[Tecumseh]

Achak nods, generally satisfied with Flickr's response. These initial meetings are always a poker game. Reveal too much and you would lose the game; reveal too little and you would never win. He could appreciate the elf's reluctance to get into details; he might even have thought less of him had the elf dumped his whole story out like some sort of Irish spring.

Achak appreciated the wolf/owl analogy, which seemed apt, and momentarily pondered the universal image that made perfect sense to both an Amerind from Salish lands and an Old World elf from across the ocean. Flickr's suggestion that he needed them as much as they needed him was a good sign. If anything, their interdependence would help limit opportunities for betrayal. You didn't want to work with the inflamed vengence-seeker who would kill his who team in order to dust the target. Nor did you want to work with the money-hungry psycho who wasn't concerned about casualties on their own team because that just meant larger pieces of pie for the survivors. Flickr needed to learn the ropes, which would give them an opportunity to assess his skills and trustworthiness. Plus, if Flickr had a target of his own, that was wiz. Targets were getting harder and harder to come by, so having another one waiting for them once this project was complete made the next steps that much easier. It wasn't often that a new hire came along with work attached, but Achak wasn't about to doubt the Lord's wisdom in the matter.

The Amerind gives a nod to Mercer, both to convey his satisfaction but also to let Mercer resume the lead. If Mercer agreed, they could get into specifics and wrap things up before SpitFire arrived.

[Malevolence]

Mercer watches as the conversation begins to spiral out of control. He could step in, but too much information could be gained simply by watching. The team had to gel, and if it required him to step in now, it would set a bad precedent. Bruised egos were difficult to mend, and often these things had to run their course. Achak was a known, Mercer had spent enough time with him to get a good bead on what the man was, how he would react, where his weaknesses were. Mercer trusted that he would not let this escalate into violence. But the elf was an unknown. Mercer watched him closely as the two bickered. The elf was not used to explaining himself. He lacked the etiquette and general presence to be a leader by experience, so it was likely that he was granted the mantle. By birth? Made sense, though whether due to a family name or just the luck of the draw with regards to his magical abilities was unclear. He had a military upbringing, which was unlikely in most powerful families - they wouldn't risk themselves in combat when they could hire underlings to die for their desires. But he wasn't familiar with the elven kingdoms - perhaps they did things differently there?


The elf had taken the offered seat, and one hand gripped the wooden table of the booth, perhaps more tightly than the elf intended. He hid his facial expressions well, but his body betrayed his tension and frustration at the conversation. He was ready to pounce or flee, though he assumed the former. The other hand was under the table, almost certainly hovering near where some weapon would be, ready to draw. Of course, the weapon wouldn't be there as the occupants of the club were disarmed, but the posture was borne of habit. The elf, as evasive as he was, seemed sincere. A vamp had done him wrong, and he was out for revenge - how many hunters had begun their careers in similar circumstance?


He was calculating. Instead of facing the beast head on, he developed his resources, did his research, enlisted aid. These were skills that made him far more valuable than the vast majority of hunters he had met. He wouldn't charge in and get the team killed. He wouldn't take the bait when a vampire tried to rile him up - a practice that the vampires employed regularly to gain an edge by disrupting an opposing team. The elf had commanded significant resources at one time - most likely recently if he was just starting to dip his toe into 'running - so it followed that this vampire had cost him that command. Disgraced? Maybe. Would he have to worry about other repercussions?


At the mention of funding, Mercer nearly steps in. The elf wraps up. The two seemed to have reached an understanding of the other - a respect for their differences in world view, of sorts. They wouldn't be drinking together, but they wouldn't be fighting each other rather than the true enemy. Achak gives a nod to Mercer, indicating that he was satisfied that the elf was on the up and up. Mercer was like minded; the elf was cocky - perhaps to a fault - but if he came recommended from Raven, then he wouldn't be exaggerating too much.


"You mentioned funding. I'm not sure what Raven might have hinted at, but we work on commission. We do our job, and maybe get a little lucky, we get a big score. Otherwise, we make our living on bounties. You want allies and a modest amount of jing in your pocket, we can offer that. You want an armory, you'll have to keep looking. We aren't a Kickstarter here. Hold a sec." He waved down a waitress that was passing by a few booths down. "Ma'am. We're a little parched here. Can I get another" he couldn't bring himself to call what he had been drinking "beer" so he simply pointed at his glass "one of these, and whatever these two gentlemen would like. Thank you, darlin'." The others gave their orders and the waitress left to get their drinks. "Raises suspicion if you're sitting empty. Anyhow, if you're willing to earn your keep, we'd be happy to have you. You ain't wrong that we have a need for a magical skill set." He continues via comms, having rebooted his commlink during the distraction with the waitress.


