Claymore straightens up as he finishes his task, rolling the big body over to get to the gang colors while at the same time attempting to roughly cover up his recent dental work. He gives a quick shake of his head in response to Aero's questioning glance, suddenly quite aware of the growing number of bystanders gathering around the scene.

Pleased to see Tain head straight for the bikes after finishing up in the coffee shop, the blond elf quickly follows suit, happy for the moment to put this place behind him.

Heading towards his bike and strapping his helmet on, Aero's happy for the visor concealing his face from the bystanders as the pain of his wounds shows more.

Yeah chummers come first, except when you've got a twisted ankle and some poor kid's mom is bleeding to death.... Heh, breathe.... it's over, we all survived and some slitch is gonna catch it.... in the neck!

Well let's get going if you've you got everything.... I hear Chichi's is doing a special on body shots today, and I don't wanna miss it.

Heh, random bravado, make it look like all the blood on us is the other guys....

By now those that can get back up have, mostly extracating themselves form the wreck of the shop and trying to avoid the nails sticking out at all angles. The street people have started coming out of the synthwood works as well, stripping the bodies while the injured hesitate and the combatants step aside. Up the street, calls heading out around the 'hood can be heard, calling for 'someone', which usually means the local gang. Time to get strapping or get moving.

Claymore ignores the helmet strapped to the Harley's backrest as he swings his leg over the big bike. His face creases in pain for a moment, the adrenaline rush of the fight that serves to mask any injuries wearing off rapidly now that the immediate danger seems to have past. The engine roars to life at the mere touch of his hand to the skinlinked throttle, DNI activation removing the need to kick the big bike to life.

Wracking his brain for a good place to lay low and deal with things for a while, he casts an inquiring glance at the other to see if they had any suggestions. When neither elf comes forward with a plan, Claymore suggests the first place he can think of that is both close by and has no connections to the Ancients or Tarislar.

"How 'bout The Library?"

Located in the edge of Puyallup, The Library used to be just that. A large, century-and-a-half-old monstrosity of a building, with overly ornate columns and marble staircases scattered throughout. Of course, it had long ago ceased to function as a place of books, but about five yeas ago the building was 'acquired' by a new owner, a human named Gary Hannis, who was dead set on opening up a dance club playing on the Gothic theme of the building itself. Originally christened The Black Crystal upon opening, the goth club's clientèle immediately nicknamed the place The Library, prompting the business-savvy Gary to make a quick official name change.

Sounds good ta me chummer, let's roll

And with that he kicks the Blitzen to life and into to gear ready and starting to roll out unless Tain raises some objection.

Seattle - Puyallup - Tuesday, April 1st -2134 - The Library
Located some ten minutes ride through the always interesting streets of Puyallup, The Library seems to be doing good business for a Tuesday. Not a lot of folks in this area have anything better to do than put on their Sunday worst and rub elbows, horns, tails, and anything else protruding. There's a fair gathering of people outside on the Library steps, not waiting in line, just loitering in huddled groups avoiding the rain, but not going inside. The music is dark and angry, spilling out into the streets through the closed doors, giving the whole neighborhood a wicked sound track.

On the west side of the building is the open parking lot, filled with commuter cars that speak of the true roots of a number of the club kids, as well as small gatherings of long coat wearing, teenage angst sporting goth kids having a cigarette despite, or perhaps becuase of, the gentle trickle of rain shrouding everything in gloom.

Inside is where the real action is. The leathers turn to synth leathers, and the face paint goes away for the real vampires who don't need it. The weekdays are always when the real movers and shakers take over the place, leaving the end of the week to those who want to be seen. For now, the wannabes loiter, while the you'd-rather-not-knows go about their business inside the dark building.

Sounds like a great night on the town for a few blooded and bloodied up Ancients.

"Hold up a sec," Tain stays perched on his bike after the three of them pull off the road and into what passes for a parking lot, half sitting on it and half leaning against it, ankles crossed and with the dead trog's commlink in his hands again. "Let's get presentable first, hmm?"

