Clusterfrag

Max looks with annoyance between the two-- at Doc for interrupting his line of conversation and at the Russian for ignoring it. His fingers still on the shot glass on the bar, Max picks the glass backs up and slams it down on the bar. Leaning over the surface, Max insists,

"HEY LENIN. I WAS TALKING TO YOU."

The Russian bartender swivels his head slowly. A set of nano-mechanical irises focus on the obvious cyber-ware, the thinly concealed full-body armor, the shotgun strapped to Max's back. He exhales sharply through his nose, adopting the look of one who is using manners as a means of survival instead of etiquette.

"What can I helping you?"

"Thank you." Max's eyes bore back into the Russian for a moment before softening to a deadened affect, as he continues, "As I said, I'm new here, and I want to see the sights. What roads shouldn't I turn down?"

The tipped over shot glass is still rolling gently from side to side. All eyes in the joint are momentarily on the three standing in agitation at the bar.

"Сын сука. Any road with Chippeva on it. You stay on Russian side."

The bartender retrieves the shot-glass and places it right side up, spilling more whiskey at it.

Max takes the shot glass into his fingers once more and drains the contents. Wiping a dribble from his lips while wearing the unavoidable whiskey grimace, Max croaks,

"Yeah? And what's the story with the Chippewa?"

The bartender throws a stained towel over his shoulder and shrugs.

"They say this land belong them. We Russians, knowing better. Been fighting... very long time."

Max taps the bar to indicate that he requires another, and asks,

"Anybody around here who doesn't seem to care much about what side of the line they're on? Maybe somebody who just goes where they please?"

The bartender continues the game of get-the-whisky-in-the-glass, which he appears to be lousy at.

"Foreigners. Some Corporation. Outliners."

Another shot-- another grimace.

"Names."

Adams puts his elbows on the bar, and looks at the bartender conspiratorially.

"Что же происходит в городе? Я слышал, что является новым игроком неподалеку. Кто-то, что никто не хочет связываться."

The bartender makes the universal sign for nuyen; rubbing his forefinger against his thumb. He grins, revealing nearly enough metal and composite to arm a soviet resistance squad.

Max glances at Doc, then back to the bartender, nods, and says,

"I'll take care of you. Don't worry."

Max cocks an eyebrow and looks at Doc expectantly.

Adams nods,

"Кто-нибудь выйти к ним в гости?"

Max looks back and forth between the bartender and Doc, and finally asks with no small amount of annoyance in his voice,

"So who do I have to frag to get a translation, comrades?"

"Me." says Sinjin brusquely as he saunters up to the bar. Pretending not to know the other two, Sinjin had separated his arrival at the bar by a few minutes knowing that the entrance of a group of five armed irregulars would not go unnoticed.

"He says you should drink less."

Ordering a glass of vodka from the bartender, he gestures towards Max and says, "поставить его на его законопроект, Eh друг??"

Picking up his cocktail, he nods a brief, mocking salute to the elf before taking himself and his drink to a table nearby. Not too near, but close enough for his enhanced audio to overhear the conversation occurring at the bar. Pulling a knife from a boot-top, he begins to roughly play at stabscotch. Occasionally, he surveys the passerby, challenging some to make a wager.

Adams looks at the newcomer ork, and narrows his eyes as if in challenge. He then shrugs it off, and turns back to the bartender.

In almost a whisper, he gestures toward Max and says,
"Извините о мой друг, он жопа. Это было долгое путешествие. Вы знаете, где они покупают? Или вы знаете кого-то, мы можем поговорить?"

Tyros stands unseen in the corner (standard repertoire of spells up before leaving the rover), the giant troll invisible behind his magic. Watching the patrons and employees closely, Tyros is forced to conclude that it is one of the worst watering holes he has had the pleasure of visiting in some time. Yet he finds it familiar and comforting in a way the team's more recent encounters with big corps, nanotechnology, and obscure arcana was decidedly not. The bar might be covered in shit and filled with unsavory folks, FSRS certainly included, but that is often the case with bars the world over.

Tyros never spent time in the military, but one thing he does know is that when grunts get off base, their first stop is usually to find some company with the fairer sex. And military or not, men tend to talk too freely in bed. Tyros knows that from personal experience once or twice. Ah, Jessica. She was damn fine looking for an ork.