<<@Flickr, Achak [Mercer] And if you've a desire to put the hurtin' on some Infected, we'll get you the education you need. Might even back you up when you're ready to make your play, if you'll have us.>>

"Don't matter how bad ass you think you are, if you ain't a dragon or that Jester fella," feelings about Harlequin were mixed, especially among the elves, so he tended to avoid naming names where he or the dragons were involved, "you won't make it long alone in this line of work. Ride with us, or ride with another crew, but don't ride alone. 's my advice, and you can do with it what you will." The waitress arrived with their drinks and Mercer slotted his chit to pay the tab. When she left he wrapped up.

"That's my sales pitch. You interested?"

[bangbangtequila]

Flickr listened when the steel-blood spoke his piece. He made sense, but he misunderstood the point. The elf wouldn't have taken charity. He has earned everything he's ever had, to the point he had even given up the comforts and privileges of his name... It didn't matter. He would be paid enough to fund his private war. Presumably they had some method of calculating the shares, and he would prove his worth and earn his share the moment they needed him. He held Mercer's eyes for a few moments then nodded. "I don't need gear. I'm short on liquid assets - relocating takes a considerable amount of doing." He shrugged. "I'll earn every penny. For now, what's our target?"

He held out his hand, and clasped the other man's across the table...

[Zweiblumen]

<<@Spitfire [Achak] Glad to hear you're still on the right side of the grave. Not running with the BlackJacks anymore. Got a new gig now, way more more profitable, especially with an ownership stake.>>

The mention of 'stake' makes him wince involuntarily.

<<We can go into details in person, but what we need right now is some decryption expertise. I'm not a tech guy, you know that, but we have an offline database that we need someone to unravel for us. Give it a poke and tell us what it will cost.>>

Achak tried to quickly formulate some sums that sound enticing but that won't break the war budget. They need to know what the contents of those files are and soon, before the trail goes cold. Decryption wasn't Spitfire's specialty, but Achak was reasonably confident the ork could get it done in a day or two. How much would be fair for a day's labor?

<<If it's quick, you can make an easy ¥500. If it you have to flex a bit, we'll pay you more. Plus we expect that it will point us in the direction of a new score.>> He thinks of the Manet painting, even if they haven't technically sold it yet. <<The last one netted us over a ¥100k, split four ways. That pays for a lot of Patsys and a lot of Punches.>>

He wracks his brains, trying to remember what those names mean. He presumes drones, because that's just the type of person Spitfire is.  Hopefully Patsy isn't some sort of sexbot, he thinks, then adds, Hopefully Punch isn't either.

<<If you're in Tacoma, I know a place near Ft. Lewis where we can meet. They don't serve soykaf, but there will be music and dancers. That's good, because we need a place where the eyes and ears are on something other than us.>>

He shoots an ARO to Spitfire with directions to Kadie's, then a message to Lola to see if she can reserve a booth for the meet.

<<<@Achak [SpitFire] New gig?  Ownership stake?  ¥100k?!? You runnin' a corp? HAHAHA.
What's this breeder gotten into?  Oh well, as Patsy said, my dance card is open right now, and nuyen is nuyen.
Data gig?  Sure, I can take a look.  Hackin' ain't my day-to-day, but I should be able to handle most jobs.  If yer in a hurry I can get it done for you in a day or two.  Call it ¥400 and share of the action going forward and we've a deal.
[color-orange]Hell, that's another 2 months rent on the garage.  Talk about milk-run!  Bet the follow-up is anything but.[/color]
Kadie's?  I've been there.  See you at 18:30.>>>

"Right Pats, looks like we got almost the whole year on the garage covered now!  Almost like livin' on Easy St ain't it?"
The drone hovers over the creeper SpitFire is still on.
"Now if you could just find a way to keep the power on.  But I know better than to ask for such luxuries."  The electronic timber of her voice is particularly droll.
"HAHAH, yer such a pill Pats.  Now lets get Punch tuned back up before we go meet the breeder shall we?"  He rolls off the creeper and opens the back door of the van to get to his workshop.

"Oi, Patsy get in the van, we're gonna be late.  And you KNOW how I feel about that."  If a drone could roll its eyes, Patsy would have done it. 
<<<@Jason [Patsy]  You know very well it will only take you 23.6 minutes to get there with the current weather conditions and Gang stops along the way.  As well as the fact that I will be there before you regardless.  Drive safely.>>>
The drone exits the garage via a sliding door near the roof.  She (it, but don't try to tell her or SpitFire that) streams her video feed back to Home, available for review later or live updates on any of the numerous screens in the vehicle.  SpitFire chuckles to himself as her irritation always amuses him.  He checks the various drone mounts on the old GMC before hopping in his cocoon and getting comfortable.  The van starts to leave as he's running his diagnostics.  It's more than capable of getting them through this part of town.  Jacking into his RCC, he checks on Punch and the rest of the crew.  The venerable roto-drone is reliable, but doesn't have the personality that Patsy does.  He's more like a well trained dog than a person.  All of the other drones are fairly new to his clutch and as such haven't been kitted out yet.  They'll get there.  Those that last always do.

