Run #4 - Eat, Pray, Die
Re: Run #4 - Eat, Pray, Die
The little decker clasps her hands in front of her and dips her head appreciatively, in an instinctive gesture that nonetheless feels awkward the instant she does it. "WAKARIMASHITA. UNLESS ANYONE HAS ANY MORE QUESTIONS, I BELIEVE WE HAVE WORK TO ATTEND TO." She twists her head to address her teammates and the fresh-faced interloper, her tone more hushed as she adds, "...WHICH BEGINS WITH US COAXING THIS ONE INTO THE BACK OF A DIRTY VAN."
Re: Run #4 - Eat, Pray, Die
Mick sniffs sharply, snatching at everybody's attention. "Any chance you had the forethought to fish any plans for the building off the net, holy man? Would be nice to know right away how many exits we're dealin' with. Windows. Utility spaces. Hidden sex-slash--torture rooms behind false walls. The usual drek."
Re: Run #4 - Eat, Pray, Die
Mouse perks up at this request, and is quick to jump in. "IF NOT, THE INFORMATION FOR YOUR CONTACT SHOULD SUFFICE. AFTER ALL, FINDING WEIRD SEX STUFF IS MY SPECIALTY." Besides marking an immediate lapse in professionality now that the bargaining phase is mercifully over, her comment is in many ways a reassurance for herself. Between the ghost ship, Alkatraz, even Bongoland, her options for proper pre-run legwork have been shockingly scarce prior to now, meaning this new opportunity to overprepare is a welcome luxury.
Re: Run #4 - Eat, Pray, Die
Mick snickers, "Must'a forgot who I hang around with these days."
Re: Run #4 - Eat, Pray, Die
A Yokai materializes from the church's incessant gloom, revealing a heavy-set man with a Hyottoko mask. "The owner of the nightclub must've greased some palms, because they haven't filed for permits in twelve years, despite renovating twice. The only thing I could find is a utility map. It's probably pretty outdated."
A file lands in the team's PAN. The image files are low resolution, but they form a rough shape of the structure's innards. "Désespéré hosts a lot of bigshots from Downtown, so they probably try and keep a low Matrix profile. Nothing's impossible though."
A file lands in the team's PAN. The image files are low resolution, but they form a rough shape of the structure's innards. "Désespéré hosts a lot of bigshots from Downtown, so they probably try and keep a low Matrix profile. Nothing's impossible though."
Re: Run #4 - Eat, Pray, Die
Sam continuing to pretend like he belongs, regularly nods his head as if attentively listening to everyone, that is until he hears the odd computerized voice talk about coaxing him into a van. Why is it every time I get setup for one of these jobs, I end up in the back of van… I hope this one at least has seats and it's not just a mattress.
Re: Run #4 - Eat, Pray, Die
Forcing herself to once again feign professionality, she nods her head in appreciation. "THAT DOES REMIND ME OF ONE LINGERING QUESTION. ARE YOU AWARE OF ANY OTHER PARTIES WITH AN INTEREST IN VOLKOV SPECIFICALLY?" She cocks her head slightly, struggling to read the inscrutable Johnson's expression. "IT WOULD BE HELPFUL TO KNOW WHETHER ANYONE ELSE HAS THEIR HANDS IN THESE AFFAIRS- ESPECIALLY IF WE CAN PIN ANY DISAPPEARANCES ON THEM." That also happens to be the only other piece that Preacher alone might have the answers to. The remaining questions will probably require actual investigative work, to include making "friends."
Re: Run #4 - Eat, Pray, Die
Preacher steeples his hands, his piercing eyes fixed on a point somewhere beneath the Earth's mantle.
"He is infamous, so I imagine the answer is yes. The man has made no effort to avoid trampling his allies underfoot in his bid for power. I have heard such things..." His hand jerks involuntarily, performing an almost imperceptible sign of the cross. "My contacts in the Far East have been silent for some time, though I suspect that indicates that Volkov is most certainly not across the pond. Aside from enemies created in the course of his business, the only thing that comes to mind are
separatists..."