He's not going to outright ask Aero for healing for the few scrapes and scratches he's got, and he's certainly not going to do the same on Claymore's behalf if the gunslinger feels like toughing it out instead...but it just makes good sense to be patched up before they go wandering into new turf. Not just on a tactical level, but to keep up appearances.

In the meantime, he thumbs casually at the commlink again, searching for a caller ID menu.

The ten minute ride through the rain-slicked city streets has done nothing but aggravate Claymore's injuries, and by the time he alights from the Scorpion in The Library's parking lot, sweat is running in streaks down his ashen face. He nods in response to Tain's words, a small strained smile lifts the corners of his mouth.

"Plannin' on it."

Slowly bending his by now quite stiff leg, Claymore carefully lowers his still blood-streaked body to sit on the curb at the edge of the parking lot. Mentally activating the nanite-loaded medkit strapped to his thigh, the elf pulls a bandage from an inside pocket of his jacket and the slowly peels the torn trousers away from the wound on his leg, the state of his favorite pair of pants distressing the ganger almost as much as the injury itself.

The slow drizzle of rain adds a bit to the mood, fitting in with some gritty film noir scene as Claymore's blood spills to the streets, mixing with rain water in the gutter and flowing down the street, illuminated only by the few orange tinted street lights that still burn, and the dark blue neon proclaiming the Library. A block away, black trench coated goths take notice of the Ancients on bikes, gesturing, but not approaching, apparently sharp enough at least to recognize a small war band when they see one. The dark music continues roaring out of the club as Claymore tends to his wounds, rounding out the feel of the latest Anita Blake:Vampire Slayer trid feel. Across the street in the alley ways, pale, white eyed ghouls can be seen, apparently sizing up a potential meal, and deciding that survival sometimes means not eating, as they slink back into the shadows, awaiting easier prey.

The commlink is loaded up with numbers and names attached with rather predicatable troll ganger names like "Razr", "Stonz", "Rek" and so on, sadly fulfilling the troll stereotype of being able to spell. Helpfully, most of them have a picture displayed as well, the age of iconography doing away with such bigone exercises like reading. A number of the faces Tain recognizes as Spikes that were left for dead not ten minutes ago. Last Call log shows a number of quick calls between the group and a few others, times indicating the ones that were called but didn't show were relatively short.

The rest of the commlink is filled with the usual: troll porn, elf bondage porn, a collection of surprisingly well written (albeit mispelled) poetry focusing mainly on the hard life of the streets and racism,and last month's Weapons World catalog.

Swinging off his bike, Aero moves over to check out the other two gangers wounds and seeing Claymore he starts on Tain first.

I'll do you once your finished chummer, don't want to get in each others way.

Assessing Tain's injury he focuses his mana and shunting the ache from his shoulders to one side starts pushing the mana forward to clean and close the wound.

Heal (F3 & Tain prolly need to check)


Feeling the spell catch hold and the wound knitting back together under his magic Aero smiles and concentrates on pushing the spell downwards until it reaches his belly and then feels the mental burden lift as the focus holds the threads of the spell, automatically channelling his natural mana to maintain it until it completes. Then walking to Claymore he sees him finishing up the dressing and then nodding to him focuses again.

Heal (F3 & Claymore prolly need to check)


Keeping his voice low, Right that's the best I can do unless you wnat me to start medkitting you, and I should be able to sort how the clothes and blood in a nano, if you two want? Or we can just head in?

Well I'm sorting my drek out 'fore we go inside, but not til these spells finish, already look like a fraggin' christmas tree on the astral. Lucky those Ghouls fragged off.

Claymore breathe a heavy sigh of relief as he feels the effects of Aero's magical healing wash over him, blending seamlessly with the medkit's drug cocktail. He smiles and mumbles his thanks to the ganger mage, then momentarily closes his eyes, trying to let some of the tension drain from his body.

Aero's mention of clothing brings him crashing back to the moment, his brow immediately creasing with displeasure as he examines the ruins of his tiger-striped trousers and armored long coat.

"You got any mojo that can fix these? They're my favorite pants, and they'd be a real bitch t' replace."

