Piper took out his pocket secretary and opened the small chip slot. "Better all take a copy I expect. Least that way, if anyone gets fragged, we won't lose the intel." He proffered the gadget to the vamp, waiting for her to insert the chip. "Don't know about the rest of you, but I'm happy for the Lady to hold the expense account."

The secretary beeped Download complete.. Piper popped the chip and absently handed it back to the woman as he moved away, calling up the data the Johnson had provided, whilst the rest of the Team made their own arrangements. As a long serving soldier, O'Toole knew the value of good intelligence. What the chip provided wouldn't be the best in terms of being up to date, but it would, at least, be a starting place.

A few screens in Piper let out a guffaw, eliciting several strange looks from the others. It was the signature on the post mortem docket Dr.Bunsen Honeydew! Old, kids TriD had immediately sprung to mind. But that had been in another country, and besides, the wench was long dead.

Piper looked up, the others were similarly engaged in going over the data, but there was no sign of the dweeb and Piper, for one, hadn't noticed him leave. Yep, much more to that man than meets the eye, all right.

:: Tyen takes a few silent steps closer and copies Piper's moves to secure a copy of the data. As she slips the pock sec, it begins to cycle through it's three it's overly thorough scan programs to check all of the data packets to ensure that no virus or spyware sneak through. ::

:: Again she speaks in that quiet, low voice. ::

"Dis place ees not secure. I have better alterniteev."

:: With that, she pulls out a small stack of chips, very low grade and one time use only. With a thought, her hand opens and each one levitates to a member of the party::

"Directions on disk. Meet in 1 hour."

:: She then silently slips out the door and is almost immediately hidden in the shadows as she exits the bar. ::

Chips with vinegar, chips with ketchup, chips with just a bit of salt, but floating chips, that was new. Piper caught the piece of silicon as it floated toward him. And I thought the dweeb was strange.

The new information chip, coming from someone he didn't know and therefore didn't trust, meant the secretary ran its own virus check as Piper activated the program. Not particularly sophisticated, being a download from his last posting's mainframe, Piper had used it on occasion and, so far, his pocket secretary hadn't thrown a wobbly, so he trusted it. The dark female's chip seemed to hold just what he expected, directions to an uptown condo area. Piper memorised the directions, popped the disc and crushed it between finger and thumb. "See you all later." Piper headed toward the door, through the still crowded bar and out into the cold night air. Thankfully the rain had let up, leaving an unusual freshness instead of the all pervading smell of crap.

An hour, the oddly accented woman had said, which would make it close to the witching hour. Appropriate. The Irishman smiled to himself as he made his way uptown.

Going back to the intel from the dweeb as he walked, O'Toole considered the problem. The Lambeth Containment Area was a place he knew, if only vaguely. A half dozen years ago, when he'd been a lance stationed at Catterick, there'd been some trouble there. The army had sent in a mob to help the local Authorities and Piper had been included. It had been a mess. Over a hundred civilians, well, gutter trash to be honest, had met their end along with seven of Piper's battalion. Why a whole battalion? The powers that be thought it was a good result. Piper knew otherwise. Still, it had given him another stripe, another step on the ladder, so to speak.

As he walked Piper wondered whether old Sal and her daughter were still alive in that rat hole. He hoped so.

Downloading both the directions to the new meet and the info from the Johnson, Sandy also tells the pocket sec to ring Pete outside to let him know she was on her way out. "I assume everyone has their own methods for getting there, so I shall see in one hour." with that she stands up and leaves the room, looking calm and organised and not looking back.

As soon as she sees Pete sat in the cab outside, she gives him the directions... and starts reading through the data available to her to see what is useful.

Not wanting to push his luck with this Sandy chick, Deuce decides against asking if she'd like to ride with him
She has her own way, I like that...
Using his subvocal mike and phone Deuce calls up his personal bodyguard Fist, who, on occasion serves as his driver.
Exiting the room without saying a word to anyone, Deuce finds his limo parked out front. Getting in, he presses the button to the intercom
"Fist, just drive for a bit..."
Though the limo may not have much in the lines of offence or defence, it did come equip with a few minor gadgets. A small terminal in the back allowed Deuce to download the info needed. Giving Fist the address, Deuce opens the mini bar and pours himself a real drink
None of that drek I had back there

Queensway hadn't changed much in the last half century or so. Still a main thoroughfare and still bounded on both sides by six story buildings, constructed of brick and stone back in the late eighteen hundreds. The data chip had given the address of Prince's House, once the habitat of the Meteorological Office but now split, floor by floor, into one and two bed habs with a fleet of small offices on the ground floor.

According to the data, the entrance Piper sought was around the back, down an almost inevitable narrow alleyway. If the frontage had been brightly lit and well kept, the backside was just that. Someone's backside, with litter and the remains of human degradation smeared on the walls, added to by the cardboard hovels.

Piper shouldered his way through an opening in a tattered security fence and found himself at the head of a flight of stone steps. The chip had indicated that the `safe house' was a basement, so the steps looked promising. He headed down.

If Tyrone's finding anything odd about the floating chip, he doesn't say anything. Of course before he can point out he's got transit, everyone seem to be going their own way. That's likely for the better anyway, for the moment. He'll play the fact he's got more than one vehicle close for the moment.