As he nears the border of the 'hood Home lets him know its time for him to take over.  He merges with the GMC and the various sensors become his sensorium input, the big 12 cylinder engine his heart, the wheels are his limbs.  SpitFire feels each crack in the road as the tires send the vibrations through the suspension and into the various systems.  No manual driver would ever be able to know what a rigger knows about the conditions of the road and with each bump and crack memorized adjust accordingly.  He moves through the streets like a giant cat moving through the jungle.  His jungle.  He knows which corners the gangers run, and which ones the Knights hassle folks on (not many around here).  The short cuts through alleys that the locals keep safe, or the gangs zones that he's got a "working relationship" with to smooth through.

He pulls up to Kadie's at 18:27:13 and sees another van parked outside by the numerous bikes and muscle cars.  He runs a basic scan over the area and nothing seems out of the ordinary.  Just your run of the mill, everyday threats everywhere.  SpitFire jumps out of Home and then jacks out of VR.  He keeps AR running and a both Patsy's and his stream running back to the van.  Patsy stays high enough to be unobtrusive and blend into the general drone traffic, but close enough to keep on eye on things.  Grabbing his RCC, he tosses it in his satchel, straightens out his grubby clothes and gives him self a few sniffs.  He showered a few days ago, so mostly he just smells of metal lubricant and motor oil.  Not much meta-stench yet, unless you're super sensitive that sort of thing.  As tidied up as he gets he grabs his lined coat and stashes his new 'zquitos in various hidden pockets and then walks up to the trog in a fancy suit.  "Oi chummer, just got paid now it's time for a beer and show!"  Shur is unimpressed with the attempt at camaraderie and gives him a pat down.  "Hrmph, two drink minimum, keep it clean in there and there won't be no trouble." as he lets the ork past.

It's been a while since SpitFire has been around this much meta-humanity.  He tends to keep to himself most of the time but the crowd is generally up beat enough.  Rowdy and rough around the edges to be sure, but the general feeling is more of having a good time than taking it out on others.  A barely clothed, over-endowed waitress comes up and offers him a beer.  "Drink one sugar," he says with a wink.  He takes a pull of the synth-beer and scans the room looking for the large Amerind. 

He spots him in the back corner booth, dressed to the nines for some reason, with a hard looking daisy-eater and another breeder.  Shrugging to himself, should have figured he'd not be alone, guess it's game time mate.  The elf was sitting in the shadows of the booth, making it hard for his standard spectrum cyber-eyes to get much detail.  He could see Achak looking at him hard, the other human seemed to be sitting back and letting the two of them work out whatever was being said.  An accord apparently reached, the other human sat forward and spoke a few words looking between the elf and Achak while flagging down a waitress.  As the clock in the corner of his vision reaches 16:29:57 all parties begin to nod in agreement and shake hands.  At 16:30:00 SpitFire is standing at the table and hoists his beer, "Hoi, Achak!  Looks like I got here just in time.  Didn't know it was going to be a party!  You good to talk or should we catch up later?" he says with a smile on his face, but looking somewhat concernedly at the two strangers in the booth.

[Tecumseh]

Spitfire arrives just as Mercer and Flickr are shaking hands.

"Spitfire," Achak says, standing to more easily shake Spitfire's hand. He semi-consciously realizes that he never shook Flickr's hand, and might not now that Spitfire had entered the conversation. He wondered if the lack of a handshake was some sort of omen. Probably not, but it was interesting to think about.

The adept sniffs involuntarily. Ugh, he hasn't showered in a few days. Smells like metal lubricant and motor oil. Well it could be worse. This December rain probably means that he's sleeping indoors, at least.

Achak turns to the rest of the table. "Everyone, this is Spitfire. He and I did some work together a few years back; I'll personally vouch for him. That's Mercer and this gentleman" - Achak tries not to sound sarcastic - "is Flickr without the e." Whoops, some sarcasm slipped back in.

"Pardon me," Flickr says, unexpectedly excusing himself. Achak momentarily wonders if the elf's sensibilities are so fragile than a minor barb about the spelling of his name would trigger him. But, no, that doesn't appear to be the case. Flickr seems interested in investigating a sizable Amerind who had the audacity to glance over at them. The man was bigger than Achak by at least 7 kilos, maybe more, and looked like he knew how to handle himself.

I don't recognize the chummer. Was probably looking at me in my suit. Not a lot of Amerinds wearing Vashon Island's Synergist Business Line around here. Probably thinks I'm from Gaetronics, down here from Bellevue to slum it in Loveland.

So how does this play out? Is Flickr going to confront the guy that outweighs him by 20 kilos to prove to his new crew that a skinny elf is more than a match for a muscled human? Probably means there will be a brawl. Achak sighs, figuring that his suit is probably going to get covered in beer and liquor.

Shur will intervene. Flickr will have to use his magic to drop Shur! Achak brightens considerably, eager to see the troll electrocuted, or invisibly murdered from within. Notably happier, and with his opinion of Flickr poised to improve considerably, he gestures for Spitfire to sit and join them in the corner booth with the red velour upholstery.

