Clusterfrag

Achak gazes at the doorway through which the mercurial Anne-Marie has just departed. The portal, which resembles a steel sphincter, is closed. "I think we're on our own going forward." He turns to Yung. "There is a shopping district not too far from here. We should procure you some disguises, for a start."

The decker puffs out her cheeks in a huff as her Plan B is rapidly promoted to Plan A. " IN THAT CASE, NEW PLAN: WE ARE GOING TO HINGE OUR SUCCESS ON MY ABILITY TO CRACK A KNIGHT ERRANT SIN SCANNER. IN AR. IN FRONT OF A COP."

"BUT WITH OUR CHARMING PERSONALITIES, IDEALLY, IT WON'T COME TO THAT," she adds, her words saturated with completely unwarranted optimism. "SO UNLESS ANYONE ELSE HAS ANY BETTER IDEAS, I HAVE A YUPPIE-HENSHIN SEQUENCE TO GET STARTED."

Mick, who is resting their chin on the conference table, peers up at Mouse. "You're makin' Chinese food?"

Yung smirks at Mick’s comment, "Guess that’s one way of putting it, just need something to conceal her kung pao kick so the pawns don’t see us coming." He strokes hairs at the tip of his chin, sizing Mouse up and envisioning the opportunities.

"Never thought I’d say this about this biz, but I’m excited!" He walks towards the door, stopping as the aperture hisses open once again, then turns back to the group and focuses on Mouse. "Well, shall we?" He says, popping his arm out in an overtly archaic gesture of gentlemanly etiquette.

"I’m both excited to see what the local district has to offer, and disappointed we can’t do this in a place with access to a little more panache." He says, emphasizing the statement by snapping a trio of times with his other hand, punctuated with a flamboyant flick of the wrist.

All things considered, Mouse could be doing much worse. She’s not overtly sulking, nor has she let slip any outbursts, despite the fact that her filthy inner (and outer) netnerd has been backed into a picket-fence corner. Still, there’s a definite stiffness in her motions as she follows Yung out, her very muscles betraying how little she wants to be in this situation.

"THIS DOES SEEM CLOSER TO YOUR TERRITORY, NE?" She herself pauses to eye Yung as she passes, withholding any snarky remarks about the chivalrous way in which he’s gesturing into the iron-sphincter door. "THE PEOPLE-ING, THAT IS. AND THE UPPER CLASS COSPLAY." Her attention lingers on the pink slippers peeking out from Yung’s casual-wear, causing her to reconsider the last half of her statement.

Even in her clear tension, the obvious anxieties from the persistent unknowns, she’s clearly deep in thought. "WERE YOU HOPING FOR SOMETHING RITZIER OUT OF THIS JOB?" She pauses here, once again scrutinizing Yung’s expression with the air of an antiquarian trying to identify a forgery. "OR IS THAT JUST PART OF YOUR SCHTICK? FAKE IT ‘TIL YOU MAKE IT?"

There’s a moment in which she almost seems to be holding her breath- at least until she dismisses the tension with a loose shrug, as though offloading a tangible weight from her back. "JUST KNOW THIS:" Her eyes narrow as she chooses her next words with particular care. "I’M CHOOSING TO TRUST YOU, WAKARU?" From the way she tugs her upper arm inward, it’s clear she’s not just being stand-offish. On the contrary, her behaviors betray an unusual vulnerability, conveyed even through her juxtaposition beside her teammate, her frame suddenly seeming much smaller by comparison.

Axel is not pleased.

The loaned out Honda is a glorified mini-van. While it's true that the seats are quite comfortable and the climate control works, jumping in to the thing is like wearing a cardboard box; A slow cardboard box. It doesn't even have a sociopathic personality matrix! For once in his life, Axel finds himself missing T-bone. The rigger tempers his disappointment by reminding himself that the team needs to remain incognito for the duration of their mission. Nevertheless, it's a surly Axel that maneuvers the boxy vehicle into a parking space in front of a strip mall.

The Sunset Plaza is a titanic chunk of avant-garde architecture, like a displaced slab of metal beef jerky. A labyrinth of tunnels run throughout the structure, beset on all sides by store-fronts. The whole surface of the oddly-contoured shopping center is awash in holographic advertisements and scintillating neon. The Plaza is blinding, even compared to the sunlight that refracts through the overhead smog layer. The environment here is arid, hot, and ripe with a musky urban odor.