Yeah, got a fix for it, gives us a nano. and focusing for a short time he manipulates the manaflow through his hands and then runs them down the trousers the material reforming and styling as they go.

Rolls


Seeing the result of his handywork he nods as moves the thread holding the spell off to a focus. There you go, not my best but hey should pass for a corper's.

A broad smile splits Claymore's features as he checks the results of Aero's tailoring efforts, his delight pushing the now-receding pain even further from his thoughts.

"Wiz job, omae. Almost as good as new."

A couple of steps brings the elven gunslinger back to his bike. Opening one of the Harley's saddlebags, Claymore pulls out a t-shirt to replace the blood-stained one he is wearing, using the old one to clean the worst of the blood from his face and hands. He then grabs a handful of heavy pistol rounds and proceeds to top up the depleted clips of his matched black Predators.

"I'll tell ya right now though. I find any corper in my pants, he ain't gonna be breathin' for very long. That I can promise ya."

Who said he? Sounds like your projectin' man and smirking over at Claymore showing his only joking he continues So we headin' in for some relaxin' conversation? Better make myself look the part.

Feeling the two sustained spells run their course and finish, Aero takes off his helmet and then concentrates for a bit before running his hands over his clothes head to foot.

Rolls


As his hand move you see the rips, tears, blood and holes disappear from his clothing along with the long coat becoming shiny, black and leather-like, the gang insignia fresh and clear on the back between his shoulder blades. His t-shirt changes to be a light blue colour with what looks to be an air spirit symbol on the front shown as though it was made of mist and cloud and giving anyone looking at it the finger. The jeans morph to match to long coat creating a contrast to the t-shirt.

Then he runs his hands from his chin up and over the top of his head and back over his hair and a similiar change happens, the blood and sweat is removed, his cloud and lightning bolt tattoos become clear and bright again and his hair seems to be clean again.

Right, chummers, you ready?

Sliding one of his jade-handled pistols into its holster beneath his jacket, Claymore looks up at the other elf, pausing for a moment as if deep in thought, then shakes his head, choosing to respond seriously to Aero's off-hand remark.

"Ya know. I never really got into those corper slitches. They just never seem to hold up long enough after the fun begins."

After securing the Harley, Claymore wanders over to where Tain is making his own preparations, dropping his hand lightly on the Tir elf's shoulder. He waits for Tain to turn and meet his eyes before speaking in a slightly lower voice.

"Ain't had a chance t' say anything till now, but I want ya t' know that I won't forget what you did back there. Thanks!"

Tain mumbles a word of thanks to Aero as the other mage works his literal magic and patches him up, engrossed in trying to puzzle out the commlink. It wasn't passwords that were slowing him down, it was a cracked screen and a few oversized buttons that were stuck. He squints down at the contraption in irritation, stabbing at buttons with a bit more ferocity than is strictly called for...but eventually makes some headway.

A smirk creases his features as he scrolls through a library of dead Trolls. That's what you get, he thinks as he rolls his thumb along the edge of the screen, sliding the scrollbar down, when you fuck with your betters.

He's getting set to go through the last few calls -- that flurry of activity right before the assault -- when Claymore comes over. He turns and raises his eyebrows, wondering what's brought such a serious look to the gunslinger's features.

Tain shakes his head and smiles at the other Ancient's comment, "You didn't have to say anything. We both wear the 'A' and the ears. Backing each other up is what we do."

He gives Claymore a nod, though, before flashing a grin Aero's way and tossing his head towards the entrance. "All the same, though, I'd say you and I at least owe our spell slinging friend a beer, for plugging up a few holes. Let's get in out of this drizzle, eh?

"Now that's a plan!"

As the elves move toward the entrance to the club, Claymore glances down at the battered commlink in Tain's hand, then lifts his eyes inquiringly.

"Any luck?"

As if summoned by his words, the elves hear a distinctive ringing. It take them a moment to realize that it's coming not from the troll's 'link, but from Claymore's.

Surprised that he had forgotten to turn off the sound function earlier, Claymore glances in irritation at the commlink on his wrist. With a mental twitch, the elf answers the call, taking the extra second to kill the ringer for future calls.