The pulsing music throbs over the conversation. "It's like I told you over comms," Achak begins, eyeing Mercer's beer bottle as a potential projectile and/or improvised club. "We need a database decrypted. It's paying work, and if our hunch is correct it will point us at a big score. If so, we'd like to have you along. We could use a man of your talents." Some drone overwatch would be wiz, Achak thinks to himself. Fire support to help keep some separation with the zekes could be a lifesaver.

"We're working on commission, but we have an operating budget to keep a roof over our heads and noodles in our bowls until it pays out. We're all partners, equal shares. Mercer and I will be taking the lead due to familiarity with our target, but this is a crew, not a corp; we're all in it together. The catch is that the work comes with some heat." His good conscience aches a bit at describing zekes as heat, but he figures he needed to slowplay Spitfire to avoid scaring him off. "We'll be watching our backs" - Achak juts his chin to Flickr, as if to explain the elf's antisocial behavior - "and buddying up. Your cerri" - Achak uses the Or'zet slang for 'chummers', more literally translated as 'battle brothers', to refer to Spitfire's drones before remembering that Spitfire doesn't speak Or'zet - "will be perfect for that."

Achak keeps an eye and ear on Flickr, eager to wrap up the sales pitch before any mind murdering begins. He doesn't want to miss a moment of the action, especially if it involves the Hebrew trog getting turned into goo like the Walls of Jericho.

"I already told Mercer that you were all aces," Achak says, embellishing things a bit but figuring some flattery might help seal the deal. He glances at Mercer to see if he wants to add anything, then asks, "Any questions?"

[Malevolence]

Mercer's been watching the doors, mostly out of habit, partly out of idle curiosity. The habitual part is easy to explain - doors provided the primary point of ingress for trouble. The idle curiosity part was more difficult. He'd always been into people watching, and it was probably what precipitated his skill with reading them. Years ago, he was gregarious. Nowadays, well, it seemed more like being a psychopath - he was familiar with body language and etiquette and could read - and wield - them both effectively, but at some point it became more of a clinical act. He turned his charm on when it suited him, but left it off most of the time. It wasn't a causal default state anymore, but a practiced skill that took an effort of will to produce. But the people watching, that never went away.


He watched a young couple enter the club, both a little uncomfortable. She was probably curious what the whole thing was about, wanting to show her boyfriend that she was cool and uninhibited, and he was probably concerned that the men in the club would get the wrong impression and he'd have to defend her honor. It was a terrible idea from start to finish, but here they were, slipping through the crowd and wishing they were anywhere but here, while struggling valiantly to put on a brave face for the other. They passed by a broad shouldered human male - Amerind by the looks of his features - who quickly glanced away as Mercer's gaze fell across him. Mercer would have paid him no mind if he hadn't flinched like he had, but now Mercer took an interest. The man fit the club, close cropped hair and straight back indicating a military career at some point. Hard to say if he was ex-military or paramilitary, but the facial hair - a thin but defiant goatee struggling to take root on an Amerind chin that was unaccustomed to such things - made it unlikely that he was active in any government force. Though the special ops guys didn't abide by the same rules as the rest of the rank and file, so that couldn't be ruled completely out.


Mercer continued scanning after the awkward couple, trying to cover the fact that he noticed the man watching, and after a second or two, he returned his gaze to the elf bickering with Achak. Glancing back to the door again, he saw a small ork enter, dressed shabbily. Spitfire, I presume. Even the rough and tumble types here dressed with a care. They all had some fantasy of taking one of the dancers home, and so they primped a little just to slightly improve their near zero odds. This ork, however, was as disheveled as they come. And the grease smudges on his face and discoloration of his hands made it clear he worked with machinery, most likely vehicles. He also very distinctly did not fit the military/security profile that the rest of the patrons exuded. As if there were some chance that two small, orkish riggers would frequent the same club at just the hour they'd chosen for their meeting, the ork scanned the room before his eyes fell on Achak and he began heading over, leaving no doubt.


Mercer hazarded a glance at the Amerind, who was a little more prepared this time and instead of looking away quickly, let his eyes slowly drift as if he had only happened to be glancing in that direction by chance as their gazes met. The tension between the Flickr and Achak had subsided, Mercer gave his pitch, and they shook, just in time for Spitfire to trundle up sporting a drink that Mercer hadn't noticed him obtain. Too many things to focus on at once, he said to himself by way of excuse. He wanted to ask Achak or Flickr to peep the Amerind with their spooky-vision and see if he was Infected, or Infected Adjacent, or bore any ill intent toward them - they could see such things, right? Emotional state and such? Damned if he knew just what sort of crazy information an aura provided. But he didn't need to point the man out. The elf excused himself and moved off in the man's direction, not even trying for subtlety. Good plan - see how the man reacts. If the elf snuck up on the man - difficult in any case since the man was watching them already - he'd only get he man's reaction once he was within arm's reach, and the human had the advantage over the elf in both bulk and reach. The safe play was to call the man's bluff at range, when the elf's magical abilities had the edge. So the elf made it obvious where he was headed - Mercer's estimation of the mage was improving. Not only did he possess good situational awareness - spotting the man that Mercer had only noticed by accident - but a good tactical sense as well.