`Anyone wot wants a ride I've got a car a block up.`

That said, he pockets the directional chip, and heads out to his cab. He doesn't bother with a map in heading to the locale, though it does occur to him he's being awefully trusting in following the word of someone who concealed themselves through the early part of the meet, in going to a safehouse he doesn't know isn't a trap.

Under many of the older buildings in central London there are cellars. Some were constructed as servants quarters, some as wine cellars and some, like the ones under Prince's House, as secure bunkers for secret document storage or even non-standard prisons.
The English, way back in the late 1800's, were paranoid about any foreign infiltration, and to an Englishman of the time, anyone living south of Dover or east of Harwich, was not to be trusted one iota. Not too sure about the folk on the other side of the Atlantic either, for that matter.

The converted cellar complex which confronted Piper as he pushed the rotting door out of his way, smelt of putrefaction and the long disused. A really dark and oppressive environment. Big windows, in each of the rooms the Irishman entered were barred like a prison and so filthy from the elements that they were opaque. Cement floors and rough, spalling brickwork walls completed the impression more of a place of incarceration than a safe haven for a Team of Runners.

Until Piper came to a new door, well at least newer than the timber ones he had already opened. The walls had obviously been refurbished; steel reinforced and brick Piper guessed. Inside low wattage bulbs illuminated the interior. The prickling sensation along Piper's nape indicated some sort of standing wave, a fair amount of security he guessed again.

Although the room was large, plenty big enough for the Team, even with two Trolls in their number; Must have knocked four into one. there seemed to be very little furniture. In fact all Piper could see was an extremely beat to shit wood table and a stack of rusty folding chairs in the corner.

A single cot with a surprisingly clean looking stack of linens folded on top of it completed the ensemble. There was one good point however. A rather expansive bathroom and shower area, the sort of facility that a work gang might have if they were on-site for a month or two. Several toilet stalls and a shower area with three shower heads.

The Master Sargent, like all Grunts everywhere, looked around for a kitchen; somewhere to brew up at least. But he drew a blank. Didn't really matter of course. With full water electricity and matrix access as well as a spliced trid line and the only obviously expensive item. A brand new, top of the line trid unit, bringing in a microwave and a small stove wouldn't be a problem.

Piper spun around, Beretta appearing in his left hand, at a noise behind him. He immediately relaxed, recognising the Troll from the table at the Siren. "Seems cosy enough." The gun slipped inside its shoulder holster as though it had never appeared. "Not too good on the sleeping arrangements though"

:: Tyen steps from the darkness of the shadows once again, yet this time, it almost seems as if the shadows recede from the corner as she does so. She smiles shily as she removes the mask and glasses, revealing her youthful features for the first time to those who have arrived. ::

"It is safe, but not much home, I am sorry."

The limo pulls up out front and Deuce steps out.
"Keep in contact sir, a neighbourhood like this one..." says Fist, Deuce's right hand man.
"Don't worry, I can take care of myself. The only thing I worry about here is getting some disease from this dump" with that the elf and his bodyguard chuckle.
Deuce makes his way around back and down the steps Here goes nothing.. and he pushes open the door into the cellar meeting area. He looks around at the place and does nothing to contain his look of disgust at the joint. If they think I'm going to stay here, sleeping on those cots...they got to be fraggin' kidding
He tries to put on a fake smile for those who had already arrived ahead of him.."Folks..." he says with a nod

Stumbling through the semi-dark, the little decker from the Siren enters the room, scratching at his short blonde hair. He tightly hugs what looks to be a deck-carry case to his chest.

"Greetings," he says in German accented English, "They call me Bandwidth Bob, but Bob will suffice."

He moves quickly to the terminal and begins inspecting Tyen's connection.

Slowly, over the next quarter hour, the rest of the Team filtered into the large, but under furnished room. Two Trolls, two Elves and three Humans. A nice mix with no natural racial discord. As to their respective talents, well that remained to be seen. Piper guessed that he and the Trolls were the heavy mob, the witch was…a witch. The female Elf? Probably the `Face' of the Team and the other one, the dandy? Small, quick and a ladies man if Piper was any judge; he probably had some hidden talent or the Johnson wouldn't have made contact with him. And finally the Decker, doing what a Decker does best, joy riding in the Matrix.

"We'll need Comms I'm thinking. No use trying to use a cel in a combat situation A set of micro-beads on a secure frequency would be good." Piper leant against a wall and opened a debate on how they should Run. He looked around. "I've got my own but who else needs one?"


Outside, in the night, the denizens of the London streets went about their nefarious business. A little robbery here, a murder there. A second story man, or rather Dwarf, fell to his death unnoticed, his scream just one of many in the night. A woman knifed her Pimp, leaving him gurgling his lifeblood on a shit covered pavement, his wallet now in the woman's reticule, a relieved smile creasing her world worn face as she went toward the bus station at Victoria. She wont make it. Muggers will take her money, her life and her body, not necessarily in that order, long before the bus could whisk her back to her home in Great Yarmouth.

Along the Embankment, past the recently sandblasted the Palace of Westminster and the dwarfed ancient Big Ben clock tower, the odd scream can be heard in the dark, rain laden air. No one in their right mind would be abroad in the early hours of a new day in good old London Town. But then, most of the night crawlers could hardly be considered as being in their `right mind'.