The face of pink haired Vixen appears on Claymore's AR. She seems calm, no more agitated than when she called earlier to arrange to meet the trio at Lulu's.

Hoi Clay', lookin' good. I just cruised by Lulu's place. What a wreck. You boys sure know how to have coffee. Why don't you all come in, meet me at the squat. I think we've got some things to talk about.

Claymore struggles to keep his expression blank and voice emotion-free as he regards the visage of Sting's lackey. As far as the elven gunslinger is concerned, the slitch would have a hard time convincing him that she wasn't responsible for the ambush at Lulu's.

"Ola Vixen. Me an' the others'll catch up with you there after we finish tyin' up a few loose ends. Won't be long."

Heh, well you guys had to do all the fighting as I screwed my prep, so why not call it even? But a beer does sound good right now.

Then they were interrupted by the comm call and his mostly jovial face turned much angrier and focused as he hears Claymore respond with Vixen's name.

This time will be very different, I promise you that slitch

Tain's eyebrows arch sharply at the voice coming from the other end of the line. If she was the one to set them up, she was ballsy to be calling them so soon afterward. Or stupid. Possibly both.

He shakes his head and reaches for his own commlink, pulling up Vixen's number from previous calls. He holds the two -- his and the Troll's -- next to one another, thumbing down the lists of recent calls and checking to see if the pink-haired Ancient had been stupid (or ballsy, or both) enough to call the Spikes from her own phone.

Scanning through the lists, there is no match to the phone number that Tain can find.

Claymore raises his eyebrows, surprised that Vixen had so abruptly severed the connection rather than acknowledge his response.

The rapidly increasing downpour speeds the elves' steps until they reach the slight cover granted by The Library's entryway. Wringing the worst of the water from his hair, Claymore decides to wait until they get some manner of privacy ... and warmth, before saying anything at all about the matter.

Straightening his leather duster, but leaving it hanging open to reveal the big revolver tucked into the front of his pants, the elf squares his shoulders and strides straight up to the biggest bouncer. Claymore's sparkling emerald eyes meet and hold those of the doorman, silently daring him to bar the elves from entering just as they are.

The dreadlocked ork looks Claymore up and down once, taking in the others behind him. His hands stay inside his own long coat, then nods silently, jerking his head towards the door, apparently deciding that they'll 'add to the atmosphere'.

The large 'wooden' double doors open, revealing a large entranceway with white marble flooring, and a hanging chandelier with real candles, juding by how the light flickers as the door opens. A few malingerers are loitering in the entranceway, but ignore the elves as they enter besides giving them a once over glance. The doors close on their own as the elves enter and cross the door to the second set of black doors. As the Ancients pass thefinal threshold, the roaring music washes over them, making their blood rush and heads swim. Strobing lights fill the place with flashing whites, reds, and greens, with AR displays of classic and gothic horror filling the faux book case walls. An ocean of skin and synthleather gyrates on the main dance floor while societies dregs hover around the bar. Seeing glasses of a red liquid that just may be actual blood reminds the Ancients that this isn't Tarislar anymore as they sally up to one of the open booths.

Tain isn't too worried. It doesn't have to be Tarislar to be Ancient's turf, and every now and then the rest of the Sprawl needs a few of them swaggering around in leathers to remind them of that.

He saunters over to the first booth he sees and casually snags a chair from a nearby table, bringing it around for him to saddle and settle into, leaning forward against the backrest as if it were an armrest. He sighs quietly, still disliking these dark little corners of the Sprawl as much as he did his first day as an exile, and nods to each long bench for the other Ancient to take a seat.

"Let's go over what we know, first. We know Vixen calls us each individually and tells us to be there. We know she doesn't show up, herself, at anything close to 'on time.'" He tosses the trog's battered commlink onto the table, hoping one or both of them will want to take a peek at it, themselves. "We know we get attacked, weather it and retaliate, and then within -- what, ten minutes? -- she calls us, claiming to have been by and seen the damage. And in the meantime, we learn the trogs claim to have gotten the advice to find us there from a woman."