Shoppers mill about here and there, appearing and disappearing like ants in a ant-farm. It seems that not even occupation can dampen the Capitalist instinct. In fact, gazing upon this beacon of free enterprise, one might not even suspect a war was happening.

Yung couldn’t care less about the means of transportation, casually bouncing his leg as Axel pulls into the parking spot. "Hard to believe some might consider this wartime." He says, producing his glasses from the breast pocket of his long coat.

He pops open the side door, taking in the fullness of the atmosphere as he pushes the spectacles up the bridge of his nose. After a moment he starts nodding his head slightly. "Have to say, it’s more than I expected." He transfers his gaze to Mouse, "You could be in luck, we might even find an Armante Exchange Outlet." He says, cracking a smirk.

He flicks his head, a motion beckoning her to follow. "Don't worry, I won't pick anything too heinous, I like to think I’m good at picking the right style to suit my friends. I suppose you’ll be the judge of that."

He scans the rest of the group. "Just cause the plan is what it is up til this point, doesn't mean we can't change things up."He leans an arm on the top of the van, poking his head back inside. "But, if we are gonna mix it up, better come up with an idea and an outfit that fits the approach, eh?"

"I'LL BE THE BELLE OF THE STRIP MALL." Surprising no one, the decker peels herself out of the backseat with the grace and enthusiasm of a cat being offered a bath.

Even with Yung’s reassurances, she peers upward at him between locks of mussed hair with a distinct wariness. "ISN'T THE GOAL TO BLEND IN?" She shoves her hands in her pockets as she slouches alongside the team's fashion guru. "SO IT'S NOT ABOUT WHAT I LIKE. WHAT DO RICH PEOPLE LIKE?" Her imagination is flooded with cringe inducing imagery of herself dolled up in some preppy, girly-kei attire, even as she scans the horizon for shops that fit her stereotypes. " …BESIDES POLO SHIRTS AND ATHELEISURE. AND GENTRIFICATION."

As the duo makes their way towards the plaza Yung finally chimes in, "You’re not wrong, the goal is to find something that helps us fit in, or better yet, something that passes muster with the Pawns. Still, my mantra, everyone can be what someone likes and still be what they are." He draws a line with his lips while furrowing his brow. "I didn’t explain that the way I mean."

He continues walking in silence for a minute, as the bevy of AR ads begins their assault. << What I’m trying to say is, somewhere in another universe, there’s a version of you who is at home with the gentrified, polo skirt wearing, nitro cold-brewed sipping, holo-pickleball playing feministas. >> He can’t help but chuckle audibly at the mental image. << But for true, that ain’t the you, you. >>”

<< My goal is to find who you are, like you when you have to fit into that mold in this universe, yeah? >> He shakes his head after trying to convey the idea once again. A moment later he points to one of the AR ads twisting and shimmering in the distance. The sign reads, Madame Muse’s Second Hand, "Not a bad place to check, might get something nice on a discount, definitely offers a bit of variety we won’t find in a name brand store."

"SO WHAT YOU'RE SAYING IS… YOU'VE BEEN SNEAKING EDIBLES AND HAVEN'T ONCE OFFERED TO SHARE." At least, that seems more likely than Mouse learning to tap into her multiverse skillset. The storefront of choice draws its own share of skepticism, the name "Madame Muse" conjuring mental images of even more woo-astral–nonsense, or, more charitably, the stage name of some aging drag queen. Still, she clenches her fists as though to summon her last traces of determination. "JAA, LET'S GO DRESS NEGA-MOUSE."

Determination aside, Mouse clearly isn't prepared for the onslaught of color and texture of a vintage shop. Shelves packed with a chaotic amalgam of last season's styles dominate the view from her eye level. "IT'S LIKE A CLOTHING JUNKYARD IN HERE..." She reaches a hand toward one of the nearby shelves, only to find herself batting at the floofy tulle of a bright pink affair, covered in sequin strawberries and sized for a troll. "WHY NOT JUST SEE WHAT'S TRENDING ON P2.0? RIP OFF SOME INFLUENCER WHOLESALE AND BUY A COPY OFF THE RACK?" Her eyes break from the oddities, wandering curiously toward Yung’s own, genuinely curious in his rationale, and clearly at a loss for where to start.

