Clusterfrag

A bevy of footfalls echo in the cramped confines of the stairwell as the team follows Noah into the bowels of the Transit Hub. Each runner does their best to remain confident yet inconspicuous. The ground floor of the stairwell leads to a collection of offices and storerooms. Noah effortlessly guides the group through the labyrinthian corridors, as if he had worked there for years.

Most of the staff they encounter pay them little mind. On the singular occasion in which the motley assembly draws a handful of perplexed looks, Noah quickly says "--and here is where the cleaning supplies are stored. You'll want to remember this location because--" The monologue abruptly ends as the group turns a corner. Out of earshot, Noah glances over his shoulder. "--you'll be huffing them out of sheer boredom." He flashes a maniac grin, his attempt to bring some levity to the present situation.

At long last Noah pushes through a large set of double doors and sunlight floods the team. A narrow alley forms in the space between the transit hub and the side of some housing project. Once everyone is through, he shuts them by flattening his back against the doorway. "I should've charged you more, Kiyoshi," says Noah. It's unclear whether this statement is good natured ribbing or not.

Mere moments after the team's clean escape of the Reno Municipal Transit Hub a BMW Centurion SUV careens around the far end of the alley and barrels towards them. Noah exhales sharply. "Right on time, Rocco. Right on time."

Mick nods appreciatively and makes eye contact with the coyote. Clapping Noah companionably on the shoulder, the say to him, "You run a tight ship, boss. It might be the kind of ship you get too drunk on and puke over the sides, but it's a tight ship nonetheless." The ork steals a look over their shoulder and casts a withering glare at Yung, finishing, "Lot fucking tighter than we do."

Axel shrugs off the two suitcases he's been carrying with a sense of finality. "Thank frag," he says, rubbing his shoulders, and bouncing on the balls of his feet. "I need a lighter hobby." Or I just need to not leave Seattle.

He whistles appreciatively as the vehicle rolls up, and turns to Noah. "You do good work, omae. You taking on new clients? Could always use another professional on the line."

The Centurion looks like an SUV that was enlarged and then forced through a wind tunnel. The hull is olive drab, but the bumpers and fenders have been swapped with some type of alloy replacement. Two rows of trail flood lights are bolted to the top of the windscreen. The vehicles rides unusually high from the ground on a set of off-road tires that come up to Mouse's sternum. Every window is reinforced and heavily tinted, simply reflecting the alley walls as the vehicle roars towards the group.

The thundering behemoth comes to a stop just a few meters from Noah et al. Even at idle the chassis vibrates, Axel notes-- must be quite a powerplant under that hood. The driver's window rolls down, revealing a middle-aged black ork with a graying afro. A pair of bright hazel eyes regard the team from over the rim of a pair of Zaatsu-Ban sunglasses. A single small tuft of gray facial hair springs from below full lips. His teeth are mother-of-pearl white.

"School bus is here, kids." Rocco's voice is like twelve year old scotch splashed directly on an exposed brain.

While most of Mick's life has been one of being ground down by circumstance, their life before everything changed had been healthy, happy– optimistic, even. Mick's parents had been of a decidedly different sort than Mick is now. Had the ork's life not been ripped to pieces in the family's bathroom, it's presumptive that their circumstances would more closely resemble their parents'. Mick's mother had been a low level diplomat, and their father a university literature professor. As such, Mick's mind is an odd collection of pre-bloodbath intellectual and emotional nurturing and post-bloodbath atrocities. That push and pull within them accounts for a significant portion of the ork's troubles in most situations; it's hard to know which side of oneself to lead with– or which side is who they truly are– when those sides are so starkly disparate from one another. And the further they get from that idyllic before-time, the harder it gets for Mick to access any of those old feelings. Very few are the remnants of the adept's past life.

