Cowering in the corner, Natasha Strong looks no more the streetwise girl she was reported to be. She accepts with shaking hand the glass proffered by Sandy and slugs it back in one gulp.

"What's going on? My life's upside-down! People are after me everywhere I go and I just don't know who to trust anymore!"

"What's going on? My life's upside-down! People are after me everywhere I go and I just don't know who to trust anymore!"

Poet couldn't help but grin at the girl's outburst. "Ah. London life. Nothing new there, then." Natasha shot him a filthy look, but the tall Welshman was unrepentant. "To butcher Kipling, 'If you can keep your head when all around you are losing theirs, you have no idea what's going on'. " He shrugged. "Of course, I have no more idea than you right now - I just got swept up in the situation."

Sandy sets about explaining the situation to their two new guests, so that they know whats happened up until now and why they have such an interest. Making certain to mention the fact that now its about more then just money considering the lives that were lost looking for this women.

Before calling Fist for his ride, deuce stuck around for this part of the interrogation. He wasn't pleased upon Sandy's decision to lay it all out for the two newcomers. Fine, the new guy helped them out, they could probably use him, and give him a cut. But letting the punked out girl know everything? Exhaling some smoke from his cigarette, Deuce gave a huff and started towards the door, "I'll be back, Anyone need anything while I'm gone? Newspaper? tea? Fraggin' crumpets?"

After Sandy's explanation, Natasha was, to say the least, blanched. She had had no idea what these people wanted - nor the groups who had tried to apprehend her before the club (apparently on two seperate occasions).

Drinking down anything that was offered to her, she tossed the bag at Sandy's feet.

"There. I don't want the fraggin' thing. Take it and good riddance!"

Deuce returned after about an hour. Having showered, patched up, reloaded and filled his belly, he came strolling back into the pad. "Here, grub, and none of that soy drek." He put down a white grocery bag on the table, leaving the rest of the group to take what they want. he wasn't their waiter. He pulled out his metallic case from his inside pocket and flipped it open, revealing a new pack of cigarettes. Pulling one out and putting the case back, he started to light it, and for the first time hsince his return, noticing how quiet the room was.
"What i miss? Does she have what we want?"

:: Upon their return to the safehouse, Tyen nods by way of greeting once to each of the newcomers, yet does not involve herself in their debriefing. Instead, her eyes hinting at her guarded concern, she steps towards the impressive Trid unit and begins to scan the news feed, hoping for any sign of the teammate who has not yet returned to base, yet at the same time, worried at what she may find. ::

Tyen:

As she flicks frantically through the news casts and reports, Tyen begins to get anxious - there is very little "news" about anything in the central London/Leicster Square area, not even any mention of their large and blindingly obvious daytime gun-battle.

Odd in and of itself. Worryingly, too, there was no report of a car chase... and so no clue as to the whereabouts of the diminutive Irish Adept.

Sandy looks around the room.....suddenly starting to feel the strain of the last few days. "So come on then people.... what do we do now? we have a bag that everybody seems to want and an unusual amount of attention on us, not forgetting the fact we have lost two team members and one currently MIA."

:: With her attention firmly plastered to the large Trid display, her face lit by the multicolored strobes of reflected light from the eye catching newscast, she bites her lower lip nervously. The expression of concern is hidden from the group as her proximity to the trid unit is extreme. Once convinced that there is not going to be any mention of the club massacre, nor that of their missing comrades, Tyen breaths in a deep breath. All her concern is sucked up in that single breath which she holds for almost a full minute, locking all those emotions safely away in her mind. Slowly, she releases the breath and with it, her face takes on the calm, calculating, quiet paranoia that is her trademark.

Turning to the group just as Sandy finishes her question. ::

"Ve leave immediately. Dis place no longer secure. I 'ave other places, but our enemy knows too much to trust old sources, contacts or assets. Ve should get mobile, den discuss options."

