Clusterfrag

Noticing that Doc has over-corrected, the MPUV closest moves in to collide. Doc is ready, and swerves in the opposite direction.

One of the GMC's passengers loads another grenade into the XM30's under-barrel launcher and fires.
The grenade detonates several meters from the Rover and Doc plows through the residual smoke cloud, unflinchingly.

Sinjin plants both arms and swings his legs underneath him, coils, and then launches himself through the broken rear window and clambers up the drone rack.
The muscular adept grabs hold of the bars and--using the momentum from his initial jump--swings up and lands on the roof of the Rover.

The wounded biker pulls closer to the Rover and fires a burst at Max.
Max ducks as a number of bullets pelt the door frame. The biker fumbles with and drops the Colt Cobra.

(( Tyros is up! ))

Tyros, hand outstretched (centering), continues his barrage of blue electricity on the biker he has been baking (lightening, f2).

< 5P DAMAGE >

There's an explosion of sparks as the fork of lightning hits the rider and sends him tumbling, lifeless, off the motorcycle.

Max curses and returns fire on Driver A.

< 3P DAMAGE >
< 9P DAMAGE >

Max fires two slugs in semi-auto. The first hits the man in the shoulder, the second splatters his brains against the rear window of the MPUV.

Having dealt with the biker outside his window, Tyros hunkers down and hopes Doc doesn't crash and kill them all.

Val's avatar mists into a smoky haze as it passes through the firewall, reforming into his own slightly more tangible shape once in the node interior. A life-sized wire-frame representation of the GMC comprised of an intertwined network of luminescent filaments, color coded by subsystem, looms before him. The 5hade extends both hands toward the model, then rips them in opposite directions. The model explodes into pieces, each subsystem clearly visible in the exploded view. The avatar slips into the constellation of glowing wireframes, heading directly toward the hovering icon of a hand enclosed by the universal negative circle and crossbar: the anti-theft control module. A few translucent orange filaments trail off from the icon to various devices including the ignition and fuel pump.

Stat1C5hade draws back a closed fist and slams it into the glass-like slate of the icon. An alarm sounds as the avatar runs his eyes along the filament leading from the icon to the fuel pump, following a wave of deep red that courses down the line. The sky-blue fuel pump wire-frame drops into a deep ruby as the anti-theft device's signal reaches it, painting the immediate surroundings a dim military red. A nanosecond of doubt passes over Val as he waits for confirmation of the shutdown, but recedes quickly when he sees the filament and fuel pump models alike fade to a mundane, dead slate grey.

A signal range warning manifests in the air before the 5hade, flashing angrily as the disabled GMC begins to fall behind the Rover. Val zips back to the outer edge of the firewall and logs off before his connection is terminated by proximity, thereby avoiding a nasty potential case of hot-sim dumpshock.

Back in the rover, Val sits up in his seat and cranes his head around to peer out the Rover's blind spot, watching the GMC's headlights fade into the blizzard with no small satisfaction.

The final GMC bounces wildly on the road beside the rover, its driver slumped over the blood encrusted wheel. It's final passenger seeming torn between firing at the team, or taking control of the wild vehicle.

Not going to give you that choice, pal.

Adams cranks the wheel over again, pushing the broadside of the rover into the GMC. Like a parent dragging a child by their ear, he guides the GMC closer and closer to the line of trees at the side of the road.

(( Ramming ))

The sound of metal grating on metal manages to overpower the howling of frigid air through the Rover's shattered windows. The MPUV's passenger desperately claws at the steering wheel, trying to shift his partner out of the way, but it's too late. The MPUV noses over the edge of the highway, slips sideways as tires hit ice at one hundred kilometers an hour, and flips several times before settling against a group of naked pines.

Val shakes his head as his heart rate begins to slow--slowly.

"Well... that was exciting. I'm beginning to see why Alexei does this for a living. Do what you love and love what you do and all that. Crazy fragging Russian... How long to the rendezvous, Doc? It's freezing and I can't seem to roll up my window."

Only now does Val notice that he's covered with shards of tempered glass, and that his window appears to have been shot out while he was deep in VR. He shudders slightly, hoping the rest of the team doesn't notice.

Adams tightens and relaxes his grip on the wheel, his breath crystallizing in front of him in the cold air blasting through the rover.

"Next time, let's just bring spike strips," he croaks.

He taps the center console, and the rover's fans start blowing hot air into the cabin's interior.

"We should be coming up on him soon."

Alexei's impulse seems to materialize out of the woods, suddenly keeping pace alongside the Rover.

< It seems you survived! That attack was most unexpected... Calgary is just ahead, although take care when you enter the city--they will be looking for you. >

Max, slightly annoyed, asks,

<So what exactly did we pay you for, Alexei? Weren't you supposed to ensure that things like that didn't happen?"

Alexei chuckles darkly.

< Comrade, you should have seen the six vehicles following me. I have never seen such heightened patrol in all my time running the border. Stay sharp, you may be being watched. >

Max shakes his head and looks at his comrades,

"Russians. You can never trust 'em."

