Clusterfrag

Reiya, unsurprisingly, glares at Akela. She muses that she should really stop glaring at her companions in this strange adventure, but the “miss” deserves some scorn.

It also makes her oddly protective of the diminutive elf. She moves a step forward to put herself not exactly between Mouse and the others, but close enough to get in the way should any of the males get handsy. She’d done this a number of times back home, and Niitsitapi boys quickly learned to control their impulses when Reiya was around.

Conveniently, the step brings her closer to the bar. Reiya would love some Hurlg, but she can’t get that drek-faced right now. She nods to the barman. “A mid-grade whiskey, neat,” she orders.

She turns to Mouse and raises an eyebrow, as if asking for her order. The elf looks like she might drink a flavored Chuhai, if anything. So did Satya. Reiya pushes away that particular thought before it can devastate her. Having seen the way the other girl in the group avoids physical contact, she’s careful not to touch her as she leans close and murmurs, “Any of these jackasses bother you, you tell me. I’ll take care of it.”

Reiya exhales silently. Suddenly, surprisingly, she feels a little more at home in this unfamiliar world.

As Mick rides the swells of tequila and legendary bass riffs, something nefarious stirs within the recesses of their subconscious. The muted flash of strobes flares crimson behind the membrane of closed eyelids. A tang of iron, acerbic on their tongue. The momentum of their motion becomes a spinning carousel which becomes a vortex. A darkness burbles beneath the burgeoning buzz, larger than any ocean. Impossibly large. There's a sensation of writhing, of fins, slick with gore propelling something upwards-- outwards? Pulse elevates. A surge of nausea brings bile. For a fraction of a second, Mick has the ludicrous impression that they're underwater. And then it's gone, leaving only the slight tang on their palette and a retreating hint of vertigo.

The bartender nods politely at Reiya, clearly pleased to be back in his comfort zone. He snatches a bottle of Unryu Black-- a slender glass vessel bedecked with gold leaf and featuring a glowing cloud serpent that encircles the bottle-- and splashes the amber liquid into a tumbler. "Kanpai," he says, placing the drink on the grotty surface of the bar.

Obviously pleased with the patronage, the orc throws the bar rag over his shoulder and turns to Axel. "Not a fella, omae," he grunts, and hooks a thumb at the lone customer several stools down from Reiya.

The Owl is an elf of indeterminate gender, clothed in matte orange overalls and a silky neon green undershirt, all of which is wrapped in a transparent trench-coat of some crinkly, plastic material. What skin is exposed is covered in a mosaic of pulsating bio-tattoos, depicting a flock of birds on an endless pilgrimage across their willowy body. A crimson top-knot bobs as they nod to the rhythms undulating throughout the Powderkeg. The Owl's most notable feature is their eyes, which are nearly twice the normal size; obvious cybernetic replacements set in sockets enlarged by extensive surgery, smeared with kohl. The proportions are scaled appropriately, but the pupils are star-shaped and oscillate through the full spectrum of color. The rest of the elf's features appear to be unmarred by surgical intervention and the reason is obvious: The Owl is strikingly beautiful. Long, manicured nails tap the bar-top to the beat, each emitting prismatic color as they make contact.

The only company The Owl has is a highball full of something chartreuse and a ceramic ashtray containing a dying Alpaca menthol.

There it is: Akela’s Renraku Sensei, the bright red icon pulsing like an exposed heart amongst the tendrils of the Adept’s (admittedly small) PAN. Akela’s own smiling face and misplaced charm fade into the noise of the bar, even as his words” “Drinks”, “Lovely Ladies”, “Miss Mouse”, foreign in their application to her, target her consciousness like MARKs. Her attention flits away from him, in a gesture that could easily be misread as demure, but in actuality, is a mere byproduct of her being distracted by a matrix search elsewhere in her vision.

More specifically, she’s already found an app that explicitly advertises “Casual, Inter-meta Encounters” between “Seattle-Area Bears and Local Kinkster Twinks.” It would take only a matter of seconds, a few commands to Akela’s comm, and she could easily sign him up to receive his own share of unwanted affection.