But, their family had been happy. Normal. Mick had attended good schools, been enrolled in prosocial activities, had a good collection of good and kind friends. They had never been a particularly great student, but they were never made to feel lesser for it. Their early childhood had been one of love and easy laughter, typified perhaps no better than by Mick's relationship with the family dog. He had been a curious little mutt, covered in wiry curls of fur that all bled together in an indistinct grayish-brown wash of fuzz. Mick loved running their fingers through the dog's fur, ruffling his ears, and watching that stubby little tail try to wag on his hind quarters. Despite his fundamentally shabby appearance, he'd had a persnickety, proper disposition about him. A goofy boy all the same, there was something decidedly prissy about the way their first-and-only best friend moved through the world. His steps were dainty. His barks were taut, controlled little yips. When Mick would play fetch with him, he had always seemed so earnestly hurt– even offended– whenever the ork would feign throwing the ball only to instead hide it behind their back. So amused had Mick's father been by the dog's ridiculous manner that he'd named the critter after an appropriately prissy and fussy literary figure. Mick had never fully understood the reference made by the dog's name, but had delighted in their father's explanation of it nonetheless, and taken to heart the meaning implied by the otherwise opaque lit-nerd joke.

Mounting the foot rail at the bottom of its chassis, Mick nods appreciatively to Rocco a they climb eagerly into the stretched SUV. "Many thanks, bus-driver-man." Settling into the seat immediately behind the driver, the ork calls back out the door to Yung, "Short bus should be showing up for you any minute now, Little Lord Fauntleroy." As soon as it comes out, Mick cringes to have related a person for whom they feels marked disdain with their old pooch, even if the insult fits him like the kind of over-priced and desperately-eager-for-notice-and-approval shoes that he– being an archetypically performative drekbag– likes to wear.

Axel swings one of the cases onto its back, and pops the latches. He rummages around, and withdraws the Morrissey Alta from beneath a foam insert. He dangles it in front of his face, and shoots a look at Noah.

"We good to stop pretending to be good little tourists now?" He asks with a grin. He slips the pistol in one of his coverall pockets, and watches the private ARO icon wink out as it disappears behind the universal mirror material woven into the jumpsuit. He grabs the door frame and hauls himself into what could be an apartment building on wheels. He settles into a seat with a slight wiggle, like a child excited to go on a road trip to Disneyland. "So, this thing have a bar?"

Reiya follows the team through the maze of backways somewhat sullenly, annoyed at herself and her crewmates. She knows her feelings are unfair on both accounts, but she doesn’t like it when others do the talking for her, and she absolutely hates feeling like she made a bad judgment call and came off sounding stupid. Get over it, she tells herself. Let’s just avoid a repeat.

The brisk walk through labyrinthine passages helps her focus and cast her emotions aside, where they bristle angrily but nonetheless lose their pride of place in her mind. It’s a relief when they’re through, but the feeling is short-lived for Reiya: another van. An SUV, sure, but the difference is immaterial to Reiya. She somewhat regrets the fry bread, but frag it, that drek was good, and the shaman is determined to keep it down by sheer force of will. She parks herself near the front of the SUV where she can look out the front window, gritting her teeth.

The Centurion is large enough to comfortably accommodate the entire team plus Noah, although Mouse and Reiya are forced to sit in the trunk area beneath the large rear hatch. Fortunately, there are twin jump-seats that face backwards. The hatch is a large trapezium of plexiglass, affording the two a good view and (with luck) serving to mitigate some of Reiya's motion sickness.

Noah swings up into the forward-most passenger seat. "No more tourist roleplay," he says with a smirk. "Be your best bad self." Once seated, the coyote promptly lights up an Alpaca. "Everyone, this is Rocco. Rocco: everyone."

Rocco introduces himself by way of a nod in the expansive rear-view mirror. The chassis shudders as a gear is selected and the Centurion pushes onward through the alley. "Destination?" Rocco asks Noah.

Noah slaps the dashboard. "Devil's Throat."

"Aw shit," grumbles Rocco. "I'm staying in Drusilla."

"He calls the car Drusilla," Noah explains, peering over the headrest.

"She the baddest bitch," says Rocco. He illustrates this statement by applying a liberal amount of gas. G-forces pin the team to their respective seats as the Centurion leaps on to a highway.

Casinos, housing projects, arcologies and towering corporate high-rises flit by as Drusilla races past Downtown Reno. Beyond the sprawl is the desert-- a rambling mosaic of flaxen land dotted with scrub. The sky overhead is a sheet of bright azure, decorated with velvety cumulonimbus.

