Home is Where the Heat Isn't (Downtime)

[MattL]

For the first time in several weeks Yung feels content, teetering on happiness, much like he sits on the edge of the cliff. He leans his head over the edge, seeing the brilliant azure waters below. He closes his eyes, inhaling deeply of the illusory salt motes rising from below. He is back on the ship leaving Alcatraz, watching himself and Thornye from above. The weathered Troll’s face shows him something he didn’t notice before, self-assurance, he knows who he is.

He opens his eyes again, still peering over the edge. The thought of jumping tickles the sensation of joy one again. He closes his eyes once more and lets himself fall, he just lets go. He is a child, not himself as a child, simply unadulterated youth falling through the air without a care in the world.

A sudden bark brings him back, sitting cross legged on the cliff. He looks at Wolf, but the spirit is the same as before, gazing out towards the water. Again he hears it, this time growling, coming from behind him. He cranes his neck around peering into a forest of oaks, he catches glimpses of movement in the distance. Finally, a long howl rushes through the trees and he feels it grab him, pulling at the nape of his mane. Odd. He looks down and sees two large paws, as he does a second howl calls out to him, inviting him to run. He complies without actually willing the thought, it is instinct.

He’s rushing through the woods, the movement continues to flit at the edge of his vision. He can see a clearing ahead, and the white wolf with black feet skirting the edge of the forest; but she isn’t looking at him. The white wolf is strafing the woods looking out at the glade. Suddenly a thunderous roar reverberates across the plains, something massive lies ahead.

His long strides quickly bring him alongside the white wolf, panting and striding together, the two wolves lock eyes. Yung sees determination in the wolves eyes, but behind the wolves eyes is something more, regret, and fear. In his peripheral he catches movement in the glade beyond. The white wolf suddenly turns, leaving the edge of the forest, returning to the glade. Yung follows.

As he emerges from the trees he stops. An enormous oriental dragon twists and spins through the air, hovering above the glade. Several other wolves run through the long grass, moving in opposite directions, attempting to confuse the dragon. There are five wolves in total, but one, an older looking gray wolf is skulking away from the fray.

The other four seem to be harrying their foe with some success. A red wolf leaps through the air, clenching one of the dragon’s arms in his mouth for a moment, drawing fresh blood. The dragon roars. A smaller wolf flits in and out of cover, attempting to draw the attention of the dragon away from the others. The last wolf seems unsure of himself, weighing the decision to leave his pack or fight this impossible foe.

Oddly, the group seems to be winning. The Red and White wolves coordinate an attack, but drawing blood. The dragon reels from the assault, slithering through the glade away from the wolves. But the wolves pursue their prey, the dragon’s blood goading them to finish their foe.

They close toward the edge of the glade, where the dragon coils defensively, hovering several meters above the ground. The white wolf lets out a guttural growl and massive earthy vines erupt from the ground, lashing themselves around the dragon and binding the beast. The red wolf smiles wolfishly, blood dripping from its maw; it pads slowly toward the entangled foe.

A scent fills Yung’s nose, something foreign almost caustic, it doesn’t belong. His keen eyes follow the scent, trails of red streaking through the glade from the far treeline. Then he sees them, figures slinking in the shadows and moving into position, they have guns.

He feels the radiance boiling within him, welling up from his stomach like a torrent as he rushes to the rear of the pack, leaping onto a stone jutting out from the glade. He brings himself to a halt just as he reaches the pinnacle and the radiance flows from his jaws unfettered. The howl shakes the foundations of the plains, it is Wolf’s voice. The message isn’t just heard, it is felt by the other wolves. Retreat. While their eyes hunger for victory, their bodies cannot help but obey Wolf.

As the sprint toward Yung a hideous laughter echoes from behind. The dragon hisses, "You are lucky, this time." as it snaps the earthen vines with little effort. A dozen forms emerge from the treeline, Kuroikaze with rifles trained at the wolves. "Halt! "the dragon commands, "Let them go."

As the four wolves approach the rock, Yung turns and begins to zoom back toward Wolf, they follow; crossing from the glade back into the forest. He traces his way back to the cliff edge where he left Wolf, but Wolf is gone. He looks out toward the sapphire sea, panting; once again looking down from the cliff to the water below.

This time he jumps for real. He transforms from a wolf back into himself as he falls, rotating his body to dive headfirst.

When he hits the water his eyes shoot open, and he is back in the sauna…

[ReiyaEmm]

Reiya exults in the elation of being connected to thousands of spirits; of nature and elements, of ancestors and kindred. She rides the feeling until it settles into a comfortable warmth, and then flexes her fingers, as if sensing the tree lingering within her. It does, sort of: her limbs are stiff, and she feels like swaying in the breeze. She tastes soil, rock and rich loam in her mouth, and it is not unpleasant. Her feet feel rooted to the ground. The shaman knows she can get up and walk out at any time, but she takes her time. There is no need to rush in this place.

"You’re right, as usual," she admits, and again feels the satisfied smirk of the Bat. She’s grateful to have a mentor spirit that enjoys Reiya’s personality and banter. "In leaving my homeland, I have kept my training, but I’ve also left much of my culture behind. And that’s a disservice to my ancestors, my family," she closes her eyes to weather the return of pain, "and to me."

Slowly standing and stretching out her limbs, feeling both human and tree, she plants her feet and looks directly ahead, envisioning the Bat before her so she can look into its eyes. "So what I think you’re suggesting is to build my spiritcraft rather than spellcraft. To call on these spirits more frequently. Summoning, in essence." She raises an inquisitive eyebrow. "Am I right?"

[GM Nick]

Bat flutters her wings, which registers as a physical sensation. "The Ancestors taught you the language of Earth Mother-- use it. But do not neglect your abilities. Have faith in them." There's a pause in which Reiya can feel the spirit contemplating something.

"This child..." An image of Mick shimmers in Reiya's mind, like a two dimensional projection on rippling water. "Something dwells within this child: powerful, but dangerous if left untended." The spirit falls silent, allowing Reiya to deduce the obvious: leaving it alone would be a mistake, but handling it improperly could be just as bad, if not worse. Bat seems to shrug, as if to say you're the healer, you figure it out.

The quivering of the plains grass begins to slow. Reiya knows from experience that this signals the beginning of the end of the vision quest. If that were not enough, Bat seems restless and eager to move on.

[John]

Tex's Bar

Mick may not grasp the ins and outs of slinging code in the matrix, but that doesn't stop them from grasping the idea of it all on a conceptual-- if not philosophical-- level. The gravity of a being that can redefine the parameters of reality at will are chilling. Full stop. Anything else, like a fascist regime trying to harness it, is just gravy on the taters. Icing on the cake. Sriracha on the noodles.

