[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071, 01:30 Local Time]

Nights in Caracas are even hotter than the days. The air swelters like a furnace, and the pollution makes every acrid breath feel like you're inhaling battery acid. Sure the sun goes down, if you could even see the fucking thing through all the rain. But as it dips down below the horizon, sinking further down into a nearby ocean just over the Muralha Verde, the shadows begin to creep out of alleyways and spill into rain-flooded streets, broken only by flickering neon bulbs and the sputtering glow of trash fires. The darkness swallows the heart of this city, suffocating it. And in doing so, the real face of Caracas is revealed.

Those too weak to face the horrors of the night find refuge in their homes, sometimes shantytown shacks, sometimes towering apartment buildings that seem to decay right before ones very eyes. Of course, the truly desperate overcome their fears and go back out into that awful, predatory murk to offer up their bodies or perhaps more for the chance that they might make a better life for themselves. And of course this city just chews them up, gristle and all. It doesn't even bother to swallow, just spits them back out and leaves them broken down to their very souls; a ruined mishmash of dreams deferred and exploited.

Nobody really makes it. You might see the finish line, but you'll never get there. It's a dream, puto, a fucking illusion. The nearer you get, the further it moves away from you, and the more you'll have to bleed to make it even a hair closer.

But it doesn't stop you from trying, does it?

Tonight the rain is coming down in sheets like God's Wrath, perhaps to drown all the wicked in a second deluge. Even the muñecas, pimps, pushers, and predators are starting to think that maybe tonight isn't the best night to make the dinero. Gusts of wind scatter trash through streets already full of the detritus of millions of metahuman souls falling apart in unison. But tonight is unusual aside from the rain. Tonight is when the city really gets nova-hot.

A few battered, world-weary metahuman souls, each for their own reasons, find themselves stuck in this hole of a town, out in the heart of the South American jungle. None of them are saints. They grapple with demons that aren't hidden, but rather lurk just beneath the skin and peer out of their eyes at a world where nothing is safe, and nothing is sacred. It is a world that they have to be harder than in order to survive. Before it's all over, people are going to die, and lives will be destroyed, before they've had their way and left their mark on this town. Think Caracas is bad now? You've seen nothing yet, amigo.

"Amnesiac"
[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Alley, Chacao District; 01:30 Local Time]

It was the sounds of panicked cries and screaming that woke the man up. As he leaned up out of the puddle he was laying in, fetid water dripped off of him. Funny, that he should be aware of the plinks of water droplets falling back into the pool. The change in position caused a wave of dizziness to wash over him, then a tide of nausea. He leaned over and vomited, emptying whatever he'd had for dinner onto the floor of the alleyway. Of course, this only exacerbated his headache. The man pressed a hand to his head. Fuck, but it felt like somebody just drove a jumbo fucking jet straight into his brain. And he touched something wet. Of course, it's raining. But rain isn't this hot.

He pulled his hand away and saw all the blood. He glanced down, and saw a red river spilling down his neck and onto his jacket. Speaking of which, his jacket had holes in it, and they, too, were squirting blood. Suddenly he was aware that he was injured, maybe dying. And as he tried to recall what just happened, his thoughts skittered away like a hare chased by a barghest. Mentally, he tried to grasp them, and they slipped through his fingers to be lost in the void somewhere in the back of his mind.

More screams and urgent cries for help echoed down from the nearby mouth of the alley. They snapped him from his shock, and as he looked around, he saw bodies. Several of them. Two of them dead, one of them coughing up blood. Or maybe that sound was a death rattle. They, too, had holes in them. The man thought, Whoever shot me got those others pretty good, too.

He clutched at his chest in a half-assed attempt to keep the blood from leaking out of his guts. He quickly glanced around for something to stem the blood loss, and that's when he noticed the gun at his side, laying in the same shitty pool of rainwater he was sitting in. As his hand fell on the weapon, he heard the words "Policía! Freeze! Oh shit, he's got a gun! Open fire!" Reports of gunshots sounded, and rounds ricocheted, some splashing into the water around the man's body.

Outside Julio's Cantina, Nueva Caracas, 0130

There are areas of the city that prove God has a sense of humor.

Nueva Caracas was a hole, a condemned hole filled with the dregs of society Sonora had come to know and passably accept. Once the up-and-coming ciudad that was going to be the crown jewel of Caracas proper, its allure quickly faded and the unsavory elements moved in. Truly, it was the New Caracas - Illicit, stinking and liable to kill you before you could get your rocks off.

The rain sheeted down as if a dragon had decided to take a monster piss from on high, water sloshing into storm drains and carrying the detritus of the back alleyways into the street for all to see.

Couldn't the homeless at least try to shit in a dumpster? she thought to herself as she huddled under her poncho. The skirt she wore was already half-soaked, but the combat boots she'd snagged from a military surplus were as good as if it were the desert. At least she wouldn't have to worry about some cabron trying to have his way with her - in this weather he was likely to drown sneaking up on her. Even so, she was only steps from her destination - Julio's, where everyone thought they knew her name. Julio had told her once his casa was hers, and she took him up on the offer every night Bunny was working, until last call.

Two steps from the door. Nobody nearby, so no w--Shit.

The pain came, a tightening in her chest.

Shit shit shit not now

Sonora faltered to a stop, scrabbling for her inhaler under her poncho. Leaning heavily against the door, she finally found the device and ripped her rebreather away, taking a hit of the medication to alleviate the pain in her chest.

Breathe breathe calm calm...Dios mio, there.

She took a choked gasp, inhaling dirty water, dirty air, and the stink of a city in ruin.

"I hate this place."

With that, the woman reattached her breather with slow, measured motions, hid her weakness from the land at large, and pulled open the door to take refuge from the rain.

[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Nueva Caracas; 01:30 Local Time]

Mixed blessings. The world was full of 'em. Take an armored coat as an example: the heavy material and ballistic weaves can make a hot, humid Caracas night unbearably hot; but at least it helps to keep the rain from soaking through. A body can be only mostly soaked in brackish water rather than completely soaked. So despite the overwhelming heat, Coatl is glad to have the coat with him.

Of course, the sweltering heat and unceasing rain made him absolutely miserable. But that was okay. A foul, miserable mood would make murder easier, should the night call for it.

The troll half-hoped it would.

He was still new to this boil laughably called a city, a tenement crammed with too many bodies and not enough souls. Coatl walked the streets this evening, looking for a new watering hole to check out. Not because he needed a neighborhood bar to take his cred and poison his body, but because he needed to get to know the low-lifed, filthy roaches that would be inside. Because those roaches may be the bottom of the city's chain, but they would know the predators above them; all he had to do was look high enough up the food chain to find the people he was looking for. If the gods smiled on him perhaps he'd find one of the Drowners in a watering hole tonight.

So he walked in the pouring rain despite it putting him in a foul mood. A foul mood would make murder easier.

[Tuesday, November 17th, 2071; Skirting Chacao District, 01:30 Local Time]

Few people would drive at any speed resembling Fast in the crowded streets of Caracas, and only the very good or certifiably insane would do so during a rainy downpour such as the one taking place now. For a certain driver of a certain GMC Commadore sedan, both was pretty much true.

Smiley was at it again, an old habit he had no care to be rid off. It was his favorate way to test his car: Drive around, taunt the cops by either waving a gun or merely flipping them off, then drive like a maniac to escape them. They'd either give up once he got to the really rough parts of the city or they crashed. Tonight, the polica damn near ignored him. Probably because they knew better.

Plugged into his vehicle in Hot-sim, he used the rain-slick streets to make a powerslide around a corner that had relatively light traffic, cursing loudly in his mind, Sonofabitch, they finally did it, fuckers got wise! Sighing in his mind, he dropped the speed by three kilometers an hour(out of his current 60kph), trying to go over what to do next in his head. Nobody I know doing anything interestin', and ain't had a job offer in a month... Shit. Time for desperate measures.

After blasting past a red light, Smiley decides to check if he can listen in to the police frequency for any news. Danny boy, lets pray that code you gave me don't fail now.

[Tuesday, November 17th, 2071; Nueva Caracas, 01:30 Local Time]

Rain. Every fucking time with the goddamned rain. Caracas suffered through more than 83cm of rainfall annually, most of it in the late summer and early fall. El Mono didn't know that, of course, but if someone had told him, he would have thought it was all coming down in one night. Fucking rain. Meant no going home tonight. Sure, the weather would make him harder to see, but there was no way in Hell he was about to jump and climb up the side of a building with the slick, oily rain covering everything. Tonight, El Mono was grounded.

Briefly, he considered ripping a few holes in a garbage bag in the time-honored poor-man's raincoat worn by the downtrodden around the world for more than a hundred years now... the smell rolling out of the next alley he passed would have dissuaded him even he hadn't already been soaked through, making the enterprise a waste of time anyway.

With going home out of the question, and staying outside soaking up the foul, polluted rain unthinkable, there weren't many viable options left. This time of night, in this neighborhood, he was more or less limited to bars and bunraku parlors. Taking mental stock of his cash and how long it was likely to rain, he hunched his shoulders in disappointment and jogged towards the flashing neon light that read "CE V SA" in flickering green letters and beneath "O EN." With luck, he could nurse three or four beers through the downpour without calling too much attention to himself.

[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Alley, Chacao District; 01:30 Local Time]

No matter how bad the situation seems, it can always get worse. The elf didn't know where he had heard those words but they certainly seemed to be true as he grabbed the gun and tried to stand up, tried to set his agonizing body into motion. Time seemed to slow down as he finally stumbled to his feet, clutching his chest to ease the spike of spain that accompanied the action. The situation felt completely unreal to him. Everything was drawn out, quiet, like he was watching himself in slow motion.
Then a bullet ricocheted of the wall right next to his face and the scene shattered. Sirens, screams, gunshots, the steady pounding of the rain, all crashed upon him like a wave of sound mingling with the pain from his wounds to a frenzied chaos.

He had been shot, possibly fatally, the police seemed to be chasing him and he couldn't remember a fucking thing. Confused, he stood still for a moment, overwhelmed by the hopelessness of his situation. Then, trained reflexes took over. He didn't know why but he felt this wasn't his first time in a firefight.

Trembling he made his way towards the end of the alley trying to get out of sight of the people shooting at him.

Get out of the imminent danger. Then you can think about what the fuck is happening to you.

The blood was flowing from his head and his chest, dripping down his arms, mixing with the rain. The shadows seemed to be reaching for him trying to pull him back into the dark from which he had just awoken. Everything was red and black and painful. He tripped, fell down, pulled himself back up.

Just one more step. One more step. One more step...

[Tuesday, November 17th, 2071, El Zamural, 1:30 Local Time]

Stephen Jacobs woke up in a sweat. "How is it this place is so fucking hot all the time?" he thought to himself while groping for the bottle next to his bed, and sneering when discovering it was empty. "Just my luck. Well, looks like I'm going to have to earn an honest living."

