Clusterfrag

Isolated points of data trickle into Mouse’s feed. She consumes them with both appreciation and resentment, like a few drops of rain in an information desert. She returns her attention to her new map, and with some quick math, superimposing two translucent circles overtop. The first circle is made up of angry red dots, van at the center, extending out toward the main stage- where at least Taipan had hinted he was advancing: [KNOWN DEAD ZONE]. The second stretches only as far as the ticket booth, creating a relatively miniscule area that covers only Akela’s reported position: [CONFIRMED SIGNAL]. As for the giant swath of space in the middle: [???] What were previously just figments of paranoid overanalysis now have the backing of crude SIGINT and basic math. She can feel the blood drain from her face with this cold awareness of bitter circumstance. Her expression doesn’t change as she silently passes her findings to Axel, who she assumes to be member of the team capable of grokking even those basic implications. The numbers don't lie: they're hosed.

Her eyes narrow, however, as Akela blithely asks for data on the bikes. <<Team, we have null for enemy signals. Our only intel is from you, or our one, microscopic eye in the sky. Otherwise, we are running blind.>> She runs a hand through her hair again, grabbing a fistful of dark strands in frustration. <<Finding where the goods and bikes are stashed is what the recon was for.>> She finds herself twisting at her own hair again, the way one might bite down on something to hold back a scream. <<Either get your hoops to the van now while the drekheads are distracted, or Leeroy Jenkins and geek every clown you see. Either way, pray to whatever bullshit spirit you follow that these chucklefucks don’t just nade the van while we're gawking at aerials.>> Her eyes remain shut as she covers her face with her hand, knowing she’ll be lucky if her teammates even see the message, muchless read it. Goddamn it, Leeroy.

Reiya has no trouble escaping the flash bang, though the sound hurts her sensitive ears and the light would have hurt her eyes had she not closed them. Unaware of the fuming criticism and anger of her fellow runners at her hasty action, the shaman runs faster than any of them could have managed in the direction Akela went. Seeing the Van and seeing everyone taking up position, she scans the terrain for a high place that would give her line of sight and thus the use of her most deadly magic tools.

Axel's eyes are locked the AR feed from the fly-spy. The unwanted pressure of being the team's coordinator sits like a pit in his stomach. The view pans wide as he waves a hand in front of him. Another signature exits the convention center. The three that he had initially spotted are fanning out toward where the traps were set. The fourth appears to be patrolling the bridge.

Mick holds their breath and waits as the seconds turn to minutes. There's no way to know for sure, since Mick and Taipan are effectively the only eyes the team has anywhere in the compound, but it seems to them like no more grinning idiots are going to come and have a look for themselves. Cautiously, Mick resumes their approach to the rear of the convention center and up the stairs.

(( Can I get a perception roll before moving out just to check for additional danger? Peering around the corner of the booth before popping out, stuff like that. ))

The stairwell that winds around the convention center is treacherous and Mick's progress is slow. Their stealthy ascent is hampered by the water-logged, rotting steps. The ork evaluates every footfall, trying to gauge the integrity of the moldering disaster. As they observe this arduous process, they're overcome by a sensation of sinking in reverse; the absurd notion that the sky is an ocean of blood and Mick is being dragged up. Mick can hear their own heart beat-- feel it, even. Step forward. Bu-bump. Another step. Bu-bump. The higher they climb, the thicker the air feels. Beads of perspiration form on their brow. Mick knows they must keep moving.

After what feels to them like an eternity, they reach the top of the stair. Mick slumps to the ground, face slick with rain water and sweat. The combination of climbing unseen and contending with the predator in their mind had occupied all of their attention. Fortunately, there don't appear to be any traps or Smiles in the immediate vicinity. They take a moment to re-orient and then hop to their feet, head still swimming a bit in the aftermath.

Embedded in the rear of the building is a narrow doorway bearing a faded placard that declares: EMPLOYEES ONLY. As the doorway is empty, Mick opts to slip through.

