mr. Ramirez" was, Stephen was going to find out, and get as much information from him as possible. If he had any part in what happened to his sister, things were going to to get a bit messier after he got all the information he wanted. His head was starting to ache, but he pushed it to the back of his mind as he walked down the hall towards whatever was in store for him next.

[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Gematria Applied Analytics, Chacao; 03:30 AM]

I don't take the seat right away. I'm a stubborn bastard, but the humidity has been killin' my knees these past few months. They cringe and creak like rusted piece of an old machine. Morris does his usual shit; he tells me a bunch of stuff I already know so I feel like he's sharing something. Except he ain't. He's just rehashing old stories. Stories I haven't heard in a long time. Stories that wake me up some nights, when I leave my sleep regulator off. Shit I'd like to forget, but can't.

I'm about half a second away from telling him to go fuck himself when he takes his shades of. He looks straight at me. Straight through me. I haven't see the man this tired in a long time. I haven't seen him look at me like this ever since we first met. That day, in that forgotten drinking hole, Morris was an honest man. Said he needed my help.

Today, he's honest once again.

He starts talking about Arthur. I can feel the synthwood of the armrest creak under my hands. My jaw is twitching so bad I feel like my teeth are going to explode in my mouth. He lays it all down on me. I grow cold inside. The burning hatred I had flaming up inside is gone. My jaw isn't twitching anymore. My entire body feels numb. I can only think on thing: murder. My demons now have a face, and I'm going to bash it in. I take the chip and pocket it. I'll have plenty of time to look at it later. Right here and now, I want to make sure Morris knows what he's done. I want to make sure he knows what's coming.

"You realize what this means Morris?"

He rubs the bridge of his nose, and doesn't answer right away.

"I believe I do."

"You let me leave this room, I ain't ever comin' back."

He looks at me again. Straight at me.

"Cause when I leave this room, there ain't nothing that's going to stop me. I'm going to kill them all Morris. All of them. Everyone who crosses my path. I'm going to burn everything down. By the time I'm done, there'll be enough corpses to feed the ghouls for the next decade."

Morris takes a deep breath and nods.

"I won't be able to stop Morris. When I go too far, ya'll to stop me Morris. When I cross the line for good; ya'll have to kill me to."

He slips his glasses back on.

"Well Mr.Pope, let's just hope it doesn't come to that."

He smiles at me. We both know it'll come to that.
Maybe the big wigs back home don't know this.
Maybe the head DSI guys have no clue what they've just done.

But Morris knows me.
He knows what he has unleashed.
I'm going to start a fuckin' war in Caracas, and a lot of people are going to end up dead.

"I'm gonna need money. I had to fork over my pickup to pay the fuckin' rent. There ain't no way I can do this job without wheels. So either you give me something out of your motor pool, or a shit load of cash."

Smiley and Sam
[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Back Alley Street Clinic, El Zamural; 04:02 AM]
The street doc tsked behind his mask as he looked over the forgetful elf's body, not in any lustful way mind you, but with the appraising and studious eye of somebody prepping for the task before him.

"Gonna need some help on this," the doc said. He turned and ran over into a corner where a compressed air tank sat upright in a wheeled cart, which he pulled over. A tube came from off the top end, which terminated in a gas mask that he placed over Sam's mouth and nose.

"Suck on this," the doc said unceremoniously. "You'll like it." He then turned a small valve and the tell-tale hiss of gas being dispersed could be noticed by those in attendance.

As the gas took hold, the elf found himself drifting on clouds made of sunshine as rainfall made of moonbeams and rose petals rained all around him. The sun peaked out over white, billowing clouds in the distance, and beams of light colored like rainbows dazzled him and shone over all of existance. Far below him he could make out rolling fields of tall, green grass. Gazelles bounded through the thick vegetation, carrying Brothers Grimm-style elves, impish fellows who cheered and laughed with voices that sounded as if they themselves had been huffing helium. His body felt lighter than air, lighter than the clouds even on which he was resting. He found himself floating up, up, up into the clear, blue sky with arms outstretched. He felt as if his physical body were made of joy.