Mercer turned his attention to the "small" ork that stood before them as Achak made the introductions, keeping an eye on how the other situation developed, but trusting the elf to handle himself. If the elf bit off more than he could chew, then it was better that the elf prove himself a liability here rather than in the field. But it was best to caution him against burning the place down, anyway.


<<@Flickr [Mercer] We aren't keen to leave just yet, so try not to start too much trouble.>>


He put his hand out for Spitfire and set the charm to about a 5. "Good to see you. Achak has said good things. There isn't much I can add to what he's already told you. There's the database, and we could always use some close air support whether the data pays off or not." He wondered if this was too clear for such a public space, but Achak had already said quite a bit, so there was no putting that genie back in the bottle. "What we're Hunting bites back - they've already made a play for us twice." With some success both times, he conveniently omits. "Hence the heat Achak mentioned. It's best we stay mobile until this is wrapped up, so your lifestyle makes you especially suited for this, if you still want to dive on in to this pool - there ain't no option to just dip your toe."

[Zweiblumen]

SpitFire shakes Flikr's hand as he stands to investigate whatever has piqued his interest.  "Pleased ta meetchya." He says to the retreating mans back and shrugs.  If that kind of behavior was rude or off-putting SpitFire lacked the social grace to know better.  Taking the recently vacated seat he also shakes hands with the round-ear.  This Mercer chap seems pleasant enough, you know as far as metas go.

At the mention of "Hunting" and "biting" the ork gets a slightly quizzical look across his face, but he plows ahead and just attributes it to flowery talk by a fancy round-ear.
"Bah, a little heat never hurt no one... well, 'cept those that didn't bring their asbestos undies!" the ork says with a ridiculous belly laugh.  Although really not that funny, he thinks he is and doesn't seem to care if others agree or not.  Winding down to a lite chortle at himself, he clears his throat and resumes the conversation.
"As I said ta Achak earlier, I can give the DB a crack," another self-indulgent snort/chuckle.  "I can start on that tonight.  As for the rest," he pulls up an AR image of an ancient piece of paper with what looks like a series of timed events on one side and blank lines on the other, "looks like my dance card is empty so I'm game."

Patsy continues her aerial surveillance while following the stream from SpitFire's gear.  There is nothing of particular interest going on above or around the strip club.  The usual muggings and drug deals going on a couple of blocks away.  The clientele and Shur keep the immediate vicinity "safe."
<<<@Jason [Patsy] Stop making your bad jokes!  Achak may remember you, but that other guy is not going think much of you if you keep this up.>>>
The irony that a mechanical flying death machine is SpitFire's Jiminy Cricket is lost on both parties.

Home sits in the parking lot and runs diagnostics on all of the drones that are sitting in launchers in various places around him.  The new Mitsuhana series are interesting.  There are a lot of options and modifications these guys can take, he starts to make a list of things Jason might like.  Home isn't too smart, and the list is not complicated or particularly insightful, but like a puppy trying to make his owner happy the GMC goes about this task.  Every now and then the van discretely launches a fly-spy to do a closer inspection of the environs to supplement the coverage that Patsy provides.  Its a methodical process.  He launches a spy and sends it on a 5 minute circuit, during that time another spy loads into the launcher, when the first returns he begins to recharge it and launches the second on the 5 minutes circuit.  Over 30 minutes he runs through all 5 of the mini drones and knows that Jason will be happy with the data coverage he's gathered.

Punch is grumpy.  But Punch is always grumpy.  He's old, and a little worn around the edges.  Recently retooled, he's got extra armor and a big new gun.  Still hasn't gotten to play with his new toys since calibration and he feels like a dog that's been shown a new chew toy and then had it filled with treats and put on the shelf out of reach.  He doesn't understand why he can't just go shooting things, but Jason isn't letting him.  So he grumps about in the rooftop launcher on Home and does the drone equivalent of pouting.

While discussing the particulars with Mercer and Achak he gets vaguely distracted by the various feeds he's monitoring in AR.  When Home launches the first fly-spy a little smile curls the corner of his lips.  Splitting his attention between the two metas in front of him and composing a message of encouragement to Home the wires get crossed and he says, "Nice job Home!" and sends the GMC his plans for working on cracking the database.

[bangbangtequila]

Flickr politely excused himself as this new Spitfire fellow joined the table. The large Amerind man was still trying, unsuccessfully, to hide his attentions on them, and the elf wanted to find out who, precisely, that attention was directed at. His vision flickered, as if a second eyelid had slid down over his eyes, and the world erupted into colours. He glanced around, and trying to spot any awakened, scrutinized the subject of his attentions. The auras swirled, and though the bizarre fuzzing that came from a room loaded with drunken lust, mild temper, and a vague sadness tainted his view, much as a sudden light might distract you during the twilight hours. After a moment, the glare faded and he took in the greater swell of awakened energies in the room. There were a massive number of individuals who not only had a connection to mana, but rather had their awakenings already and honed their talents to a degree. Only a couple would pose any considerable threat to him, but the fact that so many were here meant he couldn't simply throw dangerous spells around with impunity. That made dealing with him more... challenging. Alas, he would simply deal with him more conventionally - though that could be tricky, given his intensely augmented state, and his . Ah well. The day I can't gack a thug is the day I retire. It will certainly be nice to flex again... As the thought crossed his mind he took another step and a half, bringing him just out of reach.