"During his reign, Volkov was both a warhawk and a rigid Nationalist. He ordered the annexation of some land returned to the native peoples by the prior administration. As you can imagine, bloodshed followed. It far surpassed what one might call a grudge, although this was years ago now. It's not hard to imagine that the children of those involved might be bent on revenge, however.
In addition, there are always rival information brokers and underworld movers."
"He is infamous, so I imagine the answer is yes. The man has made no effort to avoid trampling his allies underfoot in his bid for power. I have heard such things..." His hand jerks involuntarily, performing an almost imperceptible sign of the cross. "My contacts in the Far East have been silent for some time, though I suspect that indicates that Volkov is most certainly not across the pond. Aside from enemies created in the course of his business, the only thing that comes to mind are
separatists..."
"During his reign, Volkov was both a warhawk and a rigid Nationalist. He ordered the annexation of some land returned to the native peoples by the prior administration. As you can imagine, bloodshed followed. It far surpassed what one might call a grudge, although this was years ago now. It's not hard to imagine that the children of those involved might be bent on revenge, however.
In addition, there are always rival information brokers and underworld movers."
Re: Run #4 - Eat, Pray, Die
"SO KA." The synths help conceal a soft huff under her breath. "I SUPPOSE WE OUGHT TO GET STARTED ON OUR HOMEWORK THEN." She glances back at her teammates in confirmation. "LET'S START BY REACHING OUT TO PREACHER'S CLUB-HOPPING CONTACT, AND SEE IF HE HAS ANY ANSWERS FOR US." Her attention fixes briefly on the newcomer, as if to scan his image for her own records. "I'M SURE THERE ARE PLENTY OF QUESTIONS WE'RE ALL DYING TO ASK, NE?"
Re: Run #4 - Eat, Pray, Die
Mick nods and stubs their cigarette butt out on the backrest of a moldering old pew. "Sounds like it's time to get to fraggin' work."
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Drew Buddy
- Posts: 1488
- Joined: Sun Oct 30, 2011 7:06 pm
Re: Run #4 - Eat, Pray, Die
Axel nods. "Contacting the padre's buddy sounds like the best first move. In the meantime," he takes his eyes off the newcomer and glances toward the door as if projecting his vision beyond it to The Vantichrist, "where to?"
Re: Run #4 - Eat, Pray, Die
"Back to the clubhouse? Or we wanna just pop on down to the club for a look around? Either way. It's getting late. I could use a drink."
Re: Run #4 - Eat, Pray, Die
Annexation of some land returned to the native peoples by the prior administration. That's a story with a familiar ring to any Amerindian, steeped in the grisly tales of life before the Native American Nations were founded. It makes Reiya even more eager to track down this Volkov and ruin the drekhole's night, at the very least. She nods to Preacher and heads to the van.
Re: Run #4 - Eat, Pray, Die
The Eaves flits by the Vantichrist's windows like a melting, schizophrenic watercolor. Overhead, moonlight suffuses with smog to create God's own neon light. Burbclaves and strip malls rise and fall with little variety to distinguish them. Just after enough time has passed for the runners to begin retreating into their own thoughts, T-bone lurches to a stop.
You wanted a bar. It's a bar, the van states flatly. Even though T-bone has no respiratory system (or body at all for that matter) Axel swears he hears a prolonged sigh emanate from the grungy stereo speakers.
Outside, a single building rises from the corner of an otherwise empty lot. At first glance it appears to be a pumping station, but closer inspection reveals that it has been festooned with neon lights and tacky window trim. A battered and chipped, possibly pre-war, red door stands vigil at the front entrance. Meanwhile a balding, slightly overweight elf in a tracksuit is vomiting near the street side. A jaunty, blinking pattern proclaims the establishment to be, incredibly: THE PUMPING STATION.
...you're welcome, murmurs T-bone with (again what Axel swears is) a giggle.
You wanted a bar. It's a bar, the van states flatly. Even though T-bone has no respiratory system (or body at all for that matter) Axel swears he hears a prolonged sigh emanate from the grungy stereo speakers.