:: Turning to Natasha, she shows none of the carefully displayed concern she gave her in the club. This time, she feels raw and brutal truth was the best tactic to take. ::

"You took somet'ing tainted, like cursed item, only dis item not cursed by spirits, but by da greed of people who vant it. You 'ave two choices. You can choose to trust your own skill to disappear from d'ese very bad men, or you can choose to come vith us, offer vhat skills you 'ave and 'ope to god ve solve dis mess before ve run out of options. Remember, your skill 'ad you trapped in closet until we came."

Deuce almost choked on a puff of smoke when he heard Tyen's proposal.
"What? Take her with us? We got what we came for right? She'll just be extra baggage. We can't afford that. Besides, no one is after her now that we've got to her. Whomever is after this case, will no doubt know that we got to her. She's of no use to anyone now. Let her go, she'll be fine."

:: Tyen frowns at Deuce's response and, for a moment, loses her cool and starts rattling off in Russian at mostly herself, her speech quick and fluid, uninhibited by need to translate her thoughts into the common language. ::

"Bloody fuckin dandy, is everyone in this poison shrouded city an idiot? It's the damn air they breath, laced with stupifying poisons that disease the logic centers of the brain apparantly. No wonder conspiracies dominate their lives, they're too stupid to see them."

:: Taking a deep breath, she regains her composure and settles back into the frustratingly limited English which they are more acustomed to hearing. ::

"She is more d'an baggage, she is link. Da only one dey 'ave to us. You t'ink dey don't know ve 'ave her? Silly, boy. Dey vere dere for 'er, and found us as vell. Logic vill make dem assume, since ve and she escaped, dat she did so vith us.

"If she is found, they vill torture or magically peal all information out of 'er skull. Even vith no information to give, she vill be squeezed for all she knows, den disposed of in permanent way. Da same dey vould do to any of us who are caught. Left behind, she is liability. Vith us, she may prove useful and ve remove one more lead for dem to track."

"Or in other words," said Poet, and there was sympathy in his voice as he looked at Natasha, "whether you have the bag or not, you're a loose end that Justin can't afford to leave lying around. Like it or not, you're in this up to your neck for the time being. Come to that, so am I now; Justin really knows how to hold a grudge, and bowling over his clockwork soldiers will not meet with his approval." Poet laid a gentle hand on Natasha's shoulder. "From your point of view, however, as the lass there said your only choice is - do you go it alone, or do you allow others to help you?"

:: Tyen smiles ever so slightly at the kindness of this new stranger, yet the smile is quickly surpressed as her paranoia reminds her she knows nothing of this convenient newcomer. With this reminder, her sense of danger increases and she grabs her pack, slipping the few items of importance in her pack before activating the device on the side of the trid programmed to erase all trace of any use she has made, effectively resetting it back to factory settings. ::

"Time is passing. Ve must hurry. Get on road, discuss farther there."

"Bah.." was all he could say without exploding into obscenities at these runners. Stupid people, we have a job to do. For the money, we're not here to save lives of street trash. He just leaned against the wall, twirling his lighter over and over in his pocket.

TEAM:

The runners mad their preparations swiftly. Most had no gear to take, having it placed safely at their own respective safehouses. Tyen made very sure that no material links were available to any... newcomers... when they were gone.

Grabbing up the satchel, and the bag of loot from the club, the group made their way out onto the street, looking for some mode of transportation.

Aside from Deuce's limo - which might draw some attention, they also had access to a somewhat Troll-sized motorcycle, two big, black Troll-cabs (Tyrone's rabit-foot adorned keys still jangling in the pocket of Piper's discarded jacket) and Sandy's Landrover - so no real issues with how to get where they were going...

But where were they going?

