Home is Where the Heat Isn't (Downtime)

[GM Nick]

Sometimes after a hard day of wetwork you just need to sit back, relax, crack open a carton of soy-beer, light up an Alpaca Premium and put on some Johnny Nuclear. Grinding nuyen is good, but all work and no play makes runners glitch.

[MattL]

Yung arches an eyebrow while watching the AR feed of his bank balance climbing to substantial heights during the funds transfer. A satisfied smile washes over his face.

Somos buenos

He casts his gaze toward the rising sun, the lenses of his glasses taking on a golden hue as they catch the light.

He speaks without turning to address anyone in particular, “Reiya, I’ll see you again; that is solid, yeah, that is truth.” After making the statement, seemingly phrased as a question, his face conveys a subtle contemplation, as though coming to terms with what was said.

“Mouse, I’ll thank you to not go searchin through my Matrix history. But now that you know who I am, well, you know what they say about curiosity so watch for dat cat, eh? And you let me know what’s in the box, careful it not a Mouse trap.”

“Taipan, don’t let the man keep you down, you free now, yeah? Got some new fish to teach, so remember age is just a number, you’re never too old to do anything abuelo.”

“Mick.” Yung pauses for a moment before continuing, “I got this round, next one is on you, yeah? And I like the good stuff so don’t spend dat payday all in one place.”

“Oye, big man.” Yung says, tossing a bandolier of grenades to the troll. “I like the strong silent types; a gift, some paint for a new canvas maybe.”

“Axel, I remember my first run, null sweat omae. I might need a favor in a day or two, could involve this fat bottom slitch too.” He says, slapping T-bone’s tail light. “And don’t worry t-hueso graso, I get you some new chromies.”

“Well amigos, I’m sanguine. It’s been somethin else eh? Gimme a call if you need some machismo or help with Señor Johnson.” After saying this Yung pulls down his circle framed glasses and offers a wink to the crew before sliding them back into place. He turns, putting his hands in the pockets of his 4,000¥ greatcoat and starts walking away.

The clandestine companions watch as Yung janders down the sidewalk, silently waiting for the amicable hombre to cast a glance back at them before rounding the corner, but it never comes...

[Drew Buddy]

Axel watches the retreating figure with equal parts amusement and awe. After a night of battling cannibal clowns in a radioactive exclusion zone in the middle of an extraterritorial UCAS frontier enclave in the middle of NAN territory, all to retrieve an army's worth of weapons for a man of the cloth preaching to the detritus of the Barrens, Axel still can't shake the feeling that the diminishing figure remains the strangest thing he's seen all night. An ascot on a thrill-ganger, or a rose bush in a toxic waste dump. Whatever unknowable forces rage behind that affable, amiable visage, Axel cannot help but respect him. Whatever else the man may be, Axel is certain– in the way that water is wet, and the sky is up–that Akela knows himself, and understands what he's all about in a deeper way than Axel will ever understand about himself. A slow, almost uncomfortable understanding begins to dawn on Axel as he thinks about it: I'm feeling inspired. Despite that man's absurdity, or maybe entirely because of it, I actually believe in him.

He looks away for a brief moment, before looking back at the man. "Hey, if you manage to do that thing you need to do," he says, the implication a hunch with nothing concrete to base it off of, "gonna hit the Powder Keg. Got a few memories I don't want to bring with me when I can finally sleep later on."

The offer made, he turns back to the others. "And Mouse, you got a place to crack that last case?" He pauses, briefly savoring one more shred of anonymity before he offers it up as a sacrifice to whatever cruel gods brought this team together, "'cause I got a workshop. Mostly machines, but I have the tools needed to work on those machines' brains, too. Far enough in the Barrens that the 'Star won't come knocking, not so far that I'm borrowing salt and sugar from our friends from last night."

[Molly]

In truth, Mouse hadn't actually considered snooping on anyone here until Yung went and opened his big mouth. Her threats had been largely empty: the only imagined leverage she might have on a team of literal killers. In truth, in lieu digging through her teammates' comms, she'd settled on merely imagining detailed head-canons for each of their personal lives, which were certainly more entertaining than reality.

But Yung's request to leave his dirty laundry alone lands in the same mental space as other rules, like "Only break into systems with proper permissions." It's cute of him to ask. She waits until he turns before making a face, tongue poking tugging downward on one eye in the most childish of rebellions.

It's Axel's offer that warrants a full double take, a furrow of the brow, eyes staring forward as she clearly struggles to compute this. "TO BE CLEAR, YOU ARE INVITING ME TO YOUR PLACE, ALONE, SAVE FOR A PIECE OF VALUABLE, EXPERIMENTAL TECH." She places her hands in front of her as she unpacks this, as though holding an imaginary box, likely from all the compartmentalization going on right now. "...WITH THE REASSURANCE THAT I'LL BE FAR ENOUGH INTO THE BARRENS THAT LAW ENFORCEMENT WON'T FIND ME."

Once again, her gaze travels between the faces of her teammates, as though trying to read their take on what, at least on paper, would make for the world's easiest murder setup. Her attention flits from Taipan, who admittedly seems to have good survival instincts, before landing squarely of Reiya, who had, for reasons unknown to Mouse, had offered her a sense of sisterly protection back in the Powder Keg. The lingering question on the decker's expression is abundantly clear: 'Am I an idiot?'

To her own surprise, she answers her own question, leaning back with a loose shrug. "OK. LET'S SEE WHAT YOU'VE GOT."

[ReiyaEmm]

The shaman raises an eyebrow at Akela—Yung, apparently—and his parting words to them all, a leave-taking that could be final. Reiya hopes it isn’t, having liked his approach to teamwork and thought him a strong frontman for their little crew. But she’s seen that look in his eyes before, and she knows he’s got shit to do—serious drek, it seems—before rejoining them. She’ll say a Niitsitapi prayer for him when she's alone.

Thinking about what she wants to do with her downtime, Reiya overhears Axel and Mouse’s exchange, and perks up at the sound of a workshop. After all, she’s got nowhere to go, and all she needs is a space where she can work uninterrupted. The shaman also sees the unspoken question in Mouse’s eyes in the language that most women know all too well. She smiles encouragingly. "I’ll come with you techies," she announces, without asking for permission. "I can do spellcraft there as easily as anywhere else." Reiya shifts her eyes to Axel. "Just give me a room and leave me alone for the rest of the day."

[Drew Buddy]

(( If anyone else wants to post about coming along, go ahead! ))

Axel glances nervously between the two women. He's chagrined to hear his living situation summed up with such brutal simplicity, even more so for its accuracy. Being reminded of the simple fact of their basic metahumanity, and the inherent issues that come with a strange man offering to bring a woman home to a dangerous part of town, melts off the last bits of the evening's artifice, leaving behind the cold, sober reality under the morning's scant rays of sunlight. He's tired, they're tired, and probably hungry to boot. This group, such a seemingly unstoppable collection of demigods in last night's chaos, returns to it's natural state of being cold, battered, bruised, and still concerned with the day-to-day fears that everyone else bustling about on the street are feeling. There's almost a reassuring normalcy to it.

His heart beats faster as he feels his anonymity slip further into the red, but there's no turning back. "O-Okay, yeah, there's room. I mean it's not much. Just a big garage and a bunch of tools, but we won't be bumping into each other, and it's safe." As he says the words, a laundry list of to-do items fills his head, all of them coming far too late to do anything about. Gods, did I take out the trash? I really hope that I remembered to take that pile of laundry upstairs. Oh gods, the noodle bowls. When's the last time I cleared the workshop of those? Ah, frag, and I need to secure that message to Carl. "Okay, frag it, let's set up shop at my place." He thinks for a moment before turning to Reiya, "And just... Please no spirits? Okay?"

— — —

The front of the workshop appears in the mist that clings to the ground after last night's rain. Warped, rotted wood juts out above the reinforced ferrocrete walls that were clearly added later in the building's life, a matryoshka doll of changing needs, history, and generations. The wooden sign out front is barely legible, reading F-re St--ion 81 S--mamish, W-. One of the bay doors begins to roll up its considerable, reinforced mass as the van approaches. The sentries don't give any indication one way or the other at their approach.