Outside, a single building rises from the corner of an otherwise empty lot. At first glance it appears to be a pumping station, but closer inspection reveals that it has been festooned with neon lights and tacky window trim. A battered and chipped, possibly pre-war, red door stands vigil at the front entrance. Meanwhile a balding, slightly overweight elf in a tracksuit is vomiting near the street side. A jaunty, blinking pattern proclaims the establishment to be, incredibly: THE PUMPING STATION.
...you're welcome, murmurs T-bone with (again what Axel swears is) a giggle.
Re: Run #4 - Eat, Pray, Die
<< Our vicar says you've got an in with a great Bible Study group. We should talk. Drinks on us. >>
Mouse squints hard at the text floating in the AR space before her, struggling to channel the breezy air Yung always channeled. The words feel stilted and forced coming from her. Unable to think of anything better, she drops in a pin with the van's current geolocation and with a flick, sends it off to their mystery contact.
"GUESS WE SHOULD SEE IF LITTLE BUDDY'S STILL WITH US. STILL CAN'T IMAGINE WHY HE INSISTED ON TAKING HIS OWN RIDE."
As she speaks, she reaches for something amongst the effluvia Vantichrist trash: a rumpled copy of Popular Mechanics- an apparent relic from the days of dead-tree print. She starts to gingerly thumb through, admiring the faded antique imagery, only to drop it in a sudden flash of shock as soon as she realizes that the pages are stuck together.
Rather than linger on this disturbing revelation, she gives her hand a cursory wipe on her pants and pops open the back door, revealing the headlights of the increasingly familiar pickup pulling up behind. A slight grumble escapes at the confirmation that she will, in fact, have to make nice with him for this run. "ALRIGHT, YOU GUYS READY TO TALK TO SOME STRANGERS?"
Mouse squints hard at the text floating in the AR space before her, struggling to channel the breezy air Yung always channeled. The words feel stilted and forced coming from her. Unable to think of anything better, she drops in a pin with the van's current geolocation and with a flick, sends it off to their mystery contact.
"GUESS WE SHOULD SEE IF LITTLE BUDDY'S STILL WITH US. STILL CAN'T IMAGINE WHY HE INSISTED ON TAKING HIS OWN RIDE."
As she speaks, she reaches for something amongst the effluvia Vantichrist trash: a rumpled copy of Popular Mechanics- an apparent relic from the days of dead-tree print. She starts to gingerly thumb through, admiring the faded antique imagery, only to drop it in a sudden flash of shock as soon as she realizes that the pages are stuck together.
Rather than linger on this disturbing revelation, she gives her hand a cursory wipe on her pants and pops open the back door, revealing the headlights of the increasingly familiar pickup pulling up behind. A slight grumble escapes at the confirmation that she will, in fact, have to make nice with him for this run. "ALRIGHT, YOU GUYS READY TO TALK TO SOME STRANGERS?"
Re: Run #4 - Eat, Pray, Die
Mick cracks a grin. "As one of Seattle's foremost purveyors of stranger danger, I have no problem with this." The ork slides off one of the Vantichrist's bench seats, their boots scraping onto the blacktop. Looking over their shoulder as they head for the door, the rest of the team can hardly hear the comment as the adept skitters toward libations. "Drinks on the new guy."
Re: Run #4 - Eat, Pray, Die
"YOU DO MAKE A HELL OF A FIRST IMPRESSION." Mouse grins under her mask at Mick's apt characterization as she shuffles in after them. "I WAS HALF-CONVINCED YOU WERE GOING TO EAT ME BACK IN BONGOLAND. BUT DESPITE ALL EXPECTATIONS, YOU HAVEN'T... YET."
Re: Run #4 - Eat, Pray, Die
The interior of the pumping station harbors no surprises. It's a cluttered gallery of dingy, second-hand furniture, antique posters and tired looking patrons. A barely perceptible sheen on nearly every surface alludes to a pervasive stain, the composition of which would give any chemist a wet dream. Neon tubes sibilate in the rafters, strobing the motley establishment with a sewage green hue and refracting nauseatingly off of the sequin-covered upholstery.