But the first order of this business isn't alerting the public or storming Saito's castle-- it's reassuring their comrade. Looking directly-- purposefully-- at Mouse, Mick offers. " You're not a bullshitter. I believe you. I believe you because I was there, and so will everybody else be. They'll feel the fact of it because I did." The ork taps their temple as they offer their reassurances.

Standing and taking an heroic pull from their bottle, Mick simply states. "We have to tell the others." They reach down and offer their hand to Mouse.

[Molly]

Mouse's dark eyes widen in genuine surprise as one, then the next of her teammates so readily accept her wild theories, all without once questioning the premise of "extinct child weapons wielding matrix magic being imprisoned under Alcatraz." Maybe the sheer amount of booze in their collective systems has something to do with this, but she's not about to question it.

Her lower lip trembles, before settling into the softest of smiles- an almost unseen expression, in its freedom of any kind of schadenfreude or impression of childish superiority.
"YOU GUYS… THANK YOU."

The ork's extended hand does warrant the briefest moment of confusion, as she looks at the hand, to Mick’s face, back at the hand. "OH- ARE WE DOING A THING? LIKE, A BIG DAMN HERO MOMENT?" She bypasses the hand entirely, instead pulling herself up by Mick's wrist as though she totally didn't just ruin the moment.

The decker shifts her weight back onto the balls of her feet, a newfound determination countering any imbalance from the shots she'd just consumed. "OK, THEN. LET'S DO THE THING."

Any optimistic momentum of the moment is cut unceremoniously short, as her empty stomach, running on fumes and liquor, lets out a disruptive growl, managing a volume entirely disproportionate to the decker’s small frame. She glances downward with a flustered consternation. "...AND THEN LET’S FIND SOME OF THOSE 4AM TACOS YOU MENTIONED."

[ReiyaEmm]

Reiya is surprised that the Bat mentions Mick, but not at all surprised by the mentor spirit’s warning. She’s sensed the edges of Mick’s power, and her expression turns grave. Not at Mick and their potential, but rather at the prospect of having to guide them. The shaman knows that she can be patient enough to instruct at times, but is probably a terrible teacher.

Still, that can be contemplated and resolved later. For now, it’s time to go. "Thanks for your guidance, as always," Reiya says formally. "See you next time." She lifts her arms and mimics the wings of the bat. She hears the Bat fly away, and sees herself flying over the plains. She comes to rest on a single tree in the emptiness, knowing the way like the back of her hand. As the shaman lands, she awakens back in the mundane world.

[Drew Buddy]

The smile on Axel's face helps to smooth out the terror bubbling beneath the surface. We're doing this, aren't we?

He finishes reassembling the console, and stands up, stretching his legs. "Well, no use in delaying this any longer. I have an appointment, then I should find Yung, and give him the bad news". He says with a lopsided grin.

[GM Nick]

Anne-Marie purses her lips and taps a laser-manicured nail on the screen of a tablet. The bodyguard is wearing a pair of distressed black cotton trousers, a loose-fitting, lavender tank top advertising some Nipponese soy drink (Gesuidō wa sugoi oishii desu!) and the obligatory combat boots. A pair of ten millimeter shell casings fashioned into earrings dangle on either side of her head. As today she'll be interfacing with contacts outside the compound, she's opted to paint her face: wide eyes smeared with kohl, lips painted blood-red, and a single square of black that ventures from the bottom of her lower lip to the tip of her chin.

She can't help but arch a brow as she peruses the list. Just who are these people? It's true that she's quite adept at finding rare and dangerous things, but there's a good portion of this list that makes her want to groan aloud. A particular line item makes her squint at the tablet. Preacher must be loaded. She makes a mental note to ask Conrad for a raise in the immediate future.

The door to the chateau hisses open, permitting the fragrance of manzanita, lavender, and sage to roam the foyer. Zdenka marches in, carrying a composite case in her arms. She's visually the polar opposite of Anne-Marie today, opting for a cracked leather pilot's jumpsuit and vintage sneakers. A pair of sports sunglasses are perched on her head, nestled in the floccose nest of her hair-do.

"You planning to start World War three?" asks Zdenka, squatting down to deposit the crate. She wipes away a layer of perspiration with her sleeve.

Anne-Marie smiles and shakes her head. "It's not for us. "

Zdenka glances over her shoulder at the open doorway, as if expecting one of the runners to be there. "For Preacher's team? They do seem to like havoc."

"So I hear," replies Anne-Marie. She leans down to scan the RFID embedded in the crate with the tablet." It sounds like they're doing big things, judging from the boss's generosity. I think they're going on another job soon."

"Yeah, but minus one crew member. The big guy took off in the gunboat. Poor Lafayette is scrubbing toilets as we speak." Zdenka fails to suppress a grin.

Anne-Marie holds up two fingers. "Minus two, now."

Zdenka is taken by surprise. "No shit, what happened?"

"The straight-laced looking Nipponese guy. He pulled a runner last night-- gave one of our boys a mild concussion." Anne-Marie shrugs, obviously not overly concerned about the fate of a contractor.

"Maybe Alcatraz was too much for him," says Zdenka. She takes a seat on the freshly delivered crate. "I hear it got pretty hairy."

"I don't think that's the reason." Anne-Marie scrolls through the tablet. "He had that look, you know? Like he'd been doing wetwork for as long as we've been alive." Her gaze leaves the tablet and settles on the dust motes floating in the foyer. "Whatever his reason for leaving, it was good enough to skip out on Preacher's new job; and Preacher pays well."

[Molly]

Arms loaded with pilfered bar snacks, and freshly buzzed from the intoxicants of newfound hope and actual alcohol in her veins, Mouse scuttles back to her makeshift nest in the Blue Dog Chateau. With an unceremonious boot from the back of her heel, she wedges the door shut, leaving her alone in her mess, just the way she likes it.

In just the brief hours that the decker has occupied this space, she’s already managed to thoroughly dismantle the furnishings into a chaotic mass of clutter, that someone with artistic, conceptual sensibilities might call ‘deconstructed.’ The small, twin mattress has been relocated to the center of the floor, and has been littered with a melange of her belongings, trash, and various pillows and blankets that she had requisitioned from other living quarters.

She drops into the center of the mattress with a ‘floomph’, legs folding beneath her in a practiced, almost graceful manner, even as her stolen goods go scattering to her sides. Still, she’s a nerd with a mission, and she fishes an arm inside her opened pack, just briefly enough to withdraw one of the team’s prizes from Alcatraz: the medical tablet ‘recovered’ from Block B.