She’s mere thoughts away from sending a probe to the ill-guarded commlink when Reiya mercifully intervenes, jarring Mouse out of her intense focus and unintentionally safeguarding Akela’s personal privacy… for now. She takes a seat at the bar beside the taller woman, watching her counterpart’s confident maneuvers with pointed curiosity. Next to each other, the two are stark opposites: one suntanned, awakened and self-assured, beside the cybered-up shut-in NEET. It seems a strange reality in which the two have been grouped up by mere virtue of… what? Both having boobs? (Or at least, Reiya does, based on a fleeting check that lasts only as long as it takes to remember that such comparison is typically frowned upon in meatspace.)

Reiya’s offer, however, doesn’t go unnoticed, and Mouse answers with a quick nod, and a soft hum of acknowledgement. She takes a deep breath, shoulders relaxing, admittedly feeling better with her self-appointed bodyguard in place. It’s not that Mouse feels physically threatened by any member of the team, but just having Reiya present to diffuse the attention is reassuring enough. She skims the bottles on the backshelf, and the gasoline-smelling concoction that Mick’s wandered off with, before shrugging.

“I’LL START WITH A ‘FIEND ENERGY’. OR WHATEVER BRAND YOU CARRY.” She figures there must be SOME caffeinated monstrosity somewhere, if only to be used as a mixer for the local Frat-Boy special. “AS LONG AS IT HAS ENOUGH CAFFEINE IN IT TO TAKE DOWN THAT GUY.” She tilts her head briefly to the troll on her team for emphasis. “WE’LL HAVE TIME TO LOOSEN UP AFTER OUR CHAT WITH OUR ‘OWL’ FRIEND,” she says- a convenient excuse for both Akela and the bartender. After all, given the prospect of meeting with this new Data-Broker, she can’t afford to go killing off her brain-cells just yet.

Recognizing the uncertain reaction from Mouse, and acute disdain seemingly ready to boil over into rage in Reiya’s eyes. Yung ends the act by backing up to the bar next to Axel, but away from Reiya. He casually rests both elbows on the edge in an effort to avoid the abhorrent adhesive coating the countertop.

“Axel omae, I don’t think these ladies are too fond of the compliments, or well, any of the drek I spew. I kinda like it." Yung leans in close to Axel, “But I tell you this meng, that Reiya, el chamán del lobo!” As he says this, Axel can see Yung furrow his brough, silently contemplating, as though the situation is infinitely more complex than what his words betray.

“Jefe, I see you grow increasingly more perturbed by the unsanctioned detención of the bottle of tío Juanito’s.” Yung says to the bartender. “No matta, I take care of that so long as you send our new acquaintance another of whatever they are drinking.”

Yung slides a credstick onto the counter tapping it on the display. "Well, I suppose we go see if this Owl has anything useful to tell us, eh?"

Yung pushes himself back off the bar top and heads in the direction of Owl. "Oye, Owl, I dig your style guey, you keep this place fresh. Our mutual devout friend said we should come talk to you about a thing."

Mick shakes the vision from their eyes, the dark, endless depths etherizing to oblivion like a nonsense dream upon waking. A wave of disorientation washes through them as the world spins and swims before settling like sediment on the ocean floor, miles below the surface and profoundly forgotten. 'Not here,' Mick exhorts. 'Not now.'

Stuffing the moment down, Mick shrugs at the others' disinterest in the bottle, tips another slug down their gullet, and rises without a word to make The Owl's introduction alongside the cocky self-appointed leader of the group. Their boots stick to the booze-slicked flooring for a few short steps before Mick crashes down onto a stool beside the non-binary elf with the headlight eyes, daft and boorish and bottomed out of all tact.

"'Sup, biclops?"

The bartender ducks beneath the bar and emerges with a can covered in Cyrillic script. He places it in front of Mouse. "They gave this to Russian vectorboys back in the war, when the amphetamines couldn't keep them awake. It's on the house. I got a whole case of the drek in the back." The bartender flashes Yung a service industry grin and turns to start on the drink.

