Clusterfrag

Axel leans his back against the elevator doors, and pats his pockets apologetically. "You'd think I'd know how to handle the lock," he says, "but most of the stuff I was scavenging needed to be cut into anyway, so..." He pulls a miniwelder out of one of the seemingly infinite pouches on his jumpsuit. "Could always do it my way if no one else knows how these locks like to be tickled."

Yung let's out a muffled laugh, still audible through his mask. "Drek omae, you got one too! Don't let Mouse see, another icon might send her to ahegao-land. Maybe later we touch tips though, eh?" He continues to delve through his library, looking for something that continues to elude him.

Axel chuckles. "Gotta buy me a drink first, omae. And none of this swill you drink to prove your manliness, something with some actual flavor." He says, mentally adding, and a goddamn umbrella.

"Escucahme homie, I'm not the one obsessed with the rye, like everyone else seems to be. I'll treat you to some real flavor, start you with white, turn you red, then make you blush." He reflexively winks after making the comment, despite the fact that he's wearing a mask.

Neither prison walls, nor the approach of commandos, nor the steady approach of certain death is enough to deter Mouse's Fujoshi heart, as evident from the subtlest of flushes creeping across her cheeks. “...KEEP TALKING. LET ME JUST GET MY BATTERY OPERATED BUDDY.” She rummages through her belongings as she speaks, quickly retrieving her autopicker: a small, mechanical gadget reminiscent of a cordless drill. "NOW THIS IS HOW YOU MAKE A GIRL HAPPY." She holds it up demonstratively, cracking a wicked, snaggletoothed grin.

“JAA- YARANAIKA?”

(( Is the mechanical lock the type an Autopicker could handle? ))

Yung issues an audible sigh followed by a series of tuts. “See, this is the problem with the world today; people always looking to technology to accomplish something that a skilled individual would derive satisfaction from by demonstrating their prowess.” Yung steps away from the lock mechanism and makes an after you gesture with his free hand.

Yung addresses the prisoner who most recently spoke, raising his voice ever so slightly “Listen chum, I know it’s tough to see, but we’re doing you a favor.” He gestures to the blast door “If we let you out, the second those drekheads get in here they’ll dispatch you with extreme prejudice.” He shakes his head as he continues “But we’re lookin’ to institute a bit of a regime change, this man cannot remain in power!” He pauses, waiting momentarily for any objection. “Despite what you think not all of us are heartless stitches; best if you sit tight, enjoy the show, and hopefully live through this to see the sun finally set on San Francisco.”

Mick hurries toward where Thoryne revealed the elevator, unshouldering their pack from their left shoulder and unlatching the top flap. The chamber has taken on the odd, empty feeling of a room dominated by criminals without a plan– the shouting, the shuffling, the echo in the giant empty room as the rats try to find their way out of the maze. The ork makes eye contact with one of the denizens of Cell Block B, who shouts an obscenity at the sympathetic adept.

Mick steps up beside the group gathering at the elevator door as they see the autopicker in Mouse's hands. Smiling, the ork suggests "Great minds.. and yes to the backpack, but only if I can draw punk rock band logos all over you in sharpie." Gesturing to the autopicker, the ork withdraws their own, showing it quickly to Mouse, "Old antique jobber I picked off a mook. Check out the manufacturer. Black-and-Decker, from back before they rebranded to avoid being associated with disreputables like you." A smile plays at Mick's lips as they hunch down to affix the autopicker to the mechanical lock. "Cover us in AR, Mouse? I got this."

Although Mick has never picked a lock themselves, they have waited anxiously behind someone who has enough times to be familiar with the concept. That, and the instruction manual for their autopicker was in such broken Engrish that they read the thing about ten times for the laughter it provided. It's with an adept hand that Mick positions the device, and a talent for delicate operations that they apply the correct amount of force.

The lock proves to be one of the higher-end security measures they've encountered on the island, but it eventually yields under the autopicker's barrage; each of the many tumblers locking into place with satisfying clicks. Something heavy shifts behind the wall, and the elevator doors slide open. The carriage beyond is rather large, clearly intended to move than just people.

