Mech parks the van in a dark parking lot in an E neighborhood. The parking lot is mostly empty this late at night. Observing his passive sensors, he simultaneously listens to the interogation inside the van.

Cleaver grabs one of the prisoner's scrotums and squeezes hard. "Suffice it to say we have no qualms about torture. Now, how many people are in your gang?"

Tiretracks looks at you, water welling up in his eyes. He's obviously trying to act like it doesn't hurt.

"Go...frag yourself...runner trash.", he practically squeaks.

A bit of a ways back from Zeke and Traz, Stitch sits down wearily, resting his back against the alley. A bit of rest, and he should be as good as new. It was touch and go for a while back there, though.

He winces, thinking about the brutal interrogation likely to be taking place. He hopes the aftermath won't be too messy. But they need to rescue that elf, this poor, scared guy huddled on the floor somewhere... a picture of the sneering elf pops into his head... okay, maybe not scared. More likely, he'll ask for a cig and whine about them taking too long. But work's work. Assuming it is work, and not a screwjob.

Parking the van, Mech deactivates the RAS overide and pulls out his cellphone. Pretending to talk on it, making sure to be loud enough that the prisoners can hear him without being too obvious about it, he starts pretending to talk to some teammates. "Jack, it's me again. You haven't left yet have you? Good. I need you to bring some things. Bring the brain probe, scrotum clamp, and knee spikes. These punks are doing the ironman routine; they don't seem to understand they are out of their league." *pause* "God no, don't bring that fragging trog along. The last thing we need is another prisoner dead before he can talk." *pause" "I don't care if he wants to come, he gets overzelous." Another pause. "Alright, fine, bring him along, but he is not to help with the interogation unless I specifically say so, got it? These prisoners look pretty fragile. Now get your hoop downs here with the equipment."

Cleaver bends one of the ganger's fingers backwards until it breaks with an audible snap. "One down, nine to go. After that, I'll do something more creative. Eh, no, maybe I'll do the toes too first." He breaks a second finger. "It would be a lot easier, albeit less interesting, if you would just tell us what we want to know. Now, how many people are in your gang?" He grabs hold of a third finger.

"Okay! Okay!", Tiretracks shrieks. "There's...there's twenty three members. Something like ten are in the bar right now." He pulls his hand away and snaps his fingers back into place...

"God...if you guys don't kill me, Spike will.", he whimpers.

The one with the skull makeup...or is it tattoos? Eh. He rolls his head back and looks at Cleaver.

"You guys are after that Daisy-Eater, aren't you?", he says quietly.

"Where is the elf being kept?" Cleaver asks. "How many guards are there, and what is your boss planning to do to him?"

Skullface shakes his head.

"Guzz only told a couple of the lieutenants that. Spike knows, but we don't know anything about the elf."

"Okay, who are these leutenants, what do they look like, and where are they?"

Tiretracks opens his mouth for this one.

"There's Spike, the second in command. He's in the bar, now, and you could probably figger out which one he is. Brixton Sam is another who prolly knows. He's an ork, don't know where he is now, though."