The roundabout at the junction of the Embankment and Horesferry Road is ablaze with the burning wreck of an old Honda people carrier, a fitting end some would say. Its bright flames illuminating a particularly gruesome scene and anyone looking will quickly turn away, retching.

South, across the Lambeth Bridge, the Barrier. Designed to keep people in or out? No one really knows any more, nor do they really care. It's enough that it's there.

At the southern end of the bridge, a second barrier, daubed with graffiti and ..other things.. is a more visual barrier to the would be thrill seeker venturing into the Lambeth Containment Area, better known as `The Squeeze'.

Stone moved smoothly into the room just behind Bob, causing him to startle slightly. His dark eyes, shadowed beneath a trollish brow, scanned the corners of the room. Without a word, he walked the perimeter of the chamber, peering behind shower partitions and into nooks, before settling against the far wall. "This will do for discussion."

He leaned against the aged brick, taking position where he could watch the door and not be immediately noticed.

:: Tyen cocks her head to the side and smiles slightly at Stone. His caution reminding her of her father's paranoia to some small degree. Then her light grey eyes turns towards Piper. ::

"I have communication gear. Rating 4 encryption. I wish for more, but that will come with time and money."

Sandy looks around at the essembled group once more, taking in the professional work atmosphere she feels like these are people that can be relied on when the drek comes down.

"I have my own communications eqipment as well, but there is no harm in abusing that expense account for whatever we can if anybody doesnt have their own." Looking around, she thinks how much nicer her safe house is... but then thinks that it may not be quiet so secure to protect as this one baring in mind it only has one way in and out.

"So, anybody had a read of the information chip yet then? anybody got any ideas?

The diminutive German looked up at Sandy, then surveyed the others.

" I have gone throught the contents of the chip thoroughly. The Police Mortician's report is comprehensive and accurate - from what I know of medicine, all the wounds suffered are in keeping with a fall of the described nature. The actual constabulary report on the incident is as thin as one would expect from this "Landet Containment Zone," mostly relying on the feed from the cameras on the wall near the bridge. I managed to cross index the images of the so-called gangers persuing the target, but came up negative on SIN checks or police records - from what I could access in one hour. The "witness accounts" that he spoke of actually ammount to nothing more than the officer arriving on the scene in the morning, which was uninformative to say the least, and a drunk from nearby - but from the recording he was high, drunk, or both - since he said that Mr Borstad had blue skin... which he didn't."

Blue? Probably cyanotic, which implies the perp was suffocated before he hit the ground, assuming the blue wasn't an effect of alcoholic haze. Piper knew the witness was, by definition, untrustworthy, but there was the chance that his observation was right. Which meant that the Gangers, whoever they were, might well have despatched the thief before upending him, just to be on the safe side.

Something nagged at the Irishman, about where the man was found. Within sight of the CCTV mounted on the bridge. Gangers would know where the surveillance cameras were. So the logical conclusion was that the hit was meant to be seen. Why?

None of this seemed right. It smelt like ten day old fish. But who was he to care. Get the case and get paid. Don't worry about the why's and wherefore's.

"We need to find the Gangers. Which means we mount an expedition into the Squeeze."

Not caring to sit down anywhere and risk getting the filthj on his suit, Deuce slowly wanders around the room, puffing away on his cigarette, occasionally flicking the ash onto the floor
None one will notcie, it can't get any dirtier in here
"Well ladies and gentlemen, I will for one say that I'd be most interested in what was exactly in that case, as well as any sort of pet projects this Borman..Borster..brohman..."
"Borstad," says Sandy. clearly annoyed.
"Thank you dear," replies Deuce with a quick smile, "Anyways, I think once we know what was in there, that may help figure out who'd want it."

"I agree, it might be useful to know the case contents. But, more importantly, it's whereabouts is what we're after." He leant on the table and looked at Bob. "See if you can check out Borstad's employer's home. There's a note of it in the Police report. Find out what calls were made from the premises, say from four days ago. Who made the calls, if possible, but certainly who got the calls. That may lead to a Fixer who organised a hit or, maybe, directly to the Gangers."

The Irishman paused, looking at the gadgetry around the room. "Will any of this stuff enhance the CCTV footage? Close-ups of the Gangers faces could be useful. And any shots of the fire escape. Was it pulled away because of rust, and a hasty retreat went wrong, or was it detached purposely to make it look like an accident.

We need to know whether this was a random attack or a planned hit. If the former, our job is going to be harder. Scattered Gangers who will have ditched the case or sold it, contents and all. Or they might have just scattered the contents to the four winds. Either way, they'll be hard to find.

If the latter, then whoever took the case will, almost certainly, have passed it on by now. They won't have been working for the Establishment, because that's who our Johnson is probably working for, seeing as he has access to so much information.

Might also be an idea to confirm the contact number the Johnson gave us. `Whitehall 1212' seems to ring a bell. Wasn't it the number of Scotland Yard back in the early nineteen hundreds."

The soldier stood erect and went to the back of the room, pulling a pair of folding chairs from the pile and creaking them open. He placed them against the wall, facing the door, and sat on one, heaving his feet up onto the other. He smiled. "As for me, I'm gonna catch forty winks. Tomorrow's going to be a hard day."