Axel pulls the van into the empty oversized vehicle bay, straddling the service pit leading to the sub-basement that's as large as the workshop above. Axel looks at his utilitarian home with new eyes. It really is a spacious building, all the more so for its three levels divided into basement, workshop, and living quarters in ascending altitude. The door begins its slow journey down as the motor dies, and Axel wastes no time hopping out to begin his last-ditch attempt to control the narrative of his personal life. He talks as he brushes old noodle bowls into the trash, and kicks packaging and miscellaneous detritus under the workbenches.

"So this is me," he says conversationally, "Main workshop is down here, and there's space down below, too. Not much, but a little more private." He continues his circuit of the workshop, swinging by a console, saving something there, and turning it off. "Living quarters are upstairs. Door on the right is mine. Haven't had any need for the old barracks, so I'm afraid they're not really up to living standards quite yet, but shouldn't need much." He moves over to a panel near the stairs to the upper level, hitting a couple of controls. The readout shows a row of temperatures. The one labelled "barracks" starts to climb from 8C, presumably up to 21C like all the other readouts. He taps a piece of glass next to the panel. "Water's good. It's on a recycler, but this rain topped things up. Power is courtesy of the poor little dears in Bellevue, so don't be shy about using that."

He terminates his circuit of the garage at a workbench. Electronic tools, finer than their larger mechanical brethren, line the back wall above the table, and several partially disassembled vehicle dog-brains in various states of disrepair litter the workspace. "And here's what I've got that might help with that case," he says, mostly to Mouse.

[Molly]

“...SHINY.”

This simple, breathless assessment is immediately followed by the soft , but unmistakable staccato of the decker’s footsteps catching up to Axel. In this strange new environment, Mouse carries the energy of a kid in a fireworks store: surrounded by excitement, infinite destructive potential, and a high likelihood of personal injury. She presses the Mitsuhama case against her chest with both arms as she moves, each step light, uneven, as though if she lingered in one place too long, the floor might disappear from under her.

Mercifully, she overlooks the clutter in favor of the chrome, ignoring the mess which, if anything, only makes the space more familiar to her. Instead, she approaches each of the larger tools - each a welcoming sight of burnished steel and high voltage cable, and leans in close enough to see her own warped reflection.

She has absolutely no idea what these larger, industrial scale machines are. But, part of her suspects, she could certainly find out for herself. All she would have to do would be to take each one apart in its entirety. It would be quite simple. She’d have it back together before anyone would notice. Probably.

She’s several feet past the door when she physically stops and turns around, albeit briefly, to ensure that Reiya is still close by. On one hand, she can’t help but feel flustered, as though she had, through some psychic beacon of distress, summoned down some spiritual guardian for little more than a spike of social anxiety. Still, the watchful Shaman’s presence is more than appreciated, particularly in her support of what otherwise could have been an especially reckless life choice.

Of the people who are likely to end up in a Barrens woodchipper, Mouse is not going to be among them- not today, anyway.

Satisfied enough, she approaches the workbench, eyes wide at the assortment of tools before her. She bites her lip at the sight of them, swallows hard, and closes her eyes in a brief nod that she intends to be one of cool approval, but in retrospect, probably just looks sleepy.

“I CAN WORK WITH THIS.”

With a distinct lack of ceremony, she extends the Mitsuhama case outward and plops it down on the bench. She turns it in place, exposing the thumbprint scanner. “I JUST NEED TO EXPOSE THE WIRING UNDER THIS DREK. THAT SHOULD BE ENOUGH FOR ME TO PLACE A TAP AND DO MY THING.”

She swallows. “WORD IS THAT MITSUHAMA’S MORE PARANOID WITH THEIR ASSETS THAN YOUR STANDARD MEGA. GOTTA WONDER HOW THOSE CLOWNS GOT THEIR HANDS ON THIS.” Even the artificial tones come across as less certain purely from her vague word choice, as though she’s merely relaying some unnerving hearsay than something she has firsthand experience with. “BUT I THINK I CAN CRACK THIS, PROBABLY WITHOUT FRYING MY BRAIN IN THE PROCESS- OR WORSE, THE GEAR.”

[MattL]

After leaving his companions, Yung makes his way to the nearest monorail station and catches a ride Downtown, his stop, Seattle University. He stows his Ares Predator and other illegal firearms in a locker at the monorail station before heading to his destination, University Hospital.

He goes through what has become a familiar routine. Passing through security, checking in at the front desk, riding the elevator to the 3rd floor, passing through another security checkpoint, and finally arriving at the Intensive Care Unit, Room 305. He is back home, as much of a home as a hospital can be. But he is with family, and that is all that matters.

Luckily the room has a shower, so he can wash off the filth of the past 24 hours. After cleaning up, he is finally able to get some sleep, reclined in a deliberately uncomfortable hospital chair. Several hours later, he wakes up to a notification on his AR feed.
<1 new message>

Let’s see what the good Doc has to say.

Turns out it’s the news he was looking for. The package would arrive tomorrow for setup. He would need to meet the delivery team and provide them access to the location.

(( Message Kento Mitoshi )) <Kento, good news, the package will be delivered tomorrow, and they can set it up. We can finally get out of this god damn recycled air. I’m going need you to be here while I go let them in to set up tomorrow.>

Yung spends the rest of the evening making preparations for the next day’s events. He informs the hospital administration that he will need an ambulance, another hit against the already outrageous bill.

(( Message Jarvis Mora )) <Hey, Doc, I’ll meet the crew tomorrow for setup. Can you be there too? I want to make sure that they don’t cut any corners. I’m getting a transport scheduled for 5 pm, should be there at 5:15, I could use your help to get everything in place.>

---

The next day things actually go according to plan for once, except for the 8,000¥ bill. Yung applies his unbridled charisma in dealing with the hospital administrator, to set up a reasonable payment plan for the account.

After dealing with the bill, his yoriyoi hanbun takes over stewardship duties. Yung heads to meet Doc Mora to prepare and set up the package.

“Can’t thank you enough Doc, you’ve always been good to me. That said, I am one of your best customers.”

The delivery team is only willing to accept payment via certified credstick, 16,000¥, and no amount of charm will reduce that price.

The patient in room 305 checks out and is transported to the ambulance waiting out front. The vehicle weaves through the congested traffic of Highway 520 eastbound, eventually exiting and making its way to the final destination. Doctor Mora waits curbside to assist with transferring the patient.

Once the patient is set up in their newly appointed quarters, things finally settle down for a moment. A solemnity settles over the room as Yung, Kento, and Doc Mora find themselves in the common room together. The only sound is the telltale beep of the EKG machine in the adjoining bedroom.

Yung breaks the silence, “Listen Doc, I know I have asked for a lot already, but I’ve got one more favor to ask. I was hoping you could stay here and make sure our patient is okay for the next couple of weeks. I already talked to Kento.” Yung reaches his arm out to Kento’s shoulder in a comforting gesture, which is rebuffed by the target of the affection, who turns away and walks over to the window.

“Obviously, he’s not too happy about it. But the drek I had to shovel pulling the credits together over the past couple of days left a mark. Anyway, you can do your biz here, null sweat, if you can help me out.”

Doc Mora nods in agreement reluctantly, but his skill won't help patch the rift that begins to form between Yung and Kento.

[Stephen]

Taipan grunts as he watches Yung strut away from the group, still bristling at the younger man's insinuation about his age. That silver tongue of his was as likely to get him shot as it was to get him ahead, but Taipan hasn't forgotten that it lined his pockets with a bit of extra nuyen for last night's work.

His gaze traverses the rest of the mismatched crew of misfits that had somehow miraculously all survived the night's trials. All told, it hadn't gone too badly, when one considered what could have happened. He shudders, remembering some of the more gristly scenes that the others had been spared. Save for Mick, of course. Though Taipan had tried to shutter his revulsion and fear behind a façade of professionalism at some of the night's more macabre encounters, the ease with which Mick seemed to move on was troubling.

The chatter between the wolf, wheelman, and decker fades into focus, Taipan just making out the last moments of the conversation. The invitation surely does not include him, and nor is he sure he would want it to. He bows his head slightly to each of the remaining runners in turn, "I will take my leave of you." He turns to leave and pauses momentarily, looking over his shoulder, "For what it's worth, I have had worse associates in the past. Good luck to you all." He turns to walk away, and moments later, is gone.