The second story is a balcony that follows the perimeter of the half-circle convention center. It's littered with ruined furniture and the shattered, lifeless carcasses of various vending machines and AR arcade games. The balcony drops to ground level in the center of the building, leading to a mezzanine.

Mick glides through the darkness until they reach the railing at the edge of the balcony. Hunkering low, they peer down.

The mezzanine is a large open area of filthy parquet floor. An avalanche of broken furniture and structural materials have been pushed up behind doors to form barricades. At the center of the ground floor are a number of military tents, surrounded by a number of composite crates stacked haphazardly. The crates bear markings from a dozen different corporations. From Mick's vantage point, they can just make out the rear fairings of two motorcycles across the way.

Axel's expression darkens as he watches one of the thermo signatures wandering closer to the ticketing building. The directional microphone is hindered by the rain and the noise, but he hears a faint discordant humming amid the hiss of feedback.

Axel's eyebrows raise as he follows the patch of warmth amid the freezing downpour. He strains his hearing, knowing full well that won't do anything to clarify the data feed streaming in. "And just what do you think you're doing..?" He murmurs to the orange splotch. The sound at the edge of his hearing threatens to unravel his already threadbare sanity, and he brings up the laser microphone controls. He aims the laser at the window of the ticketing building, using the glass plane to capture the ambient sound around the window and the nearby Smile.

Mick squints their eyes, trying to drink in every detail of the interior of the convention center. The ork is sure that they're not alone in here– it's just down to who discovers whom first. Not wanting to make a single unnecessary peep, Mick retrieves their comm from its pouch and types out a hurried message to the team on a dimmed, archaic screen. < Got something in the convention center. Couple bikes. Military-looking crates. > Mick re-pockets the comm as quickly as possible to cut down on its ambient light– there's no room for error here.

As carefully as can be, they begin making their silent way around the balcony to the east, their eyes sweeping between the balcony and the area below, searching for any indication of dangers that could prove to be the fatal slip that finally flings the drek into the fan.

(( Roll perception for Smiles in the room, as well as traps, trip wires, and weak places in the floor on my approach. ))

Mick's view of the area below is partially obstructed from the second level, but as they traverse the circumference of the balcony they are able to see more of the mezzanine opposite them. Now Mick can see more motorcycles, huddled together against the wall. Next to the vehicles is a carbon-steel cage, large enough to fit several people. It seems unoccupied at the moment, but a canvas of dark stains suggests it wasn't always so.

The acoustics of the building provide the sound of conversation from the tents below, but it's too faint and too muffled by the canvas enveloping it to be gleaned of any particulars. Mick determines there are at least three distinct voices.

Arriving at the doorway to the foyer area, Mick stops and examines the door-frame. There are no obvious traps but beyond the threshold the mildewed carpet is covered in shards of broken bottles.

Taipan arrives behind Mick. He winces as the balcony creaks under a misplaced foot. The two freeze, eyes locked, awaiting the potential cry of alarm. There's some shuffling from below.

Five seconds pass.

Ten.

Relief floods both Mick and Taipan when the sound of conversation recommences. Taipan makes a plaintive gesture and the pair turn their attention to the corridor ahead.

Yung remains motionless, peering around the ticketing booth and through the archway connecting it to the adjacent building.. Straining his eyes in the direction of the bridge he knows is somewhere out there in front of him.