:: Watches the exchange of idea's and viewpoints with a sort of childlike curiosity. ::

"I think it would be foolish to think this was accident or random. Important papers, servant of rich and powerful, convenient death caught on camera. I t'ink we start with employer. Research their interests to see what may be important, the rich always hide secrets, but rarely well enough."

:: With her last comment, a truly devious smile creeps across the soft features of her face. ::

Bob snorts, patting his deck and running a lead from it to the trid station. "If you recall from the video, the fire-escape is around the other side of the building - even such extreme telescopic lenses cannot bend around corners. As to the image enhancement, it is already done - how else do you think I did my initial checks? If anyone has any familiarity with gangs in this city I can pull them up for your looking..."

Moments later, a number of windows open on the trid screen, depicting youths in leather and denim, plenty of steel chain adorning their attire.

"While you do that, I'll see what I can find out from the telephone company."

A few minutes pass as the runners look over the pictures. Bob jacks out finally with a discontented sigh.

"Bad news I'm afraid. It seems that the address on file for Mr Borstad's employer is actually a fast-food joint in a place called "Bricks-don?" It would appear that either we have been lied to, or that whoever his employer really was has enough pull to get records changed posthumously so it does not come back to bite him in the ass..."

"Well I will start checking up on the gangers if you like, maybe they had some markings on their clothes to affilate them with a particular gang? maybe it was a hit and they were just dressed up as gang bangers? I could have a look around the area and ask some of the local gangs if they know of those people." With that Sandy brushes her hands over her skirt to straighten it out before she sits down.

"I can check into Mr. Borstad and his employment history further. I have a few sources that might turn up something interesting."

:: She almost laughs to herself, this is what she does in her spare time. Researching the Rich and Powerful who hide their secrets. The job had to be a hasty one and shouldn't be too hard to crack. ::

"I know a bit about the gangs hereabout," Stone commented. "It may be that I could identify the ones what did this... or at the least pick up some clue as to who they were pretending to be. I cannot help but think that, if they were in false colors within the boundaries of that gang, they might have found themselves in a spot of trouble."

He levered himself away from the wall, glanced at his wrist, and moved over to scan the trid screen for details. Narrowing his eyes at the images there, he glanced up from the screen towards Sandy. "It is early yet. I do not know what methods you use, but I mean to go and see what rats fall out when I shake their nests."

Smiling at the invitation from the military looking guy, "That depends on your methods big guy... I was going to go for a subtle approach, but it depends on what we can come up with together! either way I dont think its appropriate for me to go to those kind of places wearing this. They would try to eat me alive! I will have to pop back to my place first to change into something more fitting. Do you have your own transport? or do you want a lift?"Getting the answers she needs, she picks up the pictures of the gangers and heads back to her place to get changed and pick up anything she thinks she might need.



Walking into the flat she looks around and checks to see if she has any messages. Concious of the fact that Stone might be waiting for her, she heads into the bedroom and opens the well stocked wardrobes.
Putting the phone on speaker only so nobody can see her she makes two phonecalls, the first to the pleasent and professional Jack Hammond and the second to the smutty Blue Sam. These two people were at different ends of the spectrum but could both server her a simular purpose tonight. Sending them copies of the pictures, she asks them if they can find out for her which gangs they may be or if indeed they are real gangers. Hoping if they have shown their faces in any clubs or pubs then one of these two will know about it!
By the end of the calls she has picked out a few things that she may be needing over the next few days to save comming back. On the bed there is now a holdall with a varity of clothes, both for slumming it in gang areas and rubbing shoulders with the rich and famous.
Looking at herself in the mirror, she is now wearing typical gang affilate clothes... Studded Sythleather Jacket and Matching tight leather trousers, with black army style Doc Martins with flames painted on. Under the Jacket she has her Colt in a holster with a full clip of ammunition. Her makeup instead of being subtle and stylish is now colourful and draws attention, as is her spikey hair and long earings.

Down in the underground garage, she throws her holdall in the back of the Landrover and pulls out into the street, heading back to meet Stone.

Not too amused witht he way this 'Stone' fellow was getting along with the young Sandy, Deuce flicks the cigarette butt to the ground and steps it out. Starightening out his jacket and giving his neck a little crack, he stands up straight.
Well then...
"I can check into Mr. Borstad and his employment history further. I have a few sources that might turn up something interesting." says the other girl in the group. Ah, I'll show you Ms Sandy..
"Good idea! I'll help you," says Deuce as he walks over to the mysterious woman, "My name is Deuce.."

Silly gel, Stone thought, straddling his BMW Blitzen at the designated meeting place. I'm more than a meter taller than her and, from the looks of that fey frame, outweigh her by a factor of ten. And yet she still thinks she can give me a ride?

He snorted at the mental image of squeezing his three-meter frame into a tiny passenger compartment and swung off of his cycle. The troll-modified bike stood almost a meter and a half at the saddle, and massed more than some of the subcompacts on the London streets these days, but it was nonetheless one of the only vehicles he could comfortably use. Bloody British automotive lack of headroom...

Headlights shone in the distance. Perhaps Sandy had finally decided to make her entrance.

Sandy pulls up alongside Stone on his massive motorcycle, and with a sly smile she says "Well there's plenty of room in here if you change your mind!" wondering if he would take the harmless joke the right way... "Sorry I took so long, just had to pick up a few toys that we might find helpful over the next few days. You lead and I'll follow..." and with that she follows the man mountain further into the city and into gang terratory.