"You've been eyeing me like you want to buy me a drink, but I don't think you've got the balls to walk over. I just wanted to let you know, you're not my type, chummer. So piss off."

[Tecumseh]

Achak smiles and shakes with Spitfire upon the ork's agreement to terms. "Welcome aboard. We get started tonight."

Then Lola's message lands like a lightning bolt. Achak snaps to attention, straight as a rod as Mercer and Spitfire give him quizzical looks.

Achak tensely glances between the men at the table and the brewing confrontation between Flickr and the other Amerind.

If I wanted to divide and conquer, this is how I would do it, Achak thinks. Just like they did to Stake. Split off Flickr, then me. They could be hacking her link, mimic her old messages. Pick us off one by one.

"I'll be in the Champagne room," he announces firmly, decisively ignoring his concerns. He figures that he is sprinting toward a the edge cliff but that the risk might be worth it if he lands on Lola.

He looks to Flickr, thinking of how sweet it would be to see him nuke Shur, but then imagines Lola's tanned Aztec skin next to his own, as she whispers devious things to him in Spanish that he may or may not be able to translate.

"Lola is asking for me," Achak explains rigidly, thinking about Lola grinding her tailored pheromones deep into the fabric of his suit that he would never wash again.

He marches off stiffly, catching the tail end of Flickr's verbal jab. Wee bit of temper, he thinks as he's drawn toward the Champagne Room like a heat-seeking missile. Have to rub that out.

Record that for me, he mouths to Spitfire, miming Spitfire's eyes then pointing at Flickr. Achak shoots a thumbs-up to confirm.

In the back of his mind, the other Amerind seemed out of place. The cut of the man's hair made him look military, but Amerinds weren't common in the Metroplex Guard. For the most part they had nations and armies of their own that they could join, which meant that this man wasn't from Ft. Lewis and was, in all likelihood, ex-military and probably some sort of professional. I hope he's not a Salish-Shidhe Ranger, Achak thinks, sparing him a glance. Or, just as bad, a Sioux Wildcat.

His magic sense flares as Flickr's new spell activates.

Ah, he'll be fine!

Achak fishes through his suit pocket and finds what he's looking for: a small vial of novacoke. He flicks off the lid and sniffs it as covertly as he is able, numbing his nostrils. Almost immediately, his brain is flooded with serotonin, norepinephrine, and dopamine, producing a sense of alertness, euphoria, and energy. His sexual confidence goes up, his inhibitions go down.

He runs his hand through his hair as he gets to the Champagne Room. He wires his nuyen without a second thought and, fueled by benzoylmethylecgonine, bursts through the faux-saloon doors eagerly. "Ho ho ho, it's Santa Achak, coming down your chimney! Is this where all the bad girls live?! I have stock stuffers in my sack!"

[rednblack]

@Flickr

The Amerindian looks confused at Flickr's approach, most likely shocked by the audacity of it, and then his eyes narrow when the lean elf casts a spell on himself.  "Can I help you with something?" he says, squaring off in his seat and taking a deep hit on his nicstick.  He exhales through his nostrils as Flickr answers.

"You've been eyeing me like you want to buy me a drink, but I don't think you've got the balls to walk over. I just wanted to let you know, you're not my type, chummer. So piss off."

There's a momentary pause.  Flickr notes a few heads turning in his direction.  They may not have made out all the words, but enough to get the gist of it.  A young couple looks particularly horrified and as if they don't know whether to run or duck.  The man tucks the nicstick into the breast pocket of shirt, arches his hands, and cracks his knuckles.

"What, ya gotta pump yourself up with some mojo to come and say something, and you're talking about my stones?  You, you," he stalls out for a moment before blurting, you giving yourself the old magic fingers up the hoop?  That it?  Yeah, I seen you when you walked in here like you ghost damned own the place.  We don't need any fraggin' keebs hassling the girls, wiz?  But you know what, I've been wondering about whose ass I'm gonna kick.  Looks like you drew the short straw, chump."

Flickr's combat sense screams at him.  He knows what's about to happen before it does.  He can see the man reaching under the table with his right hand, while his left drifts toward the table edge.  What's he got under there?  Surely he was patted down by the big troll same as I was?  Flickr wonders.  Yes, the left hand is going to grab the table and overturn it, then he'll stand, and whatever he's reaching for is going to come out, and then Flickr had better be ready.

@Achak

Achak burst through the saloon doors and into the champagne room, outwardly all smiles while his insides twist with nervousness and anticipation.

"Ho ho ho, it's Santa Achak, coming down your chimney! Is this where all the bad girls live?! I have stock stuffers in my sack!"