Nodding in assent, Thoryne glances at Yung <Agreed. First we go down, then I'll rig a little something from below. The shaft should contain some of the more lethal explosion away from these miserable souls...> he indicates with a twitch toward the filthy onlookers, speaking quietly into comms to prevent their eavesdropping. Don't need anyone spoiling the surprise... <...though they'll likely still get a hell of a blow dry. Either way, it should close up this rabbit hole.>

"Everybody in!" he says, glancing back once more at the sealed security door. Thoryne posts up at the elevator entrance, one hand training his rifle on the far door, the other beckoning his comrades to file into the waiting lift.

Reiya accepts the tablet from Mouse grimly, fully understanding the reason behind the cheery words. She easily dodges the prisoner begging to be let out, but is increasingly eager to get out of the cell. The shaman hears the same urge to be elsewhere, let alone get on with the mission, in the voices of her crew. She nods approval of Thoryne's plan and steps toward the elevator. "Let's go."

The elevator carriage creaks under the combined weight of the assembled team. A singular LED strip on the ceiling bathes them in a sickly glow, plunging the exposed shaft walls into shadow. The only method of controlling the elevator is a large industrial, safety switch mounted on the inside of the carriage.

Yung reaches out and presses the switch. As the elevator begins moving, the uncomfortable reality of sacrificing the (admittedly contested) means of egress begins to set in. The only path forward is unknown. Thankfully, Yung finally finds what he is looking for, a temporary moment of solace via melody. Deciding the rest of the group would likely benefit from such an escape, he issues a mental command to broadcast the song at a reasonable volume.

Olha que coisa mais linda mais cheia de graça
É ela menina que vem que passa
Num doce balanço caminho do mar

Moça do corpo dourado do sol de Ipanema
O seu balançado é mais que um poema
É a coisa mais linda que eu já vi passar

Ah, porque estou tão sozinho
Ah, porque tudo é tão triste
Ah, a beleza que existe
A beleza que não é só minha
Que também passa sozinha

Ah, se ela soubesse
Que quando ela passa
O mundo sorrindo se enche de graça
E fica mais lindo por causa do amor

For the brief moment of respite he can’t help but mentally check out, rocking his hips and lifting his heels ever so slightly in rhythm to the beat. It may come as a small relief to the rest of the occupants that he is carrying the doctor, else his display might have been more grandiose.

Mick side-eyes Yung as the song starts playing and promptly mutes the comm channel. "Keep your hands outta my playlist, pal. I do not consent." A slight smile plays at their lips, indicating that– even in rejecting the gesture– the ork's intent is playful.

The carriage descends for an unnerving duration. It's impossible to discern how fast the elevator is traveling, but even at a leisurely pace, the time must have passed sea level. The shaft walls, while initially brick and then concrete, are now naked earth. Overhead, the elevator's cable vibrates with that distinct alien zapping noise. Ambient temperature drops a noticeable degree, and still the carriage descends.

An abrupt jolt and a cloud of rock particulate announce the end of the ride. The elevator opens to reveal a narrow hallway, softly lit by a string of utility lights. Massive bundles of fiber optic cable run along the earth ceiling, held in place by steel pitons. A mosaic of non-slip industrial panels have been laid out, covering the floor. At the end of the hallway is a hermetically-sealing pressure door-- the kind one might find in a clean room, a simple valve-wheel mounted in its center.

"SAA, MINNA-" Mouse breaks the initial silence with a long breath, clearly struggling to process how deep the team's found themselves this time. "I GET THE FEELING THIS ISN'T JUST A SHORTCUT BETWEEN CELL BLOCKS."

"I think you might be right," Taipan replies simply. "Odd that they'd take such care here while stacking nerve agent in the nap room. Perhaps those were empties..." He strides cautiously toward the door, checking the path for any sign of dormant security. Upon nearing the door, he places a hand against its cold surface, sending an ultrasonic wave into the space surrounding him. His eyes go vacant as he translates the grainy relief of ultrasound into usable spatial data.

