Run #2: The Flash and The Furious

[GM Nick]

Yuri's grin is equal parts Cheshire and Victorian ne'er-do-well.

"Night time."

[John]

Bradbury considers, and offers, "If we incapacitate the trucks, we can have Tian kills their comms and effectively remove the possibility of backup, which makes the Barrens a viable option for all scenarios. My worry is getting stuck in the tunnel ourselves. It's also going to take a hell of a lot more explosives to collapse a tunnel than it is to break an axel, and we don't have a lot of time to come up with ordinance. We'd have to start rigging whatever trap we set tonight, really."

[GM Nick]

Yuri scratches his stubble, an oddly distorted visual through the glittering hologram of Seattle.

"It would take me far too long to procure you any military-grade explosives. I think I have some antique plastic explosive in the armory, but it's volatile stuff. You'd need considerable skill handling it or, well..." He chuckles darkly. "It's yours for free, if you like living dangerously."

[Stephen]

Tianwe cocks his head in thought. Can't be that hard to blow something up...

"We will take. I will handle this," he murmurs impulsively.

Looking down at his cyberdeck for a few moments, he taps a few softkeys until he finds something that will do. He begins downloading the most recent version of an old classic, Demolitions for Chummies. I'll read it on the way, he muses with just enough swagger to convince himself it's a good idea.

(( I'd like to buy 1 point of Demolitions. This might not end well, but it will undoubtedly be entertaining. ))

[Drew Buddy]

(( That's the spirit! And this will end perfectly well. Our plans never fail! ))

Anon frowns slightly. "Problem with barrens is that is open and exposed. Without way to jam radio, we have to deal with drones or choppers very quickly. And I am not sure how long it will be taking for breaking into truck."

[John]

Bradbury grins wryly at the swagger on display, amused by the array of accents on display around the soft glow at the center of the group. Turning back to the question of where to hit the truck, the ork questions, "Do we have no way to jam their comms, though? They're mobile, so their communications can't be hard-wired. Yuri, do your people have access to any frequency jamming hardware?"

[Elliott]

Aremys tilts his head back, staring at the ceiling. Armored trucks sound like a fragging nightmare to take down. So many unknowns and the resistance will not be a bunch or borderline special needs gangers. Is this group ready for some hard hitting resistance?

"I think we have to use the barons because if we block off the tunnel we won't be able to get our own vehicle out. We need to get a full pallet into our get away vehicle and I don't see us carrying something that large and heavy through an abdandoned tunnel. We need a way to stop their trucks, yes. But we also need a way in to the cabs and cargo sections. Even with comms down the guards will just sit tight inside their armored shells and wait for backup to arrive, which is will in short order, comms or no. I will need several armor piercing RPGs to take out the cabs, and some directional explosive to open the cargo doors or better yet a sufficiently strong maglock passkey to unlock then. And we need that get away vehicle capable of carrying the team and cargo."

Aremys takes a quick breath, "Oh, and one last things, anything else we find in the trucks is ours, agreed?"

[GM Nick]

Yuri's sardonic chuckle rolls into some kind of cold war era doom laughter at the group's interaction. He tilts his head and listens to Aremys, but the crippled ork's remarks do little to dissipate his fits of laughter. "Of course, капитан! Would you like some beluga caviar, as well?"

The gangster wipes the mirthful tears from his eyes and re-adopts his normal quasi-serious expression. "But seriously, there is no way to procure that kind of armament on such short notice. You're welcome to my explosives of dubious integrity, as I mentioned before. Mag-lock passkeys are difficult to come by these days, but I will share some leads."

A few taps on the surface in front of him and a dossier of small-time fixers lights up Anon's commlink. Yuri follows up with a surreptitious wink to the elf. "You're the face of this op, it's obvious."

Yuri swivels his head and casts a concerned glower Aremys' way. "The extra time and weight of cargo could compromise the mission. Not to mention one missing piece of evidence is a write-off, but three trucks worth? Comrade, that's a man-hunt."