He sends a message to the team, <Hey Axel man, can you give me a rough estimate on the distance between my location and the bridge? And Thoryne, if you lookin for a place to make a bang, you might think about this archway I'm standin near. If they get eyes on T-bone or we gotta jam outta here, might be able to collapse it on them and slow em down eh? You two inside, let us know if you want us to make some more noise, wakatta.>

Eyes wide, body still, Mouse's attention is fixated on the incoming feed from the fly spy. The offer of ‘more noise’ is answered instantly, to the point of reflex. <<No sound yet.>> Silently, she tries to assess the position of the lone goon on the feed, moving toward one of the bridges. <<...Ne, if this guy starts getting close, could we take him out silently?>> Her gaze shifts between the troll and the wiry rigger, clearly desperate for any viable mitigation plan. <<If these drekheads spot the van, we're fragged. Same if they spot any other clear threat.>> She swallows hard, clearly not liking her options. <<But between the three of us, we might be able to handle one straggler at a time, whether through distraction or the BFT.>>

The shaman comes to a halt near the van and considers, giving Axel and possibly Mouse time to register that it’s her and not someone to shoot. Since she’s here at the van, is it time to return to human form, grab the crossbow and join the fray? Or better to stay as a wolf, without crossbow but still able to spellcast, as well as run and dodge far better than she can in two-legged form?

Reiya prowls carefully near the van, considering her options. She sees and smells Akela and Thoryne, but decides not to join them quite yet, as she also smells another living being not far away. She flares her nostrils in mild distaste, picking up the odor of drugs and unclean skin, but pads forward softly nonetheless to get a look and move into casting range.

(( Roll my sneakery, please. ))

Reiya skulks through the rain, passing through one of the ticket lanes. The wind picks up, flinging sheets of rain into her eyes. Coping with the inclement weather and the concentration required to maintain her wolf form have her distracted. She doesn't notice the Smile until they're ten meters away from each other. Reiya realizes quickly that she's too close to slink away.

Gato's head snaps towards her. The disfigured mouth curves into an obscene Chesire grin. A cybernetic balance tail swings to and fro behind him. "I found a pup," he says. His voice is tinged with the hysteria of the criminally insane. The makeup on his face is starting to run from the rain. Sparks eject from the blades in his knuckles as he grinds them together. "Where'd you come from, huh? Here puppy, puppy, puppy."

The Smile takes a step toward Reiya, his eyes full of hunger and malice and madness.

The anxiety of the initiates is palpable.

Everyone has their reasons to be sure, but doubt, fear, uncertainty, they all just create muddle in the mire. The most driving motivation remains the same, an admittedly (meta)human universal constant, pushing the hopeless in the darkest moments of desperation.

Love, propelling the world forward in some inexplicable tug-o-war of subjective obsession when reciprocated and contempt when denied. In this instance, it is the former, a flickering flame fueling a raging inferno within.

All of this has been buried beneath the cool seemingly collected semi-stoic exterior of youth with an unbridled confidence. It just biz, right omae?

Yung removes his mask, raising his face to the sky in a moment of catharsis. Three long days of emotional singularity seeking release, but this infinitesimal moment is the calm before the storm. A high-pressure system moving in that has put most on edge, but for Yung the game is on and this round he’s playing for more than just Nuyen and glory.

The game is the same, but this time there are no rules.

He takes another controlled breath and slides the mask back over his face before resuming his surveillance of the area between the ticket booth and the bridge.

< You want it quiet Mouse? How fitting. I can do that. Thoryne you got a knife or something? >

The shock of rounding a corner to find a Smile staring directly at her sets Reiya's fur on end. Drek, this isn't how it was supposed to happen, she thinks with a mixture of surprise and irritation. She feels the grime of the ruined city beneath her pads as she digs her feet into the ground. A low growl starts to burble up slowly in her throat--

Then the words coming out of the disfigured mouth begin to register. Puppy? Oh Great Spirits, it worked. The wolf begins to recede, and the shaman takes the reins. Calling upon a swell of energy within and without, she begins to weave a subtle pressure, and directs it at the murderous simpleton. Her tongue lolls out of her mouth in mischievous malevolence. The wolf approves. The pressure begins to take shape, and become imbued with a feeling of overwhelming boredom, a deep sense of the ordinary, and a drive to chase down the intruders who must have tripped one of the other wires.