Mick snorts, "Ever hear the one about the rats that backed themselves into a corner?"

The ultrasound feedback hits Taipan's cortex like a gentle sand storm, a billion shimmering particles colliding with invisible barriers to create a substantive nothingness. This three dimensional, geometric void is less an optical phenomena and more akin to groping around in a pitch dark room with your brain. Emptiness becomes awareness, forming a concept of space.

In this impression, Taipan witnesses an intersection of narrow corridors, stretching out in cardinal directions to the terminus of his radar's ability. The planes are smooth; too smooth to be man-made. There's a texture to the floor, something consistent-- tile, perhaps. Something else, too: some kind of static object, stationary.

Mick watches as Taipan's expression tics and flows as his mind interprets the data. Putting their hands on the door valve handle, the adept waits for a sign from the street sam– eye contact and a slight nod– as sign to proceed. "Let's see how deep the rabbit hole goes." Mick heaves counterclockwise against the valve handle.

“SO WE’RE THE ‘RATS’, THEN?” A grim smile twists at the corners of Mouse’s lips. Given that the team is now presumably deep underground, buried well beyond the reach of any open signal, Mick’s assessment certainly seems appropriate. She folds her arms, closing her eyes briefly as she conducts the digital equivalent of sniffing the air, sending out a silent ping for any nearby signal. Her expectations are nonexistent, but perhaps this is what the Saito regime funneled all their dirty Humanis money: the bunker beneath the literal facade.

She swallows hard, attempting to force down any trace of her own fraying nerves as she readies herself to move with the team. “I’VE ALWAYS PREFERRED THIS ONE: KYUUSO NEKO WO KAMU- A CORNERED RAT WILL BITE A CAT.”

Mick pauses their motion and makes eye contact with Mouse, a gallows grin playing at their lips, "Yeah, but doesn't the cat still eat the rat?"

"...MAYBE?" Mouse answers with a loose shrug. "BUT OUR RAT'S ALSO FULL OF EXPLOSIVES, SO I THINK THAT WOULD COUNT AS A DRAW."

Yung adjusts the position of the unconscious doctor in an attempt to find a better position, but really he's distracting himself from the uncomfortable topic of discussion between Mouse and Mick. He prefers to not think of the team as trapped prey, explosive or not.

<<Oy oy, speaking of explosives, we still planning to leave a little surprise?>> He thumbs back toward the elevator. "I doubt that's the only way down here, but we need an operable escape route. What you think Jefe?" He asks, addressing Taipan.

As he waits for a response he pulls up the feed from the commlink he left strategically positioned in Cell Block B, checking to see if he still has a signal to know if the guards have managed to get through the blast door yet.

As expected, the depth of the team's current position makes receiving any signal from the surface an impossibility. Mouse's deck informs her that it's been disconnected from the grid and is operating on standalone. Her lifeline to instantaneous data reference and memes is severed and it is a lonely feeling. So it is with genuine surprise that the decker finds a handful of icons running silent within range of her own antenna.

The valve wheel groans as Mick operates it. There's a hiss of escaping atmosphere as the hermetic seal is broken and the door swings outward. The dim glow of emergency lighting bathes the hallway beyond, which could have been snatched straight from a corporate hospital. A solitary wheelchair is parked at an awkward angle opposite the door. All is silent, save the barely audible white noise of a ventilation system and the distant hum of machinery.

Mick eyes the sterile corridor. "Definitely not getting 'WAY OUT' vibes here."

Axel walks back to the elevator, and peers up the shaft.

"Thinking we don't need to be completely blind to what's happening up top, ne?" He says to no one and everyone. He twirls a finger and finishes the motion by pointing up the shaft. Echo zips around and shoots back up toward the ground level. Axel keeps an eye on the signal to noise ratio as it heads topside.

"Allright, Boo, your time to shine, little buddy," he continues, pulling the diminutive Renraku Gerbil from yet another pouch on his jumpsuit, and flashing Mouse a grin. "Why don't you take a look ahead for us," he says conversationally to the little drone before its oversized motor engages, and it shoots through the newly opened door and hallway beyond.