:: Tyen passes a critical eye over the dandy and a single eyebrow is raised. However, she saves any smart assed replies, choosing silence to assist the group dynamic. ::

"You are welcome to come, but please be subtle if possible. Some contacts don't do well with... enthusiasm."

:: Opting to take her more sensible transportation, she leads him out to a largish vehicle shrouded with an all weather tarp. Unlocking the latch holding the tarp over the SUV, she pulls it off and rolls it up in a nice tight little package revealing a new Nissan Brumby. It has been repainted to a matte black to better blend into the night, and seems to have a nice sensor pack attached, but other than that, it's pretty stock. ::

"We go to Pep first. Best decker in London..much better than "Bob" (which comes out sounding more like Bub). He should help get us starting place and base information we can use to pump others for what we need to know."

In the British Army you learn to sleep when and where ever. No sooner had Piper closed his eyes than he was asleep. Some internal clock woke him at around three in the morning. The low lights still glowed and, apart from the susurration of the Decker breathing whilst still floating in Cyberspace, everything had gone quiet. Might have told me they were going. He thought as he uncurled from his makeshift bed, stood up and stretched out the kinks. The TriD caught his eye, still playing the downloaded data the Decker had installed. Casually he reviewed it, wondering what the rest were up to.

"Umar? It's O'Toole…….Yeah, I know it's 3am, but I need a favour." Piper had dialled the private number of Corporal Umar, one of the Quartermaster's at the Woolwich Arsenal. He waited for Umar to stop ranting on and the inevitable "What now?"

"I need to use your ID to get some information off the mainframe at Catterick. Just wanted to let you know. I'll route it around a bit." Perhaps it was the fact that he'd been woken up in the early hours but Umar grunted and ended the call. If he remembered the conversation later….well, what the hell.

Confirming the necessary codes for the mainframe, Piper called it from the TriD and, using Umar's ID, got to work searching for the most recent traffic in Special Ops. His search, using the Johnson's data chip as a starting parameter, should throw up some useful information, he felt sure. Maybe even an insight into what all the fuss was about.

An hour later, his eyes bulging, Piper took a wet and vacated the `safe house' in search of a cup of tea and a wedge. He'd seen an `all nighter' on the corner of High Holborn, by the Tube station, and reckoned it would be the best bet.

"He should help get us starting place and base information we can use to pump others for what we need to know."

"Anything you say my dear," and Deuce flashes a quick smile, "It just feels nice to be runnin' with someone with a bit of class." and with that he gets in her vehicle.

Piper:
Digging through the Catterick database is almost a total waste of time. With the quartermaster's access codes, the only relevant piece of information he managed to get was a requesition note for one Borstad, R (Pvt), for a replacement Bergen, dated June 7th 2051. Is it the same guy? That's a good question...

Stone:
Waiting for the fashion-conscious elf gives Stone a chance to peruse the hardcopy pictures of the gangers that Bob had printed off. Although he had spent time enforcing the will of the Seoulpa Rings, his interaction with the "little" gangs of London had not been excessive - but it just so happened that he recognised this bunch.

With their Denim-topped leathers and the eccesive use of chain adornments, it was clear that (whoever these folk actually were) they were utilising the colours of the Rattlers, a gang native to the squeeze.

According to Stone's memory, the 'Rings had paid the Rattlers some two years ago to run a distraction scam on the local police whilst their own personnel ensured the safe passage of some cargo through Lambeth. Although the Rattlers usually keep to the old underground tunnels, they were happy to come up above and run amuk - especially for the fee they received.

Tyen:
Pep was his usual, mechanical self. Although a wiz in the 'trix, his people skills were famously lacking. Once the requirements were made clear he dove in without another word.

Half an hour later, he re-surfaced for coffee and donuts - and to pass on the fruits of his travails.

"Well... the pictures came up negative. Met-Gang watch tags the colours as a Tubey-gang called the Rattlers, but facial turns up nothing. The principal's name "Borstad" turns up a list as long as my arm, but narrowing the search perameters for personal specifics and probable fields of vocation gives us a couple of options." He took a big gob-ful of donut and spoke through it. "One, there's Robert James Borstad. Works for the Foreign office. He's a junior flunky - a coffee boy - and does shitty work for shitty pay. Lives with his parents in Holburn. Two, Robert Oliver Edward Borstad, formerly of Appledore in Devon, now works as a Major Domo-type-thingy for some pixie Duke or Knight or something name of Justin Carmichael. Those are the only two who appear in the Government Employment listings - the second one only because he was employed on the basis of his previous status as a military-trained guard at the Commons."

A quick call from his earbud phone had been enough to inquire after a brief meeting with Crow. The reply had been positive, and Stone led the way east without explanation.

The drive along the Highway from central London, at this time of night, had scarcely taken any time at all. Stone piloted the Blitzen just past the intersection of Newell Street and Commercial Road, and pulled off to the side. Sandy's Land Rover slid in to the curb behind him quietly, and she got out as he was dismounting the cycle.

"Limehouse?" the fey girl asked quietly. "What'll we find here?"

"Information, I hope," Stone replied. "I recognized the gang's colors from those pictures. Those patterns are worn by a group calling themselves the Rattlers -- a gang that usually stays down in the tunnels beneath the city. What I do not know is precisely where underground their turf might be, or what their motivation might be in this case. That is what brings us here."