(( Cast Influence, Force 3. "Check the other traps, there's nothing here." ))

Reiya feels the sensation of momentum, like being hurtled down an invisible tunnel. The singular thought she's projecting takes form as movement as it seeks out Gato's forehead. She feels something like a thread snapping.

Gato stops, mid-advance. He puts a booted foot down and stares dumbly just past Reiya. The Smile scratches his chest and says something unintelligible, then turns and walks in the opposite direction.

The dull thud of Taipan's pulse gradually slows as he exhales a long-held breath and gingerly lifts his weight off the creaking floorboard and onto more solid ground. Get it together, Kiyoshi, he reprimands himself silently. He slides softly up next to Mick to peer over the railing of the mezzanine, trying to commit the layout to memory should he find himself traversing it in a running firefight -- an event which seems increasingly likely by the moment.

He leans in close to whisper softly in Mick's ear, "Good position here. One of us will make less noise than two." Taipan looks the ork up and down briefly. "You move well, ork" he murmurs reluctantly. "If you can get closer, I will provide overwatch from here and comm you any enemy movement. If things get loud," he rests his trigger hand gently on the body of his FN HAR, "well -- this seems as good a spot as any."

Mick peers over Taipan, reluctant to let any corpo to have their back more on principle than anything else. Still, odd times make odd bedfellows, and it's not like the ork had any other option. The moment of consideration dashes upon their face before being overcome with a look of plaintive resolve. Mick offers the corporate assassin an affirmative nod and turns to make their way toward the stairs.

(( My goal here is to creep down the stairs and investigate those crates. If there's a new stealth roll required, which I assume there will be, I'd like to use a point of Edge to roll either Second Chance or Push the Limit if the initial stealth roll is shit. ))

Mick moves through the doorway with liquid grace, not so much prowling as flowing. The muscle memory of multifarious expeditions into nefarious corners of the city guides their motion. To Taipan, it looks like a dance. Mick waltzes around the curvature of the balcony, nimbly avoiding the minefield of glass fragments.

Once at the stairwell Mick begins a ritual of testing each step with a tentative toe step, then-- when satisfied-- they ease their weight forward on to the ball of the foot in a half crouch, finally rising upright to repeat the process. The undertaking is monotonous, but Taipan doesn't register a sound even with his augmented hearing.

The last few steps are located behind a battered and overturned Alpaca vending machine. Mick takes the opportunity to drop behind it, flattening themselves to remain hidden. Now that they are much closer to the tents, snippets of the continued conversation from inside are appreciable.

"--you said. Nobody come 'round here, shitbird. I'm tellin' you. Them boxes have the Star logo."

Mick peers around the top of the vending machine. The coast is clear, for now. They glance at the stack of crates.

"You dumb fuck. Everybody knows the Star doesn't come out here. Even if they did--"

The edges of Mick's vision flickers crimson. Copper tang. Placoid scales, blood-slick and slippery. Dark ocean. Gaping maw.

"Doesn't matter. Kill 'em. Eat 'em. Fuck 'em. Whoever."

Mick scampers noiselessly past the first tent and melts into the shadow cast by the loot pile. Their pulse is beating a Johnny Nuclear drum loop and each throb is visceral-- an advertisement for brutality. The hostility radiating from the tent just meters away is a gravitational force. It's all they can do to avoid uttering a primal scream.

They swallow dryly and scan the visible logos on the myriad stolen containers: LanceCorp. Jetstar. Yokohama. La Fontaine. DataVis. Passione. Kruger-Grant. Battlecast. But no Lone Star logo.

'God fucking dammit, not now.'

The blood was coming. It was rushing through their veins. Behind their eyes. It was closing in around the edges of the known world, lapping at the boundaries of consciousness, heavy and syrupy and so red that the red turned black. The pressure had been building at the base of Mick's skull, knotting itself into a fist of stone. All the hairs on the back of Mick's neck stand at rapt attention, the sensation rippling over their scalp like a dusting of electricity. Does it burn, or does it tickle? The ork can't tell, but becomes aware that their hands have twisted and strained to resemble a pair of feral claws, trembling at the violence just barely contained within them.