The indulgent, crooning voice of Johnny Nuclear drifts out of pre-war speakers with woodgrain veneers. The song itself must be a bootleg recording, as none of the runners recognize the lyrics. Johnny-- accompanied by a garrote of a bassline-- is singing about sin, which feels completely appropriate for the venue. The mysterious track hits the bridge and a synth burns in like a freight train made of sawtooth. A couple of sparks and a tendril of smoke accompany the crescendo.
Something snaps and cracks underneath the teams' feet as they trudge in; old insulation or some kind of fossilized bar snack, impossible to discern in the green-gloom. Nic smoke plumes around their ankles, wafting up to obscure navigation through a gauntlet of tables, which seem to have been arranged with a drug-influenced sense of feng shui. The other patrons of the bar are little more than shadows in the murk. Most are nursing drinks-- obvious by the posture provided by their silhouettes.
The Pumping Station's centerpiece (if you are generous enough to call it that) is a wide, U-shaped bar that fans out from the furthest wall. It's a hulking thing made of melted copper and topped with a layer of acrylic. The only plausible explanation is that it was salvaged from an abandoned art installation. Manning the bar is an emaciated troll in a vinyl muscleshirt, currently engaged in studying an unopened beer bottle as though it had just been invented.
A mop of oily black hair cascades down the bartender's back, snaking around the protrusions made by his spine. He tilts his head, refusing to relent to the beverage under his scrutiny. As he does so at least a dozen facial piercings gleam in the neon-on-plastic glare.
A hand-scrawled message on the back of a stolen road sign proclaims: CA$H UPFRUNT. NO TABS. Just below the sign is a poorly stuffed mammal, though the taxidermy is so woeful that the creature's taxonomy is as ambiguous as the bar's health grade.
The indulgent, crooning voice of Johnny Nuclear drifts out of pre-war speakers with woodgrain veneers. The song itself must be a bootleg recording, as none of the runners recognize the lyrics. Johnny-- accompanied by a garrote of a bassline-- is singing about sin, which feels completely appropriate for the venue. The mysterious track hits the bridge and a synth burns in like a freight train made of sawtooth. A couple of sparks and a tendril of smoke accompany the crescendo.
Something snaps and cracks underneath the teams' feet as they trudge in; old insulation or some kind of fossilized bar snack, impossible to discern in the green-gloom. Nic smoke plumes around their ankles, wafting up to obscure navigation through a gauntlet of tables, which seem to have been arranged with a drug-influenced sense of feng shui. The other patrons of the bar are little more than shadows in the murk. Most are nursing drinks-- obvious by the posture provided by their silhouettes.
The Pumping Station's centerpiece (if you are generous enough to call it that) is a wide, U-shaped bar that fans out from the furthest wall. It's a hulking thing made of melted copper and topped with a layer of acrylic. The only plausible explanation is that it was salvaged from an abandoned art installation. Manning the bar is an emaciated troll in a vinyl muscleshirt, currently engaged in studying an unopened beer bottle as though it had just been invented.
A mop of oily black hair cascades down the bartender's back, snaking around the protrusions made by his spine. He tilts his head, refusing to relent to the beverage under his scrutiny. As he does so at least a dozen facial piercings gleam in the neon-on-plastic glare.
A hand-scrawled message on the back of a stolen road sign proclaims: CA$H UPFRUNT. NO TABS. Just below the sign is a poorly stuffed mammal, though the taxidermy is so woeful that the creature's taxonomy is as ambiguous as the bar's health grade.
Re: Run #4 - Eat, Pray, Die
Before the bar's atmosphere is able to create any kind of lasting trauma, Mouse's feed titters. Preacher's subordinate is returning her message. Fighting a twinge of social anxiety, Mouse accepts the call. Johnny's baritone fades to a burble as the audio compensators do their thing.