He knows what his gut's telling him, and that's that Vixen set them up. But his breeding, his innate sense of us-versus-them, tells him that it shouldn't be so. Why would an Elf and an Ancient betray her kind to...those? He brushes the thoughts aside, for now.

"So the question isn't just how much we believe in coincidence, but in how much any of us have her pissed off. How many other people any of us let know we were going to be there that night. And how many of us have other women angry enough at us to act on that information by setting us up with the Spikes, of all things." He crosses his forearms on the chair's backrest, hunching over it. "Thoughts?"

Claymore meets the gaze of any club-goer he catches looking in their direction with a cold, had stare as the elves make their way through the chaos. With an audible sigh, he drops himself into one side of the booth, sliding along far enough so he can rest his still-aching leg on the seat.

"Well, I ain't done nothin' t' Vixen personally that I know 'bout. And even if I'd pissed off Sting enough for her t' sick her lackey on us, this just doesn't feel like her style. Sting's, I mean. I wouldn't trust that slitch Vixen to polish my bike."

The blond elf pauses as a pale and somewhat gaunt waitress shuffles by to take their order. When she ambles off, Claymore continues on a different line of thought.

"Of course, if it wasn't Vixen, then we can't only be lookin' at jus' the other slitches we've screwed over. Could jus' as easy be a guy working through a chick."

He leans forward, his face reflecting a brief inner struggle. Finally he shakes his head as if making a decision, and starts talking once again, this time in a slightly lower tone.

"At first I thought that I might have been the trogs target, bein' that I've done my fair share of damage to their little gang. But I've been thinkin'. None of the trogs mentioned me by name, or even really seemed to target me over either of you. And none of 'em seemed to recognize me as someone they had seen before, leas' not that I noticed anyways. So, the more I keep thinkin' 'bout it, the more I don't think that they were after me personally."

Claymore finally falls silent, and leans back, resting his arm along the back of the booth.

Walking in following the others Aero would normally baske in the atmosphere and head for the dancers, but biz is up and his side reminds him that dancing right now would be a bad move.

Settling into the other bench, across from Claymore, he leans back carefully and then sighs in relief.

Can't think of anything that I've done that mighta fragged her off, but who knows waht she's got goin' on behind the scenes? That and as much as I hate to say it, the only thing we've all got in common apart from being Ancients and elves is that we've all made a name for ourselves quick.... Mebbe too quick. Never thought I'd say it, but could be a case of tryin' to off the competition. and holding his hands up almost defensively he continues Trust me it's not something I say lightly or ever thought I'd find, but it's possible, although using the trogs is either a great play through a lot of in betweens.... Can't believe they'd take suggestions from an elf let alone an Ancient, but could look like a standard ride by by them. Or it's seriously worrying that someone has a good enough link to them to pull this off.

Looking at the comm on the table he looks pensive for a while and then speaks again. Want me to have a look at that thing? Don't know what I'll manage but had a bit of experience cracking codes for them in the past.

"Help yourself," Tain gives the 'link a little scoot across the table. "Council knows I've done pretty much all I can with the thing."

Will give it a shot, I'll still be listening in so I'll let you know if I find anything interesting

And picking the troll's 'link up a pulling a thin wire out of the from a pocket and plugs it into the port on the 'link, then pulls on a pair of gloves and starts to type and manipulate icons in AR.

"So, there it is, then." Tain's broad shoulders rise and fall in a shrug, eloquent in its frustration. "None of us knows why she'd really have a good reason to try and get the three of us killed, but off the top of our heads none of us knows who else it could have been."

He pauses while their rail-thin waitress returns, lip curling ever so slightly -- not at her, necessarily, but at the beer-stink wafting his way as she leans past him to hand out other drinks. He waits until she's gone.

"Sounds like the best way to find out what's going on is to go ahead and go talk to her. Either way, really. If it's her, we'll find out and take care of things. If not, she's an Ancient. She's as good a person to go to over tonight's headaches as anyone else."

Claymore relaxes a little, relieved that his companions seem to share his suspicions. His emerald eyes flick over to the commlink in Aero's hands, his brow furrowing with thought.