[John]

"A few thoughts," Bradbury begins. "I don't know if you have any of that kind of ordinance around, but time is pretty short, and I don't think we're going to have that kind of drek at our disposal. If Yuri here doesn't have anything north of some old plastic explosives, I don't see where we're going to come up with armor piercing RPGs." The ork pauses a moment and looks around the group before adding, "And I'm not sure any of us here are likely to be good enough at handling that kind of weaponry to let the whole thing rest of firing off rockets anyway. I think we should probably rule out getting our hands on any of that sort of military tech, anyway. But, as luck would have it, I just picked up a maglock passkey. I can't say for sure that it's gonna get us through that door, but we can goddamned well try it."

He pauses a moment and thinks before continuing, "Wherever we hit the convoy-- and I still think the Barrens is the place to do it-- there's nothing that says we all have to get away together. It's really smarter for us to split up into at least a couple of groups. If anybody gives chase, it'll make it easier to shake them, and split up their chances of following our prize. One of the benefits I see of hitting them in the Barrens is that we might be able to disguise who we really are. If we dress ourselves like Halloweeners, we might be able to shake some of the heat that hitting Lone Star is going to bring down on us. Though, coming across any Halloweeners dressed to look like them might cause a problem or two on its own..."

Bradbury absent-mindedly searches through his pockets, not knowing what he's looking for. Finding nothing and feeling frustrated, his mouth moves of its own accord, begging the room, "Anybody got a fraggin' cigarette?" He immediately hopes that the surprise he feels isn't plainly visible on his face. He can't remember smoking. Does he?

[GM Nick]

A large object swoops into the room in a flurry of black feathers, fluttering madly before settling Loki's shoulder. The large bird tilts its head at the punk-rocker, preens for a few seconds and then delivers a sharp peck to his collar-bone. It croaks indignantly, as if to remind him that he's the ambassador for clever thinking and is clearly agitated by the others spouting off ideas. After stifling a yelp from the blow of the raven's beak, Loki quickly realizes that he's the only one in the room that can see his feathered ally. The word ally rattles around the shaman's brain like an empty spray paint can being tossed into an alleyway, but it seems appropriate enough.

[GM Nick]

Yuri, not missing a beat, reaches into his suit jacket pocket and produces a pack of Alpaca Golds, which he tosses to Bradbury.

"I'll leave the planning and execution to you. Unfortunately, I have to go explain the situation to the powers that be."

He sets his palms down on the table and leans through the hologram. "Any last questions?"

[John]

Bradbury catches the pack of cigarettes in his meaty hands with a gentle slap, and lifts the lid on the pack. Inside the pack are four remaining cigarettes and a disposable lighter. The ork extracts one cigarette and the lighter from the pack. Placing the cigarette between his lips, he drags his thumb across the rough grit of the lighter's wheel, sparks the lighter several times, and successfully lights his cigarette. He inhales the smoke unconsciously, as if the action is practiced and worn for him-- unconscious in its second nature. Pulling the cigarette away from his face, he stares at its ember and considers as he exhales the lungful of smoke at the glowing red bulb of poor decisions past. The rasp of the smoke on the back of his throat and in his chest is familiar. 'Huh. Guess I've learned something about myself today,' the amnesiac muses with a small measure of bewilderment.

Bradbury looks at Yuri and nods his appreciation as he slides the lighter back into the pack and the pack into his pocket. Compensation for services about to be rendered. Taking another drag, he exhales it and watches the smoke play in the holographic projection, muddling its display and brightening the glow in cloudy and swirling pops. "One other thing, comrade," he begins. "Looking around this group, I have a feeling that nobody here owns their own set of wheels. Any chance you've got a truck or a van we can use to avoid stealing something and opening the door to blipping onto Lone Star's radar before we even begin?"