He chucked to himself at that thought, knowing that was next to impossible down here. Why was he still down here? He had nothing left here, or back home. It was an odd feeling; not knowing one's place. There was only so much synthahol his body could take before he passed out, but still it wasn't enough to make him forget. He knew in his heart of hearts he didn't want to forget.

He wanted revenge. But, and this was the worst part, he knew that wouldn't help. Time and time again, when he was hunting people down for money, he'd deliver them to his clients, and see no glimpse of satisfaction when they were killed. He wasn't arrogant enough to think he would feel differently from the hundreds he had already seen.

So if not revenge, then what? Justice? Could something like that even exist down here? He leaned up in bed and decided to sober up enough to try and find out for himself.

[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071, Palmar de Caridad, 01:30 Local Time]

I should be dead. When I say this, I ain't speaking in that... what do you call it... figurative way. I ain't saying I should be dead because I'm old. Because I've outlived my usefulness. Because statistically speaking, having led the lifestyle I did, I should have been killed. I ain't saying it because others who had a lot more to live for than me died in some forgotten corner of countries that don't even exist anymore, fighting wars no one ever heard about. I should be dead at this very precise moment in time. I should be dead as in "I just got struck by fucking lighting" dead. But I ain't. I should be, by all accounts dead. But I feel my hearth pounding in my chest. I can feel my sweat rollin' down in huge beads, down my neck and my back. My meat hand is shaking and my throat feels sore. I've got murder on my mind, and enough Jack in my veins to kill a horse. But I'm not dead. And I should be.

I've got a 12 gauge barrel pressed again'st my skin. I can feel the barrel, warm and cold at the same time. That acrid smell of gunpowder from a poorly cleaned gun. It ain't the first time I've felt a gun pressed against me. And apparently, it might not be the last time, even though it should have been.
I can hear the rain pounding outside, and I just wish I could close my eyes. But I can't. I haven't been able to close my eyes for the past 20 years, on the account I don't have eyelids anymore. Last time I saw Sue, she said I was a monster. Maybe she's right. She's probably right. I am a monster. I wasn't, but I became one. I made that choice. I chose to be one to protect what I loved. I chose to die so that my children would live in a better world. And right now, I should be dead.

I've had this gun for a long time. Always served me well. If there's one thing the German can make, beside a good pair of boots, it's a reliable gun. For as long as I can remember, I've never had a buckshot missfire. I should be dead. I've downed an entire bottle. Took pictures out. Sue. Catherine. Emma. Arthur. Us at the beach. Me graduating basic. But mostly the kids. Downed the bottle, and loaded one shell. And nothing. I should be dead, but I'm not.

The hand barely holding the barrel steady is mine. It's shaking. I've never shaken while holding a gun. I should be dead but I'm not. First time in my life I can't kill someone. God only knows how many people I've killed. I lost count long ago. But what I do know, is that everyone I've gunned for, aimed at and shot with intent to kill, is dead. Yet, I'm not. I'm still pressing the barrel under my chin, and the trigger is pulled all the way back.A dud.

Well fuck me.

Guess that counts for something. And here I was, not worrying one bit about getting a hangover on account I was setting to blow my entire face off.

The rain is still falling outside. Reminds me of home; somehow. Ain't quite sure why.

I put the shotgun, dud shell still in the chamber, on the couch next to me. I've got spare shells in my jacket, but I ain't quite sure I still have the stomach for it. At least not tonight. Jack's almost empty. Maybe a few drops left. I'll have to get another bottle. I look at the shotgun again. Fuck it. I'll do it next week.

Tuesday, 17 November, 2071, Nueva Caracas, 01:30 Local Time
Commlink: Passive Mode. Broadcasting SIN: Chayton Wanji


It's not the heat, it's the humidity. Chaske thought as he glanced down at his hands, covered in durable microthread gloves that were in themselves covered with black metal plates. No amount of washing is going to get the smell out of this. he lamented while shuddering at the thought of peeling off his form-fitting body suit.

He flexed his hands and revved the engine of his bike; he could feel the heat of the engine boring into his thighs as sure as any knife sliding between the ribs. Chaske grit his teeth and looked around at the gridlock, slowly becoming aware of the heat pouring off of the other vehicles; surrounding him, suffocating him. The Amerindian's chest began to tense under the sweltering heat even though he knew it was all in his mind. The heat waves that one could just barely see wafting above the roadway began to weave together and then branch out to the surrounding buildings.

Not again. he pleaded with himself as an invisible drummer began a steady tattoo in the distance.

                Bum bum bum bum, Bum bum bum bum

Chaske started to dry heave and the drumbeat increased in intensity.

             Bum bum bum bum, Bum bum bum bum

Chaske's eyes darted around, searching. THERE! He turned and maneuvered his bike through a gap in the traffic and shot onto the sidewalk amid some jeers and car horns that were drowned out by the drumming.

           Bum bum bum bum, Bum bum bum bum

He set the Pilot to take him to the nearest bar, then turned off the manual controls as he tightened his grip on the handlebars and shut his eyes, trying to block out the drumming.

         Bum bum bum bum, Bum bum bum bum

Chaske's throat continued to tighten and he continued to heave as the motorcycle casually whirred through the back allies of Nuevo Caracas.

             Bum bum bum bum, Bum bum bum bum
Chaske opened his eyes and took a gasp of air before coughing into his helmet.

                Bum bum bum bum, Bum bum bum bum

Quickly, the Amerind turned off the Pilot program before it could leave the Static Zone it had wandered into. The motorcycle quickly came to a graceful stop and Chaske began to take deeper and longer breaths.
 
 
 
Chaske slid off the seat as the motorcycle's gyros worked to keep it tranquilly standing upright in stark contrast to the man beside it scrambling to rip off his helmet and retrieve a tablet from his combat vest at the same time. He shoved the tablet into his mouth, but his throat seized up again as he tried to dry-swallow it. Looking about in feverish worry Chaske spotted a small puddle in a shadow and crawled over to it, hoping to moisten his throat just enough to let him swallow...

"Sam"
[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Chacao District; 01:32 Local Time]
The Amnesiac ran down the alley, his booted footfalls splashing into the ankle-deep puddles of filthy rainwater. The rain itself still kept coming down in a torrent, practically obliterating vision except for the faint and hazy outlines of buildings and objects in the distance. La Policía were still in hot pursuit, and the staccato notes of gunfire still erupted from behind him, occasionally shattering chunks from walls that pelted him in the face as he ran by.

Every pounding step seemed to cause more blood to spurt out of the wounds in his chest. How much had he lost already? The jacket he wore and the shirt underneath were rapidly turning into a big red stain despite the constant rain to wash everything away. Darkness began to surround the edges of his vision, a blackness to steal his light and take him into the next world, whispering a siren song to him to lie down, give up, and surrender to the Big Sleep.

Though it seemed to move further away with every moment, and though the world spun almost like a top about to fall over, the opposite end of the alley came nearer and nearer. So close, now...

((Make a Willpower+Body roll, -wound modifiers))

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

Smiley
[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Chacao District; 01:32 Local Time]
The codes ol' Danny boy supplied proved true. Within moments Smiley was eavesdropping on frantic chatter on the police frequencies as he tore through the congested streets and cluttered alleyways of Chacao. The passcodes passed their authorization check right as Smiley's ride sliced between two cars with a narrow gap in between, avoiding trading paint jobs by perhaps a centimeter on either side.

<<Dispatch to Unit 243, What is your status?>>
<<Unit 243 reporting! Backup has arrived and we are pursuing the suspect! We are in an alley off of Calle Sucre and Avenida Francisco de Miranda! He is armed and dangerous, repeat, armed and dangerous!>>
<<Dispatch to Unit 243, I copy that. Permission to use deadly force is granted. Have one of your team check the victims for medical contract identification.>>
<<Roger that! *sounds of gunfire*>>
<<Dispatch to Unit 243, we are coordinating inbound units to cordon off the area. All units, be advised and rendevous at the location coming across your comms...>>

That explained the lack of pursuit. The law dogs had some other cat to chase at the moment.

And the address? Hell, that wasn't far from there at all... To get involved or not...

((Make a Navigation roll; then a Pilot Ground Craft roll, -2 for rain-slicked streets))

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

Sonora
[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Julio's Cantina, Nueva Caracas; 01:32 Local Time]
As Sonora entered Julio's, a bell positioned above the door tinkled softly.

Julio's was a dive, even as far as dive bars went, and it sat mostly empty, excepting a drunk passed out on a table in the corner, and the troll sitting at the bar, nearly crushing the steel reinforced chair he sat upon. The troll didn't look up, merely sat staring sullenly into the bottom of the glass before him, not moving a muscle.

Julio stood behind the counter, a swarthy man with a generous paunch, wearing a button up white shirt covered with a black vest. Upon seeing Sonora enter, he gave a hearty chuckle that caused his extra chins to wobble with the effort.

"Ah, it is you again, come once again grace us with your presense! Come out of the rain and sit here at the counter! What shall I get you?" The troll punctuated the bartender's question with a sudden, rumbling fart.

As he gazed at Sonora he ran a finger over his greased, thin little pussy-tickler moustache that he took so much fucking pride in, regardless of the fact it made him look like a bit of a pedophile.

((Give me a visual Perception roll, -2 for rain and -3 for distraction; or give me an Intution+Shadowing roll with the same mods))

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

Coatl
[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Sidewalk Near Julio's Cantina, Nueva Caracas; 01:32 Local Time]
Wandering the streets of Nueva Caracas took Coatl past all the best establishments this side of town had to offer. Augmented reality adverts obnoxiously boasted having the best selection of spank fodder in the porn shops, and the finest flesh for rent by the hour in the numerous brothels and cathouses. What's your fantasy? they teased. We can give it to you.

As the troll moved up the street, he saw an unusual scene... A figure, a woman walking on the streets all alone tonight, warding off the rain with a poncho. The poncho obscured most of her form, but it was a chica alright. And what's a woman doing out in this neighborhood at this time of night without her pimp? Just not safe.

She leaned against the side of a bar called Julio's Cantina, bracing as if for support. She stripped the rebreather off her face and took a hit of something.

Right behind her, a man stepped from the shadows, barely within the reach of a loudly humming streetlight. Coatl's enhanced vision stripped away the rain's obfuscation, so that he plainly saw the man pull a half meter length of blade from a sheathe at his side and gaze murderously at the woman now proceeding within Julio's. The way he gripped the blade spoke of a homicidal anticipation, and he crossed the street to enter the bar after she'd gone inside.

((If you want to get there faster, roll Running+Strength))

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

Stephen
[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Apartment, El Zamural; 01:32 Local Time]
As Stephen sat in his apartment, the sounds of city life outside filtered in through the window. The rain roared in a ceaseless fury, and occasionally the hum of a motor would signify a car taking a chance on a shortcut, and then hydroplaning through the flooded street. The occasional notes of gunfire erratically punctuated the night, like some sort of urban Morse Code.