Meanwhile in the real world, the doctor was jamming a dirty scalpel unceremoniousy into the elf's bullet wounds, almost as if he were carving his name into a tree. What little the the elf had done in his self-stabilizaton to stem the bleeding the doctor had completely reversed, as blood was gushing from the wounds. After a time he rammed some flat-bladed medical scissors into the holes and after some rummaging around, came up with a small, deformed metal slug oozing with blood, which he dropped on the stainless steel surgical tray with a clang.

"One... two... three..." the doctor counted with each recovered round. After about ten minutes he had a small pile of bullet tips on the tray, and still he was working.

The doc spoke to Smiley throughout the procedure, just small-talk to pass the time. He did mention the dead guy in the corner, mentioned he was a gang member for some minor street crew that came rolling in for some patchwork just a little too late. The doc figured since he died on the table and had no identification on him, he'd just chop him up for parts and make some money back on him.

"I put some scraps around back for the ghouls, too. They leave me alone 'cause they know I leave 'em treats. Oh they'll drag any other hombre in there and tear 'em up, but they let me be. Even ghouls are smart enough not to kill the golden goose, you know?

"Also your amigo here, he's gonna make it. He needs to take it easy, and I'll give him some pills I have somewhere to keep the infection off. He's gonna need it, what with all this shit he's got implanted in him. Chingada but I hate digging around wires. I'll sew up these holes and if you can keep him settled down he'll recover in a few days."

The doc gestured at the sam's forehead with a bloody scalpel as he spoke. "Not gonna bother with that. That's beyond my little operation here, pardon the pun. Some big peckers at a fancy corp-owned hospital or maybe DocWagon could dig that out, but I say if it's not bothering him just to leave it be for now. Not the first miraculous headshot survival story I've seen, but they're impressive enough. I'll clean it up so no critters get in there and eat his brains."

Once the doc had stitched up the elf's wounds, he tugged the latex gloves off with a snap and then jerked the gas mask off before turning the valve off. The sam's body became heavy again. The sunshine disappeared back beneath clouds that became dark and oppressive. The gazelles and little men vanished, and the grass withered away, leaving a dusty wasteland behind. He plummetted back down to the earth, tearing through the atmosphere at terminal velocity. Right before impact, he found himself back in his body.

And then the pain set in.

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

Stephen
[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; The Cat's Paw, Nueva Caracas; 03:38 AM]
((+2 Background Count))
A red roll of carpet stretched from the elevator down to a set of open glass double-doors. Stephen left the guard in the elevator with his erotic fantasies and made his way down to the doors. Stenciled on the frost glass were the words "Señor Alanzo Ramirez." Within sat an obese man with a thin combover that was fooling absolutely nobody but him. A pair of wire-framed spectacles sat low on his nose and he squinted through them with beady eyes at something off to his left. As Stephen entered the room Ramirez appeared to be digging through an old-school filing cabinet complete with hardcopy folders and files within.

Señor Ramirez didn't even bother looking up. "Don't know who the fuck you are, don't know how you got in, and I don't think you have an appointment. Now what do you want? I'm busy here."

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

Dexter
[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Gematria Applied Analytics, Chacao; 03:32 AM]
"A vehicle?" Morris scratched at his beard and furrowed his brow in thought. "Yeah, I watched you walk in here on foot. You like to take chances, don't you, Mr. Pope?" He reached into his desk and opened a drawer out of sight to Dexter. Moments later he tossed a set of keys across the desk.

"Take that one. I'm sure it will be to your satisfaction. It's in the parking garage."

Morris slipped his shades back on and laced his fingers together, resting them on his chest as he leaned back comfortably in his chair.