(( Axel already has -2 noise reduction in his 'ware, which I BELIEVE is good for 10 meters of earth. Just want to know if he needs to run any further noise reduction on his RCC ))

As Echo ascends the elevator shaft, it provides Axel with insight as to how deep the team really is. Artifacts and noise riddle the feed as the signal grows weaker and weaker. The only thing keeping Axel connected at this point is his proximity to the shaft. By the time the tiny drone emerges into cell block B, the feed is a pixelated, flickering mess. Thankfully, it still operates well enough to serve as impromptu security cam.

Cell block B appears exactly as they left it, although the prisoner that had harassed them appears to have given up and lies motionless on his cot. In fact, all of the prisoners seem to be motionless.

As the atmosphere wafts out, Taipan wrinkles his nose, his heightened olfactory system offended by the smell of antiseptic agents.

'Lonely' doesn't begin to scrape the surface. Mouse exists in the open matrix the way a fish exists in water. Anytime she finds herself suddenly thrust outside of it, she's having a bad time.

As such, the signal Echo receives is a welcome, if fleeting reprieve. Seemingly reminded of her better angels, she turns to Axel. "IF WE HAVE ANY SIGNAL OUT, WE SHOULD WARN THE SURFACE TEAM TO EXPECT RADIO SILENCE. IF THEY CAN’T REACH US, IT'S BECAUSE WE’RE BURIED, NOT DEAD. IDEALLY." It’s one thing, after all, to ignore the desperate pleading of nearby prisoners, but a far different, more distasteful thing to cut off their actual teammates. She checks the signal on her own deck, all but ready to ignore the temptations of unknown icons, even briefly, to get that one message out. It’s that important.

“MEANWHILE I’M PICKING UP SOME DEVICES STASHED DOWN HERE. WOULDN’T BE SURPRISED IF THIS DUNGEON HAS ITS OWN DEDICATED HOST.” Appreciating the brief moment of reprieve, and in a rare display of full trust of her teammates, folds her arms behind her head, pillow-like, as she leans back against one of the nearby walls.

She offers the simple little drone one last, gentle smile before it speeds on its way, the way one might coax an anxious critter. "GO BE OUR EYES, BOO."

(( Time for Hot Sim? :D If needed, she'll lend Axel any processing power he might need to get a message out before doing her own thing.

Then matrix perception to ID the icons? Both what kind of device they are, and maybe just double-check the firewall before I start throwing things at it, in case it's any better than the ancient stuff above ground. ))

Reality crumbles like an old scone, the pieces tumbling together in a fractal stream that circles the drain. What's left behind is the infinite void of the construct. Mouse floats serenely, a celestial hybrid of Aztec priestess and theme park mouse mascot. A cursory glance reveals the default backdrop for standalone operation. Mouse glides forward, pursuing the icons pulsing in her field of view. She raises a hand and light arcs from her fingertips to each of the silent icons.

Mouse counts six icons within her immediate range, all devices slaved to some new, unknown host. Their firewalls are substantial, but still on the low-end for military grade; a challenge to be sure, but not the toughest she's dealt with. Of the six, five seem to be parsing relatively simple data, whereas one lone icon seems much more complex.

Although the chamber evokes a feeling of an uncontaminated atmosphere, the scene itself sets Yung on edge. It’s like something out of a horror trid. What’s the deal with that wheelchair?

The thought of horror trids crawls through his consciousness, tickling his hippocampus. It draws out the recollection that despite the appearance that the chamber hasn't been accessed in some time, there are certain entities that don’t need to use doors or leave signs of their passage. Spirits. A shiver runs down his spine as he battles to focus his intentions, he closes his eyes and reaches out. I’m loco, ain’t gonna be nothin here…

(( Astral Perception to sense the chamber ))

In a puff of stylized smoke, Mouse's consciousness hurtles into her persona, which touches down into the new space on the ball of one foot. She takes just one fleeting moment to check the shared feeds, which hang in her visual space like windows into three very distinct scenes. (To her consternation, the cam which should have covered the surrounding scene has been tilted ever so slightly toward the ceiling: her head must have nodded backward as she submerged.)