And another sound, one coming not from the window, but from the door to his apartment. Scratching. Like nails on wood.

Scratch. Scratch.

After a time, the noises are accompanied by a high pitched whine. It is a mournful croon, a familiar noise, with undertones of sadness. It is a fitting counterpoint to the urban symphony coming through the window, blending into a single harmony.

Scratch. Scratch.

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

Dexter
[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Apartment, Palmar de Caridad; 01:32 Local Time]
As Dexter laid the shotgun down on the couch, the noises from next door grew louder in volume, almost as if to taunt him and get him to reconsider. Breathless moans of faked ecstasy permeated the wall. The paying customers grunted and wheezed, while metal springs in the mattresses they tussled upon creaked, creaked, creaked with each desperate thrust.

Occasionally something would bump into the wall, sometimes hard enough to cause rotting plaster to rain down from the ceiling and onto Dexter's head, covering him with bits of flaky powder.

And then another noise, quite different from the ones next door. Dexter's commlink began to buzz, as it does when there's an incoming commcall. And buzz it did, humming across the table, shivering itself to the edge to fall upon a filthy, mold-covered carpet next to more discarded bottles. The little blue LED flashed everytime the comm vibrated, as if to say "Look at me, asshole!"

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

Chaske
[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; A Dark Alley, Nueva Caracas; 01:32 Local Time]
Upon entering the static zone, the steady drumbeat fades into the background, though it doesn't disappear altogether. Just on the fringes of Chaske's perception, he remained acutely aware of the omnipresent rhythm of the Matrix, of all that information all around him, floating in the air, whispering to devices and sharing a common experience. It was almost like a spider's web, the threads spreading out to reach other nodes, other hubs, and then reaching out to touch others, which continue the pattern until everything is linked altogether.

The particular puddle Chaske dranks from tasted like shit. Maybe somebody really had shit in it. Who knows? Or maybe it was just what people tasted right before they came down with cholera or dysentery or who knows what-the-fuck else people around there died from that's not bullets or knives. The lukewarm water carried the pill down into his stomach to wait for distribution to his eager central nervous system.

Suddenly, a spike of information surges through the Dead Zone, causing that drumbeat to come back with maddening intensity.

Bum bum bum bum, Bum bum bum bum

A burst of Matrix traffic from the local area shattered the comparative radio silence like a bolt of lightning slays the darkness in the dead of night. The drumbeat fades in volume, but remains, as devices began talking to each other, the flow of Matrix communication in the area going from virtually absent to voices stentorian chanting in the night.

But Chaske had never heard anything like these before... Something was strange about them. Like the rhythm was off kilter, in a beat that staggered and weaved uncertainly, trying to throw the listener off balance and muddle their senses.

((To understand what it is, I need an Electronic Warfare+Decrypt roll))

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

El Mono
[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Near El Hoyo, Nueva Caracas; 01:32 Local Time]
The ruined neon signs flickered at random, unpredictable intervals, but the meanings behind them were apparent enough. El Mono found himself walking towards an establishment called El Hoyo, and true to its name it looked like a real hole in the ground. The business next door was a pawn shop set up like a fortress, with bars over the windows and shatterproof glass several centimeters thick behind them. That one was obviously closed. The alley in between them was pitch dark, Mono's low light vision barely able to penetrate any meaningful distance inside, aside from a sign advertising "Free Abortions, This Way."

What's that? Looking up he caught motion, somebody moving on top of one of the buildings. Only years of highly trained paranoia allowed him to see them at all. The figure was clad in raven black full body armor, barely visible as they blended in with the subfuscous evening to become almost a ghost. Their face was covered with a mask, with large goggles over the eyes. What were they doing?

A shuffling noise about twenty meters to the right, and there was another one, walking across the tops of buildings to join up with the other first mysterious stalker. This one was clad in the same manner of garb, with the dark armor covering him from head to toe. Were they watching? Were they following El Mono? What were they doing?

That old sensation returned, that of thousands of invisible eyes peering from everywhere and nowhere all at once, watching and following El Mono. It was the feeling of all that attention turning into a cloying, crushing, suffocating mass as strangers and unknown stalkers studied, analyzed, and visually vivisected him. He experienced a familiar creeping of the flesh, a shiver of the spine to let him know that they were back.

[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Chacao District; 01:32AM Local Time]

Upon finishing the next turn, Smiley begins to think about his next action. He has no real reason to interfere, no reason to come to the rescue of some person who may have good reason to be chased. For all he knows, this person could be dumb enough to try and carjack him after the rescue... On the other hand, if this guy wasn't an idiot psycho, he'd owe Smiley big time, and as his old creedo goes: Everybody pays. Besides, it's not like he didn't have ways to be rid of the guy if he proved to be a killjoy.

He had new and better engine parts, a newfound charitble mood, and now a clear goal for the next hour at least. Not sparing another moment, Smiley pursued his new course of action. After consulting a mapsoft and using his knowledge of finding shortcuts while listening in to the chatter for more info, he speeds up and heads off after this mystery man and the fun that's about to result from raining on the law dogs parade and force-feeding them another slice of humble pie. As he approaches, he looks at the condition readout of the car on his VR HUD, thinking to himself: Fun times ahead or no, better give these cops a bit of distance until I see the guy... The armor on this thing won't be able to hold out against whatever they normally mount on those damn Citymaster APC's.

[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; A Dark Alley, Nueva Caracas; 01:32 Local Time]
[Commlink: Passive Mode. Broadcasting SIN: Chayton Wanji]

It takes a supreme force of will to keep from vomiting up the one thing that's keeping the drumming at bay, but Chaske manages to hold his stomach in check until the tablet enters his bloodstream. And once that happens, what does it matter if he vomits back into the puddle? More flavor for the next schmuck.

As the Bliss takes hold Chaske's worries melt away and he slumps against a dumpster. His biomonitor calmly informs him that his heart rate is returning to normal, though he figured that out when it no longer felt like it was going to crash through his chest. The drumming returns just as Chaske begins to lose feeling in his outer extremities; rather than set him running it only annoys him. With a light smile he stares off in the direction of the noise.

Chaske leisurely opens an AR window and quickly sculpts his living persona to that of an old man in a tattered sweater clutching a straw broom with a wooden handle. The world before him fades as he maximizes the AR window and then flies about the previously dead zone, poking the broom handle into this node or that as he tries to figure out what those damn kids are up to.

[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Apartment, El Zamural; 01:35 Local Time]

Stephen stretched to fix the crick in his back, and stood up. The scratching had become more persistent.

"All right, all right, I'm coming."

If he had been back home in Seattle, there was a procedure for this sort of thing. He would first peek into the Astral, to see if there were any spirits spying on him. He would then project through the door, to see if what beyond it had a dark aura, or if they appeared to be planning on harming him. He could also quickly summon a spirit to go check them out. He grinned at the thought. It was always interesting to greet someone before they entered your home. They always looked for the cameras, and immediately put him in a position of power.

Down here though? It was too hot for all that drek. Stephen got up, picked up his Colt from beside the bed and slide it into the holster in the small of his back, and opened the door.

Julio's Cantina - Nueva Caracas, 01:32 Local time
(Commlink - Passive Mode, SIN broadcast = ERROR, NO SIN FOUND, PLEASE REGISTER WITHIN 30 DAYS OR WARRANTY IS VOID)
Biomonitor - Stable


In a city bordering on the ridiculous, Julio's pedophile 'stache was perhaps the icing on the cake. There was something about it that just made his face plain greasy; it made a face that should have belonged to a mariachi one that belonged on a Matrix bulletin. [Sex Offender In Your Neighborhood - Is Your Child Safe?], it would say under his picture, the flabby jowls only amplifying the look of wide-eyed surprise on his face. You couldn't make it menacing. There was just no way. It was like trying to demonize Trollbabe - it couldn't be done.

Sonora smiled as she unhooked the rebreather once more and let it hang from her neck, making her way to the counter. "Oaxaca, Julio. It's a shitty night out there."

She was hiding her ears tonight. Too many Juans mistook her for a streetwalker at the wrong time when they were out, but the Cantina was where she tended to keep the disguises to a minimum. A bit of hair work was worthless on a night like this, so the black hair had a mind of its own. Enough waves in it kept the strays out of the way, but it covered her features nicely enough to where she could pass as human. Sort of. Too little work was making her sloppy. Julio probably knew, but that was his own business. She knew the way he looked at her, he looked the same way at most of the streetwalkers that burned some time here while waiting for the slap patches to numb the pain between their legs.

They didn't have a slap patch to soothe the soul, but the Oaxaca came close.

I'm getting sloppy, Sonora reflected as she leaned against the counter. The hairs on the back of her neck didn't rise as threatningly when she kept her back to the door. Maybe it was the rain, maybe it was the time of night. Maybe it was the fact Julio's was all but abandoned, the stink of half-digested refried beans and krill wafers from the Troll an understandable deterrent to walking in here. She ignored it. She had to - the Troll might have something she could palm and pawn later. The take from the pit fight was all but gone, but there was enough to eat, have a few drinks, and try to forget about the inhaler she'd nicknamed the 'Snooze Button' to silence the shrilling alarm of her heart.

[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Sidewalk Near Julio's Cantina, Nueva Caracas; 01:32 Local Time]

It had been a long, long time since Coatl had been with a woman, and each step down this street only served as a harsh reminder. The prices listed in the ever-present AR spam had long ago reached amounts that he could comfortably afford, should he choose; but with this prices this low disease was almost guaranteed. He may as well dip his pene in petrol and light it aflame--it would be half as painful, be over a lot quicker, and at least leave him with a story to tell.

No. He ignored the offers of flesh. Even if there had been a safe, healthy place to purchase a high-class piece of trim, his heart just wouldn't have been in it this sodden, burning night.

Trudging through the rain, seeing the streetwalker gave him pause. Whoever had let her off the leash was bound to lose a good investment, letting her wander in a place like this. Even with a pimp around, selling yourself wasn't the safest profession. Well, thought the troll, she's not my slint and not my problem.

As Coatl got closer he saw her take a hit from a breather--probably filled with whatever it was her pimp used to keep her in his control--and he spied the man with the machete. Carefully honed apathy faded a bit at that, slowly replaced with something unfamiliar. Whores being cut up was an everyday reality, but that didn't mean he was going to let it happen right in front of him. Maybe it was a disappointed juan who wanted his money back; maybe she was a runaway and her pimp was going to teach her a lesson; maybe he was just a sick fuck who only got his rocks off when he was elbow-deep in slaughtered senorita. Coatl didn't care. That girl probably wasn't going to last a week on these streets anyway; but it seemed important to the troll that she not die tonight.