"And Mr. Pope. I know this is personal for you. For what it's worth, and whether you believe me or not, I'm sorry you've gone through all this. But hear me when I say this is bigger than you, and you'll need help. What operatives we have locally are either out in the field doing what they can, or they're already dead. You need to see if you can collect from the local talent, find some specialists, or maybe even just some extra muscle. Some of the people in there," and Morris nodded towards the optical chip, "some of the ones Aztlan and Aztechnology have their sights on, they seem to be formidable folks. I'm willing to bet you can find some who aren't already dead whose aims would coincide with yours. I know you like to be a gung-ho Lone Wolf McQuaid or something, but do yourself, and all of us, here a favor: Stay alive, and kill those sons of bitches. Kill as many as you can. Kill 'em all. Let fuckin' Aztlan know that if they put their hands here they're pulling back a fucking stump.

"Is there anything else you need? I'd like to get some sleep. I've been up all night, and I foresee many more sleepless nights in my future."

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

Coatl and Sonora
[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Sonora's Doss, Nueva Caracas; 03:35 AM]
The voice on the other end of the dead man's comm chuckled, a raspy sound like a snake writhing through dry grass.
<<You had me for a moment there, but I'm afraid you're on the hook for Luiz's failure. See, if you'd really been after his money you would've taken the credstick he had in his pocket. It didn't have much on it but it was something. Now, he said he was after the people who took his... product. Since he died at your hands, I can only assume that it is you that took it. So I'll give you a chance to pay up and save us the trouble of coming to look for you. I'd say the payout currently comes to about ten thousand nuyen, this is after fees and interest, of course.>> The man on the other end laughed at his own joke, though the delivery made it abundantly clear that he was serious about the amount. <<Now, yes or no: do you have it?>>

Carmen, as the man spoke to Coatl over the comm, dashed back into the bedroom. She spoke to whomever was in the room. "Mierda! It's my boyfriend! You have to leave, out the window! He'll kill us both if he finds you!" A man's strangled cry could be heard from the bedroom, followed by thumps and frantic shuffling. A window opened, permitting the sounds of the street life outside, and then the clang-clang-clang-clang of feet making a getaway down a fire escape. When she returned, she winked at Coatl and made a "C'mere" gesture with her hand.

Sonora's conversation was going a bit different. Sergei grumbled again, no doubt a series of choice Russian oaths. <<The whole world has gone cheap on me. Fine. Um. La Alianza. Just like it says on tin, they were an alliance of street gangs that came together during some of the gang wars back in early 60s. The David Cartel in Aztlan had more of a foothold down here and the Olayas were pushing back hard, trying to throw them back into their own country. Now the Olayas needed help, so they bought a bunch of dirty mercs and soldados from South American countries to train gangs in military tactics. And they spent lots of money to train them and buy them weapons. La Alianza is more than a gang now. They have shootouts with La Policía and win most of time. They act like military men, use squad tactics and have military tech to fight ground battles with. I even sell them weapons sometimes. They pay on time. The leaders, nobody knows who they are. They send out field commanders but the brains behind La Alianza are unknown. Don't know, don't care, so long as checks clear the bank. Anyhow, you get in trouble with them, you are fucked.>>

The whole time Sergei reported, a snipping sound could be heard in the background. Was he really cutting his fucking nails while he talked on the comm?

<<That worth one hundred to you?>>

[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; The Final Round, Nueva Caracas; 03:33 AM]

Fuck. "Time to go, if you want to live, amigo. We've been spotted." Isn't that just the fucking luck. After searching the menu for whatever cheap-ass shit he could afford without barfing it back up, he was being forced to dine and dash. If he had known he was skipping out on the bill, he would have ordered real food.

Standing up and casually walking towards the pisser, he suddenly breaks and sprints through the kitchen. There's got to be an exit back there, right? They don't bring the "food" in through the front door. There! Trying his damnedest to dodge whatever knives and hot grease the cooks might be thinking about putting in his way, Mono hurtles through the kitchen and throws himself through the service door, glancing behind him to see if the new guy was following. Hombre did save his life once, after all. If he had a chance to even it up in the next few minutes without too much risk to himself, he would go for it. If the guy hesitated too long, Mono would light a candle for him and raise a glass to his memory later.

