Clusterfrag

Bradbury pauses a moment, distrustful as to why this man would be trying to shoo the group out the door when there is undoubtedly more information to be gleaned. He must have an angle in this, which is a thought that deeply troubles the ork.

Anon holds up a restraining hand in Aremys's direction. "Let's not be haste, wineg, Mr. Scratch and Ms. Magdalena are painting picture for us. I'd like to see it finished. Anyway, I am thinking this is not job to go in with half-cock as you say."

Magdalena picks at a piece of grime on the tip of her boot.

"Most beetle trafficking is done by the Yaks, though there are some low level gang pushers. They usually get the scraps. Rumor has it these halloweeners picked up a bit-brain that can make pretty convincing tech... right up until the poor user's brain melts out of his nostrils. Not even the halloweeners want that kind of rep lashing back on them. That's about all I know. Like I said: a rumor."

Bradbury considers this, and wonders more out loud than he might prefer,

"I wonder if we could get in touch with the Yakuza and maybe ally ourselves with them.. See what they might know..."

Scratch's expression is severe.

"As I said, we want this done with the most subtlety you can manage. We're not interested in breaking up a counterfeit BTL ring, just evicting some troublesome squatters. If you don't think you're up to it without involving an organized crime syndicate, maybe I've misjudged you."

The ork darts his glance at Scratch, annoyed at the criminal's irritation with his idea. Bradbury leans over on the table with his palms and drops his head, his fingers spread on its sticky surface. The veins beneath his skin form a web of sanguine roadways tracing up his wrists and along the tops of his hands, almost perceptibly throbbing with his strong heartbeat. He closes his eyes and focuses on the room. The pounding of the bass outside the immediate walls becomes a distant moan, thickening the air and expanding outward like the sandy plains of... he doesn't know. Frustration takes him over for a moment, and his hands tense against the tabletop. He'd almost had something, god dammit. The sweat on his brow slicks the beanie pulled down over it.

He opens his eyes.

"If the lieutenant of this gang has a chopper that he likes to dress in femurs, he must go places on it, right? Probably even likes to show it off. Up his street cred." He looks from face to face of his new employers, then makes eye contact with each of his new team members before continuing. "We could work a two-pronged attack on the Halloweeners. We wait until the lieutenant leaves the facility, then attack him offsite. Cut off the head, and the body won't know what to do." Bradbury suddenly makes a sharp chopping motion on the table, rattling a pair of beer glasses and sending an ashtray lolling off-kilter and counterclockwise on its base-- its contents bouncing about inside. "The lieutenant taken care of, we then go at the facility. Somebody creates a diversion at the front while I and anybody else capable slip in undetected from the side or the rear. I've done it before." Had he? He knew it, but he didn't know it. He wasn't sure what he was saying, but the words just kept coming. "Once I'm in position, we can flank the bulk of their remaining force. We squeeze the Halloweeners from multiple angles, decentralizing their focus while centralizing ours, squeezing them like a blister until they pop." The ork holds his fist in front of his face upside down, then flicks it open to gesticulate an explosion. He looks at his palm and can all but see the blood that has been wiped from it time and time again in his life before. Whatever life that was. "Of course, that's all dependent upon two things: our being able to follow or ambush the leader offsite, and me being able to sneak in the rear. For that we'll need a car and those blueprints and time to surveil the facility. When can we get those blueprints?" His thoughts come to an immediate, demanding end. His command over the situation as he sees it rattles in his mind like a voice in the dark echoing off of high walls-- its source unknown and its timbre foreign. He looks expectantly at Magdalena and waits, not breaking eye contact and breathing calmly.

Anon stares in mute surprise at the bedraggled dockworker as his transformation to and from a confident military strategist comes to an end. It all sounds logical, but then again what would Anon know about that kind of thing?

A frequently recurring thought crosses his mind once again: Drek. What the hell have you gotten yourself into?

Magdalena shrugs noncommittally, strangely nonplussed at the sudden burst of strategic genius that ejaculated from Bradbury.