As the streetwalker entered Julio's he thought maybe she was safe, but then Machete started to follow her in. Brazen fucker, Coatl thought, and stopped his pursuit. Probably her pimp was inside and Machete was about to get a big surprise; Pimp would see the blade behind his girl, and Machete would take a bullet in the head before his eyes had adjusted to the dim lights and cigarillo smoke. Problem solved. But, Coatl realized, the guy might get lucky and tear her up before anything can be done. If I were to get there first and end him fast, maybe I get an in with the pimp for saving his merch, eh? Might be a useful guy to know.

The troll broke into a shambling run.

[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Apartment, Palmar de Caridad; 01:32 Local Time]

For a moment, I look at wall and wonder just how thick it is. I got enough 5.56mm to supply an army, and I can fuckin’ see through walls. Pop pop pop. And then it would be all quiet. But then again, there’d be holes in the walls, and I’m sure some creep would watch me coming out of the shower.

I brush the plaster off my shoulders and take the commlink. My back hurts like a bitch. My knees cringe like I’m some old lady. Thank God I ain’t. If I was, I would be one damn bitch from hell.

I answer the fuckin’ thing before the buzzing makes my headache worst. And I answer it with my best “fuck you” voice. I mean, what’s a soldier got to do to get a day off?

“What!”

I have such lovely manners.

Smiley
[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Chacao District; 01:33 Local Time]
Smiley was too good at this shit. He maneuvered his sedan through the nooks and crannies of Chacao, moving en route to La Policía's target. Cutting through alleys, driving on sidewalks, dodging incoming traffic on one-way streets, Smiley meandered the remaining kilometer.

Already his sensors were picking up an increased aerial drone presense. Radio waves pinged off of air-borne bodies, and the vehicle Pilot's expert systems confirmed that they were, indeed, seriously armed.

As he closed in on the target, a large, red Matrix window opened in his VR vision and flashed warningly: "[POLICE ZONE - DO NOT ENTER]". Undeterred, he proceeded onwards. This prompted a nearby rotodrone to take a shot with its mounted sniper rifle. It was most obviously not a warning shot, as it fell just ahead of his vehicle and shattered a chunk of wall, pelting his GMC Commodore with small bits of brick and mortar.

Just up the street was a police barricade, and more drones were closing in behind. Smiley steeled himself, rounding a turn sharply and then braking so hard that the car lifted off of its left wheels. The skidding took him towards an alley so narrow that it would normally permit nothing but pedestrians and motorbikes. However, the car up at an angle, his raised wheels merely rode along the wall, and that's how he exited out of the other side within the police zone, not a hundred meters away from his destination. The wheels slammed back down on the ground without their support, giving a jarring test of the vehicle's suspension.

<<All units, be advised: Aerial recon has spotted a vehicle moving at high speeds, and it has penetrated the perimeter.>>
<<Damn, I bet it's that same mamón we've been chasing for weeks. Somebody blow his ass away!>>

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

Sonora
[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Julio's Cantina, Nueva Caracas; 01:33 Local Time]
Julio looked beneath the counter, and then at the bottles along the wall. The bartender lifted the empty bottle of Oaxaca and gave it small shake, then tsked disapprovingly at the last few droplets splattering around on the inside.

"Huh, this one is empty. I think I have another in the back. Give me just a few moments," he said before disappearing through a door behind the bar.

As Sonora took her seat, she caught sight of a man approaching Julio's Cantina through the dirty, time-sullied glass door. Despite the darkness and the rain, she could clearly make out the glint of light off of the machete extending from his hand.

She could read him like an open book, too, since she had certain Talents in those regard. Though she couldn't hear him yet, just the sight of him openly advertised an undisguised, murderous enmity, directed towards her. She could see it in the furrow of his brow, and in the unblinking, wide-eyed, challenging glare. Even the rising and falling of his chest indicated increased levels of anxiety and adrenaline that usually accompanied a man about to take another's life. His gait, his lack of hesitation, the set of his jaw. He couldn't have made it any clearer if he'd shouted his intentions to her.

The man opened the door, stepped inside, and raised his machete.

"I've found you, puta! And now I'm going to kill you and shit on your corpse!"

((Give me a Memory test, Willpower+Logic))

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

Coatl
[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Sidewalk Near Julio's Cantina, Nueva Caracas; 01:33 Local Time]
Coatl, despite his enormous size, speeded across the street with every stride. His massive, well-muscled frame propelled him forward like a cheetah, if cheetahs were the size of elephants. Every time his foot fell on pavement, he pushed his weight into it, and his muscles drove that massive boot into the ground like a pneumatic drill. The unmaintained, rotting pavement gave a few times, as he left visible cracks and potholes where his foot had previously been. Lifting them back up scattered crumbled bits of broken asphalt over the road.

Machete had just stepped inside Julio's Cantina and raised his weapon when Coatl got to the other side of the street. From within he could hear a man screaming "I've found you, puta! And now I'm going to kill you and shit on your corpse!"

Clearly, he seemed a little put out at the woman in the bar.

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

Stephen
[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Apartment, El Zamural; 01:35 Local Time]
When Stephen opened the door, Colt ready at his side, he at first saw nothing. Nothing to the left, and nothing to the right either. The hallway stretched out to either side, and reeked of stale sweat and dark corners voided in. Everywhere the disgustingly mauve wallpaper peeled and was stained, and the carpet was littered with trash and broken glass.

Another whine, and attentions were directed downwards at a pathetic street mutt of a dog. It was almost impossible to tell what breeds were involved in the making of this animal, but clearly more than one had fingers and toes. Its fur was patches of grey and white slashed with browns and blacks, and obvious fresh injuries had let blood leave a crusted mat of fur in places. And yet at a second glance, it was easy to tell this dog was a survivor. Sure he looked a bit like a doggy Frankenstein, but he was well-built and sleekly muscled, with a barrel chest and a powerful-seeming jaw. A scrap of paper stuck out of his mouth, which he set on the ground at Stephen's feet. He peered up with deep brown eyes, and began panting happily, with a tongue lolling ridiculously out of the side of his mouth. His tail wagged furiously.

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

Dexter
[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Apartment, Palmar de Caridad; 01:33 Local Time]
Upon answering the commcall, an augmented reality window opened abruptly in Dexter's field of vision. A familiar bearded, white-haired man appeared, wearing large, dark aviator-style shades that went out of fashion probably about a hundred years ago. He puffed on an expensive-looking cigarillo, no doubt exhuding the scent that the man himself wore in person.

"Mr. Pope," Morris began in that gravelly baritone of his. "Glad to see you're still alive. It's been what, coupla months? I thought you would've eaten a bullet or something by now." Morris gave one of those infuriatingly smug, knowing little grins of his. "How's life treating you?"

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

Chaske
[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; A Dark Alley, Nueva Caracas; 01:33 Local Time]
The perplexing, out-of-rhythm drumbeat, little by little, begins to coalesce slowly into a steady meter. The old man persona swipes at one of the nodes with his broom, and when the handle collides with a white, floating orb, it shatters into a million million pieces, almost like stardust, which spreads around the virtual space of the Matrix. The drumbeat becomes a dead silence, replaced by the crystalline tinkling of the bright motes filling the digital area.

Chaske is then aware of the frequency. More than aware: it buzzes directly in his brain, turning into discernible sights and sounds that his emerged ego turns into information. It is a comm channel, and there are voices speaking on it.

<<Forward Team, Report.>>
<<Closing in. Sweep is nearly complete. Target in sight. Resistance should be minimal.>>
<<Understood. Strike Team One, Report.>>
<<Commander, there are civilians near Point Alpha. Is the operation still a go?>>
<<Affirmative. Fuck these people. They're not even collateral damage. Our masters won't care one way or another, so long as the job is done. Strike Team Two, Report.>>
<<Target has been eliminated, returning to rendevous point.>>
<<Roger. Strike Team Three, Report.>>
<<We are closing in on the target's position. Keeping up high, out of the streets. Some civilians around.>>
<<If they spot you, kill them. Nobody knows we are here, comprende?>>
<<Roger.>>

[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Chacao District; 01:33AM Local Time]

Upon shaking the dust out of his head after leaving hot-sim, Smiley starts to cackle like a madman at his antics. Hah! They ain't never saw that coming!. He keeps the car driving forward, the tactic going back to his days in San Francisco when Saito ran the show; back in those days where the only defense against the hardware deployed by the Imperial Marines was speed and lots of it.

After a moment of looking out the windows while switching between vision modes on his cybereyes, he reaches down under his seat and withdraws a sawed-off SPAS-22 and a box of 12-gauge shells with a mushroom cloud on the plastiboard box. He lazily starts thumbing Ex-Ex shells into the tube magazine as he wonders just where the hell this guy is.

Man, I can't stay in one street for too long or this car's going to have a half dozen drones shooting at it with big guns. Need to be subtle too otherwise... Aw fuck it.

Rolling down the driver side window, Smiley leans his head out slightly and starts honking his horn and shouting: "Hey, asshole getting cops attention! You wanna live you best get in the car before we both get blown to the next fucking world!"

[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Chacao District; 01:34AM Local Time]

With a surge of defiance the Amnesiac fought back the pain. He would not die here, alone and without knowing why. One step at a time, the end of the alley came closer.
In a detached corner of his mind, he was amazed that he was still alive. So much blood everywhere. How much do I have left? he thought almost curiously.
He drew the trenchcoat tighter around him in a pathetic attempt to stop the bleeding. His head pounded and every step felt like a kife was driven through his brain.

Finally he turned around the corner. Standing on the deserted thoroughfare it took him a second to notice the car coming to a halt in front of him. In a reflex his blood-stained right hand came up, leveling the Manhunter at the driver. Then he realized that it wasn't a police vehicle and the man inside was talking. Well shouting actually and calling him an asshole among other unpleasent things. But the important thing was that he apparently was here to help him. The hand holding the gun slumped back down and hung limply at his side.

Gathering his last strength, the hispanic elf forced his bloodied and battered body to move one more time, opening the passenger door of the car. He fell more into the front seat then he set down, collapsing to a trempling heap the moment he didn't have to force himself to stand anymore.

"Thanks, whoever you are." he murmured weakly. "I think I'm going to pass out now." His eyes fell shut. Finally he gave in and blackness swallowed him.

[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; A Dark Alley, Nueva Caracas; 01:34 Local Time]
[Commlink: Passive Mode. Broadcasting SIN: Chayton Wanji]

With a curious smile Chaske's persona crumbles back into the binary and he closes the AR window. He laboriously looks about the alley for his helmet. Giving a slight sigh as he puts it on Chaske secures the chinstrap and sets his commlink to hidden before reclining in a corner and immersing himself in the hum of the Matrix proper.


Chaske sculpts his persona into a small desert tarantula as the interconnecting wireless transmissions begin to shimmer and coalesce into a haphazard web. Chaske opens a small window in the lower left corner of his view, tying in the camera and microphone in his helmet so he can keep an eye on his body. Closing all of his virtual eyes, Chaske reaches deep into the resonance and entreats a small portion of it to help him. As the call propagates down into the Resonance Realms Chaske works reverently on an icon for the sprite to inhabit: an arachnid template to be fully fleshed out by the sprite according to its own desires.