[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Back Alley Street Clinic, El Zamural; 04:02 AM]

As he looked on at the medical procedure before him, Smiley crossed his arms and leans against a wall, conversing with the doctor as he does the finishng touches. "Ah hah, so that is a lowly punk ganger. Well if you're making your money selling his organs and handing out scraps, you don't mind if we take whatever he came in with do you? My friend's clothing is a bit bloodstained and he could use a commlink."

After the operation, he approaches the elf and leans forward, "Hey man, you feelin' any better now that there's no longer a kilo of lead in you? Next time you should consider trying to dodge those bullets instead of catching them." Smiley gives the elf a smirk to go with his smarmy comment as he looks up to the doc, "So, aside from what I hope we can consider are free clothes and commlink for the man, how much we owe you for that?"

Sam and Smiley
[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Back Alley Street Clinic, El Zamural; 04:02 AM]
"I'm throwing in some antibiotics for him, so the price goes up. Call it two hundred yen and we're even." As the doc spoke he pushed the surgical tray across the room to crash into the wall; bloody instruments and recovered slugs rolled off the tray to clatter onto the floor. He opened up a medical cabinet and rummaged through some bottles, shaking them to hear if they had anything inside. Upon hearing a satisfactory rattle from one of them, he tossed it to Smiley.

"Make him take one every day until they're gone. And yeah, take that guy's clothes, his comm, whatever."

[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Gematria Applied Analytics, Chacao; 03:32 AM]

I sniff loudly. In Morris’ office, the sound seems twice as loud as I had expected. You’d think a spook’s office would have a little less echo. Maybe this ain’t his real office. Maybe it’s like his personal little rec room. Or whatever. I shove the key in my jacket, along with the chip. I’ve got a feeling I’ve just inherited some hopped up piece of trash that’s barely going to run. Or maybe something ridiculously flashy they got off a dead tempo dealer. Purple car with hydraulics, gold rims and a big pair of fur dice hanging from the mirror. Right.

All I want is get out of here and go to work. My trigger finger is itching. My body is asking for blood. Not mine.

“Yea, I got one last thing to say. What about Sue and the kids? If the heat’s comin’ down, I gotta keep ‘em safe.”

Dexter
[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Gematria Applied Analytics, Chacao; 03:32 AM]
"We've had people keeping an eye on them for a while already, ever since you started working for us, for this very reason. We do that for the families of all our operatives. If things go south here, or if somebody makes a move up there, then we swoop in and relocate them. They're in good hands, Mr. Pope. Have no worries about that."

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

Stephen
[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; The Cat's Paw, Nueva Caracas; 03:38 AM]
((Background Count +2))
Stephen wanted to be sure that nothing was amiss here in Señor Ramirez's office, so he allowed himself to open up to the astral plane, his perception shifting over into that other world.

Before Stephen could form a reply to the jefe's question, his throat locked up. His entire being was bathed in the overwhelming sexual energies swirling about this entire building, even in this very office, where no doubt this fat cerdo of a man brought the young girls into this office and forced his intentions on them. Stephen could almost taste traces of the man's libido in astral space and feel the white hot intensity of his desire.

Stephen had to lean up against the door frame for fear of hitting the carpet and curling up into a ball. A wave of dizziness swept over him, as well as a repeated ebbing and flowing of pleasure that went well beyond that of mere physical gratification. Indeed, it was risky to open himself up to the astral plane in such a busy domain such as this, and now he was seeing some of the consequences.

Ramirez actually stopped what he was doing and looked in askance at the work standing in his doorway. "Man, what the hell is your problem? I've got girls downstairs that'll do that for you. I know I'm muy apuesto and all but I don't swing that way and I'm busy. Now what the fuck do you want, or do I have to call security up here to throw you out a window?"