Yung shakes his head in amusement at Mouse's first comment, "One's gotta hope there's an infinite other variants of this life, eh? We just got stuck with one of the drek versions." He points at one of the holographic signs toward the back of the store, it reads Electrochrome. He clicks his tongue "There we are."

He begins winding his way through the racks covered in ripped denim, polysuede, and a bevy of other synthetic materials before finally arriving at the aisle. "If you prefer whatever's trending on P2.0, I'm fine facilitating the poser look." He begins sliding outfits one after another, pausing briefly every now and then, removing one from the rack and holding it in front of Mouse; cocking his head to the side. "Look, if we were trying to blend into the Horizon holiday party or shakin our hoops at Alpha Blend, then I'd say that's an idea." He sets an outfit to the side before continuing. "But we're trying to fit in at Silver Acres, poppin a style from a decade ago might be a better fit, doesn't cast as much suspicion as someone who might be trying to fit in." He stops sifting through the outfits briefly, tutting a few times as he shakes his head.

After several minutes of searching and a handful of outfits pulled off the racks Yung flicks his head towards the back of the store. Another holographic pictogram of an androgonous humanoid slowly spins in circles.

He hands Mouse three outfits:

The first is composed of a synthetic cashmere shawl, a v-cut satin corset that leaves the wearers belly partially exposed, and a ankle length faux leather dress with neon tubes hemmed into slits on the side that rise up to mid-thigh.

The second outfit contains a ribbed microfiber turtleneck with the sleeves cut-off at the elbow and two columns of buttons running down the middle in parallel, a contoured plaid skirt with a cobalt alloy clasp running down the side and a pair of knee high leggings with oval hoops running down the front and back.

The last outfit consists of a neuvo pea-coat looking top that tapers out around the hips, the top is adorned with several zippered pockets running down the front, the piece is deliberately cut unevenly at the bottom. The pants appear to be a simple spandex mesh, but are actually vintage Zoe AssetEnhancers™, designed to accentuate a variety of physical characteristics while offering unparalleled comfort.

"Might be a piece or two in there that I’d consider getting if you don’t want em." He says offering Mouse a wink. He casually walks over to the seating area before spinning and flopping back on a chaise lounge.

For once, Mouse actually keeps her sass to herself, her attention fixed on the unlikely fashion sensei, as she struggles to discern just what it is he’s seeing in each item that separates out the trash from high fashion. When she’d referred to the shop as a scrapyard, it hadn’t been in derision. On the contrary, Yung’s talent for spotting potential buried in the polyester blends seems to be a bizarro-world mirror to Axel’s ability to surface treasures from veritable mountains of rusted machinery.

For a fleeting moment, she stares deep into inscrutable racks of fabric and struggles to mimic the vashionista’s judgments. Each odd article that catches her eye is unceremoniously plucked from the shelf, as she scrunches the fabric between her fingers, and scrutinizes the material with such scrutiny as if demanding it give up its secrets, before giving up and returning her find to the chaos. Unbeknownst to her, these choices betray subtle patterns in her own tastes- style rules she’d have never acknowledged having. Surprisingly, dresses and skirts are not verboten. Neither are colors, but anything that would cling to her narrow frame or expose the upper back are immediately shunted back to the pile.

Before she can translate any of her impulses to actual insight, Yung presents her with an armful of options. Rather than argue, she bites back her grimace and simply nods. "THE SOONER WE GET THIS OVER WITH, THE SOONER WE CAN GET TO PIRACY." With that, she disappears into one of the small, mirror-lined changing booths tucked into the back of the store.

There’s a long silence, punctuated with bursts of rustling fabric and murmured profanity. At one point, there’s an audible: "HOW THE FRAG ARE YOU SUPPOSED TO-", followed immediately by the leather dress being furiously launched over the rail of the changing booth, left half-draped in overt rejection. The second selection fares little better, this time warranting a thoughtful hum, followed by an angry huff. This time, a single arm thrusts through the break in the curtain as she shoves outfit #2, mercifully back on its hanger, pointedly back outside. "NO. NOT UNLESS WE’RE BREAKING INTO A HIGH SCHOOL."

