2:55 PM, June 3. Somewhere in Denver.

"This is the fifth disappearance this week! We have to do something about it!" The elf, dressed in an impeccable Armani suit, sits back in the plush, real leather chair and frowns at the ork calmly sitting across from him.

"Mr Rodriguez," The ork says after glancing over his shoulder at his superior. "I assure you, we are in the process of investigating this matter. We have several agents investigating as we speak..."

"Your agents have disappeared, too, haven't they?!" Rodriguez interrupts, flushing an angry red.

"Mr. Rodriguez!" the ork cuts him off, showing the first hints of annoyance since the meeting began. "We are investigating the matter. Now, we grow weary of your constant negativity. Good day, sir."

Rodriguez pales considerably and quickly rises to his feet, bowing repeatedly and stammering apologies as he swiftly backs to the door. As the door slams in his face, the ork turns to his superior and sighs. "As much as I hate that man, he does bring up a good point. Your agents haven't returned, and we can't afford to keep sending them out into an unknown and dangerous situation..."

The ork pauses for a moment as if listening to something only he can hear. "Very well, sir. I shall make the calls. Are you sure you want..."

Before he can finish, the door flies open and a very familiar and even more unwelcome figure is silhouetted in the doorway.

"Hello, Old Friend..."

1507 Local, June 3. Corner of Tejon St. and Colorado Ave, Colorado Springs, CAS Sector, FRFZ.

Bastian blinked his eyes against the glare of sunlight filtering through the blinds, but the flare compensation built into his cybereyes automatically dimmed it to a more comfortable level. He sat up, knocking over a bottle of bourbon that had been miraciously standing upright on the bed next to him. Fortunately, said bottle was empty, so the sheets weren't getting any messier. He shook his head, trying to clear some of the cobwebs as he climbed to his feet and stumbled into the bathroom of his two-room apartment. He fumbled around for a bit until he managed to swallow two aspirin and some water, took a quick shower to help clear his hangover, then stepped into his armory.
The "armory" was the other half of the not-quite studio apartment, filled with ammunition loaders, pin-vises, drills, a compact steel stamper, and other useful tools for someone who liked to poke around the innards of a gun. His Ingram was broken down -- he'd been cleaning last night before he'd hit the bottle harder than usual -- so he carefully put it back together and did a quick functions check. When it checked out, he nodded to himself and was about to start loading 9mm rounds into the magazine when his commlink beeped at him. He hopped out of his chair and grabbed it from the nightstand. He smiled to himself. It was Finnigan.

"'Ey," he said with a grin despite his still-throbbing headache. "Qu'est-que ce?"

Finn snorted at him. "Cut out that Paris talk. I've been calling you all damn morning. I finally got that smartlink on your White Knight working. You goin' to pick it up, 'cause I sure'n'Hell don't deliver."

"Yeah, yeah, ya dandy. Give me a minute and I'll roll on down."



1642 Local, June 3. Finnigan's Pub, UCAS Sector, Denver, FRFZ.

The ugly, rust-red Tata Hotspur growled as it came to a halt in front of Finnigan's. As usual, the Zonies had given him a hard time coming up I-25, but at least he'd manage to get through the checkpoints inside the city without anyone picking up on his Ingram X. Hardware like that had a tendency to get him hard looks from the rent-a-cops and soldiers alike. He hopped out of the Hotspur and wandered into the Pub and took a look around.

"Over here, you blind halfer!"

Bastian, being the blind halfer in question, turned and smiled at Finnigan. "Shut the frag up, you pansy-ass dandelion eater, and give me something to drink." The constant exchange of insults had become something of a game between the two of them over the past year of their friendship.

"Yeah, I got a special homebrew in the cellar I want you to try out." The elf and the dwarf disappeared down a set of stairs behind the bar -- which only had a couple of people in it, happy hour not yet having started -- and descended into a temple to the gods of gunpowder. Every wall was set with racks and loops holding guns, swords, axes, and even more esoteric weaponry of all shapes and sizes. Bastian felt his spirits rise; it was his kind of place.