There's a bouncer up top who offers little less than a cursory glance in Achak's direction as he pulls a squat Caucasian man across the floor in an arm lock.  Lola is nowhere in sight.  If this is an ambush, and if Achak has been separated, this might be how he'd do it.  Two men, looking like they're in their own struggle until they can get close enough.  But the moment passes and the bouncer roughly "helps" the man down the stairs, just as Lola is making her way up, squeezing against the wall and then giving the errant club goer the finger as he snarls something at her that Achak can't make out.

When she makes her way to the top of the landing she's all smiles.  "Hope I didn't keep you too long," she says breezily as she reaches past Achak and into the control pad for the champagne room console, and starts typing.  She's so close that Achak can smell her hair, and while normally he may try to take a step back, give her some more room, the novacoke is telling him that he's exactly where he wants to be, and more importantly he's exactly where she wants him to be. 

"I'm not going to charge you for this song," she says by way of explanation.  "Making you wait and all.  I really am a naughty girl sometimes," she adds coyly. 

For maybe the first time since he's arrived, Achak is aware of the music.  It's one of those sludge-trip tracks that probably gets more play in places like this than anywhere with its low vibrating bass and syncopations that time themselves perfectly to swaying lace and hair.  Achak feels himself being led by the hand the corner booth, but it feels much more like he's being led by his nose, as Achak is acutely aware of how effective her tailored pheromones are working currently. 

[bangbangtequila]

"What, ya gotta pump yourself up with some mojo to come and say something, and you're talking about my stones?  You, you," he stalls out for a moment before blurting, you giving yourself the old magic fingers up the hoop?  That it?  Yeah, I seen you when you walked in here like you ghost damned own the place.  We don't need any fraggin' keebs hassling the girls, wiz?  But you know what, I've been wondering about whose ass I'm gonna kick.  Looks like you drew the short straw, chump."

Flickr's ice-cold gaze never wavered as the man cracked his knuckles and began a slurred, broken tirade. As the flow of words stopped after only a pitiful attempt at insulting him, the elf caught the glance under the table, and realized that any brawler looking to fight would hide an equalizer somewhere. As the man stammered, he cut in.

"You pitiful wretches all think the same. You see an elf, you think soft. You see magic, you somehow think we're cowards while you fearfully sew metal into your spine just to try keeping up."  He jabbed a finger to emphasize each point, and to show that the man wouldn't be catching him with any surprises. "You think somehow, boosting your muscles, wiring up your reflexes, ghost, even cybering your skull makes you better. It just proves you were too weak."

He turned slowly and began walking to the door into the alley, looking over his shoulder and casually inviting his new friend. "Step outside, coward. Bring your little toy if you're scared." He pointed directly at the part of the table the man had eyed. Let him worry, now that he knew that Flickr would not be caught off guard.

***

[Malevolence]

Things were going rather smoothly with the negotiations. The elf mage was a little too self-assured, but had good situational awareness. The rigger had the typical ork boisterousness, but he came with the bonus of having some hacking skills, shoring up a deficit they had on the Matrix front. And they both came with good recommendations, so while he had some reservations about what a book he'd read once termed "team social dynamics", he was feeling good about the skill set.


He was just beginning to relax, to let the mess he'd found himself in drift away to the dark reaches of his sub-conscious, when in the span of a minute it all began to unravel. It started with Achak, suddenly stiffening, then relaxing and excusing himself to spend some private time with Lola, the seductress that had been on the main stage a few minutes before. This alone didn't bother Mercer much - blowing off steam was an occupational pre-requisite when you worked in a high risk business. Shore leave was a time honored tradition for the militaries of the world, a natural consequence of taking young, rambunctious men, forcing them to live a strict, regimented lifestyle, and amping up the testosterone to 11 in order to get them to not think too closely on their own mortality or the moral ambiguity of killing "enemies of the state", who were in most cases law abiding citizens and fathers in their home country and were no more evil or deserving of death than any other man. Adding women soldiers into the equation had little impact on the intensity of the behavior that occurred during shore leave's brief respite. But you rarely saw the older soldiers join in - the unfettered restlessness of youth having faded. So Mercer was used to the younger Hunters drinking and whoring and fighting.