[ Calgary, Algonkian-Manitou Territory ]

The city of Calgary is a sprawling mass of warehouses, soviet-era apartment blocks and towering industrial fixtures, all flash frozen and rife with icicles and soiled snow packs. The blizzard has somewhat subsided, although in its place is a freezing wind that brings the smell of fuel and rust and desperation. What few advertisements exist are mostly in Cyrillic or Chippewa, with the rare exception of an Arms Mart or Senor Chang's. The weather makes the lights muted and vaguely hostile.

Traffic is virtually non-existent as Doc wheels the rover off of the main thoroughfare and into an abandoned lot. A snow-cat shambles behind them, a haggard orc driver looking with detached curiosity at the bullet-ridden and smoking left side of the Rover. He turns away, obviously convinced that further speculation might cause him to befall a similar fate.

"Let's find a place to hunker down, and work on the next phase of the plan," Doc says over the rover's idle.

He clears out his simrig's memory, and loads up the Calgary Area info knowsoft. The abandoned lot suddenly seems... not familiar, but like something he's passed by a few times on his way to somewhere else. He tries to remember the nearby motels, searching the alien memory for any that might not give much scrutiny to their guests.

(( Knowledge test: Calgary Area ))

Doc's eyes pick apart the surrounding buildings and street names. It looks like the team has landed in an industrial park in the выплавка district, an area controlled by one of the Sino-Russian cartels. An area of seedy shops and motels is only a klick or so walk through the frozen streets.

"Lets hunker down someplace with tits.." begins Sinjin.

"What?", he says a little defensively at the amused looks that follow his comment. "We'd do ourselves a favor to mix in somewhere with loud music, dim corners, and lots of...distractions. Besides, we might learn something. It goes without saying that these girls see and hear a lot of what happens around town. We could do with some intel, perhaps a chance to make a friend or two."

The icy refreeze crunches underfoot as Sinjin turns about, reading the street signs and papered billboards than line the square in cryptic Cyrillic lettering, looking for references to nearby nightclubs and entertainment. In cities where the sky could be dark for months at a time, the nightlife tended to be pretty good.

At Sinjin's comment Max is immediately transported back to the night that the team found his daughter, and suddenly the elf is imagining a dive filled with girl forced into sex slavery-- girls whose dreams and ambitions have been lost in a wash of endless Johns and forced narcotics, their eyes sunken and sallow as they slither hazily from one table to another to endure the abuses and heckles of their disdainful public. Max hates the very idea of being in a joint like that after his personal encounter with them, but he knows that it might be the team's best bet for a little preliminary recon... it also might just be the best place to step in some real drek if they don't tread carefully. The elf offers a tentative assent as he says,

"Sinjin might have a point there. Doc, does the Sightseer's Guide to Calgary Knowsoft point the way to any local skin bars? I'm thinking the sleazier, the better."

Adams closes his eyes for a bit, and thinks.

"Yeah, I think I might know a place."

The Bloc is a hazy, acrid smelling den of iniquity. The walls are all bare concrete, save a single trideo screen that displays some kind of Russian music video. A bored (and probably drugged) joygirl dances lethargically around a pole erected in the center of the bar. The few other denizens of this place appear to be working class--if the coveralls are any clue--and eye the runners warily as they enter.

Adams scans the patrons, looking for any undue interest, or evidence of weapons.

Casually tapping his commlink, he loads up the Calgary Gangs knowsoft, and checks it to see which gang owns or runs protection on this bar.

Adams nods to himself, and slots the Russian linguasoft. He taps Max on the shoulder, and tips his head toward the bar.

"Why don't we see what's been going on around town, lately. Maybe we can find someone who knows something about Legion's setup."

Max nods and cozies himself up to the bar, resting both elbows heavily on the slimy wood and taking a cigarette from his pack as he does. Instinctively shielding the knock-off Zippo from wind that obviously doesn't blow within the walls of the dive, Max focus intently upon the flame for a brief moment before snapping the lighter closed and turning his attention back to his surroundings. He eyes the bartender-- a man whose grizzled appearance and nasty countenance belie the elf's ability to assess whether or not the man is a metahuman or passing. Calling him over with a gesture of his head, Max says,

"Gimme a shot of something cheap."

The bartender glares at Max through a set of antiquated cyber-eyes. He grabs a bottle of whiskey from behind the bar and sloshes it into a filthy glass, getting perhaps more liquor on the bar than in the receptacle.

"You from... out of town?"

His English carries the distinct note of an Eastern European accent, but it's passable.

Max takes the grimy shot glass into fingers and slugs its contents back. As the elf drops the glass back to the bar, he notes the particulate filth caked roughly onto the surface beneath the pads of his fingers. But Max has gotten drunk in nastier places than this. The elf nods, and says,

"Yup. Just got in. What's the story around here? Everybody's walkin' around like somebody raped their puppy."

Adams nods knowingly, and says in Russian,

"Это было давно, я вернулся. Что здесь происходит?"

The bartender sniffs indelicately at Max and turns to Doc, responding in Russian.

"Друг, все то же самое.Чиппева продолжать принимать нашу территорию."

Max feels a throbbing as a vein leaps out of his temple.