"I figured out what the problem was," Finn said, getting down to business. "The linkage crossing over the bolt-return kept getting cut out by the special gas-vent they built into this thing. I tried a wireless microtransceiver instead of the fiber-o cabling, but I couldn't get one small enough not to interrupt the smartlink feed. So I bored out the gas-tube, cut a new hole, and ran a protected cable through that and used some high-grade steel solder to seal it up around the wire."

Bastian nodded as Finn placed the Ingram White Knight in his hands. "Let's give it a shot, shall we?" he said with a wink; Finn just rolled his eyes. Bastian grabbed a hundred-round belt of ammo, loaded it up, pulled out the bipod, and braced himself as he sighted down Finn's 50-meter underground range. He powered up the smartgun system, subscribed it to his pan, and smiled as his cybereyes suddenly had a small camera view and crosshairs painted across his vision. He blinked -- zooming in -- and brought the ethereal crosshairs to rest on one of the target dummies down-range. With a smile, he pulled the trigger. A tongue of flame six inches long spat from the LMG's barrel as he burned through the ammo belt in just a few seconds, managing to place most of the rounds onto the dummy (which was suitably torn up). His smile stretched from ear to ear. "Thanks, Boudreaux," he said.



1759 Local, June 3. Dick's Bar & Grill, UCAS Sector, Denver, FRFZ.

"Boo! No, left side! Idiot!" Bastian's cries mixed in with those of most of the rest of the crowd. The sports bar was full almost to capacity. Persistent wireless access to trid programming meant that, technically, sports bar had become outdated and esoteric, but it didn't stop people from going there to get smashed watching their favorite Urban Brawl or Combat Bike teams compete. Bastian shook his head in disgust as his Brawl home team, the Louisiana Hurricanes, got trounced by the Cheyenne Braves. He knocked back another shot of some amber whiskey when his cybereyes displayed a text message across his vision.

<Hoi, chummer, it's Clark. Call me when you're good to talk.>

Bastian frowned. That wasn't like Clark. He climbed down off the barstool and wandered outside, into the thin but warm air of the early Denver evening, then dialed in his old friend's number on his comm. It only rang once before the Knight Errant officer picked up.

"Hey, Boudreaux. What's so damn important?"

Clark sounded strained. "I just got done with a briefing with my watch officer. They're doing a sweep on the west edge of Aurora in about four hours. If you have any. . . associates who live over that way, you might want to have them vacate, quick. And quit calling me Boudreaux!"

Bazz laughed. "If they live in Aurora, they deserve to get picked up. Jail cells are probably better accomodations."

"Right, there. Alright, just wanted to give you the head's up," Clark replied.

Bastian nodded, even though Clark couldn't see the gesture. "I 'preciate that, Boudreaux."



2148 Local, June 3. Roof of the Thomas Building, Denver, FRFZ.

Bazz smiled as he munched on a bag of microwave popcorn. Sure, the popcorn was cold by now, but the circus was about to come to town. From his vantage point, only about a klick from the border of the Aurora Warrens, he had a pretty good view of the Knight Errant crews gearing up for their sweep. The cops did this sort of thing every six months or so just to show the taxpayers that they were really trying to clean up the city. Most everyone knew it was bogus, but, hey, welcome to the Sixth World. In any case, he was looking forward to the fireworks. Warrens squatters tended to be gangers, runners, and other people unaccustomed to taking drek from the rent-a-cops, so he was probably in for a good fireworks show. He just hoped Clark wasn't down there, because the bullets would be flying pretty thick once things kicked off.

He was interrupted when his commlink scrolled a notice of an incoming call across his vision. "Mon Dieu! Who the frag is it now?" He checked the number and smiled. Work time.

3:00 PM, June 3rd. A Desolate Corner of a Random Parking Garage, Denver.

In the beginning there was only darkness.

A deep, low, oscilating rumbling in the distance was all that disturbed the peaceful silence. The air was filled with dried rose petals, rare herbs and incenses, and sundry other scents too exotic to describe. It was tranquility personified. Emphasis on was. Out of nowhere the serenity was shattered by what could only be described as the cacophony of the damned.