After a quick look about, he led Sandy briskly away from the vehicles. Several minutes later, they climbed the front steps of a not-quite-crumbling townhouse. Stone knocked four times on the door with gloved knuckles, and waited patiently. A minute or so passed before the door creaked open a few centimeters. A bloodshot eye could be seen above a tusk through the gap, peering upwards at Stone's bulk. A reedy tenor grumbled, "Yeah? Wha'd'yew want?"

"I am Stone. Crow expects me."

"Huh. Stone. Yeah, you're OK. C'mon in." The door opened further, revealing an orkish countenance and a lean, muscled form, moving aside to allow him inside. The other stopped abruptly as Sandy came into view behind Stone. "Wai' a sec. Oo's the bint?"

Stone's hand flashed forward towards the ork's face. Sandy, who looked as though she had been about to take umbrage at the remark, froze as the broad hand easily gripped both sides of the ork's jaw. Stone appeared to exert no effort, but the other's face went ashen. "'The bint' is an associate of mine, and you will speak of her respectfully if you wish to keep speaking. Understand?"

He released his hold and stared at the ork. The other hesitated, with the flash of panic still hovering in his eyes, then nodded and gestured back into the building. "It's this way, miss," he said politely, and led the pair of them towards a descending staircase.

Even after all these years, the London Underground, better known as the Tube, still runs, well almost. A lot of the stations have been closed down since the Awakening and even more after the surge, but High Holborn's lights burn bright. The original tunnels under the Thames have been augmented by now reinforced vacuum sealed tunnels of the `deep tube'.

The trains run in a sleeve of non-conductive plastic and no living thing can survive outside of the sleeve. Passengers, therefore, can travel in comparative safety, providing their journey finishes before 10pm. After that, the travellers aren't always 9 to 5 commuters, if you know what I mean.

Piper headed down into the Station, bought an `all day' and boarded one of the older trains, heading for the last stop on the old Victoria line by way of the Piccadilly line, changing at Green Park.

The `last stop' officially, was Pimlico. Piper well knew that the line carried on under the river to Vauxhall. And that's exactly where he wanted to be. When the train pulled in to Green Park, Piper had several minutes to wait for a connection on the Victoria and took the opportunity to review the data from Mr Johnson.

ALL OUT! END OF LINE! The sonorous voice of a station announcement, insistent and, Piper knew, shortly to be accompanied by a none too alert Guard wandering through the carriages to make sure no one was left aboard. The Irishman waited in the half shadow against the small single pneumatic door close to the driver's cab. When he heard the driver's door slam he moved, opening the opposite door and dropping down onto the dark side of the train. Immediately he turned south, sure in his own mind that there was no power on past this point.

The walk along the barren tunnel, rat infested and dark, was, of its self a small nightmare, but Piper was used to night patrols and romped under the Thames. Vauxhall Station was a mess. Filtered early dawn light permeated through gratings ahead and the soldier could hear a few howls. He pulled his Remington Roomsweeper, just in case.

Treading carefully over the litter and crumbled concrete from years of decay, Piper forced his way through rusting iron gates onto the Albert Embankment. A few interested parties watched as he crossed it. He jogged down Parry Street and headed south-west along the South Lambeth Road, eyes everywhere.

His destination lay before him. The last resting place of the ill fated Equerry. Time to examine the scene of the crime.

"Pep, they might not have been involved with the Government exactly...but this at least gives us a place to start. Can you get us some info on both of them? Phone bills, home addresses, family contact information, SIN, that sort of thing?"

Sandy gets out of the Landrover and knows that this is Stones area of expertise, so decides to to let him get on with it. After all, this meant she could save her talents for when muscles werent always the right key.

Stepping in through the door behind Stone she hears the comment of "bint" and simply ignores it... its not something that troubles her as she has been called far worse in her life! that and she was sure she would be able to "persude" him to let her in as well. Pleasently suprised by his reaction she keeps quiet, knowing that this is all part of a game he is playing.

On the subject of games, she thinks that at this moment in time in might be better to keep quiet and look pretty... that way you can run a good cop (her) bad cop (him) routine later on. She just hoped he had the common sence to realise she was doing this and not simply being a waste of space.

The CCTV footage on the data chip had shown Borstad running into the dilapidated building which now confronted Master Sargent O'Toole. The front door, what there was left of it, hung from one rusty hinge, pulled half closed. There was every likelihood that the place was used as a squat on a regular basis and that, probably, there would be a few occupants at this hour of the morning. Piper stowed his shotgun in its holster and pulled his Beretta. It was better for close work and he was used to it. The weapon had been with him a long time.

Shouldering his way past the door, gun trained forward, the Irishman carefully lifted the fractured wood back into place, cutting the dawn light by half. It was still light enough to see along the hallway. A flight of stairs on the left, just past a closed door. Another door, also closed on the right and the hall extending into a short passage past the staircase with a third door at its end.

If Borstad was being pursued it was unlikely that he'd try any of the doors. Going into a room would certainly trap him in an indefensible large area. If what the Catterick mainframe had shown was correct, Robert Borstad had been Military and even basic training would have made him go up the stairs. To shoot down on an enemy, particularly if they can only come at you one at a time, is the correct tactic; if you can secure such a position.