At first, nothing responds to his call so Chaske concentrates and pours more of himself into the plea. The arachnoid template glows faintly as a sprite answers his call and enters into the icon. Chaske's own tarantula form bends its frontlegs in a bow to the sprite and the Amerind technomancer impresses a desire upon the entity to follow the strands of communication and update Chaske on anything it discovers. The technomancer then scuttles along the strand identified by the 'Commander' as Forward Team.

Smiley and "Sam"
[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Chacao District; 01:34AM Local Time]
The heavily-wounded hispanic elf jumped into the passenger seat of Smiley's sedan, slamming the door shut behind him. It was apparent that this hombre was two half-steps away from being hamburger meat. Not only was blood squirting out of this man copiously -- and all over the nice, clean interior of this car -- but he even had what looked like a fucking bullet hole in the left side of his forehead. That this pendejo was even walking, let alone alive, was a miracle.

And right before the situation lost its novelty, before one could almost get used to having a bloody, armed stranger fucking up their ride, troops from El Departamento de Seguridad de Caracas (or more simply referred to as La Policía) spilled out from the mouth of the alley. All of them wore their full body armor suits and face-covering helmets decorated in the black and dark blue colors that have become the Departmento's standard. At a signal from the forward commander, they leveled their assault rifles and began firing in concert at the car. Bullets rattled against the car's metal, some glancing off the side, others possibly penetrating.

<<It's them, it's both of them! The suspect and that cabrón we've been chasing! Open fire!>>

((Need you to roll Reaction +/- Handling three times, each with a -2 modifier. If you want to go on Full Defense, you can add in your Pilot Ground Craft skill, but you'll be dedicated to Evasive Driving.))

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

Chaske
[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; A Dark Alley, Nueva Caracas; 01:34 Local Time]
Chaske, in that arachnid form of his, latched onto a gossamer thread, a strand of that web stretching from its current, originating node and disappearing beyond visible sight into the darkness of a void. In the distance, if one followed this thread long enough, would be another connection, another point for the web to spread out, making innumerable connections to the greater Matrix.

However, the spider quickly found that this web was not quite up to snuff. Soon as it began crawling on that thread, it wobbled uncertainly, bobbing underneath his weight and leaving him dangling. As Chaske crawled along the strand, hoping to take it to the next node, it snapped, and he found himself dropped. Giving way underneath his weight, it left him dangling below the greater web and above a dark, black abyss. The strand on the other side, nearer to his destination, seemed to snap back and recoil, giving no way to follow it back to the location.

It would seem as though the party in question doesn't want to be Tracked...

[Julio's Cantina - Nueva Caracas, 0133 AM]
Biomonitor: Elevated, but within nominal parameters

Mark.

The realization of who this cabron was caused Sonora to begin thinking, fast. One glimpse was all it took, and the details just started to come in.

Tempo dealer. Machete. Brighter than expected, but still a dumb pendejo. Persistant. Willing to kill over a ten-pack of Tempo-Willing to track and kill over a ten-pack of Tempo. How did he find me? Sloppy, sloppy, sloppy.

Stay chill. Options:

A.) Knife fight. He'll carve me into so much meat. Not recommended unless he stabs Stinky at the bar.
B.) Cavalry. Bar patrons don't seem too interested, but a possibility. Would have to keep him occupied. Let others do the fighting.
C.) Run a game. Fool him into dropping his weapon. Perhaps cut a profit off it. Find out who the fuck sold me out.
D.) Drill a round into his forehead.

It was clear which option Sonora was going to take, though it wasn't one she enjoyed very often. It was a curious thing, being able to shock someone into doing what she wanted. It had to be quick, simple, and it would confuse the ever-loving hell out of the mark. Mix it with the right story, and nobody was the wiser....

Even as he stood in the doorway, even as he started to call her hurtful things (hey, SINless have feelings too), her hand was reaching under her poncho for the holster, for the Manhunter ensconced within, for the one thing she hated to fall back on.

In a flash, blued gunmetal was in her hand, pointed at Machete, the red dot of a laser sight on his center mass. Four words were that were needed. She put the power behind them. Now two clocks were ticking.

With a Commanding Voice, she shouted, "Policia! Drop your weapon, pendejo!"

[Julio's Cantina - Nueva Caracas, 0133 AM]

He heard the woman yell that she was with la policia and had just enough time to realize he literally couldn't stop--he was moving too fast to put the brakes on now. Well, fuck, Coatl thought, just before he burst into the bar.

The door slammed open, knocked off of one of its hinges, as Coatl barreled in like a freight train. Rather than try to stop (and likely tear up his knees in the process) he decided, To hell with it. And he jumped for Machete, going for a tackle.

Not that it matters. If she's a cop down here alone she's gonna get torn apart one way or another.

[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Apartment, El Zamural; 01:35 Local Time]

Stephen leans over and picks up the note. "C'mon boy, let's get you some food." Stephen walked back into his apartment, the dog dutifully following. Street dogs were much smarter than domesticated dogs, but any dog on the planet knew what "food" meant. As Stephen dropped a half-eaten soy-meat package on the ground, he closed the door and read the note.

[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Near El Hoyo, Nueva Caracas; 01:32 Local Time]

Shit. Shit shit shit. Bitch was getting serious. She didn't send goons this time. It was a fucking strike team or some shit. Who the FUCK is this puta? No time to work on that now. Spec-ops ninjas on the fucking rooftops. On the rainiest fucking night there ever was. They knew he'd be out. They knew he'd be on the ground... and now they had two very good reason for him to stay there. Two reasons trying to get above street level could be suicide. Fuck, these people were good. Fuck. Standing to fight wouldn't get him fuck all except a body bag, either. If he was lucky.

Two options, then. Uno: run. Dos: hide. They were already watching him, so he couldn't do the second without doing the first. Fuck. A panicky sort of half-assed plan started to form. It might be suicide, but that "might" put it three steps above all the other options.

Trusting to the high and tightly-clustered buildings to provide him some sort of cover from the shooters on the rooftops, and the rain to black at least some of their vision, El Mono broke into a sudden run. Cutting and dodging through back alleys, his feet slipping and skidding on the wet and oily ground, he made his route as random as possible, and desperately kept his eyes peeled, both for a good hiding place, and for the people hunting him. God knew there were people in this world faster than him, but he prayed hard that none of them were in Nueva Caracas tonight...

[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Chacao District; 01:34AM Local Time]

Ducking down below the horizon of the dashboard, Smiley uses his reflexes to pull the head of hispanic elf in the passenger seat downward so that it was no longer in view, and then slams his foot on the accelerator, using AR display and the cars sensor suite to keep him informed of the road ahead without forcing him to stick his head out. Goddamn pendejo just had to take his sweet time getting in the car, this luck keeps up and we'll have guided rockets on our ass!

"Fuck! Goddamn Policia, stop shooting everything all the fucking time!" he yells angrily, bracing the loaded shotgun against his torso and pumping the action as he goes into the swerving patterns he learned long ago. The swerving lacked any real direction, but when it comes to avoiding gunfire in a vehicle any direction is a good one so long as it doesn't lead to a wall. Smiley takes an aside glance to the unconscious elf beside him, giving him a tap with the butt of his shotgun, "Hey buddy, if you're going to bleed all over my nice clean seats, mind waking the fuck up and shooting any asshole who shoots at us?"

Chaske
[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; A Dark Alley, Nueva Caracas; 01:34 AM]
Chaske could tell that whoever he was trying to track down had some crazy Stealth going on; normally he was tenacious enough to find what he was looking for on the first try. So hidden were they, though, that he was barely able to get his foot in the door before the trace was cut.

This was serious. Nobody but the best ran a Stealth that high.

The comm channel chatter continued.

<<Mierda! We've been spotted, and he's making a run for it.>>
<<Engage, Strike Team Three! He could be reporting your location right now! Chingada! How the fuck did you get made?>>
<<Unclear, but he saw us. We are in pursuit.>>

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

El Mono
[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Alleyways of Nueva Caracas; 01:35 AM]
As soon as El Mono made a break for it, that's when the real shit began. High-pitched whistles sounded somewhere at a distance, and rounds from silenced gunfire began tearing at the ground around him. An automatic spray created a trail of water splashing upwards in his general direction, though barely missing him by centimeters.

They were coming, no doubt about it now. All pretenses of playing nice were out. They had decided it was time to finally drop the fucking hammer, to quit this cat and mouse shit they'd been going on for so long now. El Mono was now in their sights, and tonight, they were going to end it.

He glanced over his shoulder, and his heart sank at the sight of his assailants jumping down from the building they'd been roosting on. They didn't just drop to the street and start hoofing it. When they leapt, they made a wide, parabolic arc through the air, sailing as if aided by an invisible hand. When they hit the earth, it didn't cause the sort of bone-jarring stop that was to be expected from such a height. Instead, they kept running as if they had been doing so all along. It was a cute trick that El Mono made frequent use of, but it was terrifying to realize these same guys could possibly follow him to the ends of the earth, no matter where he ran.

El Mono weaved through alleys and tried to shake his tail. He knocked over trash cans in his frantic sprint and scattered a small group of devil rats who hissed menacingly at him. A couple of times he slipped in something that smelled like excrement and caused him to lose traction on the already slick alley floors.

Right as he rounded a corner, he tripped over a person laying against the wall of the alley, apparently asleep. Mono fell over face first into a filthy puddle of rainwater, and his momentum carried the sleeping man over as well. A helmet that he was wearing for... who knows what reason, goes flying off, rolling to a stop nearby with the front facing the both of them.

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

Chaske II
[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; A Dark Alley, Nueva Caracas; 01:35 AM]
Only vaguely aware of the real world when submered into the digital realms, Chaske very smartly set up alternative methods of keeping tabs on the goings on around his meatbody. The camera stared straight ahead, at the opposite wall of the alley while he explored Matrix space and this shiny, forbidden comm channel.

<<This fucker can move! Trying to keep up, but it's tough on foot!>>
<<Failure is not an option, unless you'd like to explain to our masters why we botched the mission. I'm sure they will understand!>>
<<Understood! I think we're gaining on him! *silenced gunfire*>>

A flicker of motion in the helmet-cam's window indicated a change in circumstances. Instead of peering straight ahead, it was now looking AT Chaske and some other man, an ork who was now face down in the nasty rainwater. Far behind the both of them, the camera picked up two black bodies rounding a corner, clad from head to foot in raven black armor, both wielding automatic rifles, and both moving as if they knew how to use them.