[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Back Alley Street Clinic, El Zamural; 04:03 AM]

Nodding to the street doc, Smiley transfers the fee to the doc or, failing that, downloads it to his credstick and hands it over. After that he moves over to take whatever use to belong to the dead ganger, tossing the clothes to the elf and clipping any commlink he finds to his belt before walking over to the door, leaning against it in wait. "Hurry up and get dressed man, best we get outta here before someone finds a way to jack my ride." He gives the doctor a nod, "And thanks again to you, man."

[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Back Alley Street Clinic, El Zamural; 04:03 AM]

The pain was back. The doc digging around in his bullet wounds hadn't helped with that, necessary as it had been, and Smiley's drug didn't seem to work anymore. Grinding his teeth the elf without a name got off the operating table. "I liked the sunshine clouds and gazelles better than this." he mumbled wryly. "Thanks doc."

When Smiley made his 'suggestion' he grinned. "I'll try to remember that next time someone's trying to riddle me with bullets. Somehow I have the feeling that I won't have to wait too long for that."

Aching, he picked up whatever the rigger was throwing at him and put it on. Grabbing his old clothes - Maybe there's still something in or on them that will help me discover something about my past - he prepared to leave the clinic with his companion.

Sonora's doss - Nueva Caracas, 03:35 AM
Biomonitor: Stable

<That gives me the perfect idea of how much trouble I'm in, Sergei. You're the best - usual account?>

Sonora effected the transfer as soon as the call was up. She told him she'd be sure to look him up again for more lucrative business when things picked up, which from the sound of things may be soon.

She glanced up in time to see Carmen beckoning Coatl towards the bedroom. What's more, now that she was off her call she could get a better idea of who Coatl was talking to. Still, it didn't hurt...

"Tsst! Carne! Who are you talking to?" she asked.

[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; The Cat's Paw, Nueva Caracas; 03:40 AM]
((Background Count +2))

Once Stephen had composed himself a bit, he addressed Ramirez.

"This whole building makes me sick, so I'll make this quick. There are two ways this could go, so I think it would be useful for you to do the math on them ahead of time so we understand each other. The first way is that you tell me what I want to know, and then I leave without incident. The second way is that you call your security up here, and I blow your fucking brains out. I've already demonstrated I was able to get past them once, and I think you know you're not going to have enough time to stop me.

Of course your security, loyal people that they are, will then kill me immediately afterwards. Here's where the math comes in. I don't care if I live or die, and I'm pretty sure you do. So why don't we calm down and have a conversation, and we can both get out of this alive."

Stephen pulled the crumpled flier out of his jacket and showed it to Ramirez.

"Tell me everything you know about this girl."

[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; The Final Round, Nueva Caracas; 03:33 AM]
[Commlink:Hidden]

At Mono's words Chaske looks around quickly while simultaneously checking his ultrawideband overlay. "Too many people," he thinks to himself, "Can't tell who's friend or foe." With a scowl at his oversight Chaske grabs a handful of crackers and sugar substitute packets from the table and follows Mono while trying to keep an eye on both their backs. "What about my bike, man?" Chaske whispers hoarsely to Mono.

[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Back Alley Street Clinic, El Zamural; 04:04 AM]

After waiting for the nameless elf to finally get dressed, Smiley decided it was time to finally get a move on. With a final nod to the doc after giving him his payment, he lead his companion out the door and back to the car. As he walked, Smiley pulled the newly aquired commlink of his belt and extended a free hand to the elf, "Hey, give me that chip yeah? I'll see if I can't hack this commlink into being my bitch, check what's on the chip, than both are yours without question."

Making a sudden stop at the mouth of the alley, Smiley pulled out a pair of red-tinted sunglasses and put them on despite the fact it's still dark out, scanning around the area near his car just in case something was waiting for them. Provided there is nothing, he'll likely keep going to the car. If not... Then it'd be obvious which of his current possessions he'll need to grab next.