[GM Nick]

"Ilya is pulling старик around front for you now. It's a gas-guzzling, noxious-fume emitting piece of drek, be forewarned. However, we've mounted a ladder and some fake holo-decals on it so it's indiscernible from a utility truck." Yuri pauses for dramatic effect and then grins ear-to-ear. "Like the kind you'd see working on the side of the highway." The Russian pops his knuckles. "There's also a Honda Banshee around back that we re-appropriated from the Triads. Those slanty-eyed fraggers did all manner of things to it and it runs like a... well, like a banshee."

(( старик is a GMC Bulldog.))

A stout, hard-working, small utility van, the GMC Bulldog Step Van is a high capacity vehicle designed for transporting all kinds of goods in the tough, tight confines of the inner metroplex. The Bulldog Step Van has seating for 3, with a driver's seat to the left of a passenger bench.

(( Honda Banshee. ))

A fast road bike, the Honda Banshee's speed and styling almost classify it as a racing bike, but its heavier frame & recumbant driver position place it firmly in the touring bike class.

[Conway]

Rubbing at his tender collarbone, Loki's grimace follows Yuri as the dicey Russian crabs away to attend to whichever private business he claimed needed doing. Probably a load of drek. No doubt that stated business included spying in on the incongruous team of suckers via trid-feed as they hashed out which way they'd rather get themselves shot. Mafia's had a talent for exercising their will in a way that left no fallout and no strings that might lead back to the Family. What they weren't invloved in, they can't be held accountable for by law. This is nonsense of course- there's no way they would operate without oversight. Details are what separate successful professionals from slagged and bagged rooks. And they never miss the details. They never forget their debts, either.


"Ok, look. I've never boosted anything more secure than a keg of Pabst from the cold block of a Liq-N-Go...so I won't claim to know anything more than that our successes depended entirely on the distraction. We used to have a few routines, something to occupy the attendant for a few minutes- a couple of guys gettin' into it with each other at the register sometimes worked. Or send a guy in acting all spun up and disoriented. Have him knock a few things over before poppin' a squat and drekkin' his brains out all over the floor of aisle 1," he stops to chuckle. "No one could ignore that one for long. Better yet, if there was enough of us, we'd do both at the same time. The idea was to create layers..a sudden magnitude of chaos so overwhelming the poor bastard was caught having to weigh which distraction he wanted to deal with- leaving him unable to manage his primary task- which was to keep an eye out for chums like us on the take."

Taking a cool pull from his cigarette, he cranes his neck to blow a series of rings at the scraggly raven perched uncomfortably atop his shoulder. He notes with little surprise that the rings pass unaltered directly through the bird, slowly expanding to shift and distort in entropy.

"So boys... whichever stage we choose to play on- what matters most is the show."

[GM Nick]

Raven--seemingly satisfied for the time being--blinks at his spirit-bond and squawks appreciatively. With a few clumsy hops along the grungy shaman's arm, the astral bird takes flight and wings away into the ether.

The room lapses into a concentrated silence, as each member of the team contemplates the strategy of their next move. Yuri's carefree grin floats bizarrely in the glowing Seattle replica. His confidence in the runners is--in itself--a confidence booster. The veteran mafioso has apparently seen something special in the rag-tag assembly and the mood in the room is perched on a precipice, leading to either greatness or downfall.

[Drew Buddy]

Anon nods thoughtfully. Although he's not sure if he trusts his fellow shaman, he can't deny that he's right.

"Perhaps we can leave dodgy explosives as backup plan instead of relying on completely. With van, we might be able to close down highway. We just need steal cones and flashy board things, which won't be hard. That can be layer one. I can ask friend of mine if he knows where to get strip with spikes on. We also need disguise, unless we are planning to execute drivers?" His furrowed brow betrays what he feels about that last thought.

He paces away from the table as he drags his commlink out of his pocket, and hits a number on speed dial.

"Se'seterin, Nigel. I am wondering if you know where I can getting some supplies..."

[Stephen]

Glancing at the awakened elf, Tian nods his assent. "We can create diversion like this. Noisy explosive can be back up plan. We should only execute drivers if needful. Too freedom with killing brings own problems, and more enemies..." Tian shrugs. "But they are armed, and will be problem. This is the way this thing goes."