Mick steals a glance up at Taipan and finds him watching there, a silent sentry over their shoulder. Sweat beads on their brown and drops down their cheek. Shaking the tension from their hands, they gesture to the crates and give Taipan an exaggerated thumbs-down. Then, tapping their sternum several times, Mick points to the tent closest to the exits that lead to the stage.

The good news: According to the away team, they have identified bikes and crates of some flavor. Also, the lack of follow-up gunshots or explosions indicates that, despite the insistence of her own anxiety, the team has not yet summoned a wave of angry clowns to the van’s position. (‘Yet’ being the operative word.)

The bad news: Literally everything else.

Mouse, to her credit, opts to focus on the positives for once, particularly as she draws in another slow breath, willing her own heart to dislodge itself from her throat. She still has a job to do, namely gathering intel, and seeing as their enemy is neither online or chatty, that just leaves her with her own eyes… albeit with some technological assists. She removes her glasses, giving them a habitual wipe on her sweatshirt, before swapping them with their much bulkier replacements: her thermal goggles.

Carefully, she pushes herself to her feet, giving her arms a gentle swing as though to physically shake off the last several hours worth of inaction. <<Don’t panic: I’m not going anywhere- just giving us another set of eyes.>> After all, it will only take one wrong move for things to go tits-up and require the rigger to pull his attention from the feeds to the guns, and she doesn’t want to be left flat footed when he does. <<And if the archway's clear, I'm in favor of leaving behind a parting gift- anything that might slow a pursuit.>> She give s a mock salute before approaching the door, slipping out as quietly as possible.

Once outside, she tenses her grip around the light-fire instinctively, and places her free hand against the filthy tarp lining the Vantichrist, which is now serving as both cover and her spatial anchor. With a thought, she’s plunged into a world of cool blues and greens- hopefully to stay that way, and one careful step at a time, begins to make her way clockwise around the perimeter.

(( She’s literally just circling the van to scan with the thermal/magnification lenses to check for heat signatures in the vicinity. Not sure if you’ll want a stealth roll since she's not going far, but in the offchance she both does AND glitches, she'll spend an edge to offset that. ))

Thoryne peers down at Mouse, who barely reaches his hip. His gaze wanders to the diminutive pistol clutched in her hands. A fanged grin materializes on his rugged features. "Well I for one feel much safer."

The troll lifts his considerably larger gun-- a heavily customized AK-98-- and slams an extended magazine of hollow points into the receiver. "Send in the clowns," he growls, a practiced hand ripping back the charging handle.

Axel keeps his eyes on the AR feed, and his ears on the comm chatter.

<<I'm keeping an eye from the sky here, but when it comes to getting around unseen, this little thing is arctic. Let me know if you need anything looked at... Discreetly.>>

He eyes the thermographic signature of the retreating smile. His eyes follow an invisible line pointing to the origin of that motion, and finds... A large cat? A dog?

Oh, right.

He turns his head, leaning over his shoulder, to address the back of the van. "Don't know what happened, but I think our wizard friend just saved our hoops." He turns his head back to the front, and gives the rainy wasteland an appraising stare.

"And the others sound like they might be in some hot drek in a hurry." He pauses. The pull to run from the chaos hanging over the group like an overfilled water ballon waiting for a pinprick is still there. He swallows, as if that will push the notion further down out of his reach. "And if that happens, we'd best be ready to come in fast."

Relieved that her spell worked well enough to distract the lone Smile, Reiya nonetheless retreats in a hurry. She acutely feels the lack of communication without at least one of her pack by her side; after all, the wolf is seldom a solitary hunter. Returning to the van, she watches Mouse leave it with some surprise, as she thought the small one was ensconced for the long haul, but the elf begins to make a tight circle of the vehicle, clearing not going far.