<"...a couple of sips, she cold-licked her lips and I knew that she was with it! So I took her to my crib and everything went well as planned, but when she got undressed it was a big old mess: Sheena was a man! So I threw him out; I don't fool around with no Oscar Meyer weiner. You must be sure that the girl is pure for the funky cold me...">

But before this sample of poetic brilliance could finish, the tell-tale whistling of an object can be heard. Upon impact, silence is restored. Moments later, the deep rumbling returns and all is right in the world. For the moment anyway.



3:30 PM, June 3rd. The Same Parking Garage, Denver.

<"...ingin' to the drums, swingin' to guitar, swingin' to the bass in the back of my car! Ain't got no money, ain't got no gas, get where we're goin' if we swing real fast! I scream, you scream, we all scream for her. Don't even try, 'cause you can't ignore her. She's my cherry pie, cool drink of water such a sweet surprise. Tastes so good, make a grown man cry, sweet cherr...">

Silence returned, precipitated only by the sound of more fumbling and a crash.



4:00 PM, June 3rd. Nope, We Haven't Gone Anywhere.

<"...on't matter what you wear, they're checkin' out your savoir faire. And it don't matter what you do, 'cause everything looks good on you (supermodel!). You better work (cover girl!), work it girl (give a twirl!), do your thing on the runway. Work (turn to the left), work (now turn to the right), work (sashay, shante!). I see your picture everywhere, a million dollar derriere...">

Another rustling, another crash, the status quo restored.



4:30 PM, June 3rd. That's Right, Same Bat Place, Different Bat Time.

<"...op, collaborate and listen! Ice is back with my brand new invention. Something grabs a hold of me tightly, flow like a harpoon daily and nightly. Will it ever stop? Yo, I don't know. Turn off the lights -- and I'll glow. To the extreme, I rock a mic like a vandal, light up a stage and wax a chump like a candle. Dance! Go rush to the speak...">

Crash. Tranquility.



5:00 PM, June 3rd. You Were Expecting Somewhere Else?

<"...was Justin Timberlake's 'SexyBack.' Don't hate me, boyos, I didn't come up with this dren. Anyway, this is Trixie Tryste and you're listening to KBAD Radio; the station that reminds the Mile High City of the most embarrassing hits from the TwenCen and beyond-ond-ond-ond! Another block of golden audio vitriol is coming up next, but first a few words from our sponsors. Wait, we have spon...">

Yet another crashing sound. But instead of silence, a sleep-ruined voice washes over the scene. "Jesus fucking Christ," it mumbles mostly to itself, "I'll get up, I'll get up. Cadbury, lights." His commlink chirps in response and acquisces to its master's desires.

The umbral darkness abates and is replaced by the contents of a surprisingly cozy Winnebago filled with curios and bric-a-brac too numerous to mention. Laying on the pulled-out sofa bed is the mostly nude form of Nikos Cordova, better known on the streets as Smoke. Recovering from a position consisting of one leg slung over the edge and a head buried beneath a pillow, the gypsy somehow manages to find the strength to crawl to a sitting position and just glares across the room. Following his line of sight, you discover the source of his grumpiness: A smug-looking and largely abused radio alarm clock. Old skool, son.

It takes him a few more moments to find the willpower to get to his feet. He slaps the top of the infernal device as he passes by and disappears into a small room at the back of the vehicle.

Minutes pass. Curious sounds issue forth from the room. Smells change, if only for a moment. Eventually Nikos emerges from his cocoon a new man. His hair is perfectly groomed, his body refreshed, his clothing relaxed but immaculate. He saunters by what could best be described as a kitchen and grabs a cup of hot coffee steaming inside a little cubby hole.

He maneuvers a couple of paces and plops into a surprisingly comfortable-looking recliner. Grabbing a commlink nearby, he flips its screen open and punches a couple of buttons with his thumb. Scrolling through his messages and not finding anything even remotely interesting, he tosses the 'link back from wence it came and wills his trid screen on.

More of the same continues for the next hour or so as Nikos tries to wake up and find the strength to go do something... anything... today. Well, he would have until he discovered that they were doing a marathon of The Odd Coven. Hot damn!



7:42 PM, June 3rd. Do You Really Have To Ask?