Little-Hawk looks skyward in thought, his eyes finding only the smoke-stained ceiling of the sweltering room as he rifles through a mental inventory of his gear. "I may be having capability to interrupt their comms for a time, if we are lucky to get all vehicles stopped within reasonable distance of one another. Or eliminate escort vehicles without target knowing, then I can jam target vehicle and we deal with it at our leisure."

[GM Nick]

Aremys - Police Procedures Knowledge Test

[Police Procedures (4) + LOG (4) = 2]
2 4 1 5 2 4 3 5

Aremys ruminates on the situation, thinking back to the copious amount of information he has absorbed on police procedures. The ork knows that in most armored convoy situations, proper procedure is to assess the threat first and foremost. In the dog-eat-dog world of 2069, most security corporations will (and do) expect their employees to put their lives on the line to protect their clients' property. If the threat is minor or can be avoided, the guards would be under orders to call for backup and either continue driving (if possible) or sit tight and shutter all windscreens. In the case of extreme and immediate threat to the property, the guards are under orders to circle the wagons and form a defensive position, utilizing lethal force to neutralize any opponents. In many cases of high value cargo or prisoner transfer, the truck may be protected by astral wards. It is also very common to station a guard inside of the cargo area, generally heavily armored so as to be protected from ballistic attacks.

[Elliott]

Aremys relays what he knows about the security policies of the transporters. Maybe now they will understand his concern...

Growling in his throaty voice, "Do you understand my concern now about not being able to get into the trucks? We have no way to penetrate their armor, even if we can disable them. We need some we to get them to open up. I suggest rockets, but lacking that, we need something else...and I have no idea what would convince a bunch of guards to open the doors to a bunch of robbers like us."

[Conway]

Loki shares a knowing look with Anon, his eyes glinting with amusement and and tinge of mischief.

"I can think of a way or two," he says lightly. "But you have a point. Maybe we should plan for extra measures, just in case."

[Drew Buddy]

Anon puts his commlink down for a moment. The conversation with Nigel is over for now, with a promise of "I'll see what I can do" once Anon sends the shopping list.

He eyes the gesticulating, growly Ork for a moment before chiming in, "we are trying to retrieve cargo in one piece. Rocket launcher might make that many pieces, especially if other evidence in truck is kind that go 'boom'."

His eyes scan over to Loki. The scraggly human mage has been keeping his cards close to his chest, but Anon knows talent when he sees it. It may not be as focused, but the raw power that the man possesses at least matches Stray's own.

"Am thinking we can handle convincing guards to open trucks. Can be very persuasive," he says with a feral grin. He starts pacing the room, "First step is getting trucks to stop. Am thinking we get uniforms and things for closing road. I can create illusion of problem on road as well. Then, with trucks stopped, Loki and I can... Convince guards that they need get in back of truck. While is happening, Little-Hawk can hit with jammer, in case they get suspicious. If he is wanting to break into truck's security system as backup plan, that can also be good. Plan lets us get goods, and not kill guards if not needed. Only detail remaining is if we place explosives when trucks are stopped, or try to sneak into depot first. If any of you have things you are needing, I can ask my friend for gear. If this includes rocket launcher, fine. But I do not think is good idea to use on truck carrying cargo."

[John]

Bradbury thinks a moment, and suggests, "They'll probably call in their stoppage immediately as a matter of protocol. Any chance that our language-barriered friend here," the ork cocks his head to Tian, and continues, "can be the voice on the other end of the line?"

[GM Nick]

Yuri nods absently as the elf speaks. Sensing that the team has planning underway, he moves to exit. The Russian stops at the door frame and looks back over his shoulder. The faintest hint of concern shows on his gruff face. "Don't go getting geeked now," he drawls with a wink. Though if his anxiety is over the lives of his new contractors or the ambrosia, it isn't clear.