The Owl arches a brow and swivels to face Yung. "Gotta be Preacher. Let me guess, he creeped you out?" The Owl takes a sip from the highball. "Was it the eyes? Or that dreary old church? Maybe it was the scripture. Well, don't hold it against him. He does a lot of good for the Eaves, you know. Finds folk down on their luck-- gutter jumpers and burnouts and the like-- gives them food, shelter and a job." They resuscitate the Alpaca menthol and blow a perfect smoke ring which coruscates with the light from their nails. "That's his congregation; his rescues. Though they're more like an army. You go down two blocks and pick out a pan-handler? Fifty-fifty he's Preacher's man. No drek."

A sort of far-away look settles over The Owl's face. "Helped me out, too. So I owe him one. Maybe more than one."

The over-size eyes slide over the eclectic band gathered at the bar. "So, which thing is this about?"

Taipan settles himself down at the bar, forcing away a trace of annoyance left by Yung's jibe that he must somehow know the sararimen blowing off steam in the shadowed corner of the bar. He still hadn't quite figured out how to fit in with these denizens of the shadows. He might as well advertise his corporate upbringing in flashing letters above his head in everyone's AR feed.

'And why would I want to fit in,' he thinks sourly before introspectively checking himself, though he knows the answer. Fitting in was what half of corporate life was all about, and it's nearly impossible to take that out of a man. 'You can't go back, so make the effort to do what you can.' He sighs, exhaling the last vestiges of annoyance and bringing himself back into the moment.

He orders a light beer and nods his thanks to the bartender. His eyes pass across the scene before him, taking in the awkward exchange between Yung, Reiya and Mouse. Clearly, he's not the only one who isn't taking to the group's chemistry right away.

'Hope that improves before it gets us all killed.'

Just as he's finishing the thought, his eyes swivel to Mick, dancing, eyes closed, with a full bottle of tequila pressed to their lips. He grimaces inwardly. The lattice of scars on their hands suggests they'd be a good ally if it came to fighting, but the current scene suggests to Taipan that they were equally likely to be a liability in nearly every other circumstance. He watches them plop down next to Owl and several other members of the crew, and listens intently to their conversation as he stares into his untouched beer.

“The Padre, eh, I kinda like his style. But those teeth man, that’s the thing, that’s what get me. I like what you say about him though, I appreciate knowing that dis ain’t for no drek who tryin to lift himself up while pushin the rest of us down.” Yung pauses, turning to address the bartender.

“Aye Jefe, where’s that drink?” Yung barks, mildly annoyed. “And bring out dat case of the Russian drek she’s having.” He says, nodding at Mouse, “Assuming it more partial to your taste than me Nezumi.” He says, with a brief coy smile.

“Anyway omae, Preacher tells us someone stole his car, a nice one with his favorite bible, and you know, it’s hard for a man of faith to keep his congregation in da pews without a good bible. He says you might know something about where to find it. What you hear about that?”

Dios mio...pinche lobo! I workin with a crew of mutes and two josei who rather kill me I think.

Axel takes a seat and leans back in his chair, throwing one leg over the other, and leaning back with his elbows hooked over the backrest. He takes in the curious flowing speech of his new companion, and notices how eager he is to agree with everything the man says. In spite of knowing full well what the stolen cargo is, he catches himself earnestly worrying about the fate of Preacher's bible, if only for a moment.

That's that "gift of gab" they talk about. Me? I'd have just blabbed about the guns to the whole room.

His eyes scan the table again, and he continues his task of categorizing and collating data about his new companions and the contacts they've met so far. It'd be a bad start to a new career if his drones suddenly unzipped the front of one or more of his new "friends" with automatic gunfire, all because he forgot to update the Identify-Friend-Foe database and service. His AR feed swarms with snapshots of each individual he's met tonight, and details scroll down below each mugshot, complete with visible biometrics and notes about the person.

<<Yung - Talker. In meets, let him go first = more nuyen = :D>>

<<Mouse - Not a talker. Maybe a robot. Keep embarrassing material off personal PAN, and regularly scrub matrix history.>>

<<Mick - Maybe eats people? IDK.>>

<<Reiya - Gets along too well with T-Bone. Makes me worried.>>

<<Taipan - Will either single-handedly kill all the bad guys, or shoot me in the back. Not sure, yet.>>

<<Rex - Might be a pair of robot arms wearing a troll prosthetic. Also seems to think the ground is moving.>>

His labors momentarily concluded, he smiles and turns back to the conversation at hand.