Mick pipes up from behind Rocco, "The Devil's Throat? Sounds promising. What are we driving into here?" The ork retrieves the pack of Alpaca 100s they'd been gifted by their new coyote friend, slides one from the pack, and lights it on their lips. Mick cracks a window so that the smoke ascending lazily from the tip of the cigarette has ample opportunity to escape.

If there is any remorse that Yung is feeling for his actions he certainly isn’t showing it. He boards Drusilla last when she arrives outside the transit station. Whenever Mick casts a nasty look or hurls a comment at him, Yung simply smiles and performs a little nod with his head.

Maybe no one has dealt with distraction theft before…unlikely. Yung takes a seat in the back and retrieves his oversized headphones, placing them over his ears.

Let’s not forget what this is, I’m here to do a job and get paid. Everyone here, they’re business associates. They do things their way. Once this is over, no need to see them again.

He falls into the rhythm of the music, mind wandering elsewhere during the journey. At some point the espresso wears off and he drifts off to sleep.

Taipan claps Noah on the shoulder as he climbs into the van, offering the coyote a nod of sincere appreciation. He eyes Yung as he clambers into the van, offering him a brief glare but saying nothing. The temperature of the moment doesn't suggest that a productive conversation is presently likely.

He nods a curt greeting to Rocco in the rearview mirror and busies himself with unraveling the complex knot of the peace tie. He glances up at Mouse as he works. "Clever, back there," he says simply, before looking down and returning to his work.

Taipan casts an ear toward the front of the van as he expectantly waits to hear about their destination.

Noah tosses an Alpaca pack from one hand to another. "Devil's Throat is the name the locals gave it. It was a silver mine, but it was abandoned nearly a century ago. At some point, somebody discovered that it connects to a cave system that leads to the California side. Allegedly the land is owned by Ares, but it's been unincorporated all this time. Nobody goes there, so as you can imagine it makes a pretty good border crossing."

Rocco grunts. "Nobody goes there because it's haunted."

"There you go again with this superstitious shit," says Noah. "It's not haunted."

Rocco turns his head, glancing over his shades at Noah. "Then why you leave something there, every time?"

Noah clicks his tongue and rubs the back of his head. "It's for luck, is all. I picked that habit up from my mentor, you know that. Everyone who passes through there does it. It's tradition."

A deep, grumbling chuckle escapes Rocco. "Whatever you say, boss."

Noah turns around and faces the team. "Don't pay any mind to my imaginative friend." He sends a pointed look at Rocco. "I've run that route at least a dozen times and nothing strange has ever happened."

Outside, the sprawl is gone. The Centurion is surrounded by towering wind turbines-- Reno's primary energy source. The massive machines are neatly situated as far as the eye can see, until they disappear in the desert's heat haze. Through the windshield is a series of rolling hills and in the far distance, the vague outlines of the Sierra Nevada mountains.

Axel sits at rapt attention listening to the back and forth between Rocco and Noah. He nods curtly as Noah gives his final reassurances, though the gesture is certainly lost on the coyote, who isn't even facing his way. He reaches under the seat, and pulls the case containing Whirlwind, cheerfully labelled "Party Supplies," into the footwell in front of him. He rolls his toolkit out on his lap, and selects a ratchet wrench and a 10mm socket. He pauses, then pulls out a shop rag and wipes the sweat off his palms, the moisture coming back almost as soon as his jittery motions removes it. He stuffs the rag back in the roll, leans down, and pops the latches on the case.

Axel's head disappears behind the seat in front of him, the only evidence of his presence a series of clicks, whirrs, and clacks, and—if someone were close enough to hear—a soft, muttered, "Fragfragfragfrag." With the Ares Alpha reattached, the drone sits awkwardly in the case. Not ideal for transport, but if there's something to the rumors... He shuts the lid, and slides the case back under the seat.

Axel takes a moment to compose himself, and then, in his best mask of false-calm, pipes up from the back. "Haunted? Hey Rocco, what kinds of things have people seen there?"

Mouse squirms in her seat, feeling admittedly childlike in the jump as she twists her body around for a better view of her fellow runners, rather than the great outdoors rushing past.

There’s Mick, whose literary reference went sailing over her own head, at least until she silently looked the name up in a separate side window. Unsure what to make of such surprise findings, she quietly adds to her very-limited metal profile of the ork: [Likes: fighting, drinking, punk drek, baked goods… classic lit?]