<<Target's in sight again! We have him now!>>

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

Stephen
[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Apartment, El Zamural; 01:35 AM]
The street mutt furiously began attacking the half-eaten package of meat, first tearing it open more fully with his teeth, and then licking within the container furious. It was evident the dog had had quite a bit of experience eating from the garbage, and this was no challenge.

The scrap of paper turned out to be a paper advertisement, a flier for a brothel called the Cat's Paw. Pictures of impossibly gorgeous, nude seductresses covered the sheet, all posed in provocative and inviting poses that promised more than they insinuated. It was torn in places and covered with muck, but it was perfectly readable, if a bit faded. One of the dog's footprints was placed meaningfully next to one line in particular: [Come Meet Our Newest Addition, Lovely Venus!] The picture next to the her name was of a lovely, doe-eyed ork woman with enough mods to make her appealing to the masses.

It was recognizably the face of Stephen's sister.

Another glance at the top of the flier indicated it was old, months old. The date was from earlier in the year, around April or so. Hell, as far as could be figured out she was still alive and happy at the time. What had brought her all the way here, only to end up working in a flesh market like Nueva Caracas? What dragged his promising, shining star of a sister down so far and lead to such total destruction that only a compassionate mercy killing could be her salvation?

The dog was finished with the meal, and staring up at Stephen as he looked over the note. The dog barked once, and kept a focused look upon him. Almost expectant. And waiting.

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

Smiley
[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Chacao District; 01:35 AM]
The vehicle's AR diagnostic menu confirmed that damaging rounds had all been avoided, Smiley's expert driving having been enough to keep the vehicle from becoming toast. Doubtless some of the more glancing rounds had ruined his paint job in parts, but that was preferable to being stuck in a police perimeter and trying to get out on foot.

<<Fuck! Fuck! They got away! All units, converge on this point! Get the tactical air support over here! Let's take this motherfucker OUT!!>>

The vehicle's SOTA radar picked up the signatures of drones going skyborne, increasing their altitude, most likely to get a better bird's eye view of the area. Certainly, this was going to make things quite tricky, especially if they were ALL armed with sniper rifles.

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

"Sam"
[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Smiley's Car, Chacao District; 01:35 AM]
The mysterious stranger drifted in the darkness of his own subconscious mind. Only vaguely, and as part of tortured dreams, was he even aware of the frantic shouts, the screeching of rubber on wet streets, and of gunfire.

In his dreams, everything was washed out, faded, like an old photograph left to the elements. Flashes of imagery whirled through his brain, but none long enough to become a cohesive image. He recalled pain, agonizing and debilitating, and a bone-deep, soul-crushing sadness. Quickly, people's faces began to flicker, so quickly that they merged into an amalgamation of a single figure, which then slowly morphed into the visage of a small boy. The boy stretched his hand out to the elf and smiled But when the man reached for the boy, the child began to look pale, and bloody, as if badly injured. The boy started crying, then screaming as children do when they are terrified of the world and looking for safety. He clutched the elf's hand, hard, almost in a strong man's crushing grip, refusing to let go. And yet some force was tearing the boy away. He was wailing, screaming that he did not want to go...

"NOOOOO!"

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


Sonora and Coatl
[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Julio's Cantina, Nueva Caracas; 01:35 AM]
The Voice was a powerful thing to have, a Talent that Sonora's former masters tried to guard jealously. It could sway people into obeying the Speaker's will, even when totally opposed to them. It was a tool for breaking down weak minds and subjugating them. It was also a nice way to keep from being hacked up.

When she Spoke to the man, her will overwhelmed his. Suddenly, the man was visibly shaken. He stopped dead in his tracks and threw his machete down to the floor. At the moment he looked totally about to run away, the door exploded inwards in a shower of glass, and a giant of a troll barged through, tacklling them man down onto the floor, crushing him beneath. The effects of the Voice disrupted, suddenly the man was back in his murderous rage, though now at quite a disadvantaged position, what with an enormous troll with a cyberarm laying on top of him and his blade now several meters away from his hand.

"Get the fuck off of me! Gonna kill her! Gonna kill her!!!!"

[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Chacao District; 01:35 AM]

Abandoning the old tactic of swerving after the sounds of gunfire start to fade, Smiley pops his head up from under the dashboard and looks at the streaks of ruined paint on the hood. Instead of an angry outburst that's been common up to now, he merely shakes his head with a sigh, "Goddamnit, this is why I can't have nice things." After his brief moment of mourning, he locks the safety on his shotgun before putting it between the seats and goes back into Hot-Sim.

Alright, enough screwing around. Need to get out of here and fast.

In the comfort of his highly dangerous electronic synchronization, Smiley sets about plotting a new course out of the district; preferably one that goes directly into the poor neighborhoods, thus making the cops hesistate long enough to give him distance. After calling up the mapsoft and putting it in passive mode, he starts to use the tall buildings Caracas is now infamous for to aid his pursuit: By turning corners as sharply as possible -- almost to the point where you're leaping over the sidewalk -- he can use the ledges and corners of those buildings to hide from the aerial drones. It might not shake them entirely, but it oughta keep them from locking on and disabling the engine with a lucky shot.

[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Apartment, Palmar de Caridad; 01:34 Local Time]

When Morris' face pops up, I'm glad he ain't got no eyes on me. He assumes I'm have a bad fews months. For that, he's quite on the money. If he saw my face, he'd give me a few bad years to boot.

I look like shit. I feel like shit. I'm in a shitty mood and Morris' fuckin' attitude ain't helpin' one bit. He can't see me, so I give him the finger. Morris ain't really a bad guy. But he's a spook, and a head spook. So that makes him, automatically, an asshole. That's just the way the intelligence community works. Want to be a spy? Are you a certified asshole? Yes? Well excellent, sign here, we'll take your soul. Sure, we'll give it back when you quit.

Right.

"Treatin' me grand Morris. Real grand. I was just thinking you should come over and have a beer. You can meet my neighbour. I'm sure she's your time of girl."

I snort something all the way back into my throat and spit it out on the carpet. Worst shit has found itself on there. I ain't never walked on it barefoot. Ever.

"That's good to hear Mr. Pope!"

"Yea well, how about we cut the fuckin' bullshit and get down to it. What do you want?"

Cause yes; Morris only calls when he needs something done.

[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; A Dark Alley, Nueva Caracas; 01:35 Local Time]
[Commlink: Hidden Mode]

Chaske immediately flips back to meatspace and checks his biomonitor as he scrambles for his helmet. Before replacing his helmet he pulls out a gas mask from his combat vest which he hastily dons. He then looks to the ork and makes a snap decision.

"Take a deep breath omae, and get on!" he yells to the ork as he darts for his bike. As soon as he touches the handlebars the skinlink is established and Chaske activates the smokescreen that's been spiked with some more potent agents. Chaske quickly secures his helmet and plugs it into his commlink as the ork either heads for his bike, or not.

Julio's Cantina - Nueva Caracas, 0135 AM
Biomonitor - Stable

As if prompted by a heavenly host, Sonora unconsciously crossed herself before dropping into a squat in front of Machete, summarily pinned by a few hundred kilos of cyber-enhanecd Troll. It could only be divine providence that caused this torre de la carne to arrive in such a timely manner. She wasn't expecting cavalry, but when Fate hands you a pistol...

Sonora affected the expression and hard tones of the policewoman that was taking shape in her mind: She was tired, she'd had a long day and just wanted a drink after following up a lead on some muneca getting stabbed in a complex near Chacao. She'd had to fight to get where she is - people didn't take a senorita seriously unless she was hard, a ball-breaker who took no prisoners, but was willing to cut a deal on a shitty night like this. She offered Coatl a nod of thanks. She'd buy him a drink later, if Julio didn't throw their asses back out in the rain.

"Who told you I was here?" she asked. This couldn't be about a ten-spot of Tempo she lifted. Something was going on, something was going down. Someone told him where she was, and someone was going to pay.

Everybody pays.

[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Julio's Cantina, Nueva Caracas; 01:35 AM]

When Machete demands to be let up, Coatl chuckles in a low rumble. He grabs the man by the hair and slams his face into the floor, once. "No," he says, before working himself into a half-crouch so he can get a better hold on Machete and not be lying on top of him. He looks up to the cop, returns her nod, and waits to see what she's gonna do.

Don't wanna get too involved in police business, he thinks, but it couldn't hurt to have a cop as a buddy.

[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Chacao District; 01:37 AM]

Slowly the elf without a name awoke, covered in a disgusting mix of blood, both dried and fresh, and cold sweat. He knew he had dreamed, badly so, but he could not recall the contents of his nightmare. The only thing remaining was a crushing feeling of sadness and loss.

Sizing up his situation he noticed his rescuer drive fervently to evade the policia. The elf's bloodied fingers gripped the shotgun placed between the seats. A feeling of familarity washed over the Amnesiac. The weapon's grip felt right in his hand. It felt like it belonged there. In a trained motion he switched off the safety and pumped the action.

"Don't you have something with better reach?" he asked his companion with a hint of irony in his strained voice.

Letting down the window, the hispanic elf scouted for their nearest pursuer. As soon as he discovered one within reach he pulled the trigger, bracing his battered body against the recoil.

Dexter
[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Apartment, Palmar de Caridad; 01:34 AM]
Morris grinned around his cigarillo. He drew it from his mouth to tap ashes in the tray on the corner of his desk. The man took his time, in the way men with confidence and power do, expecting the world to move at their pace. Only when he places the smoke back in his mouth did he resume.

"Lotta action going on in town. I'm guessing you know about the, ah... "tensions" going on between Aztlan and Amazonia. Things are coming to a head. I've got reports of operatives from both sides moving in. Now, for political reasons we don't mind the Amazonians too much. They're more or less content to leave us be. Now the Azzies, well... That we can't tolerate. We don't want 'em, don't need 'em, and it's time for us to give their fellows the boot."

Morris let his grin fade. This was always bad. When the man shirked his facade of smug superiority, it usually meant a thunderbolt was about to come down out of the sky, in a manner of speaking. "And... I have a bit of news I might toss to you. I... need to double check my sources before I confirm it but..." Morris sighed and shook his head.

"Fuck it. It hasn't been quite all take and no give. Despite my charming demeanor, I help those who help us. I have reason to believe the person responsible for your... son's disappearance may be here, in Caracas. Now, it's just a rumor at this point, mind you, but I'm following leads. I didn't want to tell you about it yet, but despite your rough edges... well. You're alright. Now, get your shit ready. I'll tell you more when I get more. Any questions?"

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

Sonora and Coatl
[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Julio's Cantina, Nueva Caracas; 01:37 AM]
"You dumb BITCH!" the man spat. "You cost me so much!" He thrashed around against his containment, much to no avail. His rage turned into helpless despair, and his began sobbing. "They're gonna kill me! They're gonna kill you!. I tracked you down here! I asked questions! I killed people to find you! I knew it was you! Right after I talked to you all my shit was gone. Puta! The distribution channels are drying up. The dealers are DYING. The street price of that shit has gone up times ten! The people who gave it to me wanted their money, and I couldn't give it."