After all, she had technically promised Reiya she’d look into this medical drek. It seems like as good of a segue as any for more complicated discussions of strategic data leaks.

She settles the tablet onto her lap, feeling around the chipped edges where the device must have hit the concrete floor until her touch settles on the UCC inputs. A familiar curiosity washes over her- time to see what other secrets the regime’s kept locked behind the walls of Alcatraz.

[John]

OUTSIDE

Mick has been wandering for hours. The Blue Dog grounds are expansive and the ork weaves amongst the trees and shrubs, lost in thought. The ground crunches under the adept’s bare feet as the rough terrain bites into their soles, shooting jolts of pain needling up their legs. 'That's good,' Mick thinks. 'It has to hurt.' They can't stop thinking about Alcatraz, about the Kuroikaze, about the way their blows had felt so limp– so weak against them.

The cume of Mick's years and all the blood they'd shed had always kept them firmly on the topside of whatever drek they had to deal with, but that all came crashing down on Alcatraz. For the first time since they were born again in the bloodied bathroom of their middle class Seattle suburban home, Mick knew what it was like to feel impotent.

'It has to hurt.'

Somewhere, Mouse and Axel were working on their plan for the Alcatraz BTL, but Mick's thoughts are too occupied. They need to be stronger. They need to be harder. The violence roiling within them needs stoking, honing. Tomorrow's surgery wouldn't be enough.

The ork focuses, drawing themself back to their first fight with the Kuroikaze. They'd had the drop on him, and still he'd easily feinted away from the blow. Mick managed to strike the next Kuroikaze in their path, but the blow had amounted to little more than a slap. All the power they were accustomed to feeling drained out of them in that moment, and the ork had been weaving in and out of existential crises ever since.

'It has to hurt.'

Pain. That's what it's come back down to– what it always comes back down to. As a child, the ork had been born anew in pain and terror and helplessness, and that's what it would take again.

In that bathroom, Mick had been helpless to save their parents' lives. Their body had been limp, powerless. On Alcatraz, Mick had been all but helpless to come to their teammates' aid, and they had again felt utterly limp, powerless.

They take a step and grind their feet into the jagged, stony soil beneath them.

'It HAS to hurt.'

The thought repeats and repeats, redoubling in intensity in their head each time, a self-scourging mantra brought up from a whisper and rising to a bloodcurdling existential scream in their head.

'It HAS to hurt.'

Step. Grind. The ork gnashes their teeth.

'It HAS to hurt.'

Step. Grind. Step. Grind. The soles of their feet leave ragged, bloody footprints across the uneven topsoil.

'IT HAS TO HURT.'

Flashes of their parents, dismembered and resting in haphazard, bloody piles. The dull, lifeless slaps against the Kuroikaze's armor. The man standing from his crouch in front of them, blood streaked on his face, hate in his eyes, the mirror fluorescents buzzing faintly, languidly in the small, tiled chamber. Mouse and Taipan ducking under a hail of gunfire, the fascist imperial guard indifferently lording over them as they mount flaccid attack after flaccid attack, growing, looming ten feet tall– a dozen– hundreds– his shadow yawning open and engulfing the ork, swallowing them down its gullet of perfect, inky black darkness.

"IT HAS TO FUCKING HURT!"

The roar escapes them like a shotgun blast, a nest of finches taking to wing from one of the trees nearest to them. They drop to their knees, fists balled into white hot bombs, and pound on the rocky ground, their knuckles slamming into jagged stones, the earth crunching as it explodes under the weight of the ork's blows. It isn't long until they've blasted a deep depression in the terrain, blood flying from their ravaged knuckles as their fists piston up and down, up and down, the growing pit painted crimson.

Slowly, the barrage winds down until Mick is left there on their knees, hands bleeding by their sides, sweat dripping from their brow, their chest heaving. A gentle breeze rustles the branches of the trees around them, the heady aroma of honeysuckle dancing around their skull like a silk ribbon.

They aren't aware of it– not at first, anyway– the ember starting to burn in the bottom of their throat, right behind their clavicle. It starts small– a tiny, painted fire that starts to spread like the bloom of warmth in one's stomach after a shot of whiskey, smoky and sweet. It fills their windpipe, tracing a path up behind their eyes and wrapping around their skull like a hand. Their throat swells as panic takes hold of the ork’s heart. Their breathing comes in increasingly strained rasps, the air streaming into their chest through a passageway that narrows, narrows.

They try to rise to their feet, green eyes going wide as tears begin to leak from their corners. The ork manages a final breath just as they rise, their gullet slamming closed after it. Instinctively, they reach their bloodied hands to their throat and paw ineffectually at it, pushing with all the force they can to try to get a sound out. Pulling with all their force to draw in a new breath.

It’s to no avail. Their hands shoot forward, reaching for something– anything beyond them, but there is nothing. Their fingertips brush the prickly ends of a manzanita branch as their vision tunnels, the world beginning to go dark. They flail and stumble forward, but the house is hundreds of yards beyond this scrubby copse of trees.

Back to their knees with a painful thud, their chest convulses in a series of hitches that would look like sobs to the observer if any sound accompanied them– and if any observer were present.

They’re on their back, the FreeCal sky overhead a washed out, pale blue that recedes further and further from them. Stars bleed into their vision as black crowds in around the edges. Their lungs are two burning sacs in their chest, the binding on their chest playing further havoc at the otherwise still-completely fruitless endeavor to draw even a single drop of breath.

As their vision fails completely, the ork is able to see without seeing as a shadow stalks, silent and deadly, out of and through the blackness. Its dorsal fin is a knife pointed at the heavens, its smile a clenched beartrap of razor-sharp bone. The shadow dances around them in the cloudy nothingness, graceful and smooth. It bears down on them as their consciousness recedes entirely, its monstrous grin swallowing the entire world, the force of the shadow’s meaning blaring in the ork’s head at 540,000 decibels.

'IT HAS TO HURT.'

[GM Nick]

Axel's mouth hangs open, lower jaw at full extension.

The med-pod in Tex's clinic is rather old; likely a Neo-Soviet military unit judging by its appearance. But despite its decrepitude, Axel is absolutely floored by the condition and features of the device. His eyes roam the contours of the pod with a hunger usually reserved for strip joints.