Then of course there’s Yung, conspicuously wearing his oversized headphones, in that manner that Mouse knows very well as ‘Dead to the outside world’. She briefly entertains the notion of taking them over, just long enough to whisper that the next time he makes her talk like that, she’s going to have his home SWATted, but ultimately decides against it. This whole thing, down to the very refusal to engage, reads like some macho power play, and playing into it won’t get her the acknowledgement she wants.

Taipan’s words hit different, though. Whereas anyone else might have been shrugged off, the Sam’s typically laconic nature, and the surrogate mentor role he’s been shoved into make his words high praise indeed. “WE GOT LUCKY THAT TIME.” Her reply is sheepish, but the implication is clear: they might not get away with that again.

She lets her attention settle on Axel’s work as the others discuss the crossing, watching the process of reassembly as an almost meditative act. “SO SPOOKY, DARK, AND UNDERGROUND- MEANING DREK SIGNAL,” she summarizes flatly, drawing a clear, unenthusiastic comparison to the recent night in Bongoland.

“HAUNTED WE CAN DO. AFTER ALL, WE HAVE OUR VERY OWN GHOSTBUSTER.” She shoots Reiya an uneasy smile, to confirm both the accuracy in this, and that Reiya hasn’t puked up the remaining liquid in her body. “ER… GHOST-WHISPERER?” she attempts to correct with a tilt of her head, still unsure how to understand what exactly a shaman does.

Yung watches Mouse survey the members of the crew behind the reflective shielding of his glasses; her gaze momentarily resting upon him. He lets out a brief and barely audible sigh before leaning forward to grab his wolf mask out of his pack. He pulls it over his face, even more protection from the discerning looks from the others.

(( DM Mouse: )) <Hey, so, I misread that situation back there; might not be in the best headspace. Anyway, I appreciate the assist, you’re a quick thinker. Hopefully won’t happen again, but happy to have you save my ass anytime.>

Noah scratches his nose. "It goes without saying but you won't have any wireless beyond LOS local band. No matrix down there in the ground, obviously. It's also the kind of dark you've probably never seen-- infrared is useless down there. I came prepared, though. I've got plenty of headlamps and chem lights."

Once Noah has finished, Rocco glances at Mick in the rear-view. "My Gran-Gran was a manbo, so she knew all about bad juju. She said it had a wavelength and some people can tune in. That place, it's got a vibration. That's why Noah always be leaving gris-gris when he makes a trip."

Noah shakes his head, exasperated. "I forgive your quaint, folksy anecdotes only because you're the best driver in Ute Nation."

Rocco's lips curl into a slight smile. "Damn straight."

Dammit, Yung isn't supposed to do that. Even it’s not technically an apology, his mere acknowledgement of his fuckup makes it awfully hard for Mouse to hold onto her petty grudge.

She lets out a soft sigh under her breath, text silently flitting across her vision as she replies:

<We made it out without a cavity search. That’s what matters.

Still need to figure out how we’ll handle Calfree. You’ve got the flashy hanryu thing down (even if you’re drek at dealing with women), but the locals won’t be happy to see either of us. If we make a bad call like that, we’re all geeked.

We’ll deal with it once we’re there, I guess.

PS: Seriously, that’s what you keep your trodes in? Maybe get another set in something less conspicuous?

…A fedora would suit you. (´∀｀) >

She sends the PM out into matrix-space, and slinks back down into her seat with Noah's delivery of the inevitable bad news. "FAN-FRAGGING-TASTIC. PLEASE TELL ME THAT LEG OF THE TRIP IS AT LEAST SHORT?" She looks down at her own scrawny legs with visible frustration. "I'M NOT EXACTLY BUILT FOR HIKING, AND I'D RATHER NOT BE EATEN BY A GRUE."

Noah lights up another Alpaca. "It's a bit of a hike, but not too bad. About four klicks underground. Speaking of which, if you have arrangements to make for the the other side, best do it now. I'll see you to the Cal-side of the caves but that's as far as I go."

The Centurion turns off the highway and on to a washboard service road. Much to Reiya's relief the vehicle's modified suspension handles the uneven terrain easily. In fact, were it not for the view from the rear window, she could swear they were still driving on pristine tarmac. As the road vanishes, the scenery is replaced with hills wreathed in greenery. Trees-- actual trees-- are plentiful here.