Ignoring the doors, but letting his hearing be his backup, Piper climbed the stairs. Instantly he hit the wall, bringing his gun to bear on the sudden flurry above him. Dull grey wings beating at the cold morning air as pigeons took flight, disturbed by the intrusion, relaxed Piper's trigger finger.

The landing was unsafe, or looked like it. Holed floorboards and most of the balustrade gone, probably for firewood. Broken windows at either end had been the escape hatches for the birds, and the dawn sunlight made the peeling wallpaper seem almost homely. Two doors, separated by a short landing, a third door to the right and another flight leading upward.

Again, Piper ignored the doors, taking the second flight more rapidly. There was no knowing when the inhabitants might poke their noses out to see what was going on. The upper landing, similar to the first, but only two doors. What interested Piper, though, was the push bar door at the back of the building. It hung ajar on what was left of its frame. A fire escape door. He looked out quickly, and wished he hadn't. Open air where the steel steps should have been and a forty foot drop onto solid looking concrete. Piper knelt down, holding the wall, and ran his hand along the external brickwork, feeling for the bolt holes where the escape ladder had been fixed. He found one and, with exaggerated care, poked his head out to take a look.

Bright shiny metal, true already browning with the first signs of rust from several days of rain, but clearly showing signs of having been cut through. Mr Borstad had, probably, plunged to his death from here, but not by accident!

Preternatural, that's what his personnel file said. Piper's acute hearing caught the faint creak of a floorboard on the landing below. Something wicked this way comes, methinks. He pulled himself upright and moved to the side of the fire door, his back against the wall. Sure enough, a slim shadow was sliding along the far wall of the stairwell, cast by the rising sun streaming in through the window on the lower landing,

The Irishman held himself ready. Fight or interrogation, Ganger's choice. The shadow took form as a slim individual wearing a poncho and a headscarf edged up along the stairs.

"That's far enough!" Piper held the Beretta low, pointing at the figure as it stiffened at the sound of his voice, hands rising in time honoured tradition.

"Didn't mean nufin Mister! Do..Don't shoot. Just lookin, 'sall." The figure cowered visibly.

"Keep those hands where I can see em and get up here!" Piper trained his gun as Poncho made a slow ascent. "Take the scarf off, let me see your face!"

Quivering on the top landing, slim hands removed the scrap of cloth, allowing dull brown hair to tumble forward across a grimy but obviously female face. "Whatch doin' 'ere Mister. My Jace catches yer, e'll dis yer sure."

"You live here then and Jace is your man?" Piper extended his hearing range, trying to catch any other movement in the building, apart from the girl's heartbeat and the cooing of odd pigeons.

"Yeh, nearly a year. Good squat. Don't get much trouble. Jace sees ta that." The female made no pretence of giving Piper a hard look, summing him up.

"Like the other night? When them teeners chased that man in here?"

"'Sright. Six of em there was. But they didn't get far. Jace dun fer one on em and the others scarpered. Wern't their turf anyways."

"And the man they was…were chasing? What happened to him?"

"Dunno. Me 'n Jace lives on the first floor. Don't come up here ofen." She stopped as Piper moved slightly, his gun twitching. "But the man did." She added hurriedly.

"But he didn't come down again." Piper glanced at the fire exit.

"'Sright. Heard a scream though. Reckoned he musta bought it."

Piper moved to the head of the stairs. "Go back down. Get in your room and stay there." He waved the Beretta to add emphasis and the girl retreated the way she had come. Piper followed, waiting for the door of the room at the foot of the stairs to slam shut after her before he descended to the ground floor.

Heading back to Vauxhall, Piper reviewed what he had found out. Not much, if the truth be known. Just enough to know that the death of the flunky was part of a wider plot and, therefore, the Team were no nearer to finding the case.

Watching the decker eat almost made Deuce lose his own lunch. This guy is disgusting Deuce tries hard to not show his displeasure in this dump of a place. But at least the slob has managed to get us something to start with
Before the decker heads back off into the matrix, Deuce gives him a half smile "Your help is greatly appreciated..."

It was just coming up six o clock as Piper stepped out of Holborn Station again. The fresh smell of morning combined with the puke and urine of dossers and winos made for an interesting olfactory sensation, but the Irishman ignored it. The `all nighter' had fresh rolls, still warm and Piper bought a dozen along with a slab of what, allegedly, was butter and a half kilo of cheese. If no one at the safe house was hungry, it wouldn't matter, Piper would eat the lot. Catching a litre of black soycaf to go, he headed down Queensway.

"Breakfast!" Piper announced as he made his way through the passage and into the squat. He reckoned shouting that food had arrived was as good as any way of saying his entrance was friendly.

Tyen and Deuce

Pep wades back into the matrix for mere moments before paper starts spewing from beneath his desk. He jacks out and retrieves it. "Eugh, hardcopy..."

He hands it to the Russian. "R.J lives in Camberwell with his parents - address there. Phone line listed, with most calls being to work - his superiors and contemporaries. R.E has no listed address - means it's protected or gone from the records, same for phone and familial details. There's almost nothing on him. Bank records suspended, phone unidentified - if there is anything, it's buried under more ice than it took to sink the Olympic."

Stone and Sandy

Making their way down through various non-descript tunnels, the Troll and the Elf finally come to a room with but a single occupant. Leaning against the far wall, Crow speaks quietly... "Well?"