Eventually the gypsy's stomach gets the best of him. With a deep sigh, he waves a dismissive hand at the trideo consol only moments before the screen grows dim. Grunting his way to his feet, he replaces his coffee mug and grabs his jacket off the back of his door and throws his signature wide-brimmed hat on before cracking the door open and stepping outside.

The dingy lighting of the parking garage is a stark contrast to the contents of the recreational vehicle, but it doesn't seem to phase Nikos as he clambers down the three steps to the pavement below. Closing and locking the door, he walks to the side of the van and finds his dingy old Suzuki sitting just the way he left it.

He throws one leg over his ride and starts her up with a high-pitched purr. As it does so, the bike glimmers as it shifts and blends into a custom Harley-Davidson Diablo that looks like it just rolled off the showroom floor. Grabbing the brim of his hat, he tugs it down and over his face. The hat conforms to its wearer's wishes as it, too, shifts to into a racing helmet of a similar quality.


Nikos revs the motor a few times, smiling to himself at the now low rumbling it evokes. Kicking off, he heads out to look for a place to eat before deciding what to do with his night. Maybe Asian? Merciless Ming's does sound pretty appetizing...

2148 Local, June 3. Roof of the Thomas Building, Denver, FRFZ.

Bazz tried not to smile too broadly as he answered the call. "Hey, Boudreaux! Got some work for me?"

Mr. Green's tone was cool, clinical, and totally unemotional -- and the arrogant bastard completely ignored Bastian's happiness. "Good evening. I suppose I owe you a bit of congratulations. Your name has reached the highest levels, and a major Johnson has asked for you by name. Go to the back door of 18th and Curtis at 11:00. Someone will meet you there to escort you to the meeting. I would strongly advise that you do not miss this meeting."

"Yeah, I can make it over there. Thanks for the head's up, G-Man." Bazz ended the call and took one last longing look at Aurora. He sighed. It would have been nice to watch the fireworks, but money was money.

Bazz packed up his picnic and took the fire escape down to the alley, where his rust-red Hotspur was sitting. He climbed in, revved the engine, then made his slow way to 18th Street. He consciously obeyed all the speed limits -- it wouldn't do to attract the Star and or the Errants BEFORE the run started -- but still arrived a little bit early. He sat in his truck for a bit, listening to one of the local country music stations on his commlink.


2251 Local, June 3. Corner of 18th Street and Curtis Avenue, Denver, FRFZ.

Bastian tucked his Ingram into the back of his trousers, made sure the fall of his jacket concealed it, then hopped out of the Hotspur and walked up to the plain, brick-faced building at the street corner. He knocked twice on the door, clasped his hands behind his back nonchalantly, and waited.

3:14 PM, June 3. 4335 W 44th St. PuebSec, Denver, FRFZ. Miguel Tohuoh's apartment.

Tohuoh worked his way through the piece, squinting to increase the magnification of his cybereyes as he focused once again on the old, crumpled piece of paper with "Suite I Prelude BWV 1007" scrawled across the top. One could always just get a datasoft which would scroll the notation across an AR window along with suggested fingerings, along with whatever else the publisher felt he should know, but he liked doing it this way. Figuring out how to play it for himself, without some tech deciding it for him, and the Bach piece was straightforward enough, really - just had to figure out the feel of the piece.

'Course, it'd be best if he didn't have so much time to be spending with the guitar. Work - both kinds - had been slow lately, and Tohuoh grimaced as his time slipped a little. He'd covered last months all right, but it was getting to be a close kind of thing, and he wasn't sure where this month's nuyen would come from. Ah well, might as well take advantage of the opportunity. It was early enough to be quiet downstairs - he doubted most of the regular crowd were even awake yet, and so he could hear the nuance in every note, as he relaxed once again and the precise, repetitive motions of his fingertips pushed his conerns to the back of his mind for a while...

5:49 PM, June 3. 4335 W 44th St. PuebSec, Denver, FRFZ.