Whether it’s because Yung, in his negotiating prowess, had deliberately saved the best for last, or because she’s simply out of options, there’s a distinct stillness as she concludes her evaluation. When she does emerge, she’s back in her regular gear, albeit this time clutching the surviving bundle to her chest. Curiously, she’s added a couple items of her own, tucked beneath the heavier fabric of the pea-coat, visible only in glimpses of fluttering white and sapphire-dyed silk.

"CORSET’S ALL YOURS, OMAE," she says, actually managing a smile as she shoves the satin material into her teammate’s chest. "THE PANTS ARE WEIRD- THE POCKETS DON’T EVEN OPEN? BUT THE COAT HAS PLENTY, SO…" Her eyes trail to the side, as if dancing around the gratitude that’s clearly intended.

"WHAT ABOUT YOU? DON’T TELL ME YOU’RE JUST WEARING YOUR JOHNSON UNIFORM?" The change of topic is brusque but not ingenuine, as the decker can't hide her admitted curiosity at what the team face has in mind.

Yung chuckles at the inquiry from Mouse. "Well, I could say my Johnson uniform is appropriate to the task at hand, unlike everyone else. But no, I brought a change of clothes with me, something a little more reserved than the synergist line. After all, we’re not trying for a hostile corporate takeover, yet." A look of disappointment flashes across his face, although it’s clearly unrelated to any kind of genuine desire for a job in the corporate sector. "Anyway, not to brag, but I don’t really have to try too hard for this ruse, it’s more about…" He mimics a talking motion with his hand as he trails off.

"Oh yeah, so couple more things, first, we’re not done yet; lo siento. Second, what’s your favorite color and have you ever used electrocrhome before? Should be a piece of cake for you, it’s even wireless, see." He gestures to the concealed interface on the clothing then activates the device, a pairing code is displayed to which Yung responds by making an after you gesture.

"This was the best pick by the way, those pants are a great find these days; although there have been some improvements on more recent lines." As they two approach the self checkout kiosk Yung quickly appraises Mouse’s feet. "You about a size 6, ne?" He grabs a pair of white Chuck Taylor slip-ons off a rack. "These things never go outta style."

Yung takes the lead scanning the various tags: shoes ¥200, ensemble outfit ¥1400, he scans payment without a second thought scooping the haul into a courtesy bag. "I got this one, yeah, cause you’re gonna hate the next one even more than the price." As the pair exit the shop Yung takes a moment to appraise the options around them before settling on the next destination. He taps a distant AR sign to bring up an enlarged description of the establishment. << New Horizons Salon: manicures, pedicures, styling, waxing, facials, massage… >>the list goes on. "Now before you say no, just understand, a diamond in the rough, cut by a jeweler but without a little polish, people won’t believe it’s a diamond. No offense omae, but we gotta do something about that hair. That's all I require, but I have a few more suggestions if you're open to the idea."

In the amount of time it takes for Yung to summon the electrochrome’s pairing code, Mouse has already finished redecorating, leaving the jacket’s back face adorned with a chubby little smiling character, who just so happens to be shaped like a wee, chibi chinpo, (with, of all things, its own tiny chode hanging between its stumpy legs.) "NEVER HEARD OF IT. PLEASE TELL ME MORE." Somehow, she manages to keep her expression entirely straight in her response to the impromptu ‘lesson’, even as the phallic mascot raises a pair of stubby hands in a pair of double birds. With a flick of her hand, the image dissolves back into the fabric with a rapidity that might prompt one to question the wisdom of letting a decker poke around a store packed with wireless clothing.

Her eyes widen at the combined price tag- especially as she takes the hit for her own purchases she’d snuck in: ¥250 for a qipao-cut blouse and a surprisingly flowy sundress, neither of which boast the wireless enhancements as Yung’s finds, but seemed to suit the travel theme. (Mostly, she’d just liked the textures.) "I THOUGHT THIS DREK WAS SUPPOSED TO BE CHEAP."

