[Jack_Spade]

"As long as he drives himself that shouldn't be a problem. I can spot for you and delay them if necessary. Just be sure to park next to him and have his make and model's airbag prepared."

[adamu]

"His model's airbag? Shee-it, yer right again, it should match. But less'n you know any abandoned Caddys hereabouts, that's gotta be ordered. Nah, I can modify the one that's in there jist fine. Just gotta prep the additional components, which would be easy 'cept I wanna make 'em so they pretty much disintegrate after use Heh heh, ain't never plotted a damned murder before. I'll come find ya when it's ready. But now I reckon ol' Al's finally drunk enough ta git some shut-eye."

[Jack_Spade]

"Agreed. Plotting murder while drunk is never a good idea. Don't be surprised if I come storming in here in the morning with a horrified expression because sober me thinks that this is a stupid idea.

Good night, see you in a while."
Thorn went of to find himself a space somewhere in the communal sleeping room.

[adamu]

Al drifted to sleep with the high-pitched chattering of Battlesuit Sexbots ringing in his ears and visions of booby-trapped airbags dancing in his head.

He woke with the familiar taste of dog drool in his mouth and the equally familiar sound of Bit's angry-voice threatening to shatter his hung-over skull.

At least Spike was giving him a little wake-up love.

"Guthrie, you lazy sack of hillbilly shit, one night out buys one day off. It's the next damned day, and your crew's been waiting outside for almost three hours."

Al opened one eye. The hippy (they called themselves "steampunks," whatever that meant) was shouting across the room at him from about ten feet away. That was Spike's line. He'd probably tried to get closer and seen teeth. "Reckon they ain't minded puttin' they feet up some. Told 'em never ta bother me when I'm hung over."

"In other words, just never bother you. Up an' at 'em. We all pull our weight here, half-pint."

Now Al thought that was a helluva thing for a dwarf to say, though it was true that Bit did not exactly have to strain his neck much to catch the human's eye.

Well, so much for making an airbag booby-trap. Ever since shifting so much deeper into the Barrens, these damned free-lovers had got a helluva lot more uptight about work and so forth. He used to just pay for his space with them with cash, but they weren't interested in that anymore. Now it was all wall-this and sewer-that.

He stood up, lit a cigarette, and went to the fridge. Bit was still standing there cursing a blue streak. Al ignored him, staggered to the head, and managed to puff on his cigarette, sip his beer, pee, and scratch his ass all at the same time.

Grabbed his commlink, which had the schematics he'd worked up, and approached his crew of six. Four men, two women. Five humans, one ork. Half were all funky-cybered in what was apparently the steampunk style, the main feature of which seemed to be an utter disregard for functionality. The other half sported token bits of chrome gear, like they were either just buying in, or were just playing along with the fashion end of it to have a place to call home. The remains of a card game lay on a piece of plywood in the mud.

"Well, y'all heard the man. We got a wall ta finish."

[Jack_Spade]

Thorn's day began a bit later - but instead of a screaming dwarf he only had his own commlink to wake him up. First he went for a little five km run to warm up, than he was off to the gym. A few exercises went by before he activated Sparky, the gym's training drone.
Sparky didn't pose a real challenge in terms of quick movement or strikes, but the thing never tired and didn't relent. Rarely but sometimes nonetheless the drone pilot would display an unexpected move it had learned or probably downloaded recently.
Thorn thoroughly enjoyed the exertion despite the previous nights adventures - keeping the edge had his trainer Marcel called it.

He only stopped when the drone indicated that it had to recharge. Which told Thorn that the previous user had neglected to bring it back to the recharge station.
Just as Thorn had finished plugging in the annoyingly fiddly power cable he heard his commlink chirping:
<<Thorn, Moma wants a word with you about yesternights events. I warn you, she is not in a good mood. So stop punching and start moving. XXX Molly>>

"Shit."
Thorn quickly went under the shower, dressed and made his way over the street to the Red Velvet.

[adamu]

All through the workday, which occupied barely half of his brain, he'd been thinking about killer airbags. Amazing what a couple of drunken miscreants could come up with if the hour got late enough. He only had to flex his new hands to remind himself of that.

So what the hell? he thought. Give it a good noodling. Hell, starting with the car was real solid. Louie had loved his old one, and since Al had replaced it for him, he loved it twice as much. Drove himself, now, or so he'd heard. And never anything else. Now it was more than a symbol of success - it was a trophy. A vindication.

Al congratulated himself for his foresight in programming a backdoor into the antitheft before he'd handed it over.