As his wailing hit a fevered pitch, Julio peered cautiously around the doorway where he'd disappeared, timidly trying to stay out of view while watchings the goings on in his bar. The troll at the bar glanced over at the scene momentarily, and then with a sigh turned back to his glass of booze. The drunk in the corner, he just slipped off the table and onto the floor, snoring loudly.

"They cut off my pinga!" the man wailed. "They didn't even leave me with enough to piss with! Said if I didn't get their money they was gonna kill me and my family and YOU! I need it back! I NEED IT BACK!"

[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Julio's Cantina, Nueva Caracas; 01:38 AM]

Well this evening just got more and more interesting.

If Machete's tale was true then the woman might not actually be a cop--not that cops didn't deal on the side sometimes but usually they had their bases covered better than this. Perhaps she had lied, or perhaps she was dirtier than Coatl had thought, but neither really mattered now; what mattered is someone was after her, and the drunks in this bar could link him to her. Things could get real ugly, real quick...

Still holding the castrato down, Coatl craned his neck back to look outside, half-expecting some dealer's hit squad...

[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Apartment, El Zamural; 01:35 AM]

Stephen leaned down and patted the dog on the head. "Good boy. Good boy." He said, thanking the dog for bringing him this new piece of evidence. He pulled his coat off the rack by the door, and lead the dog out of the apartment. The Cat's Paw. He had never heard of it, but that wasn't uncommon. Brothels came and went as quickly as the talent in this town, and often the names and locations changed even faster. Now all there was left to do was to travel to that part of town; the part he hated most, and see what he could dig up on this Brothel, and who worked there. It was good the dog came when he did, Stephen had just been preparing for another bender, and would have lost days on his investigation. The Cat's Paw. Maybe they would remember something, maybe they wouldn't, but Stephen was determined to leave no stone unturned in this hell hole.

[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; A Dark Alley, Nueva Caracas; 01:35 Local Time]

The Hell? The dude he tripped over and makes a quick dash to this hot little rice rocket. Not just some druggie in the gutter.

"Take a deep breath omae, and get on!" Decision time, and no, you can't mull it over for a bit. Either it was the cleverest trap in history, or El Mono just hit the lottery when he picked this alley. Fuck it. Anything to get away from these assholes. Following instructions, he took a deep breath, and, jerking out his pistol, he squeezed off a burst at his pursuers as he ran to the bike and jumped on. With the fuckers behind him on foot, it shouldn't take long to lose them with wheels on the road... Hopefully.

[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Apartment, Palmar de Caridad; 01:34 AM]

Spooks talk way too much. They always do. That’s their main area of expertise. I mean, after all, when you think about it, that’s probably how they plied their trades back in the day. Before all this net centric crap they’ve got going on today. Sure, even when I was a kid, tech played a big part on the battlefield. But still, there was grunt work to be done. You needed boots on the grounds to get shit done. Now a days, some guy sitting ten thousand miles away will get the job done by sitting in a chair and twitching. Fuck this. I’m getting way too old for all of this. So yea, Morris went ahead and started his usual spook talk. I don’t really get why he always feels the needs to convince me to do shit. I mean, I was sending back Azzies to their moms in tiny little body bags when Morris was still chasing girls in high school. Or whatever schools people like Morris go to. I probably ain’t much older than Morris, but I know as sure as this place is fuckin’ hell that I got my feet wet well before him. Shot my first man at 19. Border skirmish with the Azzies.

About 200 feet away. Center mass. Pretty sure I killed him.
Never saw a body though...

I start rummaging through the cluttered mess on the table. All the bottles are empty. All the cans are crushed. All the food is spoiled, or just plain distressing. Big word there. Wasn’t never really all that good with words. Not like they issued us thesaurus at basic. Or whatever the fuck it’s supposed to be called. I finally find a pack of chewing tobacco pinned under a box of explosive tipped .357. I’m about to shove a pinch in my cheek when Morris hits me. He hits me and for a second, I feel like that shotgun did go off and my brain is splattered across the wall. Blood rushes to my head. I feel murderous. I feel dizzy. I feel like my entire skin wants to leap off my body and run off. It takes me a long time to speak. The words just won’t come out. They get stuck in my throat and I feel like I want to hurl. The haze of Jack in my head lifts itself in a second. In my mind, I can see my son, looking at me.

When I finally get a word out, I feel like my voice is made out of bitter rust.

“What the fuck did you just say...”

Morris takes about as long before repeating himself. He knows real well I heard him, and if he was expecting any other sort of reaction, then he’s as fuckin’ dumb as a giant bag of hammers. Dumb hammers to boot.

There’s so much hostility in my tone, it even surprises me.

“I fuckin’ swear Morris, if you’re fuckin’ with me, I’m going to kill you! And I’ll do it slowly! You better not be fuckin’ with me! I swear!”

“I’m not Pope. You know you can trust me.”

“You’re a fuckin’ spook Morris; lying the first tool in your bag.”

Usually, Morris would have cracked a smile at that. It ain’t the first time I threaten him.
But he ain’t cracking any smug smile.
He knows I’m dead serious this time.

“You tell me everything you, and you tell me now!”

I ain’t even quite sure when I started, but somehow, I’m mostly dressed by now. I’ve got my Deputy in my hand, and I’m shoving shells in the cylinder.

I’m in a killing mood.

I snap the cylinder shut. I see my son.

Whomever the fuck you are, you’re going to pay.

Everybody pays.

Julio's Cantina - Nueva Caracas, 0138 AM
Biomonitor - Heart rate elevated. Reduce cardio stress.

Coatl wasn't the only one looking for the hit squad. If they were willing to castrate this poor hija over a ten-spot, then that meant--

"Shit. You dumb pendejo, all you had was that ten-spot? You lost your manhood over a fucking sample pack? I don't believe you." The cop game didn't matter now. The drug lords wouldn't believe her, nor would they care. It was time to play hide and seek until the dealers were all dead, and her little indiscretion was forgotten.

She'd only sold the goddamn pack for five hundred anyway. Shit felt oily to her, greasy. Dangerous. Dealing in it got you into crap exactly like this.

Sonora tapped a quick pair of messages out on her commlink.

Message to - Carmen: Carmen. Get a hold of your pimp and tell him druglords are on the move. If anyone asks, you haven't seen me.

Message to - Sister Mary: Sister, the tithing we last discussed did not wipe away all the sin. A time of quiet reflection may be in order.

That being done, she caught Coatl's eye. "Sorry to get you into this, amigo."

El Mono and Chaske
[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; A Dark Alley, Nueva Caracas; 01:37 AM]
A lifeline couldn't have come at a better time for El Mono, having (quite literally) stumbled upon Chaske and his sleek Suzuki Mirage. At the Amerind's urging, El Mono took a deep breath to keep from succumbing to the Breathtaker gas. The two stalkers, having not been expecting this sort of an assault, immediately began coughing and gagging, the gas obviously incapacitating them. It was enough of an opportunity for El Mono to squeeze off a burst from his Fubuki. The gun quivered in his hand as it electronically discharged multiple rounds in an instant, the unique firing mechanism delivering a focused and lethal barrage of lead at its target. The armored assailant in the fore fell backwards as the rounds penetrated the armor on his chest, sending him to the ground on his back as his partner fell to his knees gagging.

<<Report, Strike Team Three.... I said, Report Strike Team Three! ...Chingada, what is going on?!>>
<<*words unintelligible through coughing and gagging*>>
<<...All units, Report back to rendevous point! Abort mission! I repeat, abort!>>

The two men busy with their incapacitation, the way out was clear to Mono and Chaske.

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

Smiley and "Sam"
[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Exiting Chacao District; 01:42 AM]
Using the buildings as partial cover seemed to be working, for whenever the drones would appear at an angle to get off a shot, line of sight was broken as Smiley took yet another turn. Rounds were discharged, shattering windows and obliterating pavement, but it was always too little, too late.

Twice drones appeared out of nowhere, buzzing overhead and ready to destroy the speeding, expertly driven sedan and both the occupants. But the elf riding shotgun, so to speak, leaned out both times and blasted them out of the sky, the Ex-EX rounds shredding their factory-installed armor and sending them careening into buildings.

But now the heat was truly on.

<<We can't get a lock on him with the air support, but he's heading right for our blockade. We've got the spike traps ready!>>

Glancing at the mapsoft, if Smiley didn't want to be stuck in this perimeter and eventually caught in their net, that was the only way out. It was also the most direct way into the ghettos of El Zamural, where even La Policía hesitated to go. He decided to floor it. The acceleration maxed. The engine begin roaring louder, the RPMs cranking up into the red. The performance Smiley was attempting to squeeze out of this machine threatened to push it beyond its capabilities and destroy the engine. Warning screens were thrown up by subroutines running regular diagnostics.

As he rounded the curve, Smiley jammed on the front brakes and the emergency brake simultaneously. It skidded around the corner but conserved momentum and speed. He disengaged and resumed maxing out his speed, going straight towards the police blockade stretched across the road. Two spike traps were laid hastily in the middle of the road across the lanes.

<<He's coming straight for us! Open fire!>>

Policía ducked behind the cars, began unleashing a barrage of lead in Smiley's direction, and rounds began to plink off of it once again. Some of them penetrated, leaving holes in the armor and shattering one of his headlights. But as he neared the blockade, Smiley saw an opportunity, a way out. A vehicle was parked on the left side of the road, next to a curb that was fairly high. Smiley swerved right, and then cut the wheel hard back across the lanes to the left.

His front wheel slammed into the curb, causing damage to his shocks but launching the car upwards at an angle. The forward momentum allowed him to race up the size of the parked car, and the resulting trajectory sent him at the cops. The car began to turn upside down in midair, and his roof scraped across the top of one of the police cars, crashing through their lights and ripping them straight off to rain glass on Policía now cowering for safety from the madman above them. The barrel roll continued and he was upright just in time for his vehicle to slam back down on the ground, speed conserved. La Policía behind him, Smiley and the mysterious elf were free to make their escape.

<<Shit on me, tell me I just did not fucking see that!>>

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

Coatl and Sonora
[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Julio's Cantina, Nueva Caracas; 01:38 AM]
Machete replied, "That sample pack is a lifeline! They could've sold that for thousands, and they need it with the supply going dry, and they need cash to buy weapons and protection!"

Machete suddenly stopped thrashing around, and a buzzing sound began emanating from his commlink. He went pale and began to stare straight ahead, such as one does when answering a call in their own personal augmented reality.

"Hello?" he said. A few heart beats. "No... not yet." A few more seconds of silence. "No! No wait! Just a few more minutes! Just--"

And then he began quivering. All the man could croak out was "Th-they're coming. We are all dead."

Julio ran around the corner finally, and he gestured towards the back of the bar. "You should go!" he said urgently to Sonora, also taking in Coatl with his look. "I will stall them if they arrive, tell them you went another way."