Unable to do much about that now, she turns instead toward the mystery icons, each of which is highlighted in her vision as if through a targeting computer, naturally honing in on the juiciest among them… and its nearest, albeit far simpler partner. Her persona slips one hand into its haori, withdrawing a pair of what appear to be a pair of blank playing cards, and in one fluid motion, tosses one in the direction of each icon. <<Now, let’s reveal your secrets.>>

(( Hack on the fly: forked because I live dangerously, targeting the more complex device and one of the generic ones. ))

Boo scampers through the open door in a perfect imitation of a real gerbil. The mechanical rodent runs a circuit of the area beyond, revealing a labyrinth of corridors. The vicinity resembles a hybrid of high-end corporate clinic and military bunker. Boo passes a number of cell-like rooms, all secured by the same hermetically sealing doors. Evident in the feed as well are several security cameras, placed on the ceiling at corridor junctions.

At one point, the tiny drone nearly collides with a large protrusion in the floor. One of the floor tiles rises a full inch or so above all the others. Otherwise, the corridors are mostly deserted, though Boo passes another abandoned wheelchair and an IV cart. Having completed its circuit, the mechanized gerbil comes skittering back through the entrance door and nudges Axel's foot.

The world ripples and the color drains away as Yung perceives his surroundings astrally. The corridor beyond is just a mass of pale gray, inorganic and monochromatic. In fact-- probably due to the sterile environment-- the vista is even murkier than normal, owing to a distinct lack of most micro-organisms. There are no traces of astral entities or signatures to suggest astral activity.

Meanwhile, Mouse works to exploit the two icons in her sights. The playing cards explode on impact, transmogrifying into shimmering death's head moths that dive at the icons again and again. It isn't long before the simpler of the two devices yields, granting her three marks. The more complex device is much more obstinate, constantly thwarting her exploits and re-writing its own security protocols. The result looks grim until she strikes payday with a newer technique, gaining a single mark.

As Mouse is congratulating herself on her victory, her head snaps to one side. She can swear that she saw something slick and viscous moving through the void in her periphery. Probably just an artifact though, as her signal strength is so paltry right now.

The marks gleam proudly on their respective icons, golden effigies of her own persona. Gratification is short-lived, however, as she can't shake the feeling she's being watched.

Mick gingerly steps over the threshold of the port-style door, their boot falling heavily on the other side, the hollow knock of their footfall echoing in the gloomy hallway, its air thick with loneliness and bad deeds.

Mick can feel the weight of the place– the cruelty and horror of whatever happened here. It's the sort of place where people with dark hearts do dark things to satisfy dark curiosities and darker ambitions. The ork's mind races at the sight of the wheelchair, dust motes floating between the spokes of its wheels as Mick drags their light over it, smearing it with plain relief, spotlighting the memories it holds and bringing them bubbling into the still atmosphere of the corridor for them to be empathically inferred, felt. Those acute horrors are lost to time, but the wounds of them resonate and sing with a life both abstract and eternal in the cold emptiness.

The ork turns right through the door, always favoring their right side at any fork in the road for the simple reason of right being their handedness. Their boots produce a gentle sucking sound with every rolling forward rise from the floor as they take another step into the gloaming throat of Alcatraz's literal deepest secrets.

Rounding the corner and turning left, the Mick spies the raised tile in the floor, images of poison darts exploding from the walls at the idea of stepping directly onto it. Rather than wind up a permanent resident of an Aztec boobytrap cum paramilitary medical torture dungeon, the adept crouches beside it and takes a closer look.

As Mick moves to crouch next to the protrusion, they are startled by a sharp pneumatic hiss. The entire tile slams upward nearly a meter, revealing a gleaming sentry turret that had been hidden in the floor. In that instant, Mick finds themselves staring down the barrel of the sentry's mini-gun.

At such close proximity, Mick can hear the clicks and whirs of micro-servos and even see their own grim expression reflected in one of several ocular sensors embedded in the turret. Within a tenth of a second, the mini-gun barrel is already spinning up to speed.