"Beats telling them there's a 50% off sale at the stuffer shack, I'll give you that. This is your show, chummer."

"As promised..." The razorgirl digs around in her vest and pulls out a data-chip. She flips it towards Tianwe. "Slot that into your deck, omae. It'll be prettier in VR."

Sensing that the meeting is coming to end, Anon asks one final question:

"How long are we having for finish the job?"

Scratching at the back of his hyena patterned hair-do, Bjorn considers the wisdom of opening his mouth. He'd made it thus far through this strange, possibly dangerous, and unexpected meeting without managing to draw attention to himself. But then again, he'd never really made a pretense of living with good sense.

He blurts out, "So these 'weeners...any known wizards among them?"

"These questions are good ones," Tianwe adds, nodding slightly in assent. "We must know these things... and use what we do know already..." Tianwe pauses a moment while he gathers his thoughts. If there's one thing he knows, it's gangs, drugs, and sprawl livin'. Well... maybe that's not so much "one" thing as "three," but they're all pretty much hand-in-hand in his experience.

"This chapter of 'Weeners..." Tianwe spits on the floor unceremoniously, "...we already know much about them. They into drugs. We can use this as weapon. Either to get us in, or to draw them out." Tianwe looks around the room, watching the gears turn. "We know too that other 'Weener chapters are not fond of this one. Could use this to advantage too." Tianwe rubs his chin thoughtfully. "Maybe as easy get them all out of the building and just lock them out." He hesitates for a moment. "Or not so easy... but worth a try. Better than 2 on 1 odds we are given on a frontal assault. This is stupid."

Tianwe's no genious, but he's also no fool. He knows that gangland cunning and knowhow will have a large role to play in the trial to come. "I can make some calls to explore options for drugs or backup if we need."

"I'll give you until sunrise. That's about 8 hours."

Magdalena shrugs. "There's usually at least one mage in every chapter."

Bradbury grumbles, 'That's not a whole lot of time. What's the rush? 'Nother part of your test?"

Scratch's mechanized finger taps the edge of the glass ashtray. "If you can't run off a group of gangers in 8 hours, you definitely won't be able to fulfill the contract that Shimizu-san's superiors have created."

The ork looks to the team, and suggests, "Alright. We might need wheels if the opportunity to tail the lieutenant arises. Anybody got any?" As the team collectively shakes its head, Bradbury turns to their new employers and says "Well, unless you guys have one we can use, I guess we're on foot..."

Anon glances over his shoulder before nodding. He presses his fingertips to the table, splayed out with his palms hovering above them. He glances away from the fixers, and takes in the dirty, unkempt orks, elves, and humans sitting around him.

"It sounds like we need plan. Perhaps many plans. And to have honesty, I don't know any of you. This is not how I like working. There is empty table over there where I am go to get drink. If anyone else wants join me, perhaps we can solve both problem of being strangers and not knowing what to do next."

A voice bounces off the inside of his skull. Without unity, there is no strength.

Aremys nods to Anon, "A perfectly reasonable suggestion. Mr. Scratch, we shall return within 8 hours once the warehouse is clear."

Heading to the indicated table, his first few steps have a pronounced limp, although it fades to a lurching shuffle after a few strides. Catching the eye of a waitress who is looking decidedly down her perfectly fake nose at the crippled Ork, Aremys orders a double scotch with a sneer. Dropping himself down into the booth with a sigh, he wait for his new teammates and his drink.

Bradbury makes eye contact with the emaciated young man, the razorgirl, and their oak-like silent partner, before turning to Anon and offering him a curt nod. The ork turns and eyes the rest of the team, making his way to the table indicated by the eccentric looking elf. As he ambles toward the booth, Bradbury does a mental inventory of his finances to confirm that he can afford a decorum drink with these new cohorts-- these are dire times, indeed.