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

"Shut the frag up!" comes the half-hearted admonishment, drifting through the open window of his apartment from the loft above, but Taipan pays it no mind. That drekbag would be brainstem deep into a BTL before the hour was out. Like clockwork.

Taipan kneels in the living area of his apartment, which is cleared of anything that might, in fact, render it livable. The couch and single chair have been shoved unceremoniously against the wall, the coffee table turned on its side, halfway blocking the already narrow path to the small galley kitchen, which is filled with not the best of appliances, but not the worst either, none of which get much use these days regardless of their quality.

Eyes closed, Taipan centers himself once again, kneeling with his hands resting gently in his lap, palms skyward. He begins to draw in a deep breath from his nostrils, and before the zenith of the inhalation, picks a random moment to unleash his fury. His eyes snap open as his hands flash to his side, constricting around the katana's long grip. It flashes from its sheath in a blur of cold steel, its advent announced by a full-throated roar belonging to its wielder.

The admonishing cry comes again, accompanied by a knocking on the ceiling, but the distraction skips across the void as a stone upon smooth water. The back of the blade passes quickly through his thumb and forefinger until it reaches the point, then he slides the blade home with a quiet snick.

The cycles repeat: draw, parry, sheath -- draw, thrust, sheath -- draw, parry, slash, sheath...

The repetition is meditative, and a welcome respite from the relative chaos of his recent existence in the shadows and the memory of what he has lost. He sheathes the sword one last time and opens his eyes to look around him. For one grown up knowing almost nothing but corporate discipline, the last year has been trying indeed. Many would kill many times over to have what meager luxury lies cast haphazardly around him, but it provides small comfort in the grand scheme of things.

[GM Nick]

Mouse - Hardware Skill Extended Check

Hardware + LOG + 2 (Workshop), 1 hour
5, 3, 2, 5, 3, 3, 4, 3, 5, 4, 3, 2
3 hits on 12 dice
`
Hardware + LOG + 2 (Workshop) 1 hour
5, 1, 6, 1, 6, 6, 3, 1, 6, 5, 3, 6
7 hits on 12 dice
`
Hardware + LOG + 2 (Workshop)1 hour
4, 1, 5, 6, 3, 1, 2, 6, 3, 1, 1, 3
3 hits on 12 dice
`
Hardware + LOG + 2 (Workshop)1 hour
3, 1, 5, 2, 6, 2, 5, 2, 4, 2, 5, 2
4 hits on 12 dice

Mouse's hand hovers over the cluttered workshop bench as she considers which tool would serve her best. She settle on a set of micro-shims and hunches over the workbench. A simple mental command summons her playlist and begins piping Korean rock music straight to her brainstem. The diminutive decker's head bobs as she sets to her task, occasionally reaching out a hand to replace a new tool.

* * *

Four grueling hours later, Mouse flops face down against the cool steel of the table, releasing a massive sigh. As far as meatspace security goes, this is some of the best she has seen. The biometric lock had almost a dozen layers of protection that needed to be snipped, ground off or carefully bypassed. The difficulty of the task coupled with the surgical precision required tested every ounce of Mouse's reverse engineering skills.

Fortunately, the biometric lock now lies disassembled on the workshop bench.

[GM Nick]

Mouse sits up straight and slides the box closer. Her heart is thumping in her throat. She imagines this is the phenomena she observed in countless vintage Christmas movies: wide-eyed child actors waiting with bated breath on the razor's edge of anticipation to see what Santa has brought. Only it's not Christmas-- It's Spring and Santa Claus probably doesn't work for Mitsuhama. Probably.

The latches make a satisfying thlac as she rotates the tumbler with a screwdriver. The svelte black case swings open.

Nestled inside the case on a bed of silica gel and protective film membrane is an elegant rectangle of glossy black. A screen sits flush with the entire surface of the object and a row of ports adorn one side. Mouse doesn't need to deduce the function of this object, she knows immediately: it's a cyberdeck.

The Mitsuhama logo is etched on one corner and the word PROTOTYPE is stenciled in yellow vinyl across the bottom of the screen.

[Molly]

“Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa-”

The resulting sound is high-pitched, choked and barely audible, though steadily increasing in strength. As soon as she realizes it’s coming from her, she slaps both hands over her mouth, biting against her own hands through her mask in a desperate attempt to stifle it.

Her entire body is vibrating, lingering fatigue battling newfound adrenaline and giddy lightheadedness. She takes a trembling step back, knocking into the nearby work stool in the process, sending it to the ground in a metallic clatter. The sound barely registers over the rush of blood in her own head.

As soon as ‘the noise’ has stopped, she pulls her hands from her mouth, letting a soft voice once again escaping, though this time in little more than a breath: “...the fuck…”

She leans in close, both hands bracing against the workbench, frantically activating the microcamera mounted on her glasses and snapping a series of stills of both case and contents.

With a swipe of her hand, she forwards the image- first to a trusted contact, with a much cooler head than her own, and who’s long overdue a report from her:

<<0-先生,

Sorry it took me so long to check in. So uh… job complete? I’m totally going to send you the After-Action readout, I swear, but first, I got my grubby little paws on something you’ll want to see: >>

But there’s still the teammates: The ones who gave her this case, and who subsequently know that she’s in possession of some valuable mystery equipment. The ones who are also very capable of murdering people in cold blood, who she really ought not to piss off with a sudden disappearing act. Not to mention, there’s one whose house she’s in now, and the other one who came to watch over her.

It’s too late now to pretend she didn’t see anything, right? They’re just going to expect to fence it, aren’t they? These are the same teammates who left a potential source hanging from a ferris wheel for cash and expediency. How the everloving frag is she going to convince them that this deck is worth more in their hands, in her hands, than their cut of the silicon that comprises it?

She forces herself to breathe as she takes one of the images and attaches it to an outgoing message to last night’s companions: <<Kitaaa- ♡>>. Already, she hates herself for having chosen the route of honesty, albeit without much detail, but she cuts off any mental deliberation with the ‘Send’ icon. Maybe, just maybe, they'll accept these findings without much following. Maybe she won't immediately regret this.

...she really doesn't want to regret this.

[ReiyaEmm]

Reiya nods her assent at Axel’s request for no spirits at his place. She has no plans to call on the spirit realm, and doubts her astral signature will be enough to catch the notice of any that happen to be nearby.

The workshop and living space, when they arrive, is clearly both a bachelor pad and a rigger temple. Reiya’s amused by Axel’s deprecating introduction, and perks up at the sound of a basement space that’s relatively private. Once she sees that Axel and Mouse are engaged in tools, tech, and other paraphernalia she’ll never go in for, Reiya slips into the basement room and gets comfortable. She’ll work first, then scrounge in Axel’s kitchen, then sleep.

The shaman begins by binding the two spellcasting foci she acquired much earlier, but never keyed to herself. The Manipulation focus proceeds without trouble, but the Healing focus causes her a pang of regret—an emotion she rarely feels—and grief. Reiya got the focus as an aid to heal Satya, but by the time she received it, there was no time to do the binding, and then no one to heal. She pushes aside her sadness with the help of renewed determination; she’s not yet strongly attached to any of her recent comrades, and no injuries in need of her healing spell occurred during their foray, but they could have. She’s fragged if she’ll let this focus go to waste any longer.

That done, she pops into Axel’s living quarters and helps herself to a glass of water and a bowl of instant noodles. Once hydrated and fed, she checks in at the workshop and finds the rigger and the decker deeply focused on the Mitsuhama case and nothing else. Satisfied, she returns to what she’s already mentally labeled her lair and puts the finishing touches on a spell she was in the process of mastering before everything in her life went to drek, wrack and ruin.

Reiya had generally worked her magic alone, but when the VITAS epidemic began its rampage through her community, necessity and common sense required her to work with other shamans. Her skill with shapechange and speed in her favorite wolf form had made her the natural choice to go fetch supplies when needed, but her inability to communicate while in wolf mode had been frustrating. Other matters had distracted and overwhelmed her before she could finish her mastery of magical telepathy back then, but she had come close. Now, with some time on her hands and her motivation rekindled, she practices and plays with the spell again.

When it feels ready, Reiya gets up and stands in the doorway to the workshop, where she can see Axel and Mouse, immersed in their digital breaking and entering. She casts the aptly named Mindnet and mentally projects her intended speech. “‘Sup, techies?”