[John]

Bradbury blinks at the Russian but says nothing, his gears turning and his sense of humor not extending so far as the likelihood of his own death. Turning back to the group, he suggests, "I'm not sure what we ultimately wind up doing with the explosives, but I say we check out the facility where the trucks are stored. If we get close and determine that there's no good way in, well.. there's our answer-- we at the very least don't try to sabotage the trucks." The ork looks Tianwe up and down, and observes, "I don't mean to come across as rude or anything, but you don't look too terribly light on your toes. If we figure we can get in, maybe you just rig those explosives up first, and I slip in and glue 'em on the undercarriage, or something." He stubbs his cigarette out on the underside of his boot and, not knowing what to do with the butt for the absence of ashtrays, flicks it apathetically into the corner of the room. Clapping Little Hawk on the shoulder with a light gesture he hopes aims successfully and cameraderie, Bradbury suggests, "Maybe a couple of you fine, upstanding miscreants ought to check out where we're thinking of laying our lives down for a Russian gangster's fancy new drugs."

[Drew Buddy]

Anon nods, grateful that things are getting under way. He looks at Aremys and Bradbury, "And not forgetting, give me shopping list of things needed," he says, glancing at the commlink in his hand, and the unfinished message glowing on its display. "I can be getting supplies."

His eyes unfocus for a bit, "and maybe some backup."

[GM Nick]

(( Alright, it's scene change time. Who is going where? We are proceeding to the contractor's HQ, but feel free to call out a different location in OOC if you want to split up and I'll narrate. ))

Yamaguchi Transport is headquartered in a large, lavishly styled corporate compound on the fringe of downtown. The building certainly seems at home in the Japanese-themed, Yakuza-infested part of the city. A large tarmac parking lot rolls up to a towering pagoda of ferrocrete and ceramic tile, glistening with ornate flourishes and lacquered dragons. The automated entry doors blend seamlessly with the floor-to-ceiling diamond-plated windows that wrap the perimeter of the headquarters. A fountain bisects the paved walk-up, formed of several layers of obsidian and marble and sporting a basin full of exceptionally realistic robotic koi fish. The Kanji name of the company is represented in lacquered black letters at the terminus of the pavement, with subtle Roman letters just below. A squat, cylindrical drone moves back and forth methodically on spider legs, endlessly buffing the signage to a perfect gleam.

Well-dressed sararimen mill about just behind the razor-thin veneer of privacy glass; talking on commlinks, studying--knit brow--tablet computers, or walking hurriedly to their next meeting. A few security contractors mingle among them, almost exclusively human or elf and definitely exclusively Nipponese. Though no weapons are on open display, the tell-tale bulge of a lower back or shoulder holster sometimes appears 'neath the folds of their armored coats or plated jackets. The security staff are blank-faced, walk slowly and with unerring determination that accompanies a thousand yard stare. From somewhere--obviously on a loop as endless as the cleaning drone's perfunctory waxing--a recorded voice calls out jubilantly: "山口輸送へようこそ！私たちはあなたを満たすために喜んでいる," then alternately, in English, "Welcome to Yamaguchi Transport! We are happy to make your acquaintance."

[Elliott]

(( I'd like to go scout the Barrens where I think we agreed it makes the most sense to pull off our heist. We should scope the area and make sure it's clear, then have someone follow the transport or wait for it a little out from our ambush point so that we know when to pop the barricade. ))

[GM Nick]

Aremys thumbs the control for the parking brake and then collapses back, expelling a labored, frustrated growl. The aptly named старик had gotten him to his destination successfully, but not without a fair share of headaches. The heads-up displays flickers intermittently and the dim holographic read-out is hard to read in the direct sunlight, if not impossible. The engine nearly stalled on the irritable ork several times when he passed 100 kilometers-per-hour. Somebody careless had spilled something on the factory stereo touchpad, which rendered it completely useless yet somehow managed to play--on constant repeat--Johnny Nuclear's Goin' Postal. Aremys had punched all four speakers in after about the seventh play-through, but a persistent crackle accompanied his act of aggression. The climate control works--far too well, in fact, for it constantly jettisons a ludicrous volume of searing hot air that smells like a dumpster behind Señor Chang's. The grumpy street samurai reasons that an enterprising (or not too enterprising) mechanic had somehow rerouted the cooling system directly into the cabin.