It's a медсестра unit, according to the stenciled Cyrillic on the fascia. The pod resembles an oversized pill, colored in the ubiquitous olive paint of military fare. Its seamless hull is alloy, save for a large plexiglass viewing window affixed to the front. A wide array of robotic arms spring from the top, each containing some manner of scalpel, sensor, laser, or other medical implement. Axel can only guess what a few of them actually do. медсестра is mounted on four hydraulic legs that are bolted to the clinic floor. A large radius conduit snakes from the pod to an equipment rack in the back, no doubt supplying power, oxygen, data, and various gas lines. Even the manufacturer's stickers are still present. It seems this particular unit was made in New Vladivostok.

Axel steps forward, passing through a boundary hologram that advises non-patients to keep clear in three languages. His fingers probe the profile of the pod until he finds a resistive electric pad. Immediately, a holographic display populates the clear window, displaying his current pulse, blood pressure, and blood type. A seam appears along the radius of the pod, gradually widening until the opening is large enough to climb through.

Axel clambers awkwardly into the interior, which vaguely resembles a pilot's seat. He settles into beige, gel-filled cushions, noting the scent of disinfectant and a faint hint of anesthetic. Once the full weight of his body is pressed against the seat, the pod closes. Axel finds himself staring out of the window at the ceiling. His vitals float just beyond, numerals accompanied by an electrocardiogram.

A secondary hologram projector within the pod materializes text in the center of Axel's vision. The script is accompanied by a computerized voice. "проблема?"

He sighs, chiding himself for not having anticipated this. "English, please."

The hologram flickers and reforms. "What is the problem?" asks the voice in Russian-accented English.

Axel ponders for a moment before responding, "Run positive emission topography and Hertzfeld-Könnecker tests."

The pod shakes gently, quickly stabilized by hydraulics. Several robotic arms withdraw from the aperture at the top of the pod and settle on either side of Axel's temples. He tries to remain calm as the dexterous limbs wrap electrodes across his skull. The pod's voice advises him to close his eyes and remain calm. Meanwhile, the gel cushions harden to secure him in place.

Nestled among all that robotry, immersed in an opera of clicking, whirring and beeping, Axel feels peculiarly safe. The technological cocoon is reminiscent of a cockpit. It doesn't take long for him to nod off.

* * *

Axel awakes to the sound of the robotic arms retracting. The biometric data dissolves, replaced with a PET scan readout and an H-K model. As Axel is no medical expert, he waits for the results to be deciphered by the pod's computer.

"Requested procedures complete. Anomalous activity in the hippocampus, amygdala, and medial prefrontal cortex detected. Diagnosis: acute post traumatic stress disorder, probability eighty nine percent. Recommendation: Cognitive behavioral therapy, administration of anxiolytic medication, selective serotonin reuptake inhibitor."

Axel frowns.

"Anomalous electromyographic patterns detected in the cerebellum. Diagnosis: Possible cross-contamination of Alpha-synuclein protein chain by connective tissue housing patient's cybernetic augmentation, probability twenty-nine percent. Unable to process recommendation. Seek a medical professional for further testing."

Well, shit.

[GM Nick]

Mouse turns the antique tablet computer over in her hands. There's something reassuring about the nostalgia invoked by old school technology. It's not that things were better back then; in many ways, they were much worse. No, the delight that retro gear brings her is rooted in the simplicity and honesty of their design. Before the world became one giant factory for consumer goods, these things were made by bona fide engineers. Their perfection lies in their imperfection. All those oversights were opportunities for innovation-- back when innovation meant making products better, rather than making them sell better.

For some reason, Mouse's heart rate is elevated. While this is far from the first stolen data-store she's sneaked a peek at, it is the first one purloined from a minacious detention camp run by a genocidal regime. There's a part of Mouse that doesn't want to look, doesn't want to risk the ethical obligations inherent in such dark secrets. Fortunately, or unfortunately, that part of Mouse is completely overshadowed by her insatiable hacker's curiosity. Consequences be damned, give me the goods.

Mouse's petite features are bathed in a cerulean glow as the tablet boots up, lending her a fey impression. The splash-screen advertises some (now likely defunct) fly-by-night software company. As the name of the company is in Hindi, Mouse is unable to interpret it but snaps a few stills nonetheless. While she waits for the boot process to complete, Mouse traces a finger along the perimeter of the bezel, identifying data ports by their feel. As expected, all of the ports are obsolete technologies. By her reckoning, the device has to be at least twenty years old. The mystery continues to compound.

The tablet finishes booting and drops Mouse to a simple menu. Without taking her eyes from the screen, Mouse snatches an umaibo snack and tears the packet with her teeth. She uses a sleeve to brush away the errant GMO corn crumbs as they spill over the screen. The tablet's interface is the definition of spartan and the software is little more than a medical contact management system. After exploring the menus it's clear that the device served as a portable copy of the blacksite's medical records.

All of the detainee names have been omitted and replaced with numbers. Mouse taps an entry at random.

Age, height, weight, blood type, pre-existing medical conditions, hormone levels, lipid panel, liver panel...

She narrows her eyes. Why would a blacksite resembling a Gulag be so concerned with such intricate healthcare data? She continues scrolling.

Bacterial cultures, prothrombin, amylase levels, antibody panel, bone density, blood oxygen, calcitonin, electrolytes, free light chains, insulin, ketones, lipase...

A chill slithers up her spine. It's the same sensation as turning on the lights to reveal an infestation of cockroaches.

Lipoprotein, Methylmalonic acid, Natriuretic peptide, nitrates, phosphates, porphyrin, renin, synovial fluid...

All of the records have identical fields. The role of Oji-san suddenly becomes clear, but the purpose of such meticulous record keeping remains a conundrum.

[Molly]

With the quiet 'Hmph' of a petulant child, Mouse flops onto her back, to squint at the tablet once more holding it over her face like it's some heavy chapterbook. Even from this new angle, the data remains as opaque as ever.

She furrows her brow and takes a few more stills of the tablet's contents, tilting the ancient device until she finds a suitable angle that doesn't reveal her consternated reflection. She can't tell which frustrates her more: the inscrutable data, or the fact that this machine, wonder of decades old technology as it is, is forcing her to take external photos like some grandma who hasn't figured out how to take screenshots on her comm.

Satisfied that she's not getting any more from this process, she drops the tablet on the mattress beside her and opens up a fresh AR window:

<< Reiya,

Good news! That tablet we yoinked from Saito's medical goons? Its contents are fully accessible.

Bad news! So I kinda skipped Freshman biology and have no idea what I'm looking at. But you know medicine and drek, right? >>

Here, she attaches the assortment of photos in a single compilation, simply titled: [ ¯\_(°_o)_/¯ ].