"I don' really know much 'bout this type o' thing, but it might be an idea t' get that thing scoped by a dedicated trix-monkey. Problem is, I don't really know anyone wearin' the 'A' that would qualify, an' even if I did, we don' know if we can trust 'em. or not."

He pauses for a moment, meeting the others' eyes and trying to guage their reactions before continuing.

"I do know a couple of outsider hack-heads ... I can make a few calls on the sly if you want."

He nods, "Do so. The more we know walking into things, the better. Even just a location on the call, nevermind any sort of auto-saved bit of conversation, would make a big difference."

Taking a quick glance in Aero's direction to see if the elven spellslinger would disagree, Claymore then nods in assent. Now all he had to do was deliver. Wincing slightly as he unconsciously sits up a little straighter, the elven street fighter mentally pulls up his commlink's interactive agent and puts out a call to Binary.

Binary herself was quite a piece of work. The elven ganger has been known by that name since before Nathan was born, and is much, much older than she looks. More than slightly crazy, she has been the second-in-command of the Reality Hackers since the day the gang was formed, and has served under countless leaders. Word on the street though, is that she could have been number one whenever she chose, if she only had the interest.

She usually hangs out at the Bar Code right in the heart of Puyallup, and normally doesn't do the face-to-face very often. Binary and Claymore go back quite a ways though, and she knows intimately the true extent, or lack, of the Ancients ganger's net-savvy, having done some custom work on his OS herself. She'd more-than-likely be willing to take a look, but not if he didn't follow protocol and call first before dropping by.

THe call connects, predictably, not directly to Binary, but through her persona, which appears on Claymore's screen as a simple stick body without arms or legs, and an 0 for a head. Binary, a very basic icon, and one of the many she chooses to use. The voice comes through the commlink, obviously computer synthesized, and reminiscent of a 20th centruy wheel chair bound genius.
Hell-o Clay-more to What do I owe the plea-sure of this call. The cadence and tone of the 'voice' alternates up and down as 'it' speaks, a simple o mouth appearing inside the larger 0 head.

Claymore's own persona, a stylized male elf clad in black and neon green wild west gunslinger motif greets Binary's stick figure with slight nod and a tip of his glowing stetson.

"Hey there Binary. Couple o' friends an' me seem to have a little problem. One that I'm thinkin' you might jus 'be able to help me out with. It ain't somethin' I'd be wantin' to go into over the 'trix though. You still hangin' at the same place?"

Al-ways chummer. The slow, then fast cadence was always strange and hard to get used to. Claymore had to wonder if coputers really had sonded like that 100 years ago. Too man-y Net kids ev-ry-where else. Girl has to go some-where she can rel-lax and unwind. I hope you have found some-thing int-er-est-ing for me to look at. The question sounds hopeful, but also as if it already suspects the answer is not going to be particualrly thrilling.

"Let's jus' say that it definitely got my attention. Wheelin' now, so we'll be there in a nano or two."

I will start the clock. See you soon chum-mer. The icon's body slides up into the 'head' then implodes on it's self, dissapearing as the call disconnects.

The call complete, Claymore's eyes once again focus solely on his surroundings. He taps a cigarette from the pack of Virginia Reals sitting on the table, lighting it with an absent flick of his Zippo.

"'Kay, so I got a meet set up with a decent trix-monkey at a hacker-hole called the Bar Code. It's almost on the way to the squat. You guys in, or ya want me t' do it solo?"

"I don't seem to have any other pressing engagements," there are times Tain can outright drawl. "And the way the night's going so far, we may want to stick together instead of split up, regardless."

Claymore nods in agreement. Privately, he is somewhat relieved that the others seemed to see the situation in the same way as him.

Puyallup - Tues, April 1st - 22:26 - The Bar Code
Soundtrack - Warren G & Nate Dogg - Regulate
--------Regulaaatorrrrs.....Mount up!

The Ancients gather and leave the Library, all eyes on them as the out of place elves take their leave at a calm, even pace. None of the small groups paying them extra attention make any move to hinder or follow them however. The elves reach their bikes, shining in the night with rain water across their sleek surfaces. Helmets and gloves are on, the elves mount up, and ride off into the night.