A dry chuckle, like hand-rolled tobacco leaves, pierces the lull. << Oui, mon cher. Parler le petit groupe, c'est bon. The Nothin' like our Father's house. But dey have a God, just not you's and mine. Ya be lookin' for an invite, oui? Le porte arrière. >>
A dry chuckle, like hand-rolled tobacco leaves, pierces the lull. << Oui, mon cher. Parler le petit groupe, c'est bon. The Nothin' like our Father's house. But dey have a God, just not you's and mine. Ya be lookin' for an invite, oui? Le porte arrière. >>
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Drew Buddy
- Posts: 1488
- Joined: Sun Oct 30, 2011 7:06 pm
Re: Run #4 - Eat, Pray, Die
Axel jumps as an unexpected voice comes through on a comm call he didn't make or receive. Realization is followed by a deep sense of electronic vulnerability. "Gremlins in the wires" had become a more true statement ever since he'd joined a team with a becyberdecked gremlin on it.
Axel also doesn't speak a word of french, but thinks he knows a few. << The port of butt? >> He comms back quizzically. << Don't know what that is, but yeah, looking for an in. Our friend in the tall-hat cult thinks you might be our guy. I assume he's vouched for us? >>
Axel's eyes scan the bar as he speaks. The bottles are depressingly brown, and nary an umbrella in sight.
Axel also doesn't speak a word of french, but thinks he knows a few. << The port of butt? >> He comms back quizzically. << Don't know what that is, but yeah, looking for an in. Our friend in the tall-hat cult thinks you might be our guy. I assume he's vouched for us? >>
Axel's eyes scan the bar as he speaks. The bottles are depressingly brown, and nary an umbrella in sight.
Re: Run #4 - Eat, Pray, Die
<< C'est exact. I know you's lookin' for Russian com-pany. What'ya need to know? I know Désespéré like the back of my hand.
>>
The bartender belches abruptly and fumbles with the bottle. His oversized hands managed to seize the beer before it is subjected to Newton's first law. He resumes analyzing the bottle as though it were the Rosetta Stone. He still has not noticed the team.
>>
The bartender belches abruptly and fumbles with the bottle. His oversized hands managed to seize the beer before it is subjected to Newton's first law. He resumes analyzing the bottle as though it were the Rosetta Stone. He still has not noticed the team.
Re: Run #4 - Eat, Pray, Die
The immediacy of the contact's response is enough catch the little recluse off guard, never mind the effect that the French has on her. She'd wrongfully assumed they'd have time for a drink and a little plotting before getting a response, but apparently the guy hasn't anything better to do than to talk with them.
She attempts to recover, feigning interest in a particularly artistic phallus carved into a nearby table, while she pipes her synths directly into the feed. "I SUPPOSE IT'S ONLY PROPER THAT WE GET TO KNOW THE PLACE BEFORE WE HIT THE BUTT DOOR." So much for the Bible Study pretense. At least the contact seems more than willing to speak plainly.
"I SUPPOSE THE OBVIOUS QUESTION IS, WHAT DOES IT TAKE TO GET AN INVITE? IS THERE A GUEST LIST? DRESS CODE? FISTFUL OF CREDSTICKS TO THE RIGHT BOUNCER? "
She attempts to recover, feigning interest in a particularly artistic phallus carved into a nearby table, while she pipes her synths directly into the feed. "I SUPPOSE IT'S ONLY PROPER THAT WE GET TO KNOW THE PLACE BEFORE WE HIT THE BUTT DOOR." So much for the Bible Study pretense. At least the contact seems more than willing to speak plainly.
"I SUPPOSE THE OBVIOUS QUESTION IS, WHAT DOES IT TAKE TO GET AN INVITE? IS THERE A GUEST LIST? DRESS CODE? FISTFUL OF CREDSTICKS TO THE RIGHT BOUNCER? "
Re: Run #4 - Eat, Pray, Die
The Cajun makes a thoughtful noise by clucking his tongue. << Unless you's well connected, walkin' tru' the front door is a no-go. I got a friend at da com-pany what hires them bartenders 'n showgirls. For the right price, we get you in tru the service entrance-- but only 'doze of you's without cyberware. Dey don't take none too kindly to shadowrunnas. >>
Re: Run #4 - Eat, Pray, Die
"UNFORTUNATELY FOR US, OUR SILVER-TONGUED, CLUB-HOPPING SOCIALITE FRIEND HAD BETTER THINGS TO DO TONIGHT." She finds herself gritting her teeth subconsciously, as though biting back a genuine sense of hurt. Apparently, she's landed somewhere between the anger and bargaining stage of grieving Yung's sudden absence from the team, suddenly realizing she would have been happy to split her cut for his help on this run. Chip truth, she'd even put up with a haircut if it meant he could walk them in.