It's at this point that Mouse finds herself faced with the tyranny of the empty textbox, struggling to summon the exact words she needs to rope Reiya into this crazy, dangerous plan. She draws her knees up to her chest, trying to envision the face of the natural empath with her seemingly endless well of patience in the face of her own social floundering.

If anything, that makes it infinitely worse.

For a brief moment, Mouse entertains the notion of putting her thoughts on real, dead-tree paper, and finding some way to deliver that to the shaman, perhaps via some kind of small messenger animal. Thankfully, common sense wins out, between her brief glimmer of social awareness that the attempt could just as easily be viewed as insulting vice charming, and her own unwillingness to ask AM about the estate’s access to carrier pigeons.

Instead, she opts for the tried and true method of ‘Word vomit, then immediately send the whole mess before the regret can fully set in.’

<< Soooo, you know how you’re all about ‘exchanges of information’ and stuff? A couple of the others and I were thinking, maybe we could… y’know, try throwing some of the crazier drek we found on the island to the open matrix. I have no idea if it'll go anywhere, but nobody wants to risk us all dying in some freak accident without anyone else ever finding out what we saw.

If you're game, we could throw some of this medical jargon in with our findings. It's a long shot, but maybe it'll make sense to someone out there - someone who can at least tell us if these records have anything to do with VITAS.

PS: This message is going to delete itself after the first time you read it. Don't panic. That is a totally normal thing for a normal conversation, and not at all an indicator that we're doing something incriminating. (b˙◁˙ )b >>

[MattL]

Reiya opens her eyes and stares blearily through the haze of the sauna. Though she still feels lingering magic within, her physical body is now demanding relief. She sees a mostly empty pitcher and hopes it’s because she’s been remembering to drink throughout, rather than that all the water evaporated. She downs the rest and looks for Yung. "Akela? Are you back?"

Yung’s eyes are strained wide, the kind of wide you might expect to see from a blind person who suddenly gains the ability to see. His pupils are so dilated that a sliver of brown border is the only indication that he has an iris. He looks at Reiya, mouth still feeling fuzzy. "Words are strong and…hurt, I’ve seen words." It’s the kind of absurd profundity that is so simple it sounds idotic, but also so deep that it borders on actual enlightenment.

His expression relaxes slightly. "Did you feel them too?" He asks, cocking his head to one side. Without waiting for a response he extends a hand towards Reiya, slowly but deliberately, until it rests just above her sternum. The shaman eyes him carefully but does not flinch and pull back from the touch. He takes a deep breath of anticipation as the sensation of her heartbeat is communicated via tactile sensation through his body to his somatosensory cortex. A dopey smile spreads across his lips, his eyes once again widening with wonder. "I’m hungry." He says, furrowing his brow, slowly starting to drift out of the euphoria and back to reality. He looks back at his hand, before quickly withdrawing it, looking down at the coals slightly embarrassed.

Reiya smiles, not at all upset or offended. She understands both the need and the inevitable failure to convey what one has seen in the medium of words. Plus, it’s sort of nice to have a friend doing this sort of thing with her, or at least in tandem. "We need more water, and then all of that fucking BBQ. " She stands up with effort and stumbles toward the door, opening the sauna up and immediately turning it off. The rush of 'cold' air practically slaps her fully awake, and she sees that there are a few tables worth of BBQ, sides, and drinks. The shaman’s smile broadens, and while the meal—real meat, too—smells fantastic, she forces herself to grab some water first. Anne-Marie thoughtfully included some fancy Nipponese sports drinks, so Reiya grabs two bottles of Pocari Sweat instead.

Yung rises as Reiya exits the sauna, the cooler air causes goose pimples to spread across his forearms. He steps outside into the evening air and pandiculates as though he’s been sleeping for two days.

With a bottle in each hand, Reiya finally notices a couple of servers, staring at her and Yung in astonishment. "Well, what?" she asks belligerently, then looks down to see she’s not only still naked, but covered in sweat. She rolls her eyes, but with a hungry eye on the food, decides not to wither them with any pithy remarks. "Thanks for the food."

Yung rests his hands on his hips, as if in punctuation of Reiya’s question and follow-up comment, locking eyes with the servers until they’re forced to look away. He then notices the banquet that has been prepared, his mouth dropping in astonishment before scrambling to sit down and eat.

Reiya goes back into the cooling sauna and grabs a towel with her now free hand, wiping the sweat off as best she can. She braids her dripping hair and throws it over her shoulder, before opening the bottle and drinking it, slowly but steadily. "So I won’t ask you what you saw, but did you find what you were looking for?"

Yung is smacking his lips wildly, a bottle of water in one hand and a half eaten chicken thigh in the other. He takes a swig of the water with his mouth still full, attempting to swallow a partially chewed bite. He looks at Reiya, nodding vigorously as he manages to force the meat down his gullet. He throws both arms out wide, momentarily forgetting that they are occupied. A stream of water splashes across one of the servants, who futilely attempts to dodge the attack. Meanwhile, a splotch of errant BBQ sauce lacks the viscosity to resist the force generated by the sudden movement, landing squarely on Reiya’s nose. Yung freezes for a few seconds, resisting the urge to move, eyes locked with Reiya. Finally, he throws his head back and begins cackling madly.

Reiya glares at him for a minute, and then her smile widens to a grin. She licks the sauce off her nose. "Shit, that’s amazing. Let’s go devour everything," Reiya suggests, getting up with more ease this time. By the time she gets back to the steaming piles of food, she can’t help herself; she grabs some of it with her bare hand and stuffs it right in her mouth.

After about five minutes of giggling laughter Yung finally calms down, realizing he’s still ravenous and it’s difficult to eat while laughing. He takes another bite of chicken before finally answering Reiya’s question with half a mouthful of food. "Yeah, well," *smack smack* "I found something alright." *smack smack* "Dunno if it was what I was looking for." He guzzles some water *glug glug* He stops and ponders for a moment. "Well, it was all in my head, yeah? And somehow I feel like I have a better idea…" He stops abruptly, glances over to the servants and shoos them away; waiting a few moments until they are out of earshot. "Anyway, I think I have a better understanding of who I should be and why that’s important. But, I won’t say that I’m excited about that revelation, it feels like a loss and also a burden."

The shaman nods as gravely as one can when gnawing on spareribs as if truly famished. She finishes the rib and tosses it aside. "A vision quest always gains you something. But it may not be something you want, or like. And even if you do get what you want, it can take a lot of time to get used to it." Reiya grabs a hunk of cornbread, but before shoving it in her mouth, she adds: "But trust me on one thing: it wasn’t all in your head. Whatever interaction you had with spirits, that’s real."