She nonetheless shoves them in their own bag, internally vowing to never again leave her fashion comfort zone. She does, however, cock an eyebrow at Yung’s ominous choice of words. "AND HERE I WAS ABOUT TO THANK YOU… OR AT LEAST QUESTION HOW YOU WORKED OUT MY MEASUREMENTS."

His warning, as it turns out, was entirely warranted. The words of the AR have only begun to process when she's assaulted by the nearby smell of scented products and oils, stopping her cold. "FUZAKERU NA." She twists her head upward toward Yung, bearing the betrayed expression of a kid who’d been promised a fantastic pirate adventure, only to find themselves at the dentist, (or in this case, a salon.) "ABSO-FUCKING-LUTELY NOT." In some futile, protective reflex, she presses both hands against her hair, covering the ports at the nape of her neck.

"IF YOU WANT TO GET YOUR BALLS WAXED, GO RIGHT AHEAD. BUT I’M NOT LETTING SOME RANDO FONDLE MY HEAD TO APPEASE A PIG AT A CHECKPOINT." There’s a subtle tremor to her form, an undercurrent of anxiety behind the vitriol visible to the more empathetic observers. "WE’LL JUST COVER IT. I CAN PUT IT UP, OR GET A WIG. MAYBE GET ONE OF THOSE STUPID GIANT HATS EVERY BASIC SLITCH WEARS ON VACATION." She pivots into a precise 180, drawing up her hood in an action more petulant than effectively defensive. "BUT YOU’LL JUST HAVE TO SETTLE FOR PLASTIC, BECAUSE I AM NOT SOME FRAGGING DIAMOND."

Before Yung can respond to Mouse's protests, someone bumps him from behind. He regains his balance quickly, rotating his body and maneuvering a hand to the top of his holster. His free arm extends in front of Mouse instinctively , poised to deflect a possible attack.

The perpetrator of the collision is a male dwarf in a Doc Wagon uniform. He mumbles an incoherent apology, though doesn't spare the pair a glance. Following on his heels is a hovering stretcher, loaded on either side with medical equipment. A tall female elf in a matching uniform brings up the rear, likely guiding the stretcher with an implant.

Yung lowers his free arm and relaxes his posture, although his shooting hand stays near his holster. He gently ushers Mouse a step back and the two watch the rapid procession of the para-military medical technicians. The rigorous training the Doc Wagon contractors have endured is obvious, as is their professionalism. Mouse in particular takes note of the extensive augmentations that they both possess.

A couple startled, maundering shoppers make room for the jogging medics. The fast moving cavalcade jukes its way past and rounds the corner, disappearing from sight. The bewildered glances expire quickly. Although Doc Wagon contracts are expensive, they aren't uncommon. One of the shoppers makes an indignant noise, rabbles something derogatory about metahumans and stomps off in a huff, designer heels clicking.

Axel sits on a bench outside of the mall, kicking his heels like a bored child waiting for his parents to finish shopping for things that hold no interest to him, which when he thinks about it, is quite close to the truth. Or maybe it's like waiting for a dad to finish buying clothes for his sister's first day of preparatory school. Either way, he feels a deep well of empathy for his fellow wayward gutter-punk. An intrusive image image of tennis skirts, polos, and white visors sends a chill up his spine that cuts through the heat of the day. He finally remembers to breathe again.

"Hey, is that a doughnut shop in there? It smells like doughnuts." He looks at Mick and Reiya with a questioning glance. "Anyone else up for doughnuts? I'm gonna go get us some doughnuts." He says, standing up and stretching before heading toward the mall.

"Yeah, those mods ain't cheap, and those are designer threads. On the plus side, we should be able to sell them for a decent clip. Assuming you don't want to keep them." He says giving Mouse a gentle nudge with his elbow.

Sensing the extreme amount of discomfort from the recent suggestion, Yung reconsiders. He blows a raspberry, "Fine, I can't twist your arm, drek, I was lookin forward to a mani pedi. Oh well, maybe when we get back." He takes a moment to register where the rest of the team has wandered off to. "You owe me one though, and if the Pawns give us the nth degree because you look like a disheveled child, there's gonna be more than an 'I told you so'."