The Owl stares blankly at Yung for a moment before realization dawns and they snap their fingers. "Right! I rez you. You're in luck. Just so happens I have a contact that's a first responder type. Got there before anyone else." The elf rummages through thier overall pockets. "Managed to tag this 'fore the Star sent their forensic drones."

They produce a glossy black rectangle, about the size of a deck of cards. The Owl grins. "Transport black box." They palm it to Yung. "Should have video and audio right up until my omae yanked it."

The Owl scratches their cheek with a polychromatic fingernail as their face adopts a coy expression. "Small snafu though. The box is encrypted. I hope you know a good decker."

Mick leans a bit closer to try to steal a look at the device, the bottle of Tio Juanito sloshing happily in their hand.

Somewhat to their own surprise, Mick recognizes the device that The Owl just passed over to Yung. It's standard issue in all Lone Star vehicles, usually physically connected to a vehicle's primary computer. The black box is responsible for recording vehicle metrics, trip data, and records audio and video on any applicable sensors installed on the vehicle. The devices are always encrypted using some proprietary Lone Star algorithm. It's also the first thing that forensic drones usually look for. To Mick's knowledge the black box should not contain any kind of tracking device.

“I think I might know someone, might save me some trouble too, keep her outta my PAN for a minute.” Yung replies, winking at Owl.

“You dance guey? Maybe next time we meet nosotros bailamos, eh? But for now, we gotta run, can’t be holding up the service you know, else people lose da faith.”

Yung turns to face his ambivalent companions, “Oye, Taipan, road soda eh? Mick, you save me some o dat Tio's until after…” He pauses momentarily, considering Mick’s scarred hands and palpable likelihood of fatal reprisal before adding “please.”

“Chamánista...Reiya” Yung says as he locks eyes, shedding the typical coat of unbridled bravado and donning a sincere countenance, perhaps for the first time since the group has been together. “I mean no disrespect in my way, is just parta who I am hermana. I’m not just a pretty face eh, I be a keen observer del alma.” Yung extends his hand holding the small black box to Reiya, “So maybe we start again eh?” Yung leans to the side looking down at Mouse “I don’t want our Mouse to feel like she need to hide in this pack...nah, no bueno.”

"I recognize this thing," Mick begins, making eye contact with Axel meant to impart meaning but heretofore inscrutable. "This is a high value piece of hardware to the Star. They'll probably be looking for it." They furrow their brow.

Axel joins Mick to take a look at the box in Reiya's hands. He doesn't need to hold it to recognize exactly what it is.

"That's a good find. If Mouse can crack this open, no telling what secrets will come tumbling out. If nothing else, it should be fun to watch Lone Star get a taste of their own medicine, if the audio and video survived."

Reiya takes the box and hands it to Mouse. The shaman knows what a black box is, but drek all about encryption; this will clearly be the decker’s job. Nonetheless, she appreciates the frank reset Akela offers, and she’s getting used to his mode of speech, deceptively light and casual, but rather clever and subtle for all that. Reiya reciprocates with a genuine, if provisional, smile. “Got it.”

She tips her head slightly in the direction of the Owl; despite the beautiful features, the bodily enhancements strike her as viscerally wrong, and as much as she prefers to speak for herself, she knows she could never have managed that careful and discreet inquiry. “Nice job with that. I’m too new to this.” She shrugs and meets Akela’s eyes. “I’ll follow your lead. If I disagree, I’ll say so.” The shaman smiles again, and this time it’s more of a wolfish grin.

The Owl politely shakes their head in response to Yung's offer to bailar con el, opting instead to drink the fresh cocktail placed in front of them. As the augmented eyes meet Reiya's, there's a flash of mutual understanding-- a surreptitious acknowledgement slipped past the obligatory forbearance of a poised demeanor. Their task concluded, The Owl swivels around to watch a tussle that has broken out among the Sararimen.