[GM Nick]

Doctor Zhao resembles a trid villain. Maybe it's his skin, which seems too tightly stretched across his features. Or maybe it's his eyes: two obvious Kodak-Zeiss units with external magnification rings that pivot like lobster pincers. It doesn't help that he has a habit of wringing his vinyl-gloved hands together, as if concocting some nefarious scheme. Whatever the case, the Blue Dog security contractors keep their distance as he approaches the clinic's yurt-shaped exterior. Even the formidable Anne-Marie, who leads him to the building, seems reluctant to be in his company.

"Ah so," says Doctor Zhao. His nasally voice contains a tremulous quality. "What's on the docket today, my
dear?"

Anne-Marie projects an artificial smile. "Two surgeries, Doctor. The 'ware is already inside and I've shared the details."

The Doctor pauses and stares at nothing as he operates his commlink. His cybereyes click as his expression transforms into one of gleeful exhiliration. "Oh, yes. Yes. What splendid, splendid augmentations. Such exquisite craftsmanship."

"I suppose so," replies Anne-Marie, looking vaguely uncomfortable.

"Such complicated procedures," Zhao exclaims, visibly titulated. "So invasive! So penetrative!" His tobacco stained teeth flash at Anne-Marie in a grin. "...so intimate."

After Anne-Marie shows the Doctor inside and explains that his first patient will be along shortly, she turns and walks briskly away from the clinic. Once she's well out of sight, she shivers. "I don't get paid enough for this shit."

[Drew Buddy]

Axel walks out into the cool night air. Although he doesn't smoke, he takes a drag from an alpaca that he bummed from a guard as he stares up at the stars. Although no violence has been done to him, it feels like his head is ringing like a gong.

Connective tissue housing patient's cybernetic augmentation...

His hand reaches up behind his head, fingers tracing the lines of scar tissue around the dataport on the back of his neck. His pride and joy, his connection to other worlds and other bodies, a piece of him that has become as natural as his own toes—Now suddenly feels like a tick that he can't dig out. A tick that's wrapped its mandibles around his brain stem.

He stares at the night sky for several more minutes, mind wheeling with the possibilities of that cryptic diagnosis. For a moment he considers jumping into one of his drones, just to escape his own body, but there is no guarantee that the corruption of his 'ware won't follow him even there. Wherever you go, there you are. The smell of barbecue cuts through the haze, and Axel realizes that not only is he hungry, he's badly in need of comfort food. He absent-mindedly crushes the Alpaca under his heel, and follows his nose.

Axel strolls into the banquet hall in a fugue, navigating by olfactory echolocation, or like a submariner following a map with a stopwatch. It's when he's loaded up his plate with far more than he can physically eat, that he finally notices what few staff there are keeping their distance and averting their eyes. A dread starts creeping up on him, before he notices that he's not the object of their avoidance. His eyes scan the room, and then go wide as saucers as he spots Akela and Reiya gamely picking at the offerings in their birthday suits, each with a somewhat fey-touched look to their eyes.

They need to know.

The thought pushes through the churning waters of his mind, and mingles with its fellow inmates, pushing aside the strangeness of the situation. He walks toward the pair, clearly deep in conversation, and manages a half-hearted wave. Their gazes seem to shift from hyperfocus on him to concentrating on the wall behind him, but Axel doesn't have the spare bandwidth to wonder why.

His voice catches in his throat, and he tries again.

"So, uh, hey guys, how's it, y'know, going?" He begins. Nice one. "So, well, the others and I have been talking, and..." The words start to gather momentum until they take on a life of their own, forcing their way out of his mouth. "So we've been talking, and that drek back there? Well, what I mean is that there's a magic kid who can manipulate the matrix with their mind, uh, something about sculpting the earth, or maybe sandcastles, and Saito's gonna use this kid to kill the matrix," he scratches his head, "or maybe us." Panic wells up as he sees the lack of comprehension on their faces. "Well, I mean, that was all super, like super-duper fucked up back there, and I, I mean we, can't let it stand." Not much better. "So we're gonna Kaneda the fuck out of this." He blurts out. "Blow this whole thing sky-high. We've got a sim recording of all of Saito's dirty little secrets, and it could really do some good to get it out there."

He searches their faces.

"I guess what I'm asking is, you in?"

[Molly]

HOTSIM:

The “Matchsticks” host exists in a state of permanent twilight, locked into the warm, amber haze of the final moments before last call. The light is dim, the air thick with the scent of wood polish and cigarettes, bourbon and black coffee.

In many ways, the host is a perfect digital mirror of its namesake: a Downtown Seattle jazz bar.
The scene itself feels like an antique, a time capsule diorama from an era that exists only in film noir. However, unlike its counterpart in the real, its instanced nature lends the scene the quality of a private backroom: a reassuring, cozy intimacy, secure in its solitude. The only sign of life is in the resonant echoes of an unseen jazz trio: the interplay of a melancholy piano in a conversational exchange with a double bass and a steady drumbeat.

In the sanctity of this space, Mouse has forsaken her usual persona- the abstract affair with the CRT head. Instead, she’s compiled herself into what at a glance, could be readily mistaken for a charcoal portrait of her meatspace self. Under closer inspection, the strokes of dark pigment reveal themselves as the decker’s preferred medium: a stream of flowing ASCII characters. At this particular moment, she’s perched on a leather barstool, locked in apparent contemplation as she stares into a glass of dark liquid before her.

“...and since when do you drink?”

The persona doesn't so much 'appear' as make itself known, its image gracefully flickering into the space like a shadow cast by a sudden bout of flame, having existed in the darkness prior, but only now given form. This shape it takes is that of a taller gentleman: boasting a silhouette comprised of clean lines and tailored apparel. What may once have been hawkish facial features have been softened by age and gentle humor. Between the crow's feet and touches of silver intermingling with the sandy hair that falls in loose curls down his neck, he could easily be mistaken for human, if not for the subtly pointed ears betraying his metatype. As though to better suit the classical lounge theme of the host, his icon bears a vaguely grainy, skipping quality, as though it were a translucent recording played through an ancient film projector, even as it presses its gloved fingertips against the icon of Mouse’s glass.

The figure, warranting little more than a miffed eye roll from Mouse, is none other than /Dev/Zero, her sensei and handler, the closest thing she has to a functional family, who, as of right now, is clearly judging her choice of drinks with an almost paternal scrutiny.