He turns away from the salon and begins making his way back to the parking lot. "Looks like everyone else decided to play the waiting game, shall we bolt?"

The river of capitalist foot traffic parts and reforms around the inconvenience of medical necessity, closing the brief window of opportunity for Mouse to disappear into the crowd. Thankfully, Yung takes pity on the disheveled child.

She lets out a long breath- one she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. "...THANKS." The appreciation is genuine, unburdened by any need to veil her relief behind sarcasm. "I WAS READY TO FIGHT YOU ON THAT, AND THAT WOULDN’T HAVE ENDED WELL FOR ANYONE." The mental image alone warrants a soft chuckle.

Subconsciously, she finds herself rubbing a hand against the back of her neck, fingertips pressing against the web of scar tissue hidden behind her unruly style. "I’LL JUST WEAR IT UP. IT’LL BE EASIER TO DIG AROUND THE GUTS OF A BOAT WITHOUT HAIR IN MY FACE ANYWAY."

She tilts her head backward, toward the scene of the racist bristling they’d witnessed only moments before. "BESIDES, I CAN USE IT TO HIDE THE EARS, LIKE WE DID ON THE LAST JOB. CAN’T IMAGINE WHY, BUT I SUSPECT WE’LL GET A WARMER RECEPTION FROM THE LOCALS THAT WAY." With a loose shrug, she looks back up toward Yung, as though with an unspoken ’Racists, amirite?’ Her expression is considerably softer now, albeit an element of calculation remains, absorbed in the background process of personal re-evaluation.

Thankfully, Yung’s next offer requires no second thought. "THAT’S THE BEST IDEA YOU’VE HAD ALL DAY." At this, a snaggletooth grin stretches across her face. "AND IF ANYONE ASKS, I WAS A MISERABLE LITTLE SHIT THE ENTIRE TIME AND WE’RE NEVER DOING THAT AGAIN. WAKATTA?"

The borrowed Honda putters Northward along the infamous 1 Superhighway. All twelve lanes of the asphalt behemoth are sparsely populated, if not empty-- likely owing to the occupation. Silhouettes of sprawling urban developments, enclave walls and arcologies flit past beyond the barrier, all shrouded in a low-hanging gloom. The van does a poor job of recycling the muggy atmosphere, resulting in an off-putting odor that lingers in the vehicle's interior.

Axel glances up at a holographic highway marker. The turn-off for Anchor Bay is sixteen kilometers away. GPS data has been entirely unhelpful in locating an isolated stretch of beach. Demarcation of territory between sovereign communities is in constant flux and impossible to keep track of. As the team plunges deeper into the labyrinth of seaside communities, the issue only compounds. Yet, surely there must be a sliver or two of abandoned coast.

Axel hands a pair of doughnuts over his shoulder as Mouse and Yung re-enter the van. The discrepancy in attitude between the two is apparent. He casts a sympathetic glance at Mouse in the rear-view. "Didn't have any jelly, so sprinkles it is." He glances back in the mirror. "Well, if it's a yacht we're stealing, you two certainly look the part."

He grips the steering wheel, finding the van too restrictive to jump into unless really needed. "We're getting close to our little plastic Shagri-la. So are we still finding a little hidey-hole for the rest of us schlubs?"

Of the many unspoken style rules maintained by the upper class, the one that proves most maddening to the decker is this: an inordinate amount of time and effort must go into making one's appearance look 'effortless'. For as much as Yung had talked around the problems of being her slovenly self, it is apparently as much of a sin, if not moreso, to be overtly 'trying too hard'. It's simply not cool to care.

Thus, Mouse's attempt to tame her hair in a utilitarian, but setting-appropriate style has instead unearthed a rabbit hole of YouStar videos, all offering a paradoxical holy grail in the 'perfect messy bun', (or as one tutorial put it, an 'elegantly disheveled chignon'.) She's about 32 steps into her current video, braiding and pinning from the backseat of the minivan, when the thought occurs to her that maybe she should have listened to Yung after all and paid someone to do this. Maybe, just maybe, he understands this drek in a way she doesn't.

Or maybe she should have just shaved it off entirely.