Tohuoh finally put down the guitar. He'd have to leave pretty soon if he wanted to get to Nallen's by 8 to see Jenny. It only about four miles, but it was in the Hub, and border crossings slowed everything down. He rushed a bit as a result, shrugged his way into a skintight armored shirt and vest, with some nondescript dark grey clothes over the top. He checked his old service Colt before holstering it in its equally old holster, then left his place and headed southwest towards the Hub.

It was an interesting place, Nallen's. Since the Treaty of Denver had limited the military presence of the signatories in the city, a substantial part of the "law enforcement" contractors in the area were de facto soldiers. This resulted in most of the actual police work being done by the a fraction of the security contractors, who habitually felt even more overworked than their counterparts in other metros. And so, many of those actual cops felt a kinship with one another that cut across state and corp lines. There were still rivalries and the occasional animosity of course, but Nallen's served as a place where their kind could get together and share a drink while relating the latest tale of a district supervisor's idiocy or the foolishness of the citizens they served to protect.

Tohuoh didn't really belong - he'd bounced out of SCSS quickly enough, but his main failing as a cop had been rather vociferously disputing things with those same supervisors, so he was accepted enough. And he'd solved a few cases that the real cops either hadn't had the resources to do anything about, or where they'd had orders not to do so, so he'd made some friends among the pros there. Plus, it was always good to see Jenny - now that she was a captain in PuebSec, she always had the best stories of human idiocy...

10:12 PM, June 3. 15th and Wewatta Sts., UCAS Hub, Denver, FRFZ.

Touhouh was halfway back to the border when his AR flashed that he had a audio file in the blind data dump that HK'd set up for him. He copied it to local storage and started it playing as he continued his walk, but he paused when he heard the Good Doctor talking about something that sounded like it might actually be a decent job:

<<"Hey, buddy! Listen, I got a call for you. Johnson even asked for "Oso" by name. It's at 18th and Curtis... Johnson wants you to enter through the back door. Someone will meet you there to escort you to the meeting at 11. You need to go to the meeting, pal. I can't say much, but this is the chance of a lifetime! So don't miss it, ok?">>

11 p.m. Almost an hour to adopt the Silva persona. That should be enough time. First things first - he had to find some place to stash the Colt for a while. It wasn't too likely that someone would link it to his real identity - it was just a hunk of finely machined metal, no electronics, nothing too fancy - but there was always that outside chance that someone would check him for weapons and note the serial number. So, back to Nallen's, where he headed towards the restroom and made a sheepish gesture of acknowledgement for anyone who'd noticed him leaving earlier. Just past the men's room was a storage closet with an assortment of cleaning supplies, and it just took a second to hide the Manhunter in the shadows under several boxes of cleaning agents. That done, he used the restroom, both for appearances and because he didn't know how long this meeting might take, and exited the bar once more.

Even in the Hub, there were places you could go without being tracked. There was one dance club in particular which was housed in a building that cut wireless signal down to almost nothing. He didn't really look like he fit in at this venue either, but slipping some cred to the doorman resolved that issue, and once in the midst of the shifting crowds inside - with the aid of a judicious burst of static to hide the change in the SIN he was broadcasting and a shadowed corner where a moment of concentration changed his bone structure just enough - he was able to head out the back door of the club as Jose Silva, and turned down 18th St. towards the meet.

Once Touhouh got to within a couple blocks of Curtis, he circled a bit to find a shadowed spot and turned up his image mag to see who else was showing up to this little party, before heading towards the door to present himself promptly at 10:59 p.m.

10:12 PM, June 3. Spiders House Denver.
A sharpe ring interups a typical text from Targas flashes in to spiders vision. << Behind the Stuffer Shack. 30 minutes. Don't be late.>>
"I got a job" comes Spiders rushed reply.
Amy looks up slightly cheered by the exiting tale this job will lead to. "well grab what you need and get going then we need the cash." she says realising Spiders was one spetp in frount already.

Arrive in the dark alleyway, spiders sees nobody's around. Suddenly, Targas comes storming out of the shadows. Picking Spider up by his neck and shoving him against the wall and hisses into his ear, "You owe me. Big. I received a call. Strike one. It was the political powerhouse. Strike two. He threatened me. Strike three. He asked for you by name. Go to the meeting. Take the Job. Don't screw up. Go here: " He shoves a napkin into your hand. "I'll be in touch."