(( Cast Mindnet at Force 2. ))

[Conway]

Thoryne hums good naturedly to himself as he works, occasionally whistling snippets of a melody as he reaches for a pair of pliers or exchanges a metal file for a soldering iron. The tune is hard to follow, being quiet, made more so that it appears to ebb and flow between various compositions, sounding one moment like The Mariners Revenge Song and a turn of a tool or two later like The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald. It appears to be an unconscious performance, the doing of serving to relax and focus the man as part of his work process.

On occasion bits of conversation or the sounds of others working float in past his fog of focus, including one particularly startling vocation from Mouse, who inexplicably, lets out an opossum like warble- if said opossum were being electrocuted- before clapping her hands over her mouth and saying nothing more. Thoryne grins.

The workbench, though tidy, is taken up entirely by the bulk of the trolls armored vest and gear. Snips and scraps of soft-weave and shock woven fabrics lay upon it like ribbon cuttings, trim work from the layers Thoryne has sewn into his vest like the baton and cordage of good sailcloth. Ballistic gel packs have been neatly patched in, double stitched, and ready to take a punch.
He smiles in satisfaction, running an oil rag over the AK-98 which sits in a bench vice, now heavily modified to Thorynes preference. The ring of the trigger guard has been filed away, and the charging handle has been replaced with a thick bar of metal, all appropriately proportioned for his right-size hands.

Gingerly, he replaces the mounting plate atop the slide, fastens it tight, and depresses a small toggle protruding from it. A status light flickers to life in his vision, followed by a quick diagnostic rundown, and finally a targeting reticle and camera feed, which incidentally is painting a target across the workshop at Axel. He powers the unit down before approaching the man.

“So….I’ve been thinking. Might be a good thing if another of us knows how to pilot that thing, “ he says, waving a hand dismissively at the Vantichrist. “You know, in case uh, something happens, or you need to be uh... in there.” he adds, gesturing to the drone Axel is tinkering with. “Maybe you could show me the ropes?”

[GM Nick]

Reiya - Spellcasting Skill Check (Mindnet, 2)

Spellcasting + MAG (3)
3, 1, 3, 3, 6, 4, 6, 2, 4, 2, 3, 6
3 hits on 12 dice

Mouse and Axel hear a clear, separate voice inside their minds. Hey, techies. The sudden intrusion of a wholly sentient inner voice is a bit unnerving, but the inflection clearly belongs to their new found Amerind friend.

[John]

Mick had hardly been able to wait to part company with the night's companions. They had never been host to many social graces, and spending time with so many strangers was exhausting and frustrating. And, much more than they needed to pal around with this group of degenerates, they needed sleep at the end of all that bloodshed. Parting company with them that night, all they'd said was "Let me know what happens with the case. I expect a piece of it when we get it open." Giving the team a moment of consideration, they do their best at an amiable goodbye, turning and walking away with a simple "See ya around."

-----

Slinking through back alleys, Mick's walk home is besieged by an impossible race of conflicting thoughts. The payday was good, but they'd need more to get the frag outta this drekhole once and for all. The team had pulled it all together, but many of them had felt superfluous to the task– just extra hands narrowing the ork's hard-won cut. The preacher had been so useful to them tonight, but could he be trusted? And then there's the corpo stooge who had somehow become their only reliable companion in the whole bloody affair.

They run a callused hand over their shaved-short hair, feeling the bristly scruff play at their palm. The images race through their mind– the hanging Lone Star goon, the vacant-eyed seething of the Smiles, all the blood and viscera. It was too much to keep straight. The sum of it all is overwhelming, and the ork needs a drink and a sleep. There would be time for all that drek later.

[Molly]

To think that this used to be the stuff of daydreams: a recurring idle fantasy that would occur to the Decker as she tuned her own kitbashed hardware, striking a careful balance between overclocking and overheating, routing the coprocessor she’d need to match the speeds of its flashier counterparts… one day, she’d open the case to gear that’s actually new and expensive.

She never imagined that in this moment, she’d be feeling raw dread, seeping like icewater through her veins.

This new, exciting gear shakes free loose associations and scattered sensory memories. She had learned on an MCT deck, hadn’t she? And technically that one had been stolen too, hadn’t it? Of course, the look was entirely different, being an ancient keyboard model, and the label might have said ‘Brainwave’, but the gear was always Mitsuhama in the end.

It occurs to her now where the rumors of the ruthlessness Japanocorp became embedded in her psyche, far beyond the urban legends of the corporate beast that brutally pursued any who dared steal from it. The policy always seemed natural in the context of MCT's criminal bedfellows.

The sight of the contraband prototype, and the thought of having to sell it, stirs memories of impressions she’d thought lost to time, like the foundation of some ancient ruin, buried under the sea-floor and unearthed by moving currents:

A woman’s voice, tone sharp with anger,
“Is this the life you imagined for us? The life you sold our freedom for?”
Breaking glass, a door slam, silence.

---

‘Sup, techies?'

The approach- and the calm, familiar voice injected into her mind, is enough to make the decker jump. “WHAT WAS-” As she directs her thought into the synthesizer, she can hear her own, metahuman voice, or rather, some strange imagined facsimile of it, reverberating into a strange mechanical echo.

She stops, shakes her head, trying to figure out what the hell bizarre magical drek Reiya’s doing now, and instead merely points to the open case, as though that will answer any of the shaman’s questions.

From the fact that her expression conveys anything but sheer elation at the new, potentially scorching hot treasure on her hands, one thing is clear: things are more complicated than good.

[MattL]

Yung walks up to the rundown building on the south side of Renton, it's late, and the lights are off inside. He steps up to the biometric lock and places his finger on the scanner. After a moment, the light turns green, and the latch bolting the door in front of him clicks open.

He passes through the familiar doors of the Wolf's Den. It's been nearly two years since he last stepped foot inside; it still smells the same. He scans the room with his low light vision goggles, ambivalent about turning on the lights.

For all the time that has passed, little has changed. Everything still seems to be in the place where Yung remembers it the night an argument put an end to his decade-long apprenticeship. In the corner sits his oldest nemesis, the Wing-Chun Dummy. It was not a traditional fixture in a jiu-jitsu dojo. It was added specifically to deal with the rage of Yung's adolescence.

"Hello, old friend," Yung says, removing his greatcoat and bowing to the fixture. He continues removing articles of clothing until all that remains are his Armante boxer briefs. "Shall we?" he asks the dummy rhetorically as he approaches.

Yung begins with a simple series of motions, a warm-up to get his muscles ready and rediscover the nostalgic touch of an old friend. Minutes begin to pass and his rhythm increases, time and again moving through a set of motions, consistently quickening the pace. An hour passes, still, he persists. Another goes by; his body aches, and the floor around him is covered in perspiration.

A scene flashes in his head with every hit of the wooden arms, real as any BTL. *thwack* A body lying on cold, wet asphalt. *thwack* The hilt of a wakizashi, protruding from the motionless form's back. *thwack* Where is the DocWagon? *thwack* Yung's hand grasped around the hilt. *thwack* He had to pull it out himself. *thwack* Camina… *thwack* the glowing red eyes.

He doesn't remember stopping, only waking up to the smell of noodles.

"Looks like it was a long night." The familiar voice of Tio Paulo.

Opening his eyes, Yung sees a steaming bowl of soy noodles on the floor beside him. Uncle Paulo sitting on a chair a few feet away, a smug smirk plastered across his face.

"It's been a minute." His Uncle continues, "You never called, you never wrote. You bear a grudge like your father. Be careful with that."

Yung sits up, picking up the bowl and chopsticks, bowing his head slightly, "Lo Siento Tio." Then begins to eat the noodles with a ravenous appetite.

"You know it's really unwise to break into a business and fall asleep half-naked on the floor. That suit you left draped about was a filthy mess and had blood on it; I took it to the salvation store."

Yung sprays hot miso broth out his nose and begins coughing uncontrollably in response. After a moment, he regains his composure, although a stray noodle hangs out of his nostril, "You did what?" He scans the dojo for any signs of his suit, only to find none. "Puta Madre!" A look of incredulity on Yung's face as he stares daggers at his Uncle.

Tio Paulo responds, "What, you prefer I call the Stars for B&E on a fake SIN like that 'Akela'? And don't talk about tu Madre like that."