The trade had solved the main problem. Gotten the Khmers off the hook. But now that the goombahs knew Al was still alive, they'd be after him again.

He didn't really mind that so much. He figured they were a grossly overestimated group of individuals, these wise guys. And he knew it was just Art's crew. The rest of them wanted nothing to do with it.

But if he killed Art, they would. They'd all be after him.

If he got caught.

So a bomb? Didn't leave much evidence behind, but too flashy. Plus he'd learned from the trid that even blown up bombs could somehow be traced.

Drunken crash was more plausible. But much less sure. Damned cars were just too safe these days.

And thus Thorn's idea about adding a little something special to the airbag.

But that left something behind. Unless it didn't. So Al had spent the afternoon thinking about cellulose shell casings, and self-burning powder, and then science-fictioney stuff like ice projectiles.

By the time he wandered back home and fended off Spike's advances, he'd simplified his thoughts some - decided to look at using only materials already found in the airbag, just maybe adding more, or taking some away. They were very carefully calibrated devices after all.

He flopped down on the sofa with a soyrito, a protein bar, and four beers. Fished for his link to start drawing something up. Piece of paper fell out. He didn't notice, but Spike did. Started sniffing at it, and Al snatched it up. Held it. It was folded a couple of times, but he didn't open it. Just flopped back into the moldy cushions. Shit. It was just three months ago he'd heard Tony Franciosa'd relocated to London. Maybe she was still there too. That'd be a damned sight better hide-out than this damned flower-child outpost among the ashes.

But no, he wasn't going halfway around the world for Arty Gianelli. Now, maybe if killing the fat fuck did end up bringing the whole Seattle mob down on him, well then he'd have to leave, if only to spare his hippy friends the grief. For now, though, Thorn's little idea sounded like just what the doctor ordered.

He stuffed the dog-eared slip of paper back into his pocket and got to work.

[Jack_Spade]

A soft knock disturbed Al's cogitations.
Thorn stood at the door, his mask in place, but his body language decrying accurately that the ork wasn't really brimming with good cheer.
"Oy Al, how's it going? Just finished my shift. And I got chewed out by Moma for our little fun yesterday.
A certain organization called her and made some not so subtle threats. So now I am officially charged to to something about that mess before any of the ladies get hurt.
Seems like our drunken murder plot is a go.

But I also thought a bit more. This guy you angered, he is some kind of capo, isn't he? Do you know any of his direct rivals that would benefit from his demise? If yes, we might want to leave some clue that points in their direction, just to make sure this doesn't come back to bite us."

[adamu]

"First off, grasshopper, anger is a poison that stems only from the darkness within. Ol' Al may in all innocence have set in motion a chain of causes an' effects that made Arty Gianelli a danger to his own emotional self, but only the fat goombah hisself could make the choice to succumb to the cancer of rancor and spite that lay waitin' to blossom within his breast. There's beers an' soyritos inna fridge. Hell, it was likely a lifetime o' karmically questionable choices that created such a deep wellspring of malaise in his heart, fertile ground fer the vexations an' resentments that followed."

He crumpled a beer can and tossed it at a big across the room, missing with a clatter.

"An' the Vory. I don't much follow which ones. Don't git along much with Russkies. But they's always squabblin' with Arty's crews about this dock or that wharf. Hell, last time I done met dear Arty was in a spot - real lucrative spot, I might add - that he'd recently wrested from their control. Harbor Island Marina. Them Slavs'd love ta have that pretty spot back, sure as the Pope wears a pointy hat."

He cracked another beer as the ork sat down with some dinner. "Now, my masked amigo, whaddaya know 'bout soiid propellants?"

[Jack_Spade]

"Not a thing. Me and explosives is like a bad analogy. I'm more the distraction kind of guy"
Thorn took a bite from a very fresh looking carrot.
"Oh, that's good. But hopefully we don't kick of a gang war that way. That's bad for business all around.
I'll use today to make a little tour around that restaurant. After all, we need to provoke a little accident. I think a block of ice inside a carton should do the trick. Triggers the airbag and will have vanished as crushed ice down the drains.
I just need a good hiding spot to throw it into the street."

[adamu]

"Hell, it's ice. Slide it."

He was fiddling with a cheap commlink.

"But that's a hell of an idear. Saves me havin' ta mess with his brakes ta git the crash we need to activate the airbag."

He hit one final spot on his touchscreen with a tobacco-stained index finger.