Clenching his teeth and rubbing gingerly at his bad limb, Aremys scans the scenery through the Bulldog's grimy plastic windows. The neglected, four lane highway veers off to the side and lifts several meters from the cracked, dead earth. Oncoming traffic is split and routed 90 degrees away from the interchange. An equally large highway is located directly above, seated on several gargantuan concrete pylons. A steel sign--warning of the abrupt and blinding curve--has been mostly eaten away by bullet holes and what looks like a rocket blast. Only a few letters are discernible and gone is the cartoon caricature of a vehicle careening off to one side.

The Russian was right. The spot is remote. Even at the tail end of rush hour, only a few cars and trucks pass старик, haphazardly parked along the shoulder. Aremys squints into the distance, trying to penetrate the veil of pollution with his cybereyes; but to no avail. There are no discernible structures in either direction, though visibility remains poor. The large alcove provided by the wobble in the highway interchange is shaded and dark even now, with the sun glowing a nuclear pink in the murky horizon. The ork moves to lower the passenger window and is completely un-surprised when it doesn't respond. Opening the passenger door manually and peering out, Aremys looks over the side of the highway. The drop from the bottom of the curve is only a couple of meters. Garbage collects along the ground near the base of the asphalt, inter-mingled with what sickly looking weeds have the audacity to survive in such conditions. Despite the excruciating journey and his miserable current state of comfort, Aremys manages a grin. There are plenty of hiding spots.

[Drew Buddy]

(( A glue sprayer is Avail 2 and 150¥. Can we just assume that Bradbury and Little Hawk picked one up from the local hardware store? ))

Anon closes his commlink after sending an availability and price request on a few S-DOT roadworker uniforms, spike strips, road cones, and flares, along with a message that there may be more to come. Despite having removed his protective coat, sweat runs down his back in the stifling muggy heat of the "Old Man" that only just barely conveyed the runners to this hell on Earth.

"You sure are knowing how to show a girl good time," he says, with barely enough energy for a smile. Despite the heat radiating off the tarmac, Stray is met with what feels like a blast of dry, arctic air upon opening the door. He steps out of the van and moves all the way to the side of the too-narrow shoulder. He glances up and down, taking in the lay of the land.

"Good support positions up top," he says absentmindedly. "And places to hide below. Am thinking we fake our own little road closure, and can have them surrounded when they stop."

[GM Nick]

Anon's comm-link buzzes against his thigh. The elf withdraws it and looks down at the high resolution display, locking eyes with another elf. The man is older, graying at the temples, and with angular features. A set of Sperethiel letters at the bottom of the screen denote him as Nigel--Anon's go-to fixer. A set of weary blue eyes narrow from behind horn-rimmed glasses at Anon, trying to make out the dreary backdrop.

"Where in the name of se-curo ja-riné are you, Anon? It looks like a bad tri-d. Wait, nevermind, don't care. Listen, sersakhan, most of the stuff on your list I already have in my warehouse. Question on the uniforms though: how authentic do they need to be? In other words," the elf leans back in his seat and puts his hands behind his head. "How close would I have to get to you before I could tell they were fake?"

An errant Pathfinder thunders past and under the interchage, it's troll rider giving Anon and Aremys the finger as he goes.

[Drew Buddy]

Anon's face lights up as he repositions himself to get rid of the glare from the sun.

"Se'seterin, raén! I am not thinking they need to be too real looking. Enough to fool a passing car. Maybe 5 to 10 meters away if person isn't moving?"

[GM Nick]

Nigel removes his glasses and rubs the bridge of his nose. "Okay, Anon. I'll have Natasha work up the suits. That's ¥300 for 5. The spike strips are tricky, I have to call in a few favors, so ¥1,000. I've got a big crate full of construction stuff--road flares, warning signs. You can have that drek for free, just come lug it out."