Sliding into the booth, and keeping an eye on their new employers, Bradbury raises a hand to a waitress on the other side of the room to indicate a drink of some kind. He doesn't much care what kind-- he's not really in the mood for a drink, anyway. As the rest of the group makes its way to the table and fills in, he mulls over what to tell them and what to withhold. Ultimately, he decides to let what they've seen of him inform their ideas-- let them ask questions if they have them. He doesn't know what he'l say if they do, but he'll cross that bridge when he gets there. An incredulous smirk stretches across his lips, parting the bush of his beard as he considers that the other men sitting at the booth would be drawing inferences about his past based upon his defense against the razorgirl's attack, and his sudden outburst of strategic insight-- neither of which he had any control over in the moment; their guesses as to his past an experience are just as informed and good as his are.

"I'm Bradbury," he begins, the claim ringing from him with a suspicious falsity that he hopes nobody else hears, "and it seems like we're pretty much in this drek together."

The relentless throbbing of the dance music provides good cover for the runner's hushed conversation. Not that a group of shadowrunners would necessarily look out of place in this establishment, but it provides an element of security nonetheless.

Anon slides into the booth after the pair of Orks. Accustomed to the company of elves, Anon still finds some comfort in the fact that the team has so many metahumans. Back home people spoke often about the persecution and subjugation of non humans in the UCAS and Seattle. The presence of another raén is an added bonus.

His eyes continually dart about the room, as if expecting something to emerge from the shadows at any moment. His accent lightens a little in the absence of their strange employers. "Name is Anon Stray," he says in return to Bradbury's introduction. "I suppose you are here for the fighting, ni? This is good, I'm afraid I won't be much use for that. I do have other talents that may be of usefullness," he says, picking up a glass that wasn't on the table before, the contents an inky black with a swirling galaxy of light in the center. A little showing off is in order, he figures, after the mediocre showing during his attempt to charm Scratch and loosen his wallet.

Bradbury takes the glass handed to him by the waitress-- it appears to be some kind of brown liquor-- and tips it in the elf's direction, noting the whisper of a lipstick print still clinging to the rim. Nodding to the glass Anon has just filled with worlds beyond his own, the ork says, "Fighting seems to be what I'm good for, I guess. That's some parlor trick you've got there. Do you do parties?" A grin crosses his face as he asks the question, aiming to indicate good humor.

Tianwe slides into a seat at the booth to join the others, grimacing slightly as he wipes away some unidentifiable liquid from the table in front of him with the sleeve of his coat. It smells like fire and piss, much like what wafts up at him from his own glass. His face twists in on itself as he chokes down a sip.

"I am Tianwe Little-Hawk. Am not much for fighting, but can shoot if I must. My talent is in other places." Tianwe pulls aside his coat just enough to expose a corner of the cyberdeck beneath it, careful not to expose it to anyone outside the booth. "I guess this is why I am here." He pauses, considering. "But I do not know why else. At least we are paid." Tianwe nods curtly at the last, as if trying to convince himself that something good might come of this after all.

Tianwe bounces the datachip given to him by their "employers" in his palm before reaching under his coat and slotting it in his deck. He looks to the unintroduced members of the team while he waits for the data transfer to finish. It seems to take forever. Fragging piece of drek, he thinks impatiently as he watches the progress bar creep along his AR feed.

Bradbury nods at Little-Hawk, glancing briefly at the two heretofore strangely silent parties at the table. "I guess we can assume that our future employers have something maybe more high tech than smoking out some Halloweeners in mind for later assignments." His flash of desire to take the Halloweeners head-on dissipating, the ork has another thought. "You know.. that gives me an idea... I don't know anything at all about gasses or anything like that, but does anybody else here? Or what about you, Anon? You can make pretty colors in a beer glass-- can you do anything like fill the place with the smell of rotting pig fat? That would probably evict the fraggers pretty fast, and then all we'd have to do is make sure they can't get back in... "

Aremys looks around the table, his eyes shining with a metallic sheen. There is no trust here, among any of them. Each clearly has his own troubled past, but Aremys doesn't particularly care about the details. His desire for the payday outweighs any fear of the skeletons in his new associates' closets.