But the situation between Flickr and the Amerind fellah looked to be degenerating quickly, and while Mercer had, again, not been concerned with how the situation might develop before, the coincidental timing of the two events made the grizzled veteran in him reflexively drop into a more tactical state of mind. He scanned the room looking for anything out of place - people entering the club not only through the front door guarded by Shur, but also people coming from the restrooms or private rooms, or even the service entrances from the stock room or dressing rooms for the performers. Were people converging on his position, or the elve's? Or the rooms where Achak was heading? Any signs of a change in the mood of the crowd that might indicate something was about to go down. And he discreetly slipped his shock glove on and started tactically mapping out his options should violence erupt. How easy would it be to turn the booth table into cover? What were the three fastest exit routes from the room - the main entrance was all the way across the room, so it was out, but the exit for the nearest stage was close, there was a bar nearby that offered cover as well as an exit to what Mercer assumed was a stock room, and there were stairs going up to a second level that seemed to offer private rooms, but might also have a balcony or other exit that could be used as a last resort. Of course, the second level also introduced a number of unknowns, not the least of which was that mist form vampires loved gaining the high ground by entering a building through the second story or roof access vents. He guessed that the stock rooms did not provide egress from the building and for the reasons considered, and the fact that he'd be exposed while climbing them, the stairs were sub-optimal, leaving the dressing room, which almost certainly allowed outdoor access in case the girls had to make a quick exit should things go south. Of course, it also made a possible ingress point for trouble, but Mercer suspected it was also well guarded as peeping Toms were likely a constant threat, so it was worth the risk.


<<@Spitfire [Mercer] You got eyes on the outside? May I get access to those feeds?>> No sense in causing a panic just because he was being paranoid - <<I want a good view of the action if our elf friend and the man he's talking to take things outside.>> Of course, what he really wanted was to see what might be heading their way, or what they might run into if they have to make a break for their vehicles. He had his own feeds from the Roadmaster and his fly spies if he chose to deploy them, but in a neighborhood like this he was concerned about the fragile flying drones, and so he kept them ensconced safely in the van for now.


Tensed and ready for action, he watched and waited, trying his best to look like he was casually nursing his beer (the bottle was a handy throwing weapon if needed) and watching the dancers (the distribution of the stages and the performers combing the crowds looking for takers provided an excuse to scan the room).

[rednblack]

It begins just as Flickr intuited.  He catches the movement of the man's table out of the corner of his eyes as he turns to say, "Step outside, coward. Bring your little toy if you're scared."

"Nah, omae.  I think I'll put your hoop in the dirt where your friends can watch."

In a flash, the table is completely upturned, and the man has closed most of the distance to Flickr.  There's no knife, no gun, but a dull black strip of metal covers the man's knuckles.  Typical.

Flickr pivots around to his back foot and easily dodges the first strike.  He's good.  A less talented fighter would overextend there, try to make his punch land home, and would be off balance for Flickr's burgeoning lightning bolt.  Instead, he follows up with more strikes, throwing elbows and angling for forearm strikes to soften the elf up.  Flickr recognizes the style as Okichataw, favored by the Sioux military.  The Amerind isn't telegraphing much, but enough for Flickr's increased senses to pick up on and the tall lithe body finds ways to be where the man's strikes are not.  He huffs once in frustration, perhaps a little more inebriated than one should be going against a recently disgraced member of the Taibhseach. 

Flickr follows up with a lightning bolt, a quick and powerful bolt of mana that crackles momentarily above the din of the club's music.  The Amerind actually takes a step back, halting his advance, as he turns profile and the bolt misses by centimeters and finds its way home to some poor sap who couldn't duck quick enough at his table.

[bangbangtequila]

The man springs into action before Flickr can get him outside, flipping the table and lacing his fingers into a set of knucks as he did so. Having hoped to privately deal with the matter, giving him the time to question him briefly, the elf was forced into a defensive posture at first. His weight all on his toes, he flowed around the other man's attacks, simply not being there rather than dodging the fearsome hits. The way his hands clawed on certain strikes, the folded knuckles rather than fists, and the way he flowed through the forms identified him as a Sioux military fighter. He was also quite good. The flurry of strikes he launched kept the elf moving more then he had expected, and it threw his aim. His hand shifted just enough, the bolt crackling away and striking some poor soul - hopefully that wouldn't incite a full on riot -  and his eyes narrowed. Time to end it. This man is good. He must

Even as his first bolt missed, the amerind man's eyes flickered away to follow it just long enough to leave an opening, and Flickr pounced on it. He drew in left arm, extended from flinging his mana, pulling the hand up under his chin as he executed a graceful counter-clockwise spin, lining his right arm along the bottom of his rib cage, hand splayed just below his raised left elbow as he focused his will and launched another bolt of devastating energy at his foe from point blank.

[Zweiblumen]

<<@Spitfire [Mercer] You got eyes on the outside? May I get access to those feeds?>> No sense in causing a panic just because he was being paranoid - <<I want a good view of the action if our elf friend and the man he's talking to take things outside.>> Of course, what he really wanted was to see what might be heading their way, or what they might run into if they have to make a break for their vehicles. He had his own feeds from the Roadmaster and his fly spies if he chose to deploy them, but in a neighborhood like this he was concerned about the fragile flying drones, and so he kept them ensconced safely in the van for now.

"Sure thing, hook a tusker up with your digits!  I got all the angles!" he says with a grin.  As Mercer sends him the address to dump streams to, the elf approaches an Amerind leaning against the bar.  Completely distracted by what's going on outside and hooking Mercer up with the feeds, the ork fails to notice anything going on until the crack of two bolts of energy go off behind him.  Startled he starts to pour through his feeds looking for what would provoke such a show of force scanning for incoming hostiles.