A motivated bartender returns to the bar, carrying a plastic bin with woodland camo print and the logo of the Neo-Soviet Liberation Force. Several warning labels are plastered across the bin in angry red Cyrillic. Judging by the ork's effervescence, he's glad to be rid of the oddity. "Hey, devochka, you didn't get this from me. Especially if your heart stops."

She takes the can delicately, turning it in her fingers in a sort of admiring disbelief. For one thing, there's the text itself, the closest thing to a label being "P90!" and the subsequent bold promises of “у тебя встанете от твоей игры,“ (she’ll perform so well, it’ll make her dick hard?), but also the mere fact that the ancient drink hadn't yet eaten through the can. She leans back and gingerly cracks the pull tab, the drink letting out a long, shrill hiss akin to some small mammal’s dying gasp.

With almost a sense of ceremony, she plucks the mask from her face, revealing soft features pressed into a grim smile. “THIS IS HOW I DIE. BANZAI.” She raises the narrow can in a mock toast toward the bartender and takes a swig.

…"acrid" and "viscous" are two words that should typically never be applicable to a beverage, and yet nothing else seems accurate. She visibly blinks back a tear as she forces it down, before pulling the can away, wiping a bead of radioactive-green liquid from the corner of her mouth. Yet somehow, her smile returns, albeit humbled from her pyrrhic victory. If her immediate jump in heart rate was any indication, she'd be nursing that one for the rest of the night, if only to prevent some kind of cardiovascular trauma.

More surprisingly, Mouse's cheeky smile only lingers, even as a newly chastened Akela returns to the bar. Whether it's from the immediate chemical hit, or more likely, the black box he's returned with, she's clearly more tolerant of his presence this time. "NULL SWEAT, OMAE. I'M JUST REACCLIMATING TO… ALL OF THIS." She gestures broadly toward the club and her fellow runners, as if that's supposed to fill in the blanks. Niceties aside, her attention is quickly grabbed by the little black box that's been slipped her way. "BESIDES, KEEP BRINGING ME KIT LIKE THIS, AND I WON'T CARE WHAT YOU CALL ME."

She slips the box in her pocket for now, fighting her instincts to eye the data like a precious jewel in favor of discretion. "DID WE NEED ANYTHING ELSE HERE? I'M GUESSING I'LL NEED TO PHYSICALLY PLUG IN TO TAKE A PEEK, AND THAT'S NOT EXACTLY SUBTLE." She tilts her head toward the exit, admittedly eyeing the case of canned-bad-life-choices that the bartender's procured. "IF WE'RE DONE, I MIGHT JUST TAKE OUR LOOT OUT TO THE VAN WHERE WE'LL HAVE MORE PRIVACY."

Mick watches the dance between Yung and Reiya with passive interest. The two have spent most of the last 30 minutes looking like they were playing at the precipice of fighting or fucking, and probably not fucking.

The awakened ork rummages around in a pocket for far, far too long. Finally, Mick retrieves an ancient commlink and a detached earpiece from a dusky fabric abyss, stealing glances at the rest of the group to scan for judgment of their Preston-era tech before diving into the tiny sea of pixels glowing on its face. Their thumb scrolls and taps at the screen, eventually pulling up Tomás's contact card. They stick the earpiece in their ear, which issues a low-bit warble from the digital ether.

The party on the other end accepts the connection, answering with a chainsaw rip of growls and hacks as he clears his standpipe throat.

< 'Ey, Tomás. Keepin' it spooky? >

A gaunt face appears on the screen of Mick's comm-link, slathered with orange-war paint in a calavera style. Dreadlocks intwined with rodent bones are secured beneath a jet black, Victorian top-hat. The collar of an armored motorycle jacket is just visible, granting the impression of a kind of Mad Max Papa Legba. The Halloweener removes a hookah hose from coal-colored lips.

< Sa fè lontan, Mad dog Mick, diable of Rockwood. Comment ça va, omae? You don't call for long-long. >

His words come in the broken guitar string of guttural creole, made more abstruse by a tracheal-filter. A tendril of smoke breaches a convivial grin, falling to nestle in the ribbed folds of his bomber.