Yung's eyes grow wide. He throws the last remnants of the noodles aside as he stands up and charges at his Uncle. Paulo reacts fluidly, quickly rising from his chair to intercept Yung's wild attempt at an attack. He grabs Yung's wrist and uses his momentum to flip him onto his back.

"You're out of practice, Miho, and you can't wear that drek in my place anyway. What did you come here for, you need something? If so, you do things my way." Paulo says, extending a hand, a symbolic gesture for accepting his terms. Yung lays on his back, staring up at his Uncle. After a moment, his fury disappears. He nods slightly and extends his hand.

Night and day run together over the next two weeks. Days are spent in the tutelage of Paulo, much as they were when Yung was an adolescent. Nights are spent with the Wing-Chun Dummy; releasing the frustration of being powerless. A meditative dance to compartmentalize the grief and anxiety of things beyond his control.

Yung barely eats, his already lean form pushed to the extremes of what would be considered healthy. He collapses from exhaustion more than once during the process, only to wake up to the smell of miso broth and soy noodles.

On the 14th day of his residence, he awakens, feeling a sense of serenity, a certain peace with what he can and cannot control. He steps into the common room of the dojo to find Uncle Paulo sitting, enjoying a bowl of noodles. Draped across the counter is his Synergist Line Suit and Greatcoat, wrapped in a thin film of plastic.

"I think you're done for now, Miho." Uncle Paulo says. "That drek was filthy; I got it cleaned for you." Yung smiles and bows in appreciation.

"Next time you visit, you're gonna have to tell me what all this is about, okay?"

"Bueno Tio," Yung responds.

Yung places his commlink back in his ear, a piece of technology he's been devoid of for the past two weeks. <6 New Messages, 1 Priority Message>

Play Priority Message <Yung, where are you? You can't just leave me like that. I need you too. When are you coming back? The hospital has been calling; they're expecting the next payment. I also got word from an old friend, Mr. Johnson has a new job. Please let me know you're okay. Aishitemasu.>

Yung begins the meticulous routine of adorning himself in his exquisitely expensive 7,000¥ suit as he listens to the message. He cracks open the front door of the dojo, experiencing the sights, sounds, and smells of the outside world for the first time in two weeks. He puts on his trademark circle framed sunglasses before turning back to address his Uncle.

"Thank you, Tio, but time to get back to work. This was nice. I'll be in touch."

[Drew Buddy]

Axel studies the troll for a moment, reeling from having his assumptions shattered for the umpteenth time in the last 24 hours. Here stands an absolute stone monolith of a metahuman, cool under fire, and far more widely traveled than Axel could ever hope to be. And he wants driving lessons. The humble simplicity of the request makes Axel break out into a grin. "Sure, man. Yeah, I can do that. Gotta warn you though, driving a vehicle like T-Bone in a place like the barrens is going to be diving into the deep end." He slaps the toll on the shoulder. "But I think you've probably done worse, eh, omae?"

A voice, one he could have sworn originated centimeters from his ear, or even inside his own head, causes him to spin around. "'Sup, techies?"

"FRAG!" He looks around the room wildly. His AR shows no active audio connections and the voice was far too high in the register to originate from Thoryne. Just as he's readying a full diagnostic suite of his implants, another voice cuts in: "WAS-" followed by an image of the Mitsuhama case. But it's more than an image that comes across his 'ware. This one carries with it a sense of intent, unspoken meaning that he fully understands as if it were his own thought, an intent that says, "this is up". Axel could swear he even catches the faintest whiff of new plastic accompanying the image. The short bursts of voice resolve into a familiarity. He locks eyes with Mouse, at gives her a questioning look before realizing that he probably doesn't even need to communicate with body language. He lets his racing heart slow, and casts a glance to the utility trench leading to the basement. He thinks he catches a sliver of movement from the shaman below.

Huh, so this connection is full duplex?

[Molly]

The chorus of literal mental noise only expands as the second voice: Axel’s, chimes in. Mouse reaches a hand to her scalp, reflexively, tugging against her hair as though that might quell the chaos. It’s as though she now has six separate intermingling channels that need to be separated out: Axel, Reiya, her own deliberate thoughts, the intrusive memories, her intentions as projected to the DNI, and the thoughts she’s somehow communicating to this mental group-chat.

She tries again, deliberately this time. “Did you just patch yourself into my brain?” The voice is definitely her own, albeit hushed to little more than a whisper, as though just by communicating in this manner, she were reluctantly sharing some embarrassing personal secret. Facing the sheer absurdity of the circumstance, however, she does reveal a hint of a smile. “If you’re trying to teach me a lesson about respecting others’ privacy, it won’t work.”

Slowly, she detangles her own hand as she attempts to detangle these interwoven threads of communication, to let calmer thoughts prevail. ”...Still, if this some kind of secure channel, and not some fraggy dream…” She tries again, pointing to the deck, and this time conjuring a clear mental image of the device. ”I cracked that fragging case, and this is our grand prize.”

Once she gets over the ‘losing her preferred method of communication’ thing, the whole mindnet effect is actually more intuitive than she thought, replicating the projection of images like she might over comms. She adds a bright, flashing arrow to the words “PROTOTYPE” and “MITSUHAMA” on her mental image. ”Not just any cyberdeck, but some highly proprietary, experimental drek from arguably the most paranoid burakku kigyo.“

She swallows hard, ”For comparison, if the stolen weapons we got for preacher were ‘hot’, this would be…” The mental image that follows is a vivid memory from an old flatvid, in which the face of some bespectacled nazi drekbag rapidly melts into red goo.

She turns to Axel now, still obviously not having shaken off the clawing fear, but at least facing it with more resolve now. ”You said this place is secure, ne? ‘Cause our hoops are counting on it.” Anxiety turns to adrenaline turns to action, as she immediately focuses back on her surroundings, eyes darting between scattered tools and materials. “In the meantime, let’s get this radioactive fucker into a faraday cage. Maybe then you can all catch some sleep.”

[GM Nick]

The Mitshama case ends up wrapped in copper sheeting and buried under a pair of leaded vests that Axel had rescued from an abandoned oncology clinic. Mouse's protestations about the method of storage dwindle when she realizes how isolated the warehouse is.

The team completes their various tasks and even manages to secure a little R&R. On the evening of the fourteenth day since the Bongoland caper, a message from Preacher arrives: he has work. Urgent work.

[MattL]

After leaving the Wolf’s Den, Yung returns to his apartment in Renton. Doc Mora gives him a status update, which consists mainly of, ‘no change or progress’. Yung asks the Doctor about the possibility of surgical treatment, what the cost might be and how long he has for that to remain an option. Doc Mora doesn’t have an answer, but says he’ll do some digging.

Yung grabs his Armante backpack and begins neatly packing things inside. He hadn’t taken the consideration to prepare properly before, a mistake he wouldn’t make again.

(( Packing into bag: grenades, medkit, drugs, plastic restraints, metal restraints, duct tape, coveralls, cheap shoes, gas mask, meta link, endoscope, and a roll of nylon string. ))

Before leaving Yung writes out a note to Kento, it’s old-fashioned, but is meant to convey a more personal touch. He folds the note into a tent and leaves it on the faux marble countertop in the kitchen.

He heads to the nearest monorail station and catches a ride to Redmond. Departing the station and starts making his way toward the Eaves.

[John]

'TRAPPED.'

The word has been screaming in Mick's head for the last 24 hours like a like a flashing neon 'COLD BEER' sign directly across the street from an AA meeting. Its truth was hideous, but no matter how the ork tried to fight it, its truth was also inexorable.

"Fucking trapped..." The words ride on tiny puffs of smoke.

The ork lies supine, stretched long atop the bar where Tex had first introduced them to Anne Marie, their mission, and this whole repellent operation. Their right knee is bent so that the sole of their boot rests flush against the bartop. A half-empty bottle of a tequila older than Mick's parents would have been hangs from between their fingers, their right arm dangling lackadaisically off the side of the bar. The exhausted stub of an Alpaca Black stands at attention in their lips, the smoldering filter filling the space around them with the smell of burning plastic– or something like it.