Yung pulls up the contact card for Conrad Sharpe, and composes a message.

< Mr. Sharpe, my associates and I are en route to our crossing, having traveled from Seattle on behalf of our mutual acquaintance, Preacher. We are approaching an abandoned mine in the vicinity of Devil’s Throat, planning to travel via underground caves approximately 4 km to the exit on the FreeCal Border. I am providing coordinates for where we will emerge. Please let me know when we can expect pick up and any special instructions upon arrival in FreeCal. >

"Message sent." Yung says flatly.

Several minutes later, Yung's commlink alerts him to an incoming message.

<< Transportation will arrive at designated coordinates at 1900 hours. Contact is Zdenka. Sign is scorpion. Counter-sign is pine beetle. Safe journey. >>

Although the sender ID is obfuscated, Yung compares the private key that Preacher provided with the one attached to the message and confirms its authenticity.

TW: Motion sickness

Reiya smiles wanly at Mouse’s suggestion of Reiya's potential to be a ghost-whisperer. The twin stresses of keeping her stomach under control and making sure she doesn’t unintentionally touch the decker occupy the bulk of her mind. At least until they leave the highway, and the smooth ride convinces her that she won’t decorate the inside of this swanky van with vomit and piss off everybody.

Once the iron control of her stomach is no longer an all-consuming task, Reiya can enjoy the scenery. The shaman looks at the trees wistfully, feeling the familiar urge to take on her wolf form and leave everything and everyone behind. But a lone wolf is a sad and fragile thing, and she’s got work to do, both her assigned task with these runners, and her own.

“Sorry about earlier,” she says to Mouse in a quiet voice, hoping to restore their former camaraderie. “Didn’t mean to freak you out. I won’t do it again.”

“WHAT? NO. THAT’S NOT-” Suddenly caught off guard, the decker's brow furrrows, and she fidgets as she processes this strange situation: first why Reiya’s apologizing in the first place, and how to make sense of her own reactions.

Her mouth screws up slightly, as she visibly struggles to put words to the supernatural phenomena she's witnessed from the Shaman. “IT WAS JUST THAT ONE TIME. YOU DID THAT THING- WITH THE THOUGHTS. IN THE HEAD.” She accompanies this unhelpful description with a bout of vague gesturing, as though that will somehow make up for her missing vocabulary. "IT WASN’T BAD. I JUST WASN’T EXPECTING IT. LIKE WHEN TOUCH SOMETHING AND GET A STATIC SHOCK? IT DOESN’T EVEN HURT, BUT YOU STILL HESITATE BEFORE YOU TOUCH THE THING AGAIN.”

She lets out a soft huff of obvious frustration, sliding back into her seat. “TO BE HONEST, I STILL DON’T GET WHAT YOU DO. I’VE READ ABOUT PEOPLE WHO BLOW STUFF UP WITH THEIR BRAINS, OR TURN THINGS INTO GOO, OR CONVINCE PEOPLE TO TURN THEIR GUNS ON THEMSELVES.” At this, she shakes her head, as if trying to banish the very thought. “THERE’S PROBABLY ALL KINDS OF THINGS YOU’RE CAPABLE OF THAT I WILL NEVER BE ABLE TO GROK.”

She can tell she’s rambling, struggling to put words to an arcane world that she can't begin to comprehend. Instead, she turns to face Reiya. “BUT NO, YOU DIDN’T FRAG ANYTHING UP. I’M JUST JUMPY. BUT THAT’S MY DREK, NOT YOURS.” Out of sheer determination to demonstrate this, she forces herself to lift a hand, which trembles even as it hangs in mid air. Through sheer force of willpower, she reaches out to give Reiya’s own hand a couple quick reassuring pats before withdrawing it once more, retreating to the safety of her sweatshirt pockets.

Rocco proves to be an outstanding driver, evidenced by the ease with which he pilots the vehicle through obstacle after obstacle. Whether it's squeezing between trees or crawling over boulders, the ork doesn't seem to break a sweat. After winding its way through a particularly treacherous trail, the Centurion arrives at a small plateau on the mountain side.