[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Back Alley Street Clinic, El Zamural; 04:04 AM]

After a second of hesitation, the amnesiac handed the optical chip to Smiley. He didn't remember a lot but he knew that he didn't have much in the way of computer skills and losing the data due to some stupid avoidable mistake would be desastrous.

"Work your magic, chummer!"

Following the rigger the elf scouted his surroundings with green cyber-eyes, the Manhunter firmly in hand.

I really need to get a smartlinked weapon, I'm feeling blind with this low-tech gun.

Sonora's doss - Nueva Caracas, 03:36 AM

Oh, this girl, she had a style that Coatl liked. Direct and quick-thinking, with a nice firm rack and something in that bikini bottom he'd like to go to work on. Might be worth the nuyen... aye-yi, but Sonora's done with her commcall, and this puto on the comm is rasping in his ear... Although truth be told Coatl was only half-listening. Most of his attention was on Carmen.

The world never fucking stops for even a second, does it? Too many things going on here and there's no way he's going to get to dip his wick at this rate.

He doesn't say anything to Sonora, too busy as he is with the call, but he points to the comm and then taps the handle of the machete jutting up from his pants, hoping she'll make the connection. To make the connection a little clearer he looks to her as he says <<Man like you, bet he has a lot of people workin' for him he can send out to take care of things like this, yeah? And those men, it cost a lot of time to make them loyal, and cost a lot of money to make it so they worth a damn out here. Lot o' money. So I say to you: no. I don't have his money. You sell his meat to los canibales like I said. You try comin' after me and you gonna lose a lot more than ten thousand. You gonna lose everything you got invested in the men you send after me, and if you piss me off enough I might jus' come after you. I'll take your pecker jus' like you took Luiz', let you live like that for a little, see what it's like. Then I kill you.>>

He raises his eyebrows at Sonora and half-grins, a gesture that seems to ask What you think, yeah? That'll shut the little fucker up.

Sonora's Doss, 03:36 AM
Biomonitor: Stable

Sonora's jaw drops, and the expression on her face is one closely resembling abject horror.

Though he did have a point. This puto was going to lose a good hundred, two hundred thousand on goons if she could catch them coming and sucker them long enough for Coatl to open them wide up.

Her jaw snaps shut, and she begins to consider.

Wait, no. Get him to take off the head. If they're wearing body armor, we can get a premium for it. And it might be good stuff! Stuff I could wear and not get shot...Find a decent doctor and sell back whatever cyberware...

Shit. Can't think this way. Not this way. Profit after the bodies drop. Stay alive now. Get paid. Get fixed. Get out. They don't know where we...wait, didn't Carmen chase her Juan out over the bedroom fire escape?

Her eyes flicker to the bedroom, where Sonora just knows that window is still open.

Sonora and Coatl
[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Sonora's Doss, Nueva Caracas; 03:37 AM]
As Coatl continued his take-no-shit response into the comm, the man on the other end began growling, a fierce and gutteral sound that promised wrath in abundance. When at last Coatl was done laying down his challenge, the man he was talking to erupted.

<<You fucking puto! Do you know what we are capable of? Everyone you ever loved, they are dead! Oh... oh we are COMING for you! We know where you are! You are going to fucking die, and by millimeters, do you hear me? We're going to take you apart so... so slow... And make you watch as we feed you to the ghouls! You will beg for death! BEG!>>

And then the phone call terminated. The line broke and the phone dumped back to a prompt requesting input for the next commcall.

"Baby," Carmen crooned. "He's all gone, now. You gonna join me or what? You don't gotta pay me nothin.''" Carmen then looked over at Sonora and said, "My, but he's a big one! Oh... but you two aren't... you know? I'm not trying to move in on your man, honey. He's just... you know.." Then she giggled. She made a gesture with her hands about a half meter apart, driving home the point, so to speak.