Mick didn't care how well paid they were for the drekshow on Alcatraz– they hadn't been paid well enough to be trapped in fucking FREECAL, of all goddamned places. They draw again from the filter, the burning, synthetic taste of the smoke leaving no impression upon them. Absent-mindedly, they withdraw the butt from their lips with their left hand and flick it indifferently down the bar, into the oblivion of being some rich asshole's problem. If they hadn't been so ravaged with preoccupation over their current situation, the ork would have realized that it was really the oblivion of some poor servant's problem into which they were petulantly consigning their garbage.

Mick had had conversations with lots of people since getting back, their rage over the situation well known to all. The ork was toying with simply abandoning ship. What did they need this drek for? Mick had been homeless in worse places than the FreeCal wilds, and was now sitting on enough nuyen to make a nice little break for it. It wouldn't last forever, but the adept had been a lowlife for more than a decade, and was well-acquainted with living low.

So why weren't they making for the hills? This scene was pretty close to fucked-out, as Tomás would have said, his jack-o-lantern teeth crooked and ratty.

'Fucking friends...'

The truth of it was just as hideous as the truth of being trapped this side of the border. Just as inexorable, too.

Somewhere over the course of spilling blood with this group of scumbags, Mick had grown fond of them. Or, a couple of them, anyway. Mouse and Taipan. Their fondness for Mouse was an easy nut to crack– the decker was crafty, smart, and oddly fun. And, somehow, despite the synthetic countenance they presented to the world in most situations, the most human and sympathetic of them all. Being around Mouse made Mick feel almost human.

Taipan, on the other hand, was all wrong. He was a corporate stooge, reformed not by any principles or found values, but rather by some expulsion outside his control. He played by the rules. Helped enforce the rules of others. He believed in the lie of this world– that there was an 'ahead' one could get, and that it was worth pursuing. He was everything in society that Mick hated and that Mick was not.

"So what the fuck do I care if he has to make his way without me?"

They extract another cigarette from the pack resting on the slight slope of the their bound breasts, their chest rising and falling in shallow, lazy waves. The swishy crunch of the lighter is stunningly loud in the empty room as they strike it to light the Alpaca.

But the answer to that was hideous and inexorable, too. It wasn't that Taipan needed Mick– it was that Mick needed Taipan. Or, maybe not needed, but between Mouse and Taipan, Mick found themself cresting into a feeling they hadn't felt in years– maybe longer– a feeling of community; of belonging.

The ork draws a long drag from the cigarette, the coal crackling leisurely as it traces down the black paper shaft, and takes another heavy pull from the tequila.

"Fucking trapped..."

[GM Nick]

Tex's guest chateau is an oasis of tranquility amid the bustle of daily operations. That ataraxy is briefly betrayed by a burst of air that sounds like a resigned sigh: the front door opening. Standing in the portal, framed by the radiance of the midday sun, is a lean, feminine figure. At a glance, the creature haloed in luminance could be an angel. As the visitor steps in, it's revealed to be Anne-Marie.

The bodyguard is dressed-down and, presumably, off-duty. She has traded her razorgirl aesthetic for a faded black Johnny Nuclear t-shirt, a pair of cut-off denim shorts that accentuate her preternaturally long legs, and a set of hastily-laced combat boots. She's also festooned with a trio of Ndebele neck rings, crafted of some unknown composite that seems to refuse the light. Perched on her nose are a pair of Armani-Ferragamo aviators, over which she gazes blithely at the team-- all of whom are in various stages of either training or relaxation.

Her head bobs an informal greeting to those present. Pressing the aviators up to her forehead, she asks, "You guys have everything you need?"

[Molly]

For her victorious return to Seattle, Mouse's agenda had consisted of the following:
1. Lock self in apartment.
2. Spend the following weeks submersed in hotsim, ‘processing’ her findings from the black site, conducting research on Reiya’s previous inquiries- perhaps training some virtual Agent to do the grunt-work for her, and finding a fence for that prototype deck.
3. Disregard all previous invitations for meatspace social engagements. Do not leave the apartment. Spend the rest of her foreseeable life jacked-in.

As such, this unexpected sojourn in Tex's gilded cage was an obvious wrench in her plans. Even the promise of luxury in captivity was drowned out by her internalized, lizard-brain screeching, demanding a retreat to the safety of her nerd-nest, where she could comfortably hibernate without the pesky intrusions of the outside world.

Still, the little decker is nothing if not resourceful, particularly when fueled by a cause as noble as it is self-destructive.

Upon setting foot into the Blue Dog Chateau, she wastes no time in breaking free of her teammates, forgoing any debriefs or social niceties to instead stake out a base of operations for herself. Adept at worming her way into spaces where she doesn't quite belong, it doesn't take long for her to find a suitable locale: a smaller bedroom, discreetly located on one of the lower floors and kept separate from the more luxurious guest quarters, bearing a frugal simplicity that suggests its intended use by live-in staff. Most importantly, its door locks. Lest anyone come poking around to interrupt her work with well intended diversions or concerns for her well-being, she splashes an informative ARO across the threshold, projecting in unmissable neon: [403: GO AWAY]

Sealed away from the outside world, she makes her 'escape', the conditions of her confinement fading into irrelevance as she slips into Hotsim like a welcome dream. The whims of Saito and Tex be damned, she's home.

Insulated from distraction by her matrix cocoon, she's free to attend to her actual work, her initial "Step 2" of her plans. With a flick of her hands, the findings from the black-site spring into view, each file serving as a tangible scene from her nightmares to come. The hours that pass, the details of her surrounding, all blur into background irrelevance in her hyperfocus, engrossed in the business of searing away biometric identifiers and metadata fingerprints, one frame at a time.

It's not her own sense of self preservation, but her own biomonitor that finally nags her out of reverie. Like a blaring alarm clock jolting her out of deep sleep, a bright neon warning jumps into view, literally forcing itself in front of her eyes: GLUCOSE LEVELS AND HYDRATION BELOW RECOMMENDED LEVELS. RECOMMEND INCREASED INTAKE. Her persona swats away the notification with a practiced hand, only for it to be quickly replaced by a cascade of fresh popups, indicating, in excruciating detail, the physical and cognitive impairments to come should her meat-body fail to receive proper maintenance.

It is thus with the most petulant of sighs that Mouse finally drags her miserable body back from oblivion, to begin the most disgruntled, hungover zombie-shuffle to… she didn’t quite know where. Somewhere with literally any kind of sustenance. And no people. And no Anne-Marie.

She makes it as far as Tex's bar without discovery, or at least, without prompting any uncomfortable conversations. It’s just as she’s about to pass through the threshold that she catches the slightest hint of motion, a voice mumbling indiscernably. Instinctively, she flits back, shadowlike, to peer out from the doorframe, bleary eyes squinting as she attempts to discern identity of the figure reclining (or maybe sprawled?) across the bartop.

A soft sigh of relief escapes from her lips. It's just Mick.

Somehow reassured by the ork's presence, or at least in the knowledge that she's not about to receive a lecture, she pads her way toward the bar, and the glimmering array of strange bottles in her surroundings. Her teammate's position warrants only a brief glance, her lips twisting under her mask in a grim sympathy. "...YOU AND ME BOTH." She tilts her head briefly in genuine curiosity. "JUST CONFIRMING- YOU’RE NOT DEAD, RIGHT?" Knowing better than to stare, her attention doesn't linger, drifting absentmindedly to the surrounding shelves, even as she continues, "’CAUSE IF I DON’T GET TO LEAVE THAT EASILY, NEITHER DO YOU."

[MattL]

The inability to leave the ranch as expected certainly raises Yung’s hackles. His mindset is a jet ski hydroplaning across the sea of life, everything seems possible and any suggestion to the contrary serves as motivation more than deterrent. As such, it takes more than a few talkings to and one ill-conceived escape attempt before he makes a small measure of peace with the situation.

Perhaps more frustrating than the fact he cannot leave is the inability to convince Tex and Anne-Marie to let him leave. At least, until he starts to drill into some of the details of Tex’s connections with Anne-Marie. It is the Armani-Ferragamo aviators, moreover, the fact that they aren’t a pair of high quality knock-offs, that makes him ponder the possibilities.

Before long he is draped in digital finery, being catered to by a custom tailored avatar of, well, a tailor. Despite his willingness to indulge in expensive labels, Yung doesn't have the clout to earn the time of day from a true artisan. Mainly he relies upon Guiseppe as his go-between to a world of high fashion that he has no business being a part of; this experience is a far cry from G’s second-hand high-end rack.