Mick grins at their old nickname, one of the few antiquities of lives gone by to retain any of its luster.

And it's good to see a familiar face.

< Been down, Tomí. In a bad place. You know how it goes. >

Mick takes a moment to register his reaction and sees they will have to follow through on this one. It won't be that easy.

< I'll come back to The Rock and throw some back with ya soon, yeah? No trolldrek. > A pause. < Right now, though, I need to know if you heard anything about the Lone Star convoy that was hit in the Barrens. Last couple days. Heard anything? >

Tomás shakes his head.

< Non, omae. Chapter's in the Spoke for a funérailles an' a feast. Mwen out of the loop, big-big. Regrèt, diable. >

< No worries, Tomí. Sorry to hear about the funeral. > It had been a long shot, anyway. < Hey, let me know when you're back at the pumpkin patch and we'll find an overpass to throw some bottles off'a. > Mick smiles as they regard their friend, the sense memory of his mother's gumbo wafting back to them through more than a decade of intervening bloodshed. < And give Craw-Mamí my love, will ya? >

Axel's ears perk up at Mouse's mention of heading back to the van. "Hold up, I'll come with!" He says as much out of eagerness to leave the bar as he is to view what treasures the little black box might hold.

"Besides, T-Bone doesn't know you, and he, it, whatever, can be... Difficult at the best of times."

The icon for "sentry mode," a high-resolution image of a clown with a knife, goes gray beneath the AR windows for Doug, Wind, and Whirlwind.

"Let's go."

Thoryne lingers in the rear of the group, feeling very out of place amid the strobing light and the din that is Johnny Nuclear. Feeling a bit more confident in his land-legs, the troll approaches the bar and orders a rum-triple. As the bartender swings into action, Thoryne eyes the bar stools warily, uncertain they could withstand his mass. So he stands. A wandering gaze snags on the tell-tale contours of concealed weapons as he watches Axel and Taipan. Idly, he wonders what they're packing. He supposes if things get really hairy, they can always find safety behind his considerable bulk.

He watches the owner of the haunted van and the girl who might be a computer heading towards the exit. The rum burns, molasses sweet, as it goes down.

Mick, eyeing the black box's move toward the exit, rises and follows. They don't know drek about The Owl, but they know enough about the black box to know that it's probably best to have a little muscle nearby when somebody plugs it in.

Just in case.

A flicker of conflicting emotions skitter across the surface of Taipan's mind as the Lone Star black box changes hands. He recalls the Preacher's offered bonus for keeping Lone Star out of the picture. 'A thousand forks in every road, and this a heavy one.' He glances at Mouse, just happening to catch her in the midst of her wide-eyed crack-water-fueled ecstasy. 'A damn good lead, if she's good enough to get it.'

Taipan rises as the group begins to mobilize toward the exit, pausing briefly at Yung's mention of his untouched "road soda." He glares at the back of Yung's departing head, turns on his heel, and downs his beer in a series of laborious gulps as if to prove something, though he's not quite sure exactly what. He suppresses a cough as he turns away from the bar, grimacing at the rapid introduction of frothing liquid to his gut. He belches loudly after taking several steps away from the bar, trying to look nonchalant.

Despite his discomfort fitting in with this crew, he steps out of the exit and into the street into something that feels like a slightly more familiar situation. Things are more dangerous now, in possession of that black box. No doubt Lone Star would be looking for it, and that was nothing but bad news for Taipan and his unlikely companions. Still, the pressure provides direction, purpose. His senses highten slightly, his movement becoming just perceptibly more deliberate as his head swivels side to side, checking his corners on the way back to the van.

He'd been through some risky drek, but at least he'd had the weight of the corp behind him. He'd sure as hell rather not make an enemy of Lone Star with just this lot to back him up. He didn't want violence, but he'd learned it was best to be ready for it.

'She'd better be good.'

Observing the exchange and the excited eagerness with which Mouse takes the rectangular box brings a little joy to Yung. As several of his new companions begin to head toward the door. He provides a slim smile and suppressed laugh to Taipan’s attempt to prove his prowess of the bottle.