"Aremys Farrow. I have a small shop in the barons. Specialize in stitching idiots up and sowing on cyberware. At least I have a background in that - the shop doesn't get much business truth be told. I have some expertise in firearms if and when the shit hits the fan. I may look decrepit but I can hold my own." He finished his last sentence with a half sneer, unable to hide his own resentment of his handicap.

Slamming his scotch back in one gulp he sighs and stares at the ceiling. "We need to get eyes on the building. Haloweeners are fond of their vehicles, right? The best way to gain leverage over a adversary is to threaten something he cares about. If we can get their bikes, perhaps make a credible threat that we will destroy them if the gang doesn't vacate the premisses, maybe we can accomplish our mission without too much violence or danger."

Anon inclines his head to the Ork. "Is not a bad idea, and I think we keep it in mind. For my part, I like to get a look at this building. Opportunities can be there that we are not knowing about."

The waitress brings his real drink, and the phantasm in his hand crackles and fades as he reaches over to it. He looks over expectantly at the final member of the team who has yet to sit down. The half crazed - no not crazed, terrified of... what? - man who's astral signature blazes with half-formed power.

Magdalena emerges from the back area, casting a nonchalant glance towards the dance floor to make sure she isn't receiving any scrutiny. She saunters over to the table where the team is sat and places several small pieces of plastic packaging on its stained surface.

"Commlinks," she says simply. "Cheap model, but they'll get the job done. I've pre-programmed my contact info into them. Good luck, boys."

Bradbury nods reluctantly at Magdalena, wondering if their altercation earlier will ever come to proper fruition and uncertain whether or not he wants it to.

Anon turns the commlink over in his hands thoughtfully while watching Magdalena's retreating form out of the corner of his eye. Certain she's out of earshot, he turns to Little Hawk.

"You think you are able to scrub these? I'm not entirely certain I trust our sponsors." He pulls out his own, only marginally better commlink. "Am not needing it, but useful to have one to burn, ni?"

Tianwe nods solemnly to Anon in agreement. "Yes. Better to be careful with these people." He briefly analyzes each of the devices for any anomalous programs or active transmissions. "For device security, I suggest all give me full marks on devices, and slave to my PAN. Is risk for you, yes. But may save us all pain later." Tian glances around the table at the dubious looks. He can't blame them, really. He doesn't implicitly trust any of them either. Certainly not yet at any rate. He shrugs slightly.

"I have floor plans of warehouse. It looks like..." Tianwe trails off, peering at the decidedly odd punker who's yet to join them at the table, at least with his full attention anyway. He blinks a few times in confusion. The leather-clad punk appears to be whispering into his coat pocket. What the... He's immediately marked as the oddest of the bunch in Tian's mind.

Tianwe snaps his fingers in an attempt to get his attention. "We have all shared. Is your turn. Then we get this over with and get on with the rest."

(( Temporarily slot Data Processing to 4 for Matrix Perception Test. ))

Loki squirms shiftily against the vinyl backed bench of the dim booth, crossing and uncrossing his legs, leveraging a leather jacketed elbow here and there against the patina'd tabletop and shifting his body an inch or so this way, before grimacing and twisting back a bit that way. After a few muttered curses he slumps awkwardly and remains still, his expression a portrait of resigned suffering. Damn booth felt lugubriously confined, suffocating even. He glowers. Fingers laced around a foggy glass of beer, he sighs the sigh of the put-upon. It took generations of post-millenial, disenchanted counter-culture to perfect that sigh. By the time Bjorn was off the leash, it was deeply enmeshed in whiz-kid creed. He is a master of it.

Listening mutely to the convo at the table, Loki's eyes scan the room from time to time, as if expecting to find something or someone in the dark recesses of the club. As the sound system pounds out a steady drum and bass armada, he breathes out pluming clouds of pale blue cigarette smoke, drifting lazily to be torn apart by the scattered beams of a color shifting lightmare. He scowls. He stares into his beer. Finally, he sits up.