Shaking his head, Tyros breaks his reverie and eyes the joygirl obviously waiting on her next customer. With a flick of his wrist (centering), the Mage gently pries open her sluggish mind (mind probe, f3, seeing if she has had any chatty legion customers).

The bartender's mood lightens considerably after serving Sinjin. He douses more whiskey in and around Max's glass, seemingly out of habit at this point.

He turns to Doc.

"Я не знаю. Чиппева могут, но они будут нужны деньги для информации."

His cyber-eyes find Max again.

"Hundred nuyen for liquor."

Tyros submerges himself in the joygirl's mind.

Adams nods at the bartender and sits back up.

"Cпасибо"

As the bartender turns his back to attend other customers, Adams loads up his encrypt program, and opens a channel to the rest of the team.

< Okay, looks like Legion mostly keeps to themselves, except for the occasional foray into town for, uh, vodka, using the trucks we heard about previously. Chippewa should know more, as they seem to be privy to the business transactions. We may have to head to another bar in their territory, as I imagine none of them would be caught dead in a Russian zone. >

As Doc is conversing with the bartender, he can't help but notice the man's jaw clench and his nostrils flare. Turning to follow his gaze, Doc finds himself looking at the stocky figure of a Chippewa man in fatigues. The uniform is identical to those being worn by the border agents that had chased the Rover. An XM30 assault rifle is slung across his chest, and a sidearm holster on his thigh holds an Ares Viper.

Adams calls up his loaded 'soft menu, and slots the Ojibwe linguasoft.

In English, he says casually,

"I'll give it to you, you've got some balls coming in here. What can I help you with?"

The soldier raises an eyebrow at Doc's greeting. He scans the bar quickly before turning back to address him.

"We're looking for a group of men and a Land Rover 2068. They..."

His gaze settles on the shotgun strapped to Max's lower back. He narrows his eyes and takes a step away from Doc.

"...just ran the border, you see. There's a reward leading to..."

Adams raises his eyebrows excitedly,

"What kind of reward are we talking about? We happen to be pretty good at tracking folk down."

His grin has all the swagger of a grunt merc.

The Chippewa border agent glances back at Doc distractedly. His hand rests on the stock of the XM30.

"Yes, about that... I'll need to see your papers. Please open your PAN..."

He turns away from Doc and steps slowly toward Max, tilting his head to get a better look at Marlowe.

Max casually shifts so that his back turns away from the interested soldier, and says,

"Woah, now, buddy. Have I ever come into your favorite bar and hassled you? I came into town ten days ago; I hate to break it to you, but you're looking at the wrong elf."

(( Going for Con [Fast Talk] here. ))

The border agent straightens up as Max turns around, shaking his head to ward off some inexplicable interior conflict.

"Oh, I see. I'm sorry to bother you. You wouldn't happen to have seen a damaged Land Rover, model 2068, would you?"

Max feigns contemplation for a moment, and returns,

"I recall seeing something on four wheels that looked pretty blown to drek, but I couldn't tell you what make or model it was. It was heading south out of town about thirty minutes ago." The elf pauses for a second, glances at the bartender, and says, "Hey-- buy you one before you're on your way?"

The bartender makes angry gurgling noises behind Max but retains his composure.

"No, no I shouldn't while on duty."

Max's gaze is still firmly locked with the border agent's. He's seen that look before. There's a tiny doubt burning inside the man's subconscious, but for all of the elf's subtle facial movements, mannerisms, speech inflections and of course a healthy dose of tailored pheromones, that doubt can't pierce the surface.

Max shrugs and says,

"Hey-- suit yourself. Good luck tracking down those fraggin' border hoppers."

The elf raises the filthy shot glass to the border patrol officer and says, "Here's to La Migra," and proceeds to knock it back in a swift, single go.

((I'm assuming I got nothing from the joygirl?))

Tyros watches with growing concern.

<"I'll wipe his memory, just in case."> Simultaneously, with another snap of his wrist that makes an audible click (centering), he blanks the Chipewa's mind and replaces his immediate memories with the urgent need to go visit his ailing mother (alter memory, f4).