A short ride through Puyallup at any time of night is always an exercise in caution. Unless you're an Ancient. Even in the light rain, metahumans wander the streets, squatting in hovels, throwing dice in corners, passing chips to make the day more bareable. The city is alive no matter the hour or weather. Those better off don't even feel the rain, as their connection to the virtual world filters out anything they don't want to feel, leaving them in their own microcosm. A rapidly cooling body in an alley they pass is a stark reminder of the dangers of losing yourself from reality in a world full of predators. The body might not dissapear as fast as in Redmond, but there's no doubt it will be picked clean by morning, if it's even there.

Soon enough, the trio rides up to the Bar Code, an underground club catering to the needs of Seattle's techno-fetishists. The outside shell is nothing more than another of Puyallups dozens of shell outed buildings, once a supermarket of sometimes. It's fell to hard times and never rose again, becoming a squat house over the years. However, like so much of the Matrix, it's not what's outside, but what's inside that counts. As the crew rides into the open rear loading dock, where some half dozen cars and over two dozen bikes are parked, Claymore gets an ARROW sent his way. Binary's icon appears.
<<<< Wel-come ... to the Bar Code.... e-nter through the door a-head. I have down-loaded the need-ed pass-code. Find me in-side>>> The ARROW indicates which direction to walk, indicating what appears to be an old freezer door. As the crew walks towards it, they can feel the subtle vibrations in the concrete floor. They open the metal door, a walk in freezer, and follow the icon to another, inner freezer door, again opening the latch. As the seal comes open, music washes over there, fast, hard, sharp, and electrifying.


The stairs presented are grated metal, a flight of perhaps 20 steps leading down into the literally underground club. As they step down, a wide green laser light swipes down from the ceiling in front and behind the Ancients, illuminating the trio in emerald light. Below them, the throng of chaos, the teeming mass of dancers, gives a shout out to the new comers, and continues their frenzy. The 'bar' is perhaps some 50x50 meters, with heavy steel support I-beams rising from floor to ceiling into a webbed ceiling structure of exposed materials, piping, venting, and electrical. Attached in a seemingly random setup are lasers and few lights, as well as massive trideo projectors. The projectors cover the gray concrete walls, and the open air, with technic displays of swirling colors, lights and shapes, adding to the aleady chaotic atmosphere. Huge banks of cables run from floor to cealing to a cluster of hanging flatvids displaying hot matrix sites , everything from the ACHE to the Helix, with a healthy dose of full VR combat games and even a shadowland node on display.

AR augmentated vision is when the club really goes wild. Everyone here is riding an avatar of one type or antoher, a theme seeming to be a technical twist to the usual, such as minotaurs with braided deradlocked fiberoptic cables down their backs, techno-angelic steel wings, and even an avatar in homage to dearly departed Captain Chaos on one wall. The Captain, with his red and white shield, and Anarchists 'A' adorning his head and shield, looks over the revelers, occassionally rezzing in and out in a flurry of green and red.

Running a search quickly finds Binary's icon on the dance floor, pulling up her private Persona file, which lists the drink order she's waiting foryou to pick out. Scanning through the crowd with unaugmented vision makes it a bit easier to pick out the tall, pale female elf, her stark bleach blond hair pulled back in tight braids and corn rows. She's caught up in the midst of the rest of the crowd, waiving an encouraging hand in the group's direction.

At the top of the stairs, Claymore winces involuntarily at the AR assault, hesitating momentarily as he steels himself before descending into the club. While the myriad of vivid displays were not the same as true virtual reality, the full-on intensity of the AR environment was close enough to make the elf extremely uncomfortable. With effort, he activates his avatar overlay, the gunslinger motif customized by the source of their current quest herself.

By the time the group reaches the bottom of the stairway, the elf's face was drawn with strain, and beads of sweat begin to break out on his brow. With a disgusted snarl, Claymore begins to filter out the incoming AROs and avatars, shutting off all AR input except that necessary to navigate the club and find Binary.