Unphased, Mouse leans forward, resting her chin on her palm. “I learned a new trick for it. You ever hear of pain gating?”

“You can tell me all about it another time. Perhaps in another six months?” With a flick of his wrist, the lowball glass dissolves into matrix space, cueing a bevy of half-hearted grumbling from the younger decker: ’Not like it’s real anyway’ and ‘Of all the laws you’ve taught me how to break, that’s what you get stuck on.’ Zero knows better than to engage. With a gesture, the empty space in his hand is replaced with a porcelain cup of something hot and steaming, which he places in front of his petulant student. Despite her sulking, she takes it with an unspoken appreciation, simply letting the virtualized warmth sink into her hands.

A familiar quiet falls between the two of them, Mouse squirming slightly in her seat as she struggles to find the right words to broach the topic. “Ne, those files I sent you from the prison- Did you take a look at them?”

At this, Zero fans out a series of icons like a hand of playing cards, each ‘package’ taking the form of a miniature manilla folder. “That, I did. I thought you’d want to tell me about them yourself.” As he takes a seat across from his pupil, he places his ‘hand’ on the table, revealing its contents: the opaque files transform into a series of stills and video snippets, each revealing captured imagery from the prison, raw data snipped from drone feeds, firmware data for aerosol dispensers, annotated maps, and first person photos that reveal prisoners in various state of inhuman detention.

Mouse leans forward, charged with a giddy energy as she spreads the images across the table with her fingertips. “It speaks for itself, really: Saito’s been using the island as home base for his crimes against humanity.” Zero nods along as the younger decker builds a conversational momentum. “Turns out, there’s even more corroborating evidence where that came from: we've got BTL recordings and everything. You can think of all this as a sort of ‘preview’. Zero can’t help but cock an eyebrow at this interesting choice of words, causing Mouse to stammer, flailing verbally in her sudden attempt to clarify: “You know, sort of a first refusal for the scoop? Right now, you’re the only person who has access to this intel- at least until I finish sanitizing the data anyway.”

At this, Zero tents his fingers, a skeptical hum reverberating from his avatar. “So this is a scoop, now.” Mouse grits her teeth, picking up on the obvious tension, even as her mentor’s tone remains calm and deliberative. “If I’m following you correctly, you’re about to do something…

“Stupid?”

“-I was going to say ‘regrettable’.”

“But you were thinking ‘Stupid.’”

“Not without reason.” One of the photos expands to its full resolution: a still frame featuring a fairly benign view of the island. The scene zooms into one corner, featuring an oddly blurred patch embedded in the water’s reflections. The resolution clarifies and decompresses, revealing a cryptic string of odd characters. “Tell me, what do you call this?”

“...the hash?” Mouse squints at the watermark with a forced incredulity. “You’re the one always going off about data integrity and proof of authenticity. If anything, you should be happy I listened to your-"

With a swipe of his hands, the ‘watermark’ expands and unfolds into a window of its own, revealing a Shift-JIS drawing of a grinning cartoon mouse boasting a pair of comically oversized testicles. The air fills with the tinny chirps of some electrometal cyber-funk cover, lovingly rendered in a 16-bit. Facing a sudden urge to slip through the floor, Mouse slinks down in her seat, all while her cartoon counterpart spouts off a series of rapidfire wisecracks, typed out in both Nipponese and English, featuring bold claims about how <[“Saito only has a secret prison because everyone he loves keeps leaving him”] or <[“The general has dedicated a team of elite medical scientists to the noble cause of finding his long lost dick.”]

”Tell me…” His tone is eerily calm as he presses both hands against the table between them, “...is this Intel you’re releasing? Or a cracked copy of Dawn of Atlantis?

“It’s tradition!

“This is serious, Ai.” Mouse flinches visibly with the precision strike of her weaponized name. “Deckers are hunted down for releasing less.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Her words are the hiss of a trapped animal. Even in the digital space, she can’t bring herself to meet his gaze. But all this drek we witnessed- the war crimes, the experiments… the negasonic otaku warhead that’s one crossed wire from starting a third crash for shiggles?” Her head drops into her waiting hands, the weight of the task suddenly impossibly heavy. “You know I can’t let this go. None of us can.” She shakes her head slowly, peering out from between her splayed fingers. “So, if this is what gets me killed anyway, I want to go out to my own chiptune.”

A heavy silence falls between the two of them, amplified as the window with Mouse’s digital signature winks shut. When Zero does speak, the edge has worn off, replaced with the distant ache that can only come with understanding. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

“I don’t.”

More silence. This time, it’s Mouse who breaks, her voice soft and wavering. “Are you still going to back me up on this? Even when it all goes to shit?”

She doesn’t see him move, only feels the touch of a reassuring hand as it comes to rest between her shoulder blades. ”Yes. Always.”

Nothing more needs be said. All that’s left is the student and her teacher in the precious twilight before last call. The world’s end waits for no one, and still, there’s work to be done.

The band plays on.

[MattL]

Yung finally notices Axel’s approach and feels a sense of greed wash over him, he leans in low arms out wide like bird wings hovering over the food watching with suspicious eyes as the Rigger saunters over casually. He feels ready to snap should the scavenger make a move. Instead, Axel waves, an awkward kind of wave, more a roll of the wrist than anything else. But his fingers become a series of tracers following one another, briefly hypnotizing the adept.

Then he starts talking, some kind of mad babble that moves in all directions. He mentions something about ‘drek back there’ and for a brief moment Yung feels an offensive smell tickle his olfactory nerves. He scrunches up his nose, craning his neck to the side in an attempt to see the drek Axel is referring to behind him.

He continues to ramble, 'magic, kids, the matrix,' it’s all spilling out of his mouth so fast it becomes a stream of white noise, only certain words seem to float to the surface: 'earth, sandcastles, Saito'; Yung flinches slightly when he says that word as an image of the dragon from his vision twists through his mind. Axel keeps going on, ‘super, like super duper fucked up back there’, again Yung attempts to peer around Axel, trying to find the source of his irritation.

Did someone scat all over Tex’s mansion? Based on how worked up Axel is, someone must have done something pretty messed up. It was probably Mick.

More confusing words flow over Yung as he ponders on what kind of mess Mick made. They don’t really seem like the messy type, more entropic, if left unchecked they’ll eventually spin out of control. But it’s only been a few hours…hasn’t it?

Suddenly it crashes into him like a wave. Not Mick, it’s Mouse. She’s definitely messy. Would she shit all over the house? ‘We’ve got a sim recording’

Yung’s mouth falls open, a half chewed bit of chicken nearly comes tumbling out before he manages to react to the sensation, snapping his maw shut.