"There, sent 'er to ya, or if'n ya do that AR thing, well," he used a burn-melted hand to waggle his fingers vaguely in the air, "then it's up there...somewhere. See, I ain't talkin' 'bout blowin' 'im up. Your idear's the best from the git-go. We kill 'im with the bag, an' none gon' be the wiser."

He leaned back, put his boots on the table, and started scratching the giant dog behind the ears.

"Solid propellant - it's rocket fuel, basidally - an' it's in every airbag. That's how they get 'em ta inflate so fast. Stuff burns damned quick, turns into nitrogen, inflates the bag, then all the gas just seeps out holes inna bag, deflates it, an' they ain't a damn thing left behind." As Al narrated, Thorn could see the crude animation he'd drawn up, which included a stick figure with a fat paunch and a crude Dumb Arty label getting hit in the face with the bag. "Thing is, it's gotta be jist fast enough to outrun the impact of a collision, but not so fast it takes her head off. Hell, these things kill kids, old people, an' mostly anyone drivin' with they face too close ta the damn wheel. All I gotta do is up the charge - grab the propellant outta some junker's bag an' add it to Arty's - an' when he hits yer ice block then that there bag gon' push his face into his damn brainpan." The animation ran again, only this time the stick figure's head exploded into a gory red mess when it got hit by the bag, and the label changed from Dumb Arty to Dead Arty. "All we need now is the opportunity - Arty in the restaurant, an' no eyes on the car fer one minute, tops."

[Jack_Spade]

"Clever. More bang in the airbag. Don't forget to close the hole in the bag with a resin. If I understand you correctly, that should guarantee that he hits his head against a rock hard inflated balloon.

I already have a plan for getting the attention away from you: I'll let my self be run over by some fancy car. I did that last year as a reserve stunt man. It's quite easy if you time it right: Get your feet from the ground and start your roll on the hood of the car. Smarts a bit, but at the speeds people drive on parking lots it should be save.
Just have to remember to stash a ketchup packed in my mouth and bite down at the right moment. Last Halloween I scared a bunch of kids for live with that trick when the ketchup spurted out the side of my face."
Thorn replied

[adamu]

Al laughed out loud. "Smarts a bit, does it? Gittin' yerself hit by a car? Kemo sabe, I do like the way yer head works. Alrighty then, I'm gon' go scavenge the propellant. An' the resin's a nice touch - was jist readin' 'bout this new stuff, hardens on impact like that stuff in the Hardliner gloves, only this stuff oxidizes afterwards. I'll see if our Freedom chummers can git ol' Al a bit onna down-low. They's a secretive bunch, bur reckon I got an in."

His fingers were already at work on his 'link as he spoke.

"How long ya need fer yer scouty-scout? We good ta start watchin' for 'im from late tonight, or ya need a day?"

[Jack_Spade]

"No more than half a day. I'll get busy making that ice bloc. That will take at least a day itself. I'll exchange shifts, so I'll be ready for watch duty. Shouldn't be a problem - after all we are on a mission for Moma too - in some kind anyway."

Thorn nodded to Al and grabbed a large grate that once upon a time had held a small fridge. Now all he had to do was find a large enough freezer.

[adamu]

"Stay frosty, baby," Al shouted at Thorn's back as the ork exited with the old piece of junk. He congratulated himself on his keen sense of humor.

He'd requested the resin while they talked, and for once the computer wonks had agreed on cash instead of a favor they could hold over his head for time and all eternity. Now he just needed propellant. The neighborhood was awash with stripped old junkers, and he doubted the scavengers had all be savvy enough to break into the guts of every airbag. Wouldn't be hard to find what he needed.

Which meant time for a nap. He didn't really sleep, but that was par for the course. He'd stay tired, but at least he wouldn't dream.

By oh-dark- thirty, he had everything he needed, and all preconfigured the way he wanted it. Extra tools just in case of something unexpected were stowed in the bed of the truck. And he parked two blocks east and three north of Mostros, waiting for Thorn to link up with him.

[Jack_Spade]

Thorn returned almost punctual. Instead of his ballistic mask he only wore a respirator. His voice was therefore a bit muffled when he answered:
"Got the layout down. The best place to get the carton in his way will be outside the pizza place on third. They keep this giant trash can outside at all times and right next to it they have cracked open the street for maintenance. No rode workers to be seen. Now hopefully the guy likes to drive himself, because a autopilot will try to slow down at a marked construction site.
I asked Rocky to deliver the ice block. That thing literally weighs half a ton, but the core isn't frozen yet, so it will probably melt fast enough after the collision."

He rolled his shoulders: "And you, how have your airbag experiments worked out?"