"Decision time, boys and girls," said Poet, the usual tone of faint amusement missing from his voice. "From what you were saying, cariad," he nodded at Sandy, "it would seem, at least superficially, that you've found yourselves in the middle of a throw-down between Justin Carmichael and Marchment his own hellbound self. By extension, Tasha and I are also now caught up in this. At this point I think it's safe to assume that there are bigger fish to fry than returning yon suitcase to its owner. The question is, how far do you want to take this? My personal interpretation is that, without some reason to want you alive, one or both of them is going to have you sanctioned just to tie up loose ends. Leaving the country might protect you; on the other hand it might not. In the end, the decision is - has to be - yours."

Deuce grew tired of the melodrama being carried out. "We just take the case back to the guy who hired us. get paid and that's that. A done deal. Sure there is the chance that people want to frag us big time, but that's the risk you take getting into the business. Let's just get paid."

Poet cocked an amused eyebrow at him. "I take it you're a wee unimpressed, boyo? Let me put this in a metaphor that might make more sense to you - you being American, that is."

He considered it for a moment, then said "Imagine that Damien Knight and Juan Atzcapotzalco both want that case. Whichever one of them doesn't get it certainly has the resources and vindictiveness to exact a little revenge; and it's a strong possibility that the one who does get it will want the loose ends tied up."

The tall Welshman shrugged. "If you want to get paid, by all means. But think carefully about how you plan not to die afterwards."

:: Tyen scowls at the dandy and seems about to lose her cool at his casual indifference to the danger of their situation. Luckily, Poet steps up to the challenge and references names that sends should send shivers down any North American runner's spine. ::

"Ve vill not return case until we know more."

:: With that, she pauses mid-thought as she realizes no one has made any attempt to see the contents of the case. Unfortunately, at the wheel behind her Brumby and driving in random fashion with no clear destination, she is unable to look herself. ::

"Someone...open case. Ve start vith vhat information so important. Dis may shed light on next step."

"Live fast, die young, leave a good looking corpse." Poet considered that a moment. "Well, at least not an actually ugly one. Although if your tech-head could scan this little package of trouble for potentially unfriendly habits, it might be an idea."

Deuce rolled his eyes. "Just cause I'm American doesn't make me ignorant to everything you know." He was clearly annoyed at the fact that these extra precautions could lead to getting them geeked sooner rather than later. "Listen, If you start second guessing every Johnson that offers you a job, or meddling in their affairs like say, I dunno, opening cases that aren't yours, you stand a high chance of getting offed real fast. There's always the risks with these jobs. if you aren't willing to take them, then, why would you get into the business." Deuce was more adressing the entire entourage rather than any one specific person alone.

"I agree that the risk of getting ganked is part of the job," Poet said reasonably. "But this is, really, a whole new level of risk. This isn't 'local tech corp', or even 'powerful but essentially neutrally inclined multinational'. These boys are Gog and Magog, hardcore bastards with power, cash and the kind of grudge-holding capabilities that would shame a Serbian guerrilla. And in Marchment's case, he's the Law with a Judge Dredd capital L, and then some. All I'm saying is, be cautious. A little paranoia is a healthy thing in the shadows. I for one would like to have something to bargain for my life with, I don't know about you."

Since the briefcase gave off no noticeable warning bells, Poet clicked it open. Inside was a bewildering array of different items, which he sorted through quickly, scanning rather than reading.

Feeling the eyes of the others upon him, he looked up. A frown bisected his forehead. "It's... surveillance materials. Most of it, anyway. Photos of Justin meeting with a bunch of corp types, accounting details, video footage - even a copy of his filofax. Someone's been doing some pretty major coverage on him. As for the rest of it, well, druidism isn't really my thing, but there's some kind of research by a pre-Awakening bloke. 'Psychometrically Sympathetic Naturalism...' I wonder if he meant dual-natured plants?" Poet shook his head. "But that makes no sense, this bloke... Ostlere... he was writing almost three centuries ago."