[Drew Buddy]

Anon mulls over the numbers, and glances at the ork craning its neck at the overpass.

"Hold off on spike strips, might not need them. For now we get uniforms and construction drek. We will be coming by after my goronit friend and I are done here."

[Elliott]

Aremys looks over at his elf companion and shrugs. The lack of heavy traffic is a plus, but on a highway of this size, there will certainly be some passerbys, although that's not the real problem. The problem is the team doesn't have a viable plan. While Aremys doesn't doubt his companions individual abilities, their hip shot attitude doesn't inspire confidence. It probably has something to do with the fact that they are all magically inclined - must leak over into the mentality that the trucks will magically open their doors to them. Stopping the trucks can probably be accomplished, but how on earth they break into those vaults on wheels without some heavy ordinance, Aremys doesn't know.

"I think we should get those spoke strips to drop a ways behind our stopping point once the trucks have passed. They will blow the tires of other vehicles as they come along, which will have the double benefit or keeping passerbys from interfering and hopefully the vehicle pileup will prevent or slow any back up called in. I can take up position on the overpass above and provide covering fire if things get hairy. We should stop the lead truck just in front of the overpass so I can jump down onto it once we start moving the cargo. How you get them to open up is your business."

[John]

Sweat pours down Bradbury's face and collects in his soggy, dripping beard. The slight breeze of the air brushing past them on the motorcycle burns his high cheeks and forehead in the unique way that hot moving air agitates rather than cools. The ork blinks beads of perspiration out of his eyelids and feels the sickly wet ring created by Tianwe's arms wrapped around his midsection. Coming to a stop at a traffic light, Bradbury lowers his booted right foot to the pavement to balance the bike at rest. Heat radiates up from the concrete, the temperature seeming to rise a couple of degrees with every inch closer one gets to the ground. Bradbury's right hand wraps firmly in the slick it is creating around the handlebar as he removes his left hand and drums his off-hand fingers on his left knee. He sits uncomfortably at the light, sodden with perspiration and chewing on the inside of his lower lip as he watches the Nipponese security detail stand at impassive attention. A few of them mill about, but most man their posts with hardly more than a twitch. Bradbury's eyes shift forward as the light changes and he rolls slowly ahead, watching the heat wave off the navy blue curve of Honda Banshee's front fender. The fraggin' beard is gonna have to go.

Tian and Bradbury had stopped by a hardware store on the way downtown. Franklin Fantastic's Fantastic Fraggin' Fixtures, in addition to being a fantastic fraggin' mouthful had yielded a fantastically fraggin' simple solution for affixing the explosives to the bottom of the trucks should the infiltration mission go forward. Bradbury, not feeling terribly handy with most tools as he held them to get a sense of their heft, had been pleased when Tian had come upon a squeeze pump glue gun; one didn't need any kind of expertise to load a glue gun and squeeze the handle pump. On the way out of the store, the pair impulsively added to their purchase several dozen candy bars. It had seemed like the thing to do at the time.

The ork hadn't anticipated the transportation depot looking like this. When he had first posed the idea, he had imagined a more out of the way depot toward the outskirts of town-- one with a fence he'd be able to hop under the cover of darkness. This building posed an altogether different challenge, and not one that the ork was entirely certain was worth the risk to the rest of the operation.

Cruising forward, Bradbury calls over his shoulder to Tian, "I'm gonna circle the building. I don't think they're going to just let us through the front and into the garage." Tian, who had been making good on his promise to study up on demolitions on the ride over, grunts his assent. Easing onto the throttle with great care, Bradbury feels the Banshee beneath them desperate to leap forward. The rumble of the machine's engine rises in pitch as it jerkily accelerates to unintended speeds. Bradbury weaves around several cars as he makes a right turn around the front of the building. The wageslaves inside the cars pay little attention to the pair on the motorcycle; Bradbury desperately envies their air conditioning. His thoughts light upon the chocolate bars in Tian's backpack, and the ork laments that most if not all of them will likely be completely melted in this unseasonal heatwave.