Instead, she's left scanning the faces of her own team, trying to line them up with the prospects that remain. "THE WORSE NEWS IS THAT THERE'S ONLY TWO OF US, TOPS, WITHOUT AUGMENTS." She tilts her head as she scrutinizes the FNG, who's sheepishly made his way in behind the team. She folds her arms, drumming her fingers as she mulls this over. "ANY IDEA HOW THEY ENFORCE THIS? 'CAUSE I CAN SWEET TALK A M.A.D. SCANNER, BUT NOT SO MUCH A MAGE."
Instead, she's left scanning the faces of her own team, trying to line them up with the prospects that remain. "THE WORSE NEWS IS THAT THERE'S ONLY TWO OF US, TOPS, WITHOUT AUGMENTS." She tilts her head as she scrutinizes the FNG, who's sheepishly made his way in behind the team. She folds her arms, drumming her fingers as she mulls this over. "ANY IDEA HOW THEY ENFORCE THIS? 'CAUSE I CAN SWEET TALK A M.A.D. SCANNER, BUT NOT SO MUCH A MAGE."
Re: Run #4 - Eat, Pray, Die
<< Dey got a guy, real spooky. Definitely awakened. He's what you'ad call the main bouncer. 'Course, dey let 'wared up bodyguards in. C'est vrai. But only if they with someone real important like. You could always divide 'n conquer... >>
The bartender seems to have finally noticed the team through their warped facsimile in the beer bottle. He cranes his neck and stares pointedly at them, his eyes lingering on Reiya far longer than they should've. He says nothing but engages his role by setting the beer bottle down.
The bartender seems to have finally noticed the team through their warped facsimile in the beer bottle. He cranes his neck and stares pointedly at them, his eyes lingering on Reiya far longer than they should've. He says nothing but engages his role by setting the beer bottle down.
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Drew Buddy
- Posts: 1488
- Joined: Sun Oct 30, 2011 7:06 pm
Re: Run #4 - Eat, Pray, Die
Axel looks down at his small frame.
"Don't think I could go passing for a bodyguard, and I'll light up the MAD like a festivus pole. This guy really doesn't ever leave the club?" He asks disgruntledly.
"Don't think I could go passing for a bodyguard, and I'll light up the MAD like a festivus pole. This guy really doesn't ever leave the club?" He asks disgruntledly.
Re: Run #4 - Eat, Pray, Die
<< He come 'n go through the VIP entrance, omae. Heavily guarded, c'est. Drive in wit' a convoy, too. Your best bet gonna be snatchin' putaine from the VIP room or on the occasion he come down to mingle. >>
The bartender stares pointedly at Mouse, probably struggling with mental arithmetic to determine her age. In the background, Johnny Nuclear wraps up with a final chorus. A warbling synthesizer fades out, like a bagpipe that's been shot. During the brief interlude of static, Mouse and the troll size each other up. Somebody coughs.
The bartender stares pointedly at Mouse, probably struggling with mental arithmetic to determine her age. In the background, Johnny Nuclear wraps up with a final chorus. A warbling synthesizer fades out, like a bagpipe that's been shot. During the brief interlude of static, Mouse and the troll size each other up. Somebody coughs.
Re: Run #4 - Eat, Pray, Die
"A PUTAINE, YOU SAY…" She presses a couple fingers to her temple, as if thoughtful, or maybe just staving off a migraine, as she flicks open her other hand, summoning her familiar agent into view. [Ne, I want everything you can find on this Ilya fraghead. Bonus points if you can find the weird stuff.] As soon as the agent’s run off, waggling its little ASCII butt, she returns to the task at hand. "VIP ENTRANCE HUH… SO, WHAT ABOUT THE STANDARD GUESTS? YOU SAID THEY’RE ALL WELL CONNECTED, BUT HOW DO THEY CHECK IN? IS THERE A LIST, OR…?"