Before long the bill reaches such staggering proportions that silent alarms start flashing on his AR feed. The first two such warnings are dismissed with a handwave, but the notification of an involuntary credit check is enough to bring his endorphin levels down just enough to hit the checkout button. It takes a whole day for the shit eating grin plastered across his face to disappear.

In fact, it's the next morning, after having sent some 20 odd unanswered messages to Kento throughout the night, that all the unbridled joy seems to have faded. It’s hard to imagine someone sprawled across a California king wrapped in silk sheets pouting, but there he was. Repeatedly refreshing his inbox for several minutes while tossing and turning, before sending yet another DM. He is decidedly unwilling to eat, get dressed, or do anything resembling normal human activity for the majority of the morning.

Around noon one of Yung’s messages is finally answered, the one sent to Dr. Jarvis Mora. No change in condition, and the Doc is tired of playing nursemaid. Drek. On the bright side, with all the extra time spent monitoring Camina and analyzing her injury, the Doc discovered something. He is under the distinct impression that the blade that severed her spine was coated with some kind of osteotoxin.

One of his tests revealed a foreign substance in her cerebrospinal fluid. Further tests indicated it is an antigen designed to attack bone tissue to induce osteoporosis; making recovery near impossible. Frag. The Doc provides a single recommendation, but no way of facilitating it through his normal channels. Still, the news is enough to get Yung out of bed and off in search of Anne-Marie again. After making an inquiry, he finally takes a few hours to appreciate the surroundings.

Besides love, this place is the embodiment of what he wants in life. He takes a leisurely stroll through the vineyards during the early afternoon, sampling the grapes, attempting to isolate their various qualities that will be doted on after they are bottled and aged appropriately. He finds a perfectly pruned patch of grass, just long and soft enough to use as a makeshift bed for an afternoon nap.

But he can’t sleep, despite the overwhelming serenity, he closes his eyes and the island comes rushing back. Gore soaked killers; well practiced hands eager to remove anything standing in their way…for what, some Nuyen? His eyes shoot open as he sits up reflexively, casting a wary glance back at the compound.

I need to talk to her.

He puts his commlink back in his ear. (( DM to Anne-Marie: )) << Yo, AM, Tex have a sauna or sweat lodge round here? Also, not sure what the English word is, but my tio once told me about a desert plant called peyōtl, ever heard of it? >>

[GM Nick]

Anne-Marie arches a brow at Yung. Her response is instantaneous, thanks to the commlink implanted in her head. The words flicker across Yung's vision, and just behind them Yung can see her lips twist into a mischievous smile.

<< Peyote, huh? That brings back memories. Sure, I can score you some. There's a sauna in the back of the main house, I'll code the door to allow visitors. >>

It's obvious that the gleeful expression now present on the bodyguard's face is the result of the many scenarios running through her mind. Yung hazards a guess that they almost all involve nudity and that spiritual contemplation isn't among them.

<< Just wipe down the benches when you're done, ne? >>

[John]

Tex's Bar

Mick cranes their neck backward so the crown of their skull touches the bar, making eye contact with Mouse. Said with a grin that reads as genuine even upside down, another stub of a cigarette bouncing in their lips: "No such luck, I'm afraid." As they smile, the smoldering butt disgorges a small puff of ash and cinder that falls away and, because of the angle, goes rolling up Mick's cheek and directly into the ork's left eye.

Gone are all of Mick's usual lithe, graceful movements. The ork levitates off the bar in a raving convulsion of limbs, the bottle in their hand shooting across the room. Batting madly at their face, the adept tumbles propulsively off the bar and onto the floor in front of it, dragging three stools, a couple of empties, and a partridge in a pear tree clamoring down with them. The sound explodes in the room and hangs in the air for an eternity, and is only broken by Mick's slow recognition that they're laughing more earnestly than they have in years, and then it's those round, hearty guffaws that choose to linger, aloft in the air and somehow miles from this place.

[MattL]

Yung can’t suppress the rush of blood to his cheeks, which despite his skin tone bear a slight hint of red. "Chica, if I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re flirting with me." He says with a wink.

As the evening unfolds he seeks out Reiya, wandering aimlessly around Tex’s compound before finding her in what feels like the last place he planned to look.

"Oye, hermana. ¿qué pasa? Been looking for you." Contrary to the intonations of his voice, his expression is one of despondency. All of his outward bravado and cocksuredness seems to melt away in the presence of the shaman. After uttering the greeting his body language seems to telegraph a feeling of foolishness for even trying to act casual.

He bows his head, toeing the ground with the tip of his McQueen-Blahnik wingtips. "Hey so, there’s something I think I gotta do. No, there’s something I need to do. But thing is, well, uh…" He trails off, looking away at nothing in particular, trying to collect his thoughts.

"Look, you seem like the kinda person who maybe has some experience helping people find their way. I asked Anne-Marie to get a hold of some peyōtl. Was wondering if you might be up for helping me find an answer." By the end of his speech he finally musters the courage to lock eyes with Reiya, she only sees los ojos de un cachorro de lobo perdido.

[Molly]

Tex's Bar

"GOOD. YOU STILL OWE ME A DRINK." The decker's eyes trace an exhausted path along the forboding rows of dark bottles, which bear a variety of shapes and arcane, handwritten labels that remind her of some fantasy game apothecary. Before she can find the mythical cure for what ails them, her search is interrupted with a staggering crash, impressive in its magnitude.

The sound of the impact is enough to make her jump, eyes wide in a comically exaggerated startle response. As she registers the scene before her, there's a beat of silence, followed by a clink of glass and a soft thud, as Mouse plops herself onto the hard floor beside Mick. Gripped in each fist is a bottle of a distinctly neon shade, one the color of electric poolwater, the other highlighter yellow.

"PRETTY SURE I'M SUPPOSED TO SUGGEST WE DRINK ACTUAL WATER." She squints at the yellow bottle, its color oddly reminiscent of the radiation-green P90 she'd been imbibing prior- probably why she'd opted for those two. "BUT I THINK THIS DREK HAS REAL FRUIT IN IT. THAT MAKES IT HEALTHY, NE?" From her synthetic tones, it's hard to discern whether she's being facetious or has fully embraced this bad-faith leap.

"IF IT BURNS THE LAST WEEK OUT OF MY GREY MATTER ENTIRELY, THAT'S JUST A BONUS." She sets the blue bottle beside Mick's head as she turns over her own, almost in reflection.

…in doing so, it becomes patently obvious that she hadn't thought through how she'd be opening these.

[ReiyaEmm]

Reiya’s not nearly as pissed off about being stuck in FreeCal as everyone else. She’s got nowhere she wants to return to, and as she discovered after their last run, hanging out around the other members of her team is oddly comforting, even if they’re not actually interacting with either.

But like Yung, she’s not thrilled that they can’t leave the complex itself until their next assignment. The shaman had wanted to find a cave in which to commune with her earth spirit friend again. Instead, she spends much of her time up in the branches of Tex’s captive tree, occasionally raining pithy comments down on unsuspecting guards and guests of Tex. She’s an enigmatic Amerind shaman, after all; she’s allowed to be unpredictable, cryptic, and occasionally insulting.

Nevertheless, Reiya is beginning to feel like she should be doing something shamanic, whether some low-level spirit work, spellcrafting, or healing. She considers asking around if there might be a shaman not too far away whom she could train with, given the number of active tribes in California, or a field hospital that could use a skilled healer for a couple days. She hasn’t really decided anything, however, when Yung approaches and asks for her help.

Reiya returns his gaze evenly as he waits for her reply. He’s letting her see more of what’s behind the mask than usual, which convinces her that he may actually be ready for whatever he wants to confront. It’ll be good for her, too. "Sure."

[Drew Buddy]

Tex's Bar

Axel stomps into the bar, his arms full of tools and his RCC. He walks past the bar, grabs a bottle without looking at it, pausing again only to snatch a cocktail umbrella, and sets the whole assemblage unceremoniously down on an unoccupied table in the corner. He grabs a wrench from one of the toolkits laid out on the table, pries off the cap, sticks the umbrella in the neck of the bottle, and takes several awkward swallows while somehow avoiding poking his eye out before turning his attention back to the RCC. He loosens a set of fasteners, and pulls the faceplate off, turning it over, and working on another set of fasteners on the backside. He finally reaches his goal, pulling a small old-school LCD number display out of the assembly and turning it over in the light. The label belies its function in small type: Signal/Noise.