'It could really do some good to get it out of there’

Yung can’t help but give the slightest nod, reluctantly agreeing. Then Axel hits him with it, the thing he knew was coming but hoped he wouldn’t ask.

‘You in?’

Yung takes a deep breath, looks to Reiya, then back to Axel; his lips drawn tight to a line.

"Can we finish eating first?"

[Drew Buddy]

Axel's running mouth comes to a sudden stop on the bollard of Yung's question.

"I, uh," he regards the pair again. Something is definitely off. "Yeah man, of course." He finishes simply.

He glances around the room, his own hunger vying for attention against much grander matters. He leaves the pair to their own devices and reality, and finds a table nearby. He opens a message to Mick and Mouse.

<< So I told 'em, but not sure yet if they actually heard me. >>

[ReiyaEmm]

Once her initial hunger and thirst are sated, Reiya keeps eating and drinking out of sheer delight; the food's great, liquid's still important, and life feels pretty good. Unlike Yung, she's not at all conflicted about the results of her vision quest. Really, she feels as if she has both new direction as well as a mandate to go back to her roots, both of which feel right to her. She'll likely pass out from exhaustion later, but at the moment, life is fraggin' great.

Axel's sudden appearance surprises her, but she's glad he's helped himself to some food. There's plenty, and Reiya is in a benevolent mood. Her goodwill is shaken slightly by Axel's convoluted sentences. Unlike her fellow vision quester, she's pretty much back to normal, but having a lot of technical stuff and anime references and....sandcastles? thrown at her is a bit much. "So," she begins, "bearing in mind that I don't really get the matrix in general, and that Akela and I are coming out of what you might call a magical medicine trance. But I think you're saying is that the drek on Alcatraz that scared Mouse is crazy dangerous shit, and it involves a magic kid? Any idea what kind of magic? "Axel's puzzled look answers the question. "Oh, not my kind of magic. Go it. Yeah, I'm all for blowing it up. But you mean blowing it up in the digital world, right? Can't help with that, but sure. I'm in. "

--------------

Much later, when Reiya finally gets back to her room, sleeps, and remembers she has a comm, the shaman sees the message from Mouse. She reads it with interest, but is equally confounded by the lists of medical jargon. << Hey, been away from my comm, doing a shaman thing. Our medicine and healing systems are really different from biomedicine, so I can't figure anything out from this. But sure, go ahead and put it out there. Someone will know, and maybe even do something about it. >>

[GM Nick]

Mouse releases the mother of all sighs, slumping into her pile of cushions. The editing was far more arduous than she had anticipated, taking the better part of the night to complete. Normally the decker would rent power on a super-cluster, but with all of Tex's systems dedicated to maintaining various lines of communication, she's stuck using her own deck. She had triple checked the data scrubbing and re-watched the footage to ensure that nothing was missed. All in all, she feels very pleased with the end product.

Only a nervous excitement keeps her lids from fluttering from the fatigue. She watches a dozen progress bars steadily climb forward, indicating her upload to various outlets. She hit all the regular spots, of course: Crackerjax, Kiddie Korner, Seenit, 6scan, Taikai, Kacha-kacha, N0madscape, and a few other obscure, fringe boards. It was the best she could do, really. She would just have to rely on the juicy intel spreading like an STD in a pleasure district. There would be some help, of course. A few old contacts agreed to tag the uploads. Hopefully smaller news agencies would run with it, which would catch the interest of bigger sites and brokers and a chain reaction would begin.

Only time will tell.

[GM Nick]

Noah glances over the dashboard, his face illuminated in the familiar loglo of the Sprawl. "Home sweet home," he says with a crooked smile. When this elicits no response, he glances over his shoulder at the runners stuffed in the back. "I won't ask what happened, but you all look pretty rough. Anywhere you want to go, or should I take you straight home?"

[Molly]

03:17 AM - “The Rat’s Nest"

The decker sits cross-legged in her cramped apartment, hunched over her latest experiment. Mouse herself is bedraggled, not having left for some [???] days beforehand. Really, she has little sense of how long it's been, with her own post-operative haze blurring the already hazy time dilation of time spent in hotsim. Based on the amount of trash that's accumulated in her meatspace surroundings, it's been days, maybe weeks, since she last emerged? She would be all too happy to linger in that online stupor too, had it not been for the incessantly chipper notifications from her scheduling apps. She has another job lined up.

As such, she's fixated on the makeshift "workbench" before her, in reality little more than an antistatic mat cleared of the encroaching clutter. The shelves towering around her hunched form are crammed with ancient hardware and haphazardly stacked electronics, lending the space the air of an operating theater, packed with an audience of the decker's former patients. Today’s procedure would be observed by a crowd of esteemed subjects, to include a Soy-Processing-Unit, conspicuously stripped of its microwave shielding, and a seeming exercise in "how many mismatched antennae can one cram into a mint-box?"

Central to it all rest the stars of this show, and subjects of today's experiments. One is Mick’s antique Black-and-Decker autopicker: a classic blend of utility, design, and wear. It smells like oil and leather and Alpaca residue. More than that, it feels good to hold, with a comfortable heft behind it, well used and well cared for, just aching to be deployed in a day's business or mischief. It's a sturdy, reliable thing, or at least it was, before it became a casualty of the last job.

Then there’s Mouse’s own picks, branded with a nondescript ‘Fleche Inc’, colder, sleeker, and more befitting a corporate spook. It’s the kind of tool that, if discovered in a shakedown, has been sculpted to convey the notion that its bearer is, in fact, a ‘security professional’ rather than a common burglar. It's clean, and still feels new.

One by one, she takes each device into her hands and opens the slide-lock, causing each to splay out a delicate metal fan of hooks and rakes. Inside, Mouse notes wryly, it’s all the same drek. Same parts, different dressing.

The only practical difference, of course, is that one has been disfigured, its tensioners warped, motor burnt out from its last pyrrhic battle. Broken, but still good. Now, the decker has always been more in the business of breaking things than fixing them, but for this she can make an exception. It doesn't hurt that she has her own picks available for a little ‘reverse-engineering’... or even donating parts, should it come to it.

…and yes, it is, in fact, an odd turn of logic that she’s willing to completely dismantle one tool to save another functionally identical tool. She doesn’t stop to question it, fixated as she is on the task at hand, as she draws her magnifying visor down over her eyes. She’s got work to do.

(( This is really just a lot of purple prose for "She’s fixing that autopicker, dammit." ))