She doesn’t get to finish that thought. There’s eyes on her now. She turns her attention to the bartender, resulting in an awkward beat of mutual silent staring. The decker, with all her savoir faire, is the first to break the silence. "YES, I’M AN ADULT. I’M JUST FRAGGING FLAT." She cranes her head around to her teammates, cranking up her volume. "OI, DREKHEADS, WHAT ARE WE DRINKING?"
(( Can just start the agent on a matrix search for the in question. Data Processing 6, running Browse and Agent. ))
She doesn’t get to finish that thought. There’s eyes on her now. She turns her attention to the bartender, resulting in an awkward beat of mutual silent staring. The decker, with all her savoir faire, is the first to break the silence. "YES, I’M AN ADULT. I’M JUST FRAGGING FLAT." She cranes her head around to her teammates, cranking up her volume. "OI, DREKHEADS, WHAT ARE WE DRINKING?"
(( Can just start the agent on a matrix search for the in question. Data Processing 6, running Browse and Agent. ))
Re: Run #4 - Eat, Pray, Die
The agent slips off to wherever it is agents go, leaving a progress bar in Mouse's AR feed. The music continues to thump against her ear-drums, accentuated by the sibilating rasp of blow out tweeters. In the time it takes to speak to her compatriots, a fight amongst the other bar patrons has begun, ended, and been forgotten.
A cockroach skitters along the metallic bar-top, regards her with disinterest and vanishes. She swears she hears T-bone laughing, but it's probably just Pareidolia induced by the music's fuzzy techno-pop beat.
A cockroach skitters along the metallic bar-top, regards her with disinterest and vanishes. She swears she hears T-bone laughing, but it's probably just Pareidolia induced by the music's fuzzy techno-pop beat.
Re: Run #4 - Eat, Pray, Die
Mick steps up to the bar and drums their palms on it, slapping out a quick drum roll. Craning their neck up to look at the troll, the ork insists, "Eight fingers of tequila, pint size." Without waiting for a response, the adept turns and suggests, "Got my bones beefed up before our last shitshow, but that's all I'm runnin' on 'ware. Not sure if that'll fuck us, but I can damned as drek pass for security detail."
Re: Run #4 - Eat, Pray, Die
The bartender grunts something incoherent and stoops below the bar. A moment later he emerges holding a bottle with a scorpion laser engraved on the glass and a dirty tumbler. He stares at the stained glassware, seemingly wrestling with some existential dilemma. After a suspect amount of time has passed, he simply places the bottle in front of Mick and flashes a toothy grimace.
Mick is mildly concerned (but wholly unsurprised) to discover that the writing on the bottle is Cyrillic and there is indeed an expired scorpion floating in the contents.
Mick is mildly concerned (but wholly unsurprised) to discover that the writing on the bottle is Cyrillic and there is indeed an expired scorpion floating in the contents.
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Drew Buddy
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- Joined: Sun Oct 30, 2011 7:06 pm
Re: Run #4 - Eat, Pray, Die
Axel sidles up to the bar, barring his forearm across the surface like a child playing at being a cowboy.
"I'll take a tulip glass of your best schnapps," he says gruffly.
<< Go back a bit, >> he comms, << what was that about a convoy? Any details on numbers and composition? >>
He glances toward his companions. "Our wheels just got seriously upgraded," he says with a waggle of his eyebrows.
"I'll take a tulip glass of your best schnapps," he says gruffly.
<< Go back a bit, >> he comms, << what was that about a convoy? Any details on numbers and composition? >>
He glances toward his companions. "Our wheels just got seriously upgraded," he says with a waggle of his eyebrows.
Re: Run #4 - Eat, Pray, Die
<< 3 cars, on the regular. Armored from what a'can see. Mercs, no doubt. Private muscle. I imagine heavy guns un' those big coats. >>
The thumping of the music fades as the track ends, injecting the bar with a stifling, tinnitus-like quality. Outside, the weather has taken a turn and the grime from the windows begins to disappear in little splotches.
The thumping of the music fades as the track ends, injecting the bar with a stifling, tinnitus-like quality. Outside, the weather has taken a turn and the grime from the windows begins to disappear in little splotches.