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

Sam and Smiley
[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Back Alley Street Clinic, El Zamural; 04:04 AM]
Smiley assisted the elven amnesiac out of the clinic, though the support required to keep his companion upright wasn't nearly as much as it had been earlier. For all his horrible first impressions and misgivings, the doc back in the clinic knew his stuff. Before they'd left the doc had put some disinfectant gel on the elf's forehead and bandaged some gauze over the wound. Though he wore obvious dressing over the wound on his head, the elf was obviously in better shape.

Soon as they got to the mouth of the alley, Smiley slipped his glasses on to take a look around the area. Though dark, his cybereyes did much to strip away the gloom and magnify what little extant light there was, while his glasses brought a couple of distant shapes into closer view. Two bodies stayed concealed in nearby shadows, their thermal signatures standing out against the otherwise consistent thermal readings of the steamy evening. The shapes of the readings were bipedal forms hunched over in a crouching, anticipatory position. Low, feral growls gave them off as evening predators, perhaps local Infected or something of the sort. They were hiding in shadows not far from Smiley's vehicle, waiting for the two of them to get closer.

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

Mono and Chaske
[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; The Final Round, Nueva Caracas; 03:33 AM]
The two men dashed through the restaurant, eliciting little attention from those customers within who were transfixed on the fights; the broadcast from Aztlan had just revealed one of the combatant to be victorious, having actually slashed through his opponent's windpipe and arteries with a well-timed cyberspur swipe. Right as the man was falling to his knees and clutching at his neck, the announcers were calling for the victor to give the dying man a coup de grace. So eager were those in attendance and even most of the employees of The Final Round that few paid attention to a couple of rambunctious guys rushing through the kitchen and out the back door. As the doors burst open into the alley, one of the employees who was throwing trash into the nearby bin gave a sharp cry of dismay before hiding behind the bin itself.

Except for the three of them, there was nobody else in the alley. Some devil rats squeaked nervously at the two new arrivals, then vanished beneath a pile of uncollected trash.

"This is not an exit," the man croaked at Chaske and El Mono. "Y-you're supposed to go out the front! You're supposed to--"

A whistling hiss cut him off. His forehead exploded outwards all over the side of the garbage bin, spraying red and gray chunks all over the side of it. As the man's brains began to slop down onto the alley floor, those scared devil rats finally overcame their fear and scurried over, sniffing and licking at what used to be in the man's cabeza.

((Perception tests again for both, +3 mod))

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

Stephen
[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; The Cat's Paw, Nueva Caracas; 03:41 AM]
((Background Count +2))
Señor Ramirez looked confident and in charge from the outset. But Stephen's demeanor and his no-nonsense attitude obviously unnerved him. Before Stephen was even done delivering his challenge, Ramirez was holding his hands up in a pleading, forestalling gesture.

"N-no! No need to get loco in here, friend! I'll do what you say!"

Ramirez looked down at the flier and smoothed it out. He licked his lips nervously and smoothed it out. Upon seeing the woman on the sheet, he went pale. He set the flier down with sweat trickling down his greasy forehead, splattering droplets upon it.

"Y-you mean Venus? She hasn't worked here in months. She's gone! She got some Alianza man's attention and he paid us much dinero to take her. They took her off, never saw her again. She was fine trim, too. All the guys loved her. You her husband or something?"

((Perception test -2, minus any other mods))

[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Back Alley Street Clinic, El Zamural; 04:04 AM]

Looking ahead, Smiley calmly pockets the datachip in his hands and hooks the looted commlink back onto his belt. He tilts his head back towards the nameless elf behind him, holding his hand out to gesture to him to stop where he is. He quietly mutters over to his companion, "Contact. Two. Dead ahead.". Smiley looks directly ahead again, then quickly turns his body to the right as his right hand comes up to rip the Colt 2066 from his shoulder holster, whipping the pistol around while using the left hand to keep it steady and opens fire on one of the two waiting in ambush up ahead.