Reiya’s acute lupine hearing catches the tail end of Axel’s words. Coming in fast is no trouble for her in her current form, but relaying information will almost certainly be. She strolls around to the front of the van, making eye contact with Axel, resolved to wait until she learns more about their status, and stay close enough to hear it.

Axel stares out the driver's window at the wolf improbably standing before him in the this ruined, radioactive pit encircled by a massive, urban sprawl. Sure, he thinks, why not?

"Hey, uh, things are still kind of going better than expected, but that might change," he says to the wolf, a nagging uncertainty creeping into his voice. "If that happens, we'll want to move fast. Unless I've made a very big mistake, and am really embarrassing myself right now. You are... Nevermind. Anyway, I've got to make sure the road is clear."

Axel takes another look around what used to be a parking lot, weighing again whether to make himself helpless in this place, and with these people. He closes his eyes and commits, and after a great shrinking and re-expanding of his vision, he once again finds his metal carapace pelted by cold rain, and his vision a Jackson Pollock of blues and oranges. He flies the tiny drone toward the van, and once across the bridge, drops to the deck, flying at shin-height. He begins to make his way back toward the main stage, moving methodically just above the ground. With a thought, he flips on the ultrasound, and a messy mesh model overlays the thermographic information. The mesh model is mostly noise from the rain, like an old television set tuned to a dead channel. But it might, MIGHT be enough to catch an errant wire that he might have passed over or under, and not seen. With another thought, he fades out the thermographic imagery to be a ghost overlaid the raw visual imagery from the standard camera. A wire would be a difficult thing to spot in this weather and lighting, but that didn't stop Taipan. And with any luck, he figures, the three layers combined should help permanent details to stand out among the rain and debris.

(( I want to use the Fly-Spy to scout the route between the van, and Mick and Taipan's location. Looking for more tripwires, mines, other traps. Bonuses are +1 for control rig and +2 for hotsim. The control rig also lowers all vehicle test thresholds by 1, and the Control Rig Optimization adds +1 die to all vehicle tests, but not vehicle skill tests. ))

Is the battle tide ebbing? All of this buildup with no climax. Nervous chatter...waiting. A familiar game to Yung, but certainly not his favorite; especially given the circumstances.

<Either of you two inside got anything to share? Last we hear is bikes an crates, hopefully you not fragged. If you got eyes on the package or think your close, I’m startin to think this maybe our best shot. We can make a scene, maybe give you the time you need to get the package and get out. But you ain’t gonna jander back to T-bone if that the case, you gotta find another way out and we pick you up eh?> Yung pauses for a response, looking at his watch to determine how long until first light.

<Axel omae, these cabróns on patrol, if they head back across dat bridge, gonna be trouble for Taipan and Mick. You let em know when they start headin that way. >

Yung hums a tune quietly to himself
In the middle of the night
I go walking in my sleep
Through the valley of fear
To a river so deep
I've been searching for something
Taken out of my soul
Something I'd never lose
Something somebody stole...

Comin to get you ore no ai, one way or another.

The bolt of reds and yellows cuts through the purple-blue gradient that makes up the thermal landscape, giving Reiya’s form an appropriately divine aura in her approach. Knowing full well she won’t be concentrating on the horizon in the presence of that majestic motherfragger, Mouse cuts the thermals and rounds the corner to the front of the van. Eyes quickly adjusting to the lack of light as she takes in the conversation, dipping her head in an atypically respectful greeting as she approaches. “OKAERINASAI, MORO NO KIMI.” The nickname slips out without a second thought, with Reiya’s lupine form looking more like something from some animated art piece or a high budget trideo game than anything Mouse has ever witnessed in meat space. “FROM WHAT AXEL SAYS, WE OWE YOU ONE.” The volume of her speech is low, the situation still necessitating some subtlety.