Turning back to Owl, Yung has one final exchange. “Gracias guey, hopefully we can help Padre find his book eh?” He says, winking at Owl. “Maybe we see eachother again one of these nights. Who knows, you find some paydata maybe we got the creds. I think Pequeñito is warmin up to me thanks to you; I appreciate that.”

Yung taps the ostensibly vulnerable Renraku Sensi in his ear and mutters, “Kontakuto card”.

A two dimensional rectangular holographic image with beveled edges appears in front of him, slowly spinning while displaying a series of rotating text and symbols displayed in English, Japanese, Korean, and Aztlaner Spanish ‘Akela la Caza, Consummate Professional’.

With a flick of the wrist Yung sends the card into the Owl’s PAN. “Anyway, you find any tasty morsels, call me.”

Yung bows his head slightly to Owl before turning to the door. Before leaving he regards Thoryne for the first time, “You ready hombre? I think the dreg just got meaty.”

The Owl responds simply by raising their glass in a mock salute. They turn back to watch the Sararimen who have already reconciled and are now arm in arm, belting out a very off-key rendition of Kuroda Bushi. The timeless folk song is discernible for a few seconds, in between the crash of cymbals that signals the end of Hardwired Habit and the raw thumping that is the beginning of some Euro-pop dance number.

Outside, the rain has come in earnest. The loglo shimmers in it, like a twilight mirage.

Thoryne grunts an acknowledgement as he knocks back the remainder of his glass, holding its contents on his tongue a moment before swallowing deeply.


”Good to go, amigo.” he intones in a smooth baritone that sounds to have been matured in the same oak casks as the rich brown liquor that lubricates his grin.

He claps Yung once upon the shoulder in gentle recognition of his quick work before following the man through the exit without a backward glance.

Technically, Mouse does have some 'less public' locations that would be perfectly suitable for her work and far less conspicuous than the Vantichrist. It wouldn't look unusual for her to say, toddle over to the women's room and shut herself into a stall for however long it might take to break the encryption without disrupting the rest of the group. It wouldn't even be the first time she's done just that. That said, even her (admittedly limited) experience has taught her an important rule: Any women's restroom is either A) cleaned routinely, making them viable for only quick AR jaunts, or B) a fucking horrorshow. And, if the relative cleanliness of the rest of the Powderkeg is any indication… murder-van it is then.

As she grabs the hefty case of energy-drink-like-substance, she flashes Axel an appreciative smile, despite knowing full well that he’s probably as concerned for her safety as for the machines themselves. She wouldn’t leave herself unattended in a vehicle full of expensive drones either. “I’VE STARED DOWN MEANER SOFTWARE, BUT POINT TAKEN.” At least, she hoped that thing was just a personasoft.

With the rain now coming down in sheets, she doesn’t waste time in scurrying over to the relative shelter of the Vantichrist. She claps a hand against its wet siding as she approaches. "ALRIGHT VAN, STANDARD PROTOCOL: IF ANYONE ASKS ABOUT THE POSSIBLY UNCONSCIOUS KEEB IN THE BACK, YOU KNOW NOTHING. WAKARU?" Strategically ignoring the plethora of questions begged by her unfortunate choice of language, she swings around to the back and lets herself in.

The case of drinks hits the floor with a thud, as the decker makes herself comfortable on one of the benches, taking another sip from her open can. It’s only now notices her entourage, and just how many of her crew were willing to leave perfectly good alcohol to watch… this. She turns her face away, lifting her free hand to her face in a mock-demure gesture. “YOU ALL CAME TO WATCH ME JACK IN? HOW EMBARRASSING…”

Despite her newfound audience, she pulls down her hood, and sweeps her dark hair over her shoulders, exposing the back of her neck to the air. She takes another sip of the likely-addictive energy concoction and shoves a hand into a pocket, withdrawing a small spool of retractable cable. Bringing the cable to her neck, she traces a finger down along the rough, familiar scar-tissue that’s so rarely exposed to air, following the familiar web until she reaches the jack. Slotting the fiber optic, she once again procures the black box: the real star of this show, turning it in her hands until she finds its port. If anything, some expectation management is in order. “THIS ISN’T A QUICK TASK. IF YOU ALL HAVE ANY TRIDS TO CATCH UP ON, NOW’S THE TIME.”