"Fragging thing..." He mutters to himself, head still buried in his work, "really wish you'd just do your job. ¥70,000 nuyen communications platform with the power to bore a hole in Zurich Orbital with radio alone, and you won't even read the interference. Fragging flying blind here..." His face softens and his voice trails off as he regards the disassembled console with affection. "'Course, I didn't exactly buy you, did I?"

He leans back in his chair, eyes closed and face toward the ceiling. One more thing, it's time. His eyes still closed, he opens up a channel to Anne-Marie. << Hey, just wanted to check something. You guys probably patch up a lot of injuries, ne? Got a decent medical suite? I was wondering if you had a neural scanner somewhere in the mix. Just want to check in on something. Was going to do it back in Seattle, but, well, that's not happening now, is it? >>

He lets out a breath he didn't realize he was holding. Well, two mysteries... In process? The thought isn't as satisfying as he'd hoped. He opens his eyes, and finally lowers his eyes to take in the room. There's a brief moment of surprise as he spots Mick and Mouse, clearly in the middle of a conversation that has paused. "Oh, hey folks," he says cheerily, waving a soldering iron at the pair.

[ReiyaEmm]

(( Joint post: Yung and Reiya getting ready for their vision quest ))

On the second morning at Blue Dog Ranch, much to Yung’s surprise, he finds a small package with his name written on it waiting outside the guest chateau. He brings it inside, carefully peeling back the wax wrapping paper, revealing several spherical shriveled husks. He glances at Reiya before beckoning her over with a flick of his head. Reiya raises an eyebrow and comes to join him.

"Ever done this before? I read up a little last night, I guess making tea is popular."

Reiya rolls her eyes at the massive ignorance of this question, then stops herself; she would be more offended had he assumed that every Amerind had tried peyote. "Sorry. Yes, many times; most Blackfeet tribes today use it." She closes her eyes and assumes her professional demeanor as a shamanic healer. "Tea works, but let me make it. I won’t feel right if I don’t go through the ritual. "

Yung nods and hands her the husks. They head to the kitchenette, where he pulls an electric kettle out of the cupboard with an inquiring look at Reiya, who confirms the choice with a nod. Yung sets the kettle to boil while Reiya finds a teapot, then removes the “buttons” from within the husked wrapping and splitting them so they soak and absorb faster. She places these in the teapot and waits for the kettle to boil.

Meanwhile, Yung has not been idle, having located two teacups, a tray, a strainer, and a large pitcher, now filled with water. Ever the himbo, he offers Reiya breakfast in the form of a protein bar followed by a shrug. By the time the water is boiling he’s wolfed down two ‘breakfasts’ and has filled a couple of two gallon jugs with water.

Reiya smiles at Yung's ‘breakfast’. Just as well, before their vision quest, but she knows that some preparation for afterward is perhaps more essential. "Send your friend AM a message. We’re gonna want to eat a fucking banquet at the end of this."

Yung furrows his brow in surprise before complying by mentally composing a message to Anne-Marie. << Hey AM, you got a chef taking orders here? Throw in an order for later, yeah? How bout Tex’s usual BBQ order, and make it for four at 11 PM. Thanks 😘 >>

Reiya pours the boiling water into the teapot and opens the window. Murmuring incantations she first learned as a teenager, she thanks the various gods and forces behind the gift of this tea—including, as an afterthought, AM—and offers the brew to them first; a ceremonial gesture, but one she would never consider omitting. She moves the teapot onto the tray and nods to Yung. "Should steep a bit longer, but might as well go over to the sauna? "

Yung casts Reiya a look of ambivalence before responding, "AM said it’s on the back side of the house."

Reiya nods. The shaman and the adept make their way to the rear of the mansion. Reiya carries a tray with the teapot and cups, Yung carries the two jugs of water in one hand and towels in the other.

They locate the sauna with little trouble. Yung places water and towels on the ground, then sets the temperature to 165 degrees and a duration of 14 hours. The readout issues a warning. UNSAFE DURATION. He pushes CONFIRM.

Reiya raises an eyebrow again, then nods. She’d prefer to start slow and let the burn last long herself.

"Any instructions or advice?"

"Let me get you started," Reiya replies, her voice calm but firm. "No offense; we never let anyone do this without guidance the first few times where I’m from."

Yung unfastens the knot of his robe, letting it fall to the ground. He picks up the pitchers and opens the door, closing his eyes as the heat and humidity wash over him like a wave. He steps inside briefly appraising the interior before sitting cross legged on the floor adjacent to the bed of warming stones, setting one pitcher next to himself and waiting for Reiya to sit before placing the other pitcher next to her.

Reiya strips off her clothes unceremoniously, but spends a little more time unbinding her hair and letting it fall over her shoulders. Thus unadorned, she enters the sauna, and revels in the humid air against her skin before sitting across from Yung. Nodding her thanks at the proffered pitcher, she takes a long drink and gestures for him to do the same. The shaman rolls her shoulders and neck, preparing her body for a long journey. "Ready?" she asks.

"Guess we’ll find out, eh?" He says with a slight quiver in his voice, before grabbing his own pitcher and quaffing down a large gulp.

She smiles slightly. "Let’s begin."

[John]

Tex's Bar

The laughter cycling down, Mick props themself up on one elbow and reaches for the bottle of neon blue poison and takes it into their hand. The top of the bottle is quite literally gilded in gold leaf that wraps over a bulbous, oversized cork, which Mick sticks unselfconsciously in their mouth, chomps down on, and extracts with a hardy wrench that produces a buoyant 'POP'. The ork spits the cork out over their shoulder, which goes bouncing gaily across the stone tile floor. Flakes of gold leaf coat Mick's right-side molars as the adept takes a mighty slug from the bottle of electric azure hooch. The elixir slides down the ork's gullet as Axel enters the room, sets himself up with his own drink, and plops himself down in a far corner, seemingly oblivious to the two on the floor.

There's a pregnant moment when Mick doesn't know if the rigger will spot them, the hardwired wish to go unnoticed screaming inside their brain. As he sets into tinkering with his toys, Mick feels a sense of relaxation as they unclench their jaw, only then realizing that they'd tensed their body at his entrance– as if, somehow, keeping one's body uncomfortably taut and rigid imparted invisibility.

A moment passes before Mick leans forward toward Mouse, their eyes not leaving Axel. But in those eyes reads the search presently going on inside the adept's skull– the search for what they mean and how to say it and whether to say it at all. As they open their lips to speak, the idea stalls a moment on their tongue, and for a second they simply remain there– mouth agape and frozen. When the words finally come tumbling out, they tumble out in the small, measured tones of conspiracy.

"Don't know about you, but I keep thinking about that fucking island..." The search inside goes on, slow and methodical, like a citizen search party dragging the woods for a lost child. The ork wants to say more, but doesn't know how to begin this conversation– not really, anyway. The search party in their skull turning up nothing, the ork's resolve seems to harden as their focus shifts back to Mouse. For lack of anything better to say, they simply offer: "Saito has to fucking pay."

And, as if summoned by the idea, that's when Axel takes note of the metahuman puddle currently forming on the barroom floor.

[GM Nick]

Anne-Marie is on the roof. The bodyguard resembles a feline, her lanky form uncoiled and luxuriating in the sun. Her nudity goes unnoticed, except by the aerial drones circling the property from two hundred meters in the air. The birds-eye view would reveal a mound of outdoor cushions, next to a twelve-pack of can beer.

She lifts her head, jolted from the limbo between waking and sleep by a commlink notification. The voice belongs to Axel: the drone guy.

<< Mmm-hmm. The clinic is at the far end of the property. There's a military diagnostics pod there. It's a little old, but it still works. I'll code you to the door. >>

Her head returns to the cushions. A few minutes later, just as she's nodding off again, Yung rings. He can't see her shaking her head in amusement. << Chef Morinaga will be here tonight, I'll have him prepare something. >>

Duties fulfilled, the bodyguard splays out on the makeshift rooftop bed once more. It's a refreshing change of pace to be managing guests rather than Conrad's business. Her gaze drifts to the date-stamp in her vision. Pity it won't be for much longer; Preacher is supposed to call in within twenty-four hours.