“DUNNO HOW UP TO SPEED YOU ARE, BUT WE’RE KEEPING A LOW PROFILE WHILE WE WAIT FOR THE OTHERS.” She folds her arms as she says this, almost intuitively huddling against the outdoor chill, “WE KNOW THESE DREKHEADS LIKE CHASING CARS AND BLOWING THEM UP, SO THE LONGER WE CAN KEEP THEM FROM SPOTTING THE VAN, THE BETTER.” As surreal as it is to walk through battle plans with the beast, it’s strangely easier than trying to hold a face to face conversation, even with her teammates. Perhaps it’s the lack of a human expression to have to read, or the fact that this form reads almost like a meatspace avatar- something she can understand. “NO IDEA WHAT WILL HAPPEN WHEN DREK MEETS FAN. WE’LL NEED TO KEEP THOSE CLOWNS AT A DISTANCE SO THEY CAN’T SLAG OUR RIDE, BUT NOT SURE HOW WE’LL DO THAT WITHOUT PREP TIME. MIGHT JUST TOSS A FRAGTON OF EXPLOSIVES THEIR WAY DURING THE INEVITABLE HIGH SPEED CHASE.” Her lips tighten slightly, almost optimistic as she considers this development. “YOU WOULDN’T HAPPEN TO HAVE ANY FABULOUS SECRET POWERS THAT WOULD HELP WITH THAT, WOULD YOU?”

It’s only now this line of thinking that seems to remind her that she is in fact, talking to an actual person, not some NPC. More than that, Reiya is, in fact, a teammate… with a pile of clothes waiting in the van. The immediate mental recalibration is enough to cause an audible stammer in the synthetic cadence. “UNLESS- ARE YOU GOING TO STAY LIKE THAT? OR… DO YOU WANT ME TO BRING OUT YOUR STUFF?”

Mick drifts silently to the closest tent. They gingerly take the entrance flap in their hands and lift before slipping through the narrow opening. Once inside they delicately lower the flap back into position. Not a sound is made. They turn to survey the dark living space.

A few grungy mattresses are dumped carelessly in one corner. Mick finds themselves surrounded by pilfered items-- counterfeit jewelry, stained and ripped designer clothing, empty pill bottles, and several empty boxes. Propped on a folding table is a svelte black composite suitcase bearing the Mitsuhama logo. A pair of rusty pliers and a cordless drill accompany it. There's no sign of anything decorated with the Lone Star logo.

A foul smell nearly forces Mick to gag but the ork forces it down. The canvas walls of the tent are substantial but they can still make out the conversation from just a handful of meters away.

"--you say so. Papa, what you want we should do? Two-yen said might be the Red-10's-- turf war, like."

A voice that's half-gurgle and half sandpaper across skin answers: "Keep your eyes open."

There's a pause. "...and bone daddy?"

The nightmare-inducing voice responds: "Not yet."

In response to Mouse's adorable ramblings and questions, Reiya simply sits on her haunches and lolls her tongue out in a grin.

Thoryne lets his AK-98 dangle on its sling and approaches the row of ticket kiosks. He rubs a stubble bedecked chin as he surveys the architecture with a squint. The act of blowing something to smithereens is an art form, an epiphany that arrives to those who have substantial experience in the avocation. It's about more than simply razing a structure: it's deconstruction; the faire de l'art by means of entropy. To take something man built and reduce it to its component atoms is poetic, in a way.

The troll's eyes sweep the lines of the arch and follow the curvature. Maximum damage with minimal effort. Waste not, want not. A good demolitionist is frugal with their arsenal. Any Cowboy can glom a kilogram of boom-boom clay to a house, find a safe distance, and giggle while thumbing a remote detonator. An adept-- an explosive virtuoso, now that master of ruination works like a Zen monk: a light touch. Flair isn't needed for the true beauty is revealed in the pièce de résistance. The object of the demolitionist's intent will bloom like a lotus made of fire. Urban fireworks.