She takes one last swig of her drink, and lets the empty can hit the ground with a dramatic clang. “WHELP, DON'T SAY I DIDN'T WARN YOU. CATCH YOU ON THE FLIP-SIDE.” With that, in a well practiced motion, she sweeps both hands under her head as a makeshift pillow, just in time for her limp form to go collapsing across the bench.

A universal access port is located on one beveled edge of the black box. Mouse clicks the cable into place, triggering a DEVICE CONNECTED AR notification to appear. The petite decker makes one final review of her programs and settings. Go big or go home, she thinks, and then triggers the mental command for hot-sim VR.

Her surroundings become molten reality, liquefying as they are siphoned through some unseen drain and replaced with an infinite limbo of golden wire-frame suspended in obsidian void. Spatial orientation means nothing in the Matrix; the public grid is a galaxy of glowing nodes and data helices-- the DNA of information. Wireless traffic flits past like a school of bio-luminescent minnow. The sheer scale of it all should frighten her, but Mouse is as tranquil as a Zen master. Her avatar floats serenely amid the rivers of information as an incarnation of her consciousness, an androgynous humanoid form composed of golden, maze-like patterns that could be circuits. Atop the diminutive shoulders is an antique cathode-ray monitor; simple alphanumeric characters are arranged on its flat screen in a primitive reproduction of a content expression. A pair of cartoonish mouse ears extend from the plastic, twitching at irregular intervals.

Taking in her surroundings, Mouse notes with droll amusement that the black box is represented by a matte black cube. Clearly not a lot of originality in the private sector these days. Reaching out a hand that would be at home in an Aztec fever dream, she pings the box and observes a grid of crimson light stretched around it. A voice that's not a voice-- the electronic brain of her cyberdeck-- transmits words to her mind:

Kampf-Jäger Standardized Symmetric Encryption 512-bit

The other passengers in the van swear they hear a giggle escape from behind Mouse's mask, but it could just be her breathing.

Mouse, in her virtualized form, stretches out her arms, as though she had merely been awakening from some discomfiting dream, hadn't in fact just passed out in front of a group of strangers. A 'face'- or at least, a kaomoji approximation of one, blinks awake as she looks down at her current form, the monitor flushing pink at its bareness. What had she been doing last, anyway? With a snap of her digital fingers, an array of programs load into her working memory, wrapping digital garments around her persona in a transformation worthy of a mahou-shoujo trid. The end-result is, at least visually, a costume worthy of some cartoon detective, (albeit one with a CRT for a head), complete with a greatcoat and deerstalker.

More appropriately 'dressed' for the job, her persona begins 'pacing', or at least orbiting the Lone-Star assimilation cube, just for an initial read on what she's be dealing with.

(( Matrix perception x2: One to just get a general read of the device, the other just being the obligatory check for a data-bomb (AKA will this thing explode the second I touch the encryption). ))

Confident that the box is little more than a data-store, Mouse places both hands on the grid. Light pours through her in the form of glowing ciphers-- globs of code that orbit each other as an algorithm probes for the private key. The cross-hatch of red light shudders under the force of the superior software.

It doesn't take long. Mouse glances at a floating timestamp and marks 10 minutes and four seconds when the grid turns black and dissolves into the void. She reaches out and places her mark on the now vulnerable icon. The cube grows and becomes transparent, now openly displaying its contents. There are three files inside: one titled diagnostics, one titled trip data, and a VR recording of considerable size.

Mouse turns around to make sure no wily trace programs have escaped unnoticed, but it's just her and the black box floating in the ether.

Yung steps out into the alleyway and is greeted by the rain. “Dreg.” he says, offhandedly to Thoryne. “Oye meng, I gotta make a call. I catch up with everybody real soon.”

Yung quickly scurries a short distance down the alleyway, finding a small awning in front of a boarded up door.

"Check messages."