He disappears back into the shadows, and you look down at the napkin. "11:00. 18th and Curtis... enter through the back door. Someone will meet you there to escort you to the meeting."
Hurrying back to his house spider runs though a cheak list of what to take. His bio-cavrty escape kit and come link ammor clothing and his other armor in his kit bag along with his gun and hefty B&E gear while he might not need it in the meet it would save having to come back to his place and thus stop any portential folowers finding his home.

10:45, June 3rd. Alley behind 18th and Curtis.

Quiet. It’s possibly the most frightening sound you’ve heard in a long while. Gunfire, explosions, screams… they don’t bother you too much anymore. But this silence… it seems even less natural than the sounds of combat.

It’s approaching 11:00. This part of Denver should be full of people, but it’s quiet. Not a person in sight. Suddenly, a roar tears through the night. This is a sound you’re familiar with. It’s the sound of a motorcycle engine being revved. And, by the sound of it, it’s a very, very expensive motorcycle.

There’s a sudden, blinding light as the cycle drifts around the corner and tears off down the alley. You narrowly manage to dive out of the way as it barrels past you and off into the night. The ominous silence falls over you again as a chill crawls up your spine.

(Roll me visual perception checks.)

Right at 11, the lock clicks on the door and it slowly, silently swings open. You see what appears to be a poorly lit locker room inside. As the last of you step into the room, the door slams shut and the lock audibly snaps into place. A voice drifts out of a speaker in the corner. “Please, pick a locker and deposit any weapons and magical gear inside. It will be kept safe until you return. When you have done so, please step through this door.� The lights around a door suddenly snap on with blinding intensity.

10:45 PM, June 3rd, Alley behind 18th and Curtis

Bazz smiled and nodded when Spider walked up. The seemingly oppressive weight resting over the city that night had dampened his spirits, so he kept the greeting silent. If he'd been asked for by name and Spider had showed up too, then the Johnson had probably requested the whole team. He took a quick look around, figuring that Tuhouh was hanging about nearby, being cagey as always.

When the motorcycle turned the corner and came barreling down the alley, Bazz stepped aside to avoid get crushed by the big bike, but didn't pay it too much mind.



Just before the door opened promptly at 2300, Migel appeared, striding down the alleyway. The cajun halfer gave him a lopsided smile; he'd been right. He led the way into the room, and frowned at the instructions blaring from the speakers.

"Well. Can't say I'm too happy 'bout this." Despite the complaint, he pulled the SMG out of his pants, unloaded and cleared it, then put it in one of the indicated lockers.

10:45 PM, June 3rd, near 18th and Curtis, FRFZ.

After watching a few familiar faces turn the corner and disappear behind the building at 18th and Curtis, Tohuoh caught the sound of a motor revving up nearby and watched as a motorcycle came out from behind that same corner at high speed. With the vision mag already engaged, it took just a thought to capture some high-res images of the bike as it turned the corner and raced away. After following the bike's progress until it was lost to both sight and sound, he studied the best stills for some clue as to exactly what that had been about.


After letting the others precede him into the building, he took a final check of the surrounding area - left, right, and up at the buildings on both side of the alley - before heading inside himself.

Not having planned on working tonight, and having already divested himself of the one weapon he was carrying, Tohuoh left the lockers alone and took an seemingly casual glance at the lock and the door frame, trying to assess how much force would be required to exit the building in a hurry, if necessary.

Spider manages to finish unloading his gear first, and makes his way to the doorway, when the voice comes back over the speaker. "Mr. Spider, you seem to be forgetting something. Please remove ALL of your weapons before passing through the door." Spider grumbles for a bit before going back to his locker and depositing some small objects into it.

As each of you finish removing your gear and pass through the door, you enter into a well lit room that was devoid of any real furnishings. The only thing of any real note is a well-dressed ork standing at the far end of the room. As you enter, he smiles. "Thank you for coming. I assure you, your time will not be wasted this evening. Can I get you anything? Refreshments, perhaps?" He looks around and frowns. "Is this everyone? Oh, this won't do. We sent out several more invitations..."