The steep walls of the mountain are shale and slake into fine pieces as they meet the plateau. Lupine and California spring from the exposed earth, adding color. A gash mars the mountain's face-- a winding crack that grows to become an entrance. Stones have been strategically inserted at either side of the opening to form supports. Something about the place looks almost mythical.

Noah exits the Centurion as it shudders to a stop. Amidst the tinkling of cooling automotive components, the coyote walks to the front of the vehicle and appraises the dark ingress. "I give you: the Devil's Throat."

The hard ride jostles Taipan in his seat despite his iron grip on the overhead passenger handle. The view of what surely qualifies as the wilds whips past the window, but it's not the view that's the most salient sensation. Taipan closes his eyes and draws a deep breath in through his nostrils. His augmented olfactory glands drink in every facet of the surroundings, sorting through the considerable atmosphere of sweat, machine oil, exhaust, and Alpaca smoke to savor the intoxicating smell of wild vegetation, honest-to-God trees. He holds a deep-drawn breath, savoring the moment before Rocco brings the van to an abrupt and grinding stop.

He exits the van after Noah, boots crunching loud in the stony soil after the noise of the van's single-track excursion. The peace and silence of the tableau is at once appreciated by the brain stem part of Taipan's mind, while at the same time setting the rest of it on edge with the lack of uninvited stimuli. It's not the first time he's experienced such -- peace -- but he's nearly certain he'll never get used to the sensation.

Taipan stops behind Noah, peering over the coyote's left shoulder at the scree issuing from the maw of the cave in the distance. He hovers in meaningful silence for a moment before glancing over his shoulder to ensure nobody is close enough to hear his lowered voice. "You sure there's nothing you're worried about in there, friend? Seems unlike your usual bluster to leave trinkets scattered about for no good reason."

Noah glances at Taipan. "They're just trinkets, nothing valuable. It's just a gag, you know; a fun tradition."

Taipan has known Noah for a long time. He's come to learn the man's quirks, mannerisms and affectations. But even with all this knowledge of the coyote, it's impossible to tell whether Noah is making light of Rocco's occult proclamations or is being totally straight forward. For all his trustworthiness as a contractor, the man is simply too wily to get a solid read on.

One corner of Taipan's mouth turns up in spite of the imposing vista, the contagion of the coyote's blustery self-confidence setting his mind at ease. He claps the man on the shoulder in as close to a companionable fashion as Taipan can muster, and smiles. "Of course. Just for fun."

Taipan heads back to the van and helps to unload the cargo. He busies himself reassembling his rifles in preparation for the long trek underground.

"We've got a pickup arranged on the other side?" he asks nobody in particular.

"I suppose that means we'll be poppin' out his arsehole at the other end, eh?" Thoryne grunts to Noah, leaning back against the hood of the vehicle, crossing his arms. He stares intently at the looming darkness for a moment, working his tongue along a fang that peeks wickedly from the corner of his mouth. "Aye, that way lies the Devil alright. Though I reckon his body's made of plasteel and ferrocrete, and his tongue's shaped like a board room."

He snorts, tearing his gaze away from the mine to lean over and expel the remnants of a snuff wad into the dirt. Turning, he raps the hood of the Centurion respectfully as he lowers his head to peer in through the window. "Nice drivin, chummer. Would love to see how you handle a wetboat."

Thoryne strides to the rear cargo area and begins casually to retrieve and re-kit his gear.

He can’t shake it, minutes pass, maybe even an hour on the road, and still it is running circles in his head. Fedora…A fedora? Beneath his mask Yung’s face exhibits an expression of serious contemplation, brow furrowed. Who knew there could be so many layers to digest from a simple statement. Is she serious? He continues browsing his favorite clothing shops on the ShopSoft Network, previewing a variety of fedoras on his digital avatar. He stops for a moment upon locating a camo patterned model. Man, wish I could get that one right now.

The vehicle finally comes to a stop, with Noah exiting the behemoth and announcing their arrival. Yung rises from his seat, grabbing his pack off the floor of the Centurion. He places a hand on the overhead grip and propels himself out of the vehicle following Taipan. After taking a few steps on the broken shale he turns to face the opening carved out of the stone facing. "Yeah, looks like nothing bad ever happened in there, huh?"