Machete began sobbing into the floor. "La Alianza don't forgive! We're all dead!"

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

Stephen
[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Apartment, El Zamural; 01:37 AM]
The dog followed dutifully at Stephen's side all the way out of the apartment complex. As he exited the building and took steps out onto the sidewalk, Stephen could feel the wrongness of this area once again seep into his bones. The entire neighborhood was like this, some parts of it worse than others. It was saddening to think that entire chunks of the city were so astrally tainted by the collective misery and degradation of its inhabitants. As Stephen began his walk down the sidewalk, he would occasionally walk through a place so psychoactively charged -- perhaps by a violent act -- that he felt a seperation from the astral, as if he were being drained of those Talents that he had been born with. Whenever Stephen felt it, the dog would also begin to whine, its gait becoming more tense and less relaxed and casual.

Close as he was to that other world, Stephen could experience on a deeper, more intuitive level just what made this town so horrible. It was one thing to know or even to see the tragedy of existence in this place day in and day out, and another entirely to have it touch you to your soul and alter your aura just by its very proximity. The rage of a murderer, the terror and helplessness of a rape victim, the jaded resignation of a street walker, the opportunistic predation of a drug dealer... they all imprinted their own strain of corruption upon this place, and they brushed against Stephen as he walked by, and all left their mark upon him such as the very acts had upon the astral themselves.

It wasn't long after Stephen had been walking, en route to his parked bike, that he looked up and saw that the dog had disappeared, vanished without a sound or any indication that he was ever there. One second Stephen had been aware of the dog loping at his side, and upon looking back, it was gone, with no indication of where it had went. Of course, he still had the dirty, tattered flier that the mutt had given him. At least that was still there.

((Stephen is currently in a +1 Background Count area))

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

Dexter
[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Apartment, Palmar de Caridad; 01:38 AM]
"It is a long story, Mr. Pope", Morris continued. "And not one I am keen on sharing with you on a commcall. No telling who could be cracking this encryption right this very moment. Suffice it to say that we've had some... breakthroughs on your case. Do you remember where our Headquarters are in Chacao? Catch a ride over here and I'll give you some more details and lay things out on the table. Oh, and be careful. La Policía are going apeshit about something in town. I can hear the sirens from here."

Morris let that fuckface grin of his return. He could switch from solemn to snarky in an instant, and it was one of the most off-putting aspects of his personality; you never could tell when he was playing straight, and when he was just fucking with you. Morris was like two assholes rolled into one body, almost an asshole singularity.

"I'm wiring two grand into that shadow account of yours. Dry out, get cleaned up, buy some new clothes, rent a whore, whatever. Shake off that crust you've had building up on you for two months. I need you ready to kick ass." And just like that, Morris cut the feed. Never "Goodbye." Never "Talk to you later." It was also so abrupt and unexpected when he killed the calls. It was amazing he even let himself finish sentences before hanging up.

[Julio's Cantina - Nueva Caracas, 0139 AM]

"We aren't," Coatl growls, reaching over with one long arm to grab the machete, then standing and hauling the sobbing man up with him. "You is." He pushes the little rat out of the door, gives him a shove, and with one hard chop puts the machete into the side of the man's neck. Coatl kicks Machete off of the blade and turns to look at Sonora and Julio from the doorway. Absent-mindedly wiping the machete on his shirt, careful not to drip blood on Julio's floor (wouldn't want to mess up the place, y'know), he nods towards the back and asks Sonora, "Want to lead the way?"

EDIT: Edited to reflect Ab's amazing ninja skills.

[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Entering El Zamural; 01:43 AM]

Once the sounds of sirens and bewildered yelling die out as he continued to drive, Smiley exits hot-sim again and puts his hands back on the wheel. Sharply inhaling then exhaling, he sums up the situation with a short question: "Wasn't that shit just excitin', huh!?" He takes a moment to shake out the numbness creeping up on his extremities, an old side effect of sustaining damage while vehicle rigging that never got solved; even if you didn't suffer injury to your brain you'd still feel the pain the car feels.

Taking a moment to look over to the mysterious elf by his side, he lets a small grin escape. "So now that we aren't in immediate danger of getting killed by Caracas' Finest, I got three things to ask. First, who the fuck are you? Second, what the fuck did you do? You got a helluva lot more than typical backup called, they were two steps away from calling the army to assist. Third, can you stop your bleeding? You lose any more and we're going to be swimming."

Smiley looks away as he goes through some procedures via AR. Soon enough, the car changes color along with the license plates, however the damage to the car makes it imperfect, and any one of the cops back in Chacao who saw the car could probably put two and two together thanks to the specific colorless patches that give way to bare aluminum and steel. This of course, causes Smiley to have a very bemused look on his face. "Well that's just fuckin' perfect. Goddamn do you owe me." Without looking away from the road ahead, he holds out his right hand to the mysterious elf. "I'd like my shotgun back, thanks."

[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; Entering El Zamural; 01:43 AM]

The elf without a name needed a few seconds to snap out of the freeze that the events of the last minutes had instilled in him. The violent car chase had caused spikes of pain in his injured body at every turn.

"Goddamn man! You're all kinds of crazy! That was a drive I'll never forget." he said weakly.

Handing the shotgun, now adorned with bloody fingerpints, back to it's owner, he tried to answer Smiley's questions.

"I have no fucking idea of who I am or what I did or didn't do. I woke up 15 minutes ago in a pool of blood and since then everything's been a fucked up rollercoaster straight through hell. Thanks by the way, without you I would never have gotten out of there. I do really owe you. Why did you help me anyway? And how did you know where I was?"

He cringed as another wave of pain washed over him, clutching his throbbing head.

"I need a bandage or something. I'm not a medic, I don't know how that stuff works but I don't think I've got much more blood left."

[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; El Zamural; 01:44 AM]

Taking the shotgun back, Smiley flips the safety on and tucks it under the driver seat. "You don't remember a damn thing, seriously? Nothing? Fuck. You better remember a bank account some time soon. Somebody has got to pay for the spare parts and fresh coat of photovoltiac paint I'm going to be needing when we get to a garage." He reaches over to open the glove compartment and retrieves an aerosol can, tossing it to the mysterious elf. "Spray a little bit of that on yourself. It's NoPaint, novacaine gel in spray form. Won't stop you bleeding but it'll keep you from passing out from the pain again."

After thinking for a moment, Smiley re-opens his mapsoft and GPS navigation, looking for a clinic. "Might have trouble getting you some proper medical attention. Caracas has twelve major hospitals and five DocWagon clinics, none of which are located in districts we can go into while the cops are still looking for us. That leaves us street clinics, and those places will NOT be pretty." He jerks his thumb to the backseat, "There's a medkit somewhere back there if you want to chance it yourself. Best you can buy."

After a pause, he finally looks back to the elf beside him. "The reason I came? I was bored, and out-racing cops is damn fun."

[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; El Zamural; 01:45 AM]

After hearing Smiley's reason for coming to his help, the mysterious elf shoots him a strange look.

"You really are crazy!" he says with a smile.

Thankfully taking the NoPaint, the elf sprays it on his arm. After giving back the painkiller, he achingly makes his way to the backseat, looking for the medkit. After some rummaging around he manages to find it and opens it in hopes of mending some of his wounds, or at least stopping the bleeding.
The medkit runs it's diagnosis and, in a neutral voice, announces that, besides some entry wounds in the torso, a bullet is lodged insided the patients head. Stunned the amnesiac touches the wound again with disbelief written all over his face.

"There's a fucking bullet in my brain?" he exclaimed incredulously. "Holy shit I thought it was a flesh wound! I'm fucked!"

Turning back his attention on the medkit, he tries his best to follow the detailed instructions on how to stop the bleeding.

[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071; El Zamural; 01:45 AM]

After hearing the mysterious elf's reaction to his stated reasons, Smiley can't help but just grin from ear to ear. "Well shit man, they sure don't call me Smiley 'cause I'm howlin' happy!" He gives a short chuckle while taking in his surroundings. "You know, we may not find any clinics but there sure are a helluva lot of watering holes and strip clu- Hey!"

He turns to watch the elf climb into the back, reminding him "Don't go bleeding on my backseats too, goddamnit! I swear to god if you keep bleeding all over my car I will have you lick every drop of blood off my seats!" He turns around to look at the road ahead of him with a sigh. "Man, I need a drink after all this."

Julio's Cantina, Nueva Caracas - 01:40 AM
Biomonitor - Heart rate elevated. Reduce cardio stress.

With one meaty swing, Machete ceased to be a problem. La Alianza, on the other hand, continued to be one.

One thing at a time. Get moving, get the bug-out bag at the doss, and find a place to lay low.

Sonora watched Coatl turn the pusher into so much meat, realizing a 'place to lay low' was about to triple in size. As El Torre de Carne gestured for her to take the lead, she pushed herself to her feet.

"Ay," she started, "On the raniest fucking night of the year. We'll have to find a place, c'mon. Introductions can be later!"

She stalked towards the back, neatly picking the closest bottle of alcohol from the bar - or from Julio himself, should he have the bottle of Oaxaca. Giving the jowled man a peck on the cheek in gratitude (whether for the distraction of reinforcements or the bottle is up in the air), she murmured thanks to the bartender and disappeared out the back.

[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071, El Zamural; 01:45 AM]
Commlink: Hidden

Stephen put the flier in his front jacket pocket and kicked his bike into gear. It would take a while to get to the club; it was in another part of town, and traffic in a city with 20 million souls was hectic at best. He thought about what he was going to do when he got there. It didn't make sense that he hadn't run into this information before. Had he been slipping? Back when he was in Seattle, he would have gotten this type of information in the first few weeks. He was too close to this. Way too close. He wasn't acting professional, he was acting out of emotion. He knew that he wasn't going to get what he wanted, but at least there might be some answers there. Whoever did this was going to pay. Not for Stephen, who knew it wouldn't help, but for his sister.

He eventually ducked and weaved through the traffic until his PAN showed he was outside the address of the club. He parked his bike and cracked his knuckles, checking his antique digital watch. If this got messy, he wanted to be prepared for anything.

[Tuesday, 17 November, 2071;Hauling Ass Out of a Dark Alley, Nueva Caracas; 01:37 AM]

"I don't know who you are, amigo, but you just saved my ass back there..."

Once out of immediate danger, El Mono started to realize just how dangerous this was. Riding on the back of a stranger's motorcycle may have gotten him away from those special forces guys, or whatever they were, but if it was a trap, he had just shot down one of this guy's coworkers. Maybe a friend. For all Mono knew, these two were tight. Maybe they played poker every Friday night. Maybe their wives swapped recipes. Maybe their kids played on the same futbol team. Best to play it as safe as possible. Either way, making a scene about it could easily leave him dead in a ditch somewhere. Best to just ride along for the moment and see what happened...