She meets Axel's assessment of the disguise-thus-far with a grimace. "ALL THE OTHER PIRATES ARE GOING TO MAKE FUN OF ME. "Naturally, she snaps up the proffered donut, not letting her lingering discomfort get in the way of snacks. "I DON'T EVEN HAVE A COOL EYEPATCH."

The decker moves to take a bite, but pauses, seeming almost to contemplate the more pressing matter at hand. "DOES ANYONE HAVE A BETTER PLAN? 'CAUSE IF NOT..." She glances across the other figures in the van, once again sensing the distinct absence of their operational leader.

Achak, who has been staring out of a window, turns towards Mouse. "Perhaps it would be best if we dropped you off and remained mobile. You may not have the option of selecting your course, at least initially. Once you have secured the vessel, we could coordinate the rendezvous in real time."

Yung silently nods along with Achak. "Never imagined how crammed together all these communities would be, makes a clandestine rendezvous a little tricky. Good idea omae." He says, scratching his chin. "It does make it a little awkward in our approach, but shouldn't be a problem." He taps Axel on the shoulder. "Maybe the team finds a diner or something and you can pilot us in and drop us off eh?"

"WE'LL MAKE IT WORK." Mouse punctuates her agreement with a decisive chomp into her donut. "IT MIGHT BE SKETCHY IF WE HAVE TO HOOF IT, THOUGH PROBABLY NO WORSE THAN IF WE ROLLED IN WITH MOM'S MINIVAN."

She lifts her newly sticky fingers into the AR space before her, minimizing explanations of the enigma that is 'No-Makeup Makeup' as she jumps into a new search. "WANNA TAKE A PARTY VAN?" There's a clear glint of mischief in her expression as she turns to Yung, for once deferring to his experience in looking like a classy motherfragger without complaint.

(( Matrix search for a public venue outside city limits? And any decently-classy (and preferably unmanned) transport services that can take us ))

Mick considers the current course of action and frowns. Maybe it's the ADHD or maybe it's the pathological resistance to feeling powerless, but in the moment, the ork hates nothing more than the idea of being left in the fraggin' van, sitting on their hands and waiting.

WAITING. Versus all the Four Letter Words the ork liberally deploys in their speech, none is even half as accursed to them.

They look out the window, hating the plan almost as much as they hate the communities of rich, pay-your-way-out-of-societal-reality drekheels that go flitting by them as they speed down the road.

Through gnashed teeth, the ork breaks their silence. "So you two are out ahead of the rest of us, while we scout for a way through down to the beach." It's a nearly useless summation, and they feel its inutility as the words come scraping out of them. "So where are we dropping you?" The adept's irritability with their environment is palpable, eagerness to make their way out to sea clinging to every word.

Mouse blinks as results pour in. As it turns out, the economic phenomena of pay by the hour parking combined with the inconceivable costs of vehicle ownership in the region (and a superficial desire to project wealth) result in a disproportionate amount of luxury car rental companies. They seem to be as plentiful in California as Señor Changs' are in Seattle.

She peruses the waterfall of thumbnails, separating them out by a variety of criteria. An alarming number of the advertisements contain heavily augmented, half-naked bombshells spilling across hoods or pressed up against tires. Others are just plain sketchy, written in broken English, or contain terms like organ collateral. Mouse finally selects one and expands the matrix site.

Mr. Shen's Performance Paradise looks to be a standard luxury rental service housed in a small lot with a non-descript concrete building. Several very expensive imports are visible in the advert, all seemingly in good condition. An elementary byline below reads: Luxury cars! Rent by the day. No SIN, No credit, No problem! Cash up front.

Mouse drops the coordinates into her GPS. Only eight kilometers away.

Axel taps the steering wheel indecisively. A neon sign promises "FOOD | GAS | CHARGE" in all of its phosphorescent vagueness. He considers pulling off, when a pin shows up on the map. "Do we have time for Chinese fo-" he begins, before reading the rest of the marker. "Ah."

He sets the pilot for the map marker, his scavenger paranoia ensuring that the equipment gets to the destination regardless of what happens to him. It calms his nerves a little.

He stares ahead at the cascading road markings before sticking one finger in the air in a wait-a-second motion, sticking his hand into a jumpsuit pocket, and retrieving Echo. He hands the tiny drone back over his shoulder to Mouse and Yung. "Well, at least I can come with, if you need it."