Lifting his wolf mask up so that it rests on his hair, Yung slowly tilts his head to the left then to the right; a barely audible pop can be heard accompanying each movement. He shuffles a few more steps away from the van before bending down to open his pack, spending the next few minutes pulling several articles of clothing out of the bag stacking them on top of one another.

First he produces a crimson tinted armored jacket, deep red, akin to the color of blood that has oxidized overnight. Next he produces a pair of sandstone colored cargo pants made of poly suede reinforced with Kevlar stitching, followed by a chartreuse polypropylene turtleneck. Subsequently he grabs a cream colored spandex tank top and a pair of taupe socks made of bamboo fiber. Finally he produces an authentic two-toned woolen beanie that echoes the colors of his turtleneck and pants, and a new pair of hiking boots that somehow combines all of the aforementioned colors, which he sets to the side.

Yung begins the methodical process of removing his synergist business line outfit, taking great care with the folding and placement of each article so as to minimize any wrinkles or creases. He strips all the way down to his boxer briefs, paying no mind to the rest of the crew as they unload themselves and their cargo from the van. Anyone who does steal a glace, whether on purpose or by chance, can see that while Yung is in great physical condition, his body shows signs of emaciation. His rib cage protrudes and his arms and legs are spiderwebbed by vascularity that is not typical of a healthy individual.

Yung then proceeds with changing into the new set of clothing, which culminates with the donning of the armored jacket. He produces a coiled rope and slings it over his shoulder, followed by a flashlight, which he wields in his left hand.

"Yeah, pickup arranged Jefe. Sign Scorpion and counter Pine beetle, just in case Mick's wildest dreams come true in dis drekhole." Yung says in confirmation of Taipan’s inquiry.

He turns to Axel, “Hey omae, you got a drone to carry your drones?” He says, chuckling to himself. “Lemme know if you need a hand, yeah.”

Axel flashes a quick grin to Yung. "Heh, that's the neat part, they can carry themselves when we're not crossing the entire country." His eyes dart to the cavern entrance, and then dart away as if they'll get burned by looking at it too long. He arranges the three cases around him, and opens them up one by one. The two roto drones lay fully assembled, Whirlwind still sitting off-kilter since its rifle was reattached. He sets to work on the doberman, reassembling the tracked drive unit, and hooking the turret back into the drone's body.

"Four klicks is nothing," he says as he works. He snatches another fleeting glance at the entrance. "And I'll be happy for the extra firepower."

He finishes his work, and stands back up. The doberman begins activating and releasing each servo in a demonstrative shakedown run. Axel taps on his RCC, and the pair of roto drones spring into the sky, hovering about 3 meters off the ground.

He glances over to Mouse. "Signal looks good here. Probably line of sight only until we're on the other side."

(( RCC config: Evasion Autosoft 4 (MCT-Nissan Roto-drone (Medium)); [Weapon] Targeting Autosoft 4 (Cavalier Frontier); [Weapon] Targeting Autosoft 4 (Steyr TMP); Smartsoft 3; Virtual Machine w/Maneuvering Autosoft 4 (MCT-Nissan Roto-drone (Medium)); [Model] Maneuvering Autosoft 4 (GM-Nissan Doberman (Medium)); ))

Rocco nods at Thoryne through the windshield. It seems the driver was quite serious and is in fact remaining in the car. Rocco raises a monocular and starts scanning the surrounding mountain side.

Noah notices Thoryne's quizzical expression. "Rocco's an avid bird watcher," he explains.

The coyote drops a tactical bag and zips it open. "I've got spare head-lamps here and a bunch of chem-lights. It's darker than sin in there, so make sure you have something. We'll go through single file. I'll take point. Who wants to bring up the rear?"

First things first, of course Mouse sneaks a peek at Yung. It's not as though she set out to become the group’s resident creep, the initial glimpse being sheer chance as she trundles from the back of the SUV. Still, between the team’s penchant for utilitarian nudity and her tendency to hone her attention on the faintest trace of exposed flesh, her gaze immediately locks onto the sight of the darker skin. As soon as the identity of the teammate-turned-object registers with her, she immediately and pointedly looks away… at least until her gaze starts trailing back of its own accord, just long enough to commit a snapshot of the lean musculature to memory, (creativity filling in for any missing details).