"Look, I dunno how these omae's know what they say they know. Or why and how we all came to be here tonight. Probably doesn't matter, neither. But speakin' for Yours Truly, you wouldn't believe it if I had a fraggin' photo of it." He pauses, reaching for one of Maggie's commlinks. He turns it over in his palm, wraps it on the table a few times, pockets it. He leans forward, thumbing a worn brass lighter and eyeing the tables occupants as if deciding how much of his awesome life story to share with them. "They musta heard that I can do certain things... sometimes I even do things I don't expect. I guess you could call 'em talents. If you count accidentally melting a few faces off as that sort of thing. But I do know which way to point a weapon...small arms mostly. Like any chill punk growin' up sprawl side these days, I suppose. Also, I can be pretty convincing, sometimes. Talked myself into a lotta places I shouldn't have been. I dunno what makes the most sense, ya know, about this caper. I wouldn't cry myself to sleep over a geeked 'weener, but I get the impression we ain't hired to start a war of attrition. And I don't exactly feel like dyin' so these chums can park off-street. I'll make myself useful where I can...usually enjoy a bit of chaos." he finishes, not without a touch of malice.

Taking a final, hard pull on a wrinkled cigarette before snubbing it forcibly out on the table, he looks about the group and adds,

"Oh yeah, you dreks can call me Loki."

Anon lets the scruffy human's speech sink in. An untrained, unregistered mage? His mind recoils at the thought. The law came down hard on those who practiced magic without license in the Tir. And untrained potential had the habit of disappearing off the streets with little evidence left behind, and no one willing to ask questions. This is a lawless place. He tries not to visibly lean away from Loki; no sense in driving the unpredictable man away, dangerous as he might be. In this new life it could pay to have dangerous friends.

He inclines his head, "Chaos may be the thing we are needing for these, eh, 'Weeners'," he says. "Catch them by surprise and drive them out is probably better than run in with dicks in hand."

Keeping his features still, Little-Hawk nods once to Loki. Tian notes the offhand insult delivered to the table, but he knows that thin skin gets you precisely nowhere on the streets. The punk probably rattles that drek off without even realizing it anyway. No harm, no foul. Tianwe shrugs. He figures he's chummed it up with plenty worse. Probably.

Brow furrowed over the AR schematics for the building, Tianwe leans in and describes what he sees in hushed tones. "Nothing so surprising about warehouse. Two stories, fairly open. Few points of interest. Square building. Small annex on east side is what looks like a single room on each floor, with what is maybe a rollup door on ground floor, but no way to access second floor from here. Bottom floor is all single room with entrances on south and west sides, and from east annex. Stairwell in northwest corner is only access to second floor. Not even fire escape." Tian shakes his head.

Glancing around the table to make sure the group is following, Tian continues, "Second floor is more divided. Hallway runs from stairs in northwest corner around three sides of building: west, south, and east. Are two equal size rooms in center of second floor. Both have single entrances on west side of interior wall. No door between rooms. Also door to annex on this floor."

Tian grimaces. "Unless any chums here can fly, we all go in on ground floor. If drek gets messy, chokepoints at stairwell and entire second floor. Don't like it."

Aremys nods thoughtfully. What a curious group!

"I think we are agreed we need to get eyes on the building. Then it doesn't sound like we will have much choice besides knocking on the front door. Perhaps we can pose as BTL buyers, we look haggard enough...once inside it sounds like we may have to improvise depending on where the gangers are located. Their bikes are almost certainly in the annex with the rollup door, perhaps that's where we should try to get to first."

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Bradbury nods at the ghoulishly haggard looking man, seconding, "I don't think we can have any more useful a conversation about this until we see what the building looks like. It might be a bad idea for all of us to approach it at once as a big group, though. Why don't we break off into two smaller groups and approach from different directions at slightly different times, then meet around the corner and discuss what we see?"

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