Piper

Bob jacks out of the matrix at the sound of Piper's entry. "Food... good. I have not eaten in hours." The little german starts stuffing his face at the first opportunity. "The others are not back yet. Tyrone should be around here somewhere. We should all go find them, I think. I don't know what they will have found, if anything, but I for one don't want them going off alone and snagging the bag for themselves and cutting us out of the deal....."

:: Tyen looks at Deuce, her opinion on which is their target is overly obvious. ::

"Thanks Pep..."

:: She smiles at the ultra-geek. ::

"This is going harder than expected. Pep, do me favor please. Post on CTI, CoverTech, ERIPSNOC and DT about him. Someone's got to have heard something. Be slick about it."

:: Turning to Deuce again, she nods towards the door. ::

"Call me Pep..as soon as something is known."

Looking "the crow" up and down Sandy can certainly see how he got his name, dressed all in black with scabby greasy hair he looked like he was trying to copy a film from many years ago... which strangely enough had the same title as his name!

She pauses briefly, waiting to see if Stone wanted to take the lead.

Dribs and drabs, that's all Piper had for seven hours of traipsing the streets of Lambeth. Borstad had been a soldier, of that he was sure. Soldiers, particularly those who had brown nosed in the Service, often became Equerries when they were demobbed. The better ones stayed on and duly received their Knighthood. Hard luck on Borstad, however good he was, his chance of becoming a `Sir' had ended face down on solid concrete.

"Show me the faces of the kids that did for our mark." Piper handed another buttered roll to Bandwidth Bob, still chewing on the last one. The decker brought up the photo gallery and, one by one, Piper scrutinised each face. He wasn't quite sure what he was looking for, but he knew he'd know when he saw it.

The eighth kid made him pause. Back in Lambeth, even in the filtered light, there were similarities. Bone structure of the face perhaps. The colour of the hair, though as filthy as she had been that was a slim comparison. But the slight frame, the thin bones of the limbs. A family member almost certainly.

So her brother, maybe, had been on the street that night, chasing the fugitive Mr Borstad. Piper realised, too late of course, that he'd been lenient with the girl. He should have known she'd know more than she told. Certainly her protector, Jace, would have done. Was possibly even one of the Gang himself. Idiot Irishman!

Putting her hands in her pockets she looked at Crow..."Well, we were looking for some information on a gang and knew you could help us... we could make it worth your while!" Sandy then goes on to give the gangs name and identifing colours... "So do you think you can help?" She stands there as he looks her over and contemplates what to say.

Holding the door open for the young woman, Deuce smiles, and just before it closes he turns to Pep
"Thanks chief," and with that follows Tyen.
Not much to go on yet, but something will turn up, it always does in the shadows

"Ve should go back. Anything more will take time."

:: She leads the way back to her vehicle and then back to the well guarded safe house, a slight smile on her face as she smells the food. ::

Piper opened one eye as he heard new arrivals. The alarm system was, he knew, on but would only trigger at unknowns, hence, this would be some of the Team returning. A broad smile cracked his face as he recognised the slight figure of the shadowy Russian who'd provided the place, and the Dandy.

"There's fresh rolls, butter and cheese, if you're hungry." The Irishman heaved his feet off his makeshift bed. "I hope you got something." He stood and stretched. "All I found was confirmation that Borstad took a fall that definitely wasn't an accident and that, probably, one of the Gang that did for him lives in the very building from which he fell." Piper moved toward the toilets. "Oh, and according to Catterick, it's also probable that Robert O E Borstad's ex Military."

The soycaf having finally got through made Piper's exit less than graceful as he left the room without waiting for a reply.

Deuce knew that he must've have been very tired in order to eat such a basic meal, but at this point, hunger beat out fatigue and the well dressed elf began to chow down. After finishing his food, and taking a sip from this very disgusting soycaf, he let out a yawn.
"Hmmm, oh excuse me," he said, wiping some crud from his eye, "Ex military? Hmmm that case could contain anything, and I highly doubt that it's kickin' around at that ganger building. Whether or not they knew its contents, it's all cash to them." Taking another sip of the soycaf, Deuce surveyed the hideaway I need a better place to sleep, change of clothes...

:: Tyen smiles back slightly but her eyes brighten at the food. Basic it may be, but her body craved the carbs and to her, this was comfort food. She took her fill, easily eating three times the normal helping while she listened to his speculation. ::

"Da..that would confirm my suspiscions. My decker located only 2 possible Borstad's and one is live at home coffee boy so I discounted him. The other, Robert Oliver Edward Borstad, is probably our man. His personal records are completely wiped from system, or under too much IC for casual decking to chip through."

:: She finishes her 4th roll and wipes her greasy fingers on a napkin before she she starts pulling off her gear and her shoes. ::

"What he did find out was Borstad was formerly of Appledore in Devon, and now, or rather did, work for a man named Justin Carmichael as an assistant of sorts. Pep described Carmichael as "some pixie Duke or Knight or something". Also, he said Borstad was employed on the basis of his previous status as a military-trained guard at the Commons. That would fit with your ex miliatary theory. I have some of my...sources working on additional leads on both Borstad and Carmichael, but we may want to widen the search nets."

:: Walking towards the bathroom, she yawns and stretches. ::

"I need shower. Then sleep. I be ready in 3 hours."