Poet put the chips and photos back into the case and held up the intricately worked vial. "And then there's this little puppy. That's Ogham, although be buggered if I know what it means. And that plate, that's orichalc. This... mistleoe, I think. If memory serves, that's a pretty hot property in druidic circles." He looked round at the rest of the team. "I think this stuff was all being sold to Marchment by your boy. Whatever this is," he tapped the vial, "it looks like it might be the end result of some fairly major research. It's definitely rock and a hard place time."

"Only if you make it that difficult. "said Deuce dryly as he puffed on his cigarette. "Once again, it ain't ours and we don't know its purpose. It's not our place to get involved, just to get paid."

"Normally I'd be right alongside the idea of pissing in Marchment's beer," said Poet. "But I do think we ought to at least find out some more about what this stuff is; if only to assess the likelihood that we're going to face serious repercussions."

"Agreed. But first, ve need to make new base to begin."

:: She looks through the rear view window long enough to make eye contact with Poet before continuing. She definitely doesn't trust this latest member of the group. His sudden involvement in the middle of the chaotic nightclub battle was unexpected and suspicious. Why would he choose to join in the fight, why did he choose the side he chose and why does he seem like the only team member that understands the level of danger they are in? ::

"You are new. Your.....link...to dat case and it's contents is...um, weak. Newer, unexpected. Maybe harder for enemies to track or know your assets. Make sense? You 'ave safe place, vork place, not home? Like my place?"

:: She definitely seems to struggle with the English, limited to simple words to express the detailed ideas in her mind. While her trust in the newcomer was limited at best, she felt uncomfortable revealing another one of her safehouses to the group with this level of distrust. ::

:: Sandy had been uncharacteristically quiet since the discussion had begun, Deuce seemed to have no fear of our employer and may just be stupid enough to try and sell out the group. He wouldn't live through the encounter one way or the other, but she doubted he had that sort of foresight. Natasha was mostly useless for the most part. She was just a small time street tramp, yet active enough in the underworld that every asset at her disposal was most likely already known and monitored by the suits. That left Poet, who was just as questionable as the rest of them at this time, but who's late appearance into the game may give the group a head start as their enemies scrambled to gather info on him. ::

Poet's mouth twisted into the wry grin that was becoming familiar to the others. "I can see where you're going with this, cariad, and under normal circumstances I'd be the first to agree. But it's Marchment we're dealing with here, and the Lord Bastard may well have been keeping a weather eye on me from time to time. I'd prefer not to trust my usual safe haunts."

A thought struck him then. "But there is one place we could go. Somewhere even the Templars fear to tread, at least openly." He looked round the group. "Lambeth."

:: Tyen follows the logic of their latest addition and nods, redirecting the vehicle towards the wrong side of the tracks. Pulling up her GPS system, she loads the mapping programs for the districts between where she currently is and Lambeth and flips the car's autonav on while she concentrates on the maps. after about 15 mins, she programed an unusual route to the outskirts of the run down zone. The way consisted of several back tracks, many direction changes and a few loops designed to make tailing them difficult. ::

:: At one stoplight. Tyen closed her eyes and call forth a willowy form from the surrounding shadows and silently bade it guard their vehicle as well as alert her should there be any small drones following them from the skies. With a nod, the city spirit floats up and out of the car to trail behind them like a small dark cloud. ::

Deuce remained cool and quiet for the remainder of the trip. He knew he was out numbered here. He'd dealt with paranoid runner before, but this was unreal. He knew people like the Lord, and what they could do, and this group was asking for trouble by going beyond their call of duty. But he wanted to be paid.

"We'd better find somewhere to hole up when we get there," said Poet. "And I think I know just the lad to help us."

He pulled out a mobile phone - cheap, disposable, anonymous - and dialed a number from memory. It rang a few times, then someone answered. "Good evening," said Poet. "I'd like to speak to Mr. Lynch.

A faint tinny noise from the phone, recognisable as speech but incomprehensible unless you had the phone against your ear.

"That's your decision of course, boyo, but you just go and tell him Poet's calling."