With a small, grim smile and a shake of his head at the irony of having to use more-or-less normal vision to locate the Reality Hacker after all, Claymore waves in response, then sets off across the crowded room in the elven ganger's direction.

Tain's eyes widen for an instant at the virtual-based assault on his senses, then they narrow. Dangerously. He's two steps behind Claymore when the other elf stops at the top of the stairs. One step behind by the time his feet match his own glare, and he stops advancing. An overlay wraps itself around the ganger in front of him, black and neon green sheathing the Adept.

One hand strays into Tain's jacket, eyes dangerous slits. This time, it's just for this thumb to roll madly over a pinwheel on the side of his Hermes Ikon. The images lose coherency and fade, blink away and leave him staring not at the pixellated back of Claymore's gunslinger persona, but the other Ancient's standard street clothes. The bar isn't a writing mass of computer generated computer characters, but a dance floor full of what passes for average people in Seattle.

This misbegotten wilderness, he thinks to himself.

He swallows a mouthful of bile -- in his own way as terrified and furious around certain aspects of virtual reality as he is alcohol, and for the exact same reasons -- and turns his dangerous grimace into simply a displeased grimace. He doesn't like this bar, or the people in it.

A pipe bomb, he's rather certain, would be an improvement.

After handing the 'link back with a grunt, and Drek all of use I can get off it, would need to trace the calls to be useful and I'm not really good enough to try that, to Claymore at the Library and the ride over Aero's starting to look a bit more animated, but paler, and the AR assualt as he walks in has him rapidly unsubscribing his earbuds from the 'link on his belt and from the gentle hand gestures he shunting a lot of windows out of the way.

His AR avatar morphs in over him as he moves further inside making him look like he's covered in shifting clouds that then form an Aero-eske air elemental overlaying him. Seeing the waving elf and the direction of Claymore's view he raises an appreciating eyebrow and tries to follow the others with as little contact with the crowd as possible.

More muscling than moving through the tides of metahumanity, the trio eventually makes its way to Binary. The elf is unsurprisingly pale, with her bleached blond and blue hair tied back in corn rows, descending down into tight braids down her back. A pair of glinting chrome datajacks gleam on her temple, a hallmark to 'a more enlighted age' as she would call it. She wears a simple black tank tops with white ones and zeros stringing across the front.

Binary turns and locks eyes on Claymore as they get near, then signals to the left, towards the far wall and a set of open booths, then indicates for him to clear a way out of the crowd.

Once finally clear of the techno-orgy, Binary breathlessly introduces herself, this time speaking in a clear and sure voice, very different from her personas. Claymore she seems comfortable with, but Tain and Aero she eyes with cool respect and caution.

Alright Clay' , you've earned your time by aking your way down here. I know this isn't your favorite place in the whole wide world. Why don't you tell me who your friends here are and we'll get down to business.

Leaning back in the booth with exaggerated casualness, Claymore smiles in acknowledgment of the other elf's understatement.

"Thanks for seein' me so quick an' all."

He nods toward the two other Ancients.

"Aero and Tain. They have just as much at stake in this as me, an' you have my word that none of us'll start anythin' here."

"Omaes, this here is Binary, one of the original Reality Hackers."

Introductions out of the way, Claymore leans forward, his emerald eyes sparkling intensely as he pulls the Spikes' commlink from his jacket pocket.

"Earlier tonight, the three of us was ambushed. The trogs knew right where an' when we would be where we was. Seems they got a call telling them all about it. Now I got the 'link, but you know me an' all this 'trix trash, so naturally ..."

He lets the sentence hang, his face once again split by a wide grin.

So you're thinking someone did a dirty and sold some intel to the trog. And you need someone to dig through that little rat's nest of a 'link and find out who. Ok, null sheen, this things pretty basic, should only take a couple o' tics. Why don't you get me a Dead Nazi while I work?

Binary takes the commlink, flicking a button quickly, then setting it down on the table in between them. She sits back, leaning against the cushioned wall, which happens to be contoured to let someone easily lay against it asleep or unconcious. Her eyes close as she goes to work.