Thoryne finds himself humming a sea shanty, something buried in the subconscious of his mind. Something about sea foam and kinship and drinking. His enormous hands move of their own accord, following the subroutines of a frequently accessed set of neural pathways. He withdraws a brick of commercial explosive from a satchel on his belt and works it free from the plastic wrapping. He selects the ticket booth that serves as meridian for the sprawling collection of buildings and affixes the explosive. Next he wiggles a radio detonator into the lumpy mass. Finally, Thoryne strides to each end of the entrance building and uses insulating tape to secure a stick of dynamite. He steps back to admire his handiwork and grumbles a sigh of contentment.

<< Well, if anyone decides to follow us through here, they're in for a nasty surprise. >>

The fly-spy flits through the rain, a nigh-invisible instrument of reconnaissance. Through the insect-like drone's optical sensors Axel observes the grounds of the ramshackle amusement park. While he doesn't encounter any traps, he does spot a Smile who has stationed himself at the park-side of the bridge.

A brawny ork dressed in riding leathers is staring intently towards the bridge. He's presumably riding the Rapture, evidenced by wide-open eyes and mangled lips pulled back, bearing a set of filed teeth. Double bandoliers containing grenades are strapped across a substantial torso. The Smile holds a grenade in each hand and his thumbs fidget with the pins.

The muscles in Taipan's jaw work in a slow rhythm as he watches Mick float down the steps and duck under one of the tent flaps. His augmented hearing picks up plenty of chatter from the deranged denizens of this cursed place, and his eyes search purposefully to locate them amid the mess of crates, tents, and barricades.

Sensing the pent up angst through the chatter on the comm feed, he subvocalizes a few bits of intelligence without taking his eyes from the tent into which Mick disappeared, <<Mick is in deep, convention center. Lots of contraband, but haven't located the package yet. Clowns seem to suspect a turf war incursion. We need more time here.>>

Mick curses internally. Of course it couldn't have been so easy. And, in the pit of their stomach, they know it won't be so easy as to be in the next unoccupied tent either. But still, better check off the boxes that don't require killing first.

(( Move on to check the next apparently unoccupied tent. ))

Mick leans out of the tent and insures they are alone. They carefully replace the flap and move towards the next tent.

"I got Two-yen on the bridge. Gato, Loudmouth, and Sixpack are lookin' around outside."

Upon arrival at the second tent, Mick stops and lays an ear against the canvas. The sound of breathing drifts from inside, faint but perceptible. They pull back the flap just a sliver and peek through.

An enormous Smile is sitting in a corner. The obese ganger wears a pair of coveralls that fail to contain a balloon of bulging flesh. A set of cheap trodes crown a shaved head. His disfigured face-- painted to resemble a vaudevillian antagonist-- is screwed up in either pleasure or pain. Mick's eyes follow the trodes to an old-school sim-stim rig, one of the first generation models by Zeiss-Sony.

The Smile is surrounded by empty food containers, glass bottles and cigarette butts. There are more pilfered items of questionable value: women's clothing, some imitation jewelry, a few tri-d video game cassettes. Mick's eyes, however, lock on to a familiar symbol emblazed on an olive drab composite crate near the fat Smile's feet. Lone Star. Below the logo is stenciled spray reading: CONTRABAND TO BE DESTROYED 001 OF 002.

For a moment, the two simply watch each other in silence. As it becomes immediately clear that an ‘answer’ isn’t coming, there’s a fleeting moment of visible confusion, a slight furrow to the brow as she attempts to interpret this, before simply accepting the beatific doggy grin before her. She shoots a quick glance over each shoulder, first toward the driver’s window where Axel is undoubtedly engrossed in his surveillance, and the other direction, where she assumes the troll is setting up the grand finale to this escape. Slowly, Mouse crouches down, bringing herself to Reiya’s level, and gently extends a hand.

“...boop.”

Barely able to contain her satisfied grin, she straightens up once again, shoots Reiya a nod, and flips her vision back to its thermal gradients, eyes once again on the horizon.