Grinning as Axel hands Echo over to the awkwardly dressed A-Team, Mick quips, "Aw, you see that? A rigger handing over one of his drones is like handing over a promise ring."

Yung feels a tap on his shoulder. He cranes his neck to see a smiling Achak proffering a small leather bag, no bigger than a golf ball. The parcel is neatly tied up with a piece of wool string.

"Pixie dust," explains Achak. He pantomimes wafting with his hands and draws a deep breath. "Breathing this will make you more persuasive for several minutes. Be aware that once the dust has run its course, you will forget those past few minutes, but the young one can remind you." Achak tilts his head towards Mouse.

Mick cocks an eyebrow. "What's in it? 'Makes you more charismatic, but you won't remember drek' sounds a lot like tequila to me."

Achak smiles patiently. "It is as it sounds. The cryptids known as pixies release astrally-charged particles when they are in heat. When inhaled, it will lend a human being a fey nature for a small amount of time." He glances at the pouch that Yung is now examining. "It's not unlike an organic spore."

Mick's grin broadens to a near-lunatic smile as a wave of childish giggles burble in their throat. "I always knew I'd see Yung huffing pixie jizz someday– I just figured it'd be in the back of a Señor Chang's rather than the back of a van!"

"IN THE BUSINESS, THEY CALL THAT A FEY-CIAL." Mouse can't resist chiming in between peals of manic laughter.

It's only by small miracle, or perhaps her absolute respect for the diminutive drone that she's able to let go of her sides long enough to gently take Echo, cradling the mechanical critter in both hands. "CHIP TRUTH, YOU CHUMMERS ARE TRUSTING US WAY BEYOND WHAT I'D TYPICALLY ADVISE." She manages to pause long enough to wipe a stray tear away from her eyes. "BUT REST ASSURED, I'LL MAKE SURE TO REGALE YUNG WITH THE STORY OF WHY HE'S WAKING UP WITH GLITTER ON HIS HAND CANNON." Her brief calm is disrupted with an audible snort, launching her into another gigglefit.

Mr. Shen is as plain as they come: a second generation Chinese-American with a generic suit and a tired expression. The man's as generous with his humor as he is with his rates-- that is to say, not at all. Over the course of a thirty minute conversation and half a pack of Alpaca non-filters, Yung and Mouse walk away with a twenty-four hour rental contract while Mr. Shen walks away with twenty five hundred nuyen; a price commensurate with the risk of leaving an expensive car in the hands of strangers.

It's a solid business strategy, to be sure. Before the pair can leave the lot, the slender Shen sticks his head through the driver's window where a faint red light traces a line across his fatigued countenance. All of the car's components from engine to drivetrain and suspension to brakes are keyed to his biometric signature. In a flat tone he reminds Yung and Mouse that the car will cease operating after twenty-four hours. He adds that he has contacts among the local gangs and chop-shops and not to get any ideas. Returning the car isn't necessary as it will return on its own unless they wire him more nuyen. He formalizes the exchange with a lazy bow and ambles back inside.

The car in question is an Audi-Mercedes Triton-- the chariot of trust fund brats and non-Megacorps CEOs. It resembles a charcoal colored shark with chrome fins, sunken LEDs, and a profile so low that you'd need to get on hands and knees to look under it. The interior is similarly ostentatious, bountifully adorned with pale Saffiano leather and genuine woodgrain. The dashboard is a svelte, bowed piece of acrylic that wraps around a suede and chrome control stack. Miraculously, it still has that new car scent.

Mick watches from a distance in the parked minivan's shotgun seat as Mouse and Yung climb into the luxury sedan, their eyes narrowing as Shen leans into the car. The adept doesn't know the contents of the conversation, but is certain what the gist must be. Not for the first time, they find themself missing the Vantichrist's lesser charms.

<< You'll keep us apprised of your 20, ne? This is gonna take crackerjack timing, Wang. >> The ork grins at their reference, flashing momentarily back to Sundays spent sprawled out belly down on the family room floor, devouring old flatvids and flat noodles with their father, the synthetic smell of the carpet gentle and warming in the spill of afternoon light.