Mood admittedly lighter from the unintentional show, Mouse sets to work preparing for the inevitable hour of relative uselessness, holstering her Ares Alpha (which she’s begrudgingly accepted as just a thing she has to carry in this new career,) and pocketing her personal flashlight, just in case.

Enticed by the sound of whirring servos, she crouches down, just enough to see the drones working through their respective boot sequences. “AW YISS, WE GET TO TAKE THEM ON A WALK.” A genuine grin creeps across her face, the decker bearing a clear, unironic affection for the little tools. “IN THEORY, WE WON'T NEED TO SCOUT MUCH, SO LINE OF SIGHT SHOULD BE FINE. IF WE GET SEPARATED BEYOND THAT, WE HAVE BIGGER PROBLEMS. ”

Still, the thought of being caught alone in the dark does prompt her to go raid Noah’s supplies. As she digs her forearm into the coyote’s bag, she muses, “SO, FOR THIS SPIRITUAL GEOCACHING THING- DO THEY WANT SOMETHING FROM EACH OF US? OR JUST YOU?” There’s no judgment in her question, nor much of anything at all beyond idle curiosity, her interest captured by her newly-acquired fistful of chemlights rather than spiritual niceties.

Noah looks up at Mouse, now wearing an LED headlamp. He offers her a hand-held flashlight. "There's a little shrine thing about fifty meters in. I like to leave something there."

Thoryne reaches into the duffel and extracts a pair of chem-lights, which he tucks beneath the breast of his armored vest before donning a headlamp himself. The two cylinders poke out like plastic cigar tubes, ready and accessible. He hefts the duffel like a mailbag and makes his way among the companions, divvying out the contents to each as they busy themselves with their kit. Over a shoulder, he volunteers to Noah, "I can be the tail....I shouldn't have a problem seeing the group ahead of me and keeping up. Plus, if it comes we need someone holding onto the end of that, " he says, nodding toward the coil of rope draped over Yungs shoulder, "Well, I figure I drew that straw, too."

Noah nods at Thoryne. "Okay, big guy. Just make sure nobody wanders off." He clicks on a flash light and sweeps the beam into the Devil's Throat's pitch recesses. "Just stick together and we'll be on the other side before you know it."

The team pushes forward into the abandoned mine. The earth ceiling stands about a meter above Thoryne's head and the entrance is about six meters wide. Although the tunnel constricts as it ventures deeper, it's still comfortable as long as the caravan remains single file.

It becomes very quiet. The only sounds are the scraping of boots against rock, breathing and the distant sound of dripping water. When the entrance is little more than a distant halo of light, Noah stops and swings the beam around. "Hang on. One second."

A small bowl has been carved into the earth on one side of the tunnel. The wall directly above is filled with faded cave paintings-- rudimentary caricatures of men and buffalo and other figures too faint to discern. At the bottom of the bowl are a few hand-carved figurines and some desiccated food-stuff, likely bread.

Noah plumbs around in his bag before withdrawing a necklace with amber beads. He casts a sidelong glance at the team, obviously a bit embarrassed. "I hope your time in California is productive and safe," he says. His tone is sheepish but genuine. The coyote gently places the necklace in the bottom of the bowl. He stares at it for a moment before standing back up. The convivial, devil-may-care persona quickly returns. "Right! Let's go."

Walking in the darkness, the silence is deafening, only the muffled footsteps of the crew echoing through the void. Still,Yung is troubled, his mind elsewhere, contemplating more important things than the present situation.

He opens a subvocal channel to Mouse, <Hey, so you serious about this fedora drek? I mean, I got a few styles saved, if you're legit maybe you give me an opinion when we get outta here, eh?> It's difficult to discern if he's really engrossed in the subtask, or just using it as an excuse to keep his mind from wandering in the darkness.

<Ey, by the way, you know anywhere on the Matrix with the classics? I love watchin those with my yeoch...with my uncle Yosh…> There is a brief pause before he continues. < Anyway,
I remember there's an old one, never saw it but I think it's something like The Rock, about dis place Alcatraz. Maybe I learn something, huh?>

Yung begins absentmindedly twirling the chemsticks in his pocket, awaiting some kind of response or something to break the monotonous sound of footfalls in the darkness.