Clusterfrag

The sky over Seattle is an industrial oil spill, starless and baleful. No celestial radiance penetrates this veil. The only light comes in the form of sporadic, flickering trails as another generation of disposable satellites succumb to gravity. It's a common sight these days, but one that still instills a primal fear of apocalyptic imaginings. An apt metaphor for the state of the world.

Despite the ominous portent above, The Eaves remains oblivious; a neon jungle teeming with vice. Joy-girls strut about and lurk on corners, engaged in the world's oldest profession. The streets are alive with rockers and rasta and burnouts, criminals and sararimen, students and street docs-- the eco-system thrives while the world withers. Odors abound: sweat, spice, ozone, and exhaust. An orchestra of meta-humanity blares: vehicles, shouting, the din of a pachinko parlor, and the synthetic monologues of holographic advertisers.

Nestled within the heart of this organism of iniquity is-- at first glance-- a paradoxical farce: The Immortal Son. Holy ground in the locus of the unholy. A house of saints in a city of sinners. It's here that the patriarch of the Eaves conducts his affairs. Influence is concentrated here, as if the antique structure is built on a ley-line of authority.

The team enters the Immortal Son for the second time, greeted with the same dreary interior. The air is thick with the saccharine scent of frankincense. Light from innumerable candles summons looming shadows that cavort across the rough patina. Something is different, however: there's a kind of tension in the space, like the moment before a sigh.

Three Yokai loiter in the ambulatory, little more than the phantasms they mimic in the near darkness. The presence of the peculiar enforcer sum bodyguards adds to the surreal nature of the fixer's head quarters. The interior could be summoned from a fever dream.

Preacher stands in the chancel, facing away from the altar with his hands clasped behind his back. He's garbed in a cassock of black velvet and a smooth purple alb made of linen. A large golden cross affixed to a chain is hung around his neck, catching occasionally in the light. The fixer's normally enigmatic and impenetrable visage is marred by an obvious frown.

Mick glides through the gothic, gloomy chamber. Approaching the chancel, the ork's footfalls hardly register any sound at all in the otherwise echoey, gloaming drear. The presence of the enforcers sets their hackles at full attention. This was a place to be on one's guard, and all the more so with the introduction of the three goons lingering in the shadows, undoubtedly packing and sporting itchy trigger-or-whatever fingers. Hooking around the corner of a pew, Mick plops down with a thud, the ancient wooden seat creaking a a grumbly protest. Stealing another glance at the enforcers, Mick cocks a thumb over their shoulder and asks, "What's with the fanclub, Padre?"

Yung stands in the entryway of the Immortal Son wearing an ostentatious pair of over the ear headphones, a relic of the past, which in this instance are clearly meant to draw attention to himself. He bobs his head slightly as he turns, placing his back against the wall of the foyer to face his crewmates.

He bends one leg, putting his foot against the wall. In a deliberately slow motion, Yung lifts both hands to his glasses, pulling them away from his face. His eyes are closed and he continues to bob his head to an inaudible beat. Finally, he opens his eyes.

Frankly, he never expected to see the likes of Mick, Taipan, Mouse, Axel or Thornye again; but for some reason he was confident he would see Reiya. Yet here they stand, everyone but Mick staring at him with varying degrees of incredulity on their face; well, the look on Axel's face might be better characterized as awe.

Yung’s eyes go wide in a feigned attempt at surprise. He lifts both hands pointing both thumbs at himself as he furrows his brow questioningly before extending his index fingers towards the Preacher.

Nosotros estamos listos.

He removes the headphones, the sounds of the music can finally be faintly heard by the group gathered in the entrance.

If I was to cheat
Oh no, would you see right through me?
If I sing a sad sad sad sad song
Would you give it to me? Would you?

So how you like me now?
How you like me now?
How you like me now?
How you like me now?

A broad smile emerges on Yung’s face as he pushes himself off the wall with his foot and janders into the center of the Church.

“Well Padre, looks like you got us back, eh? You say jump and we say ‘how much you paying?” Yung chuckles half heartedly at his admittedly lame attempt at a joke.

“As Mick said, looks like tensions maybe a bit higher dis time around, so what’s cookin?”

Preacher glances at Mick. "An unfortunate necessity in trying times. They are here to protect this place and preserve it as a sanctuary."

Preacher's jaw is set, his mouth a sliver of Siberian ice. The mere fact that someone so composed is now consumed by raw emotion simultaneously puts the team on guard and piques their curiosity.

"I require your services, once again." Preacher turns his gaze on Yung. "For a matter of dire importance. I apologize for the curtness of this notice, but it could not wait. Time is of the essence."

The enigmatic fixer leans forward against a rotting pew, his gaze fixed somewhere beyond the assembled team. Muscles work in the fixer's jaw as he clenches it.

"My most trusted parishioner is a man named Achak. He is my right-hand and a good friend. Achak has talents for espionage and reconnaissance. Two weeks ago I sent him to California on a fact-finding mission." Preacher pauses, clearly deliberating how much to reveal. "He was to gather information on a sensitive matter but the political situation in California has reached a boiling point. I insisted that he exercise caution and avoid taking any undue risk."

Preacher's fingers dig in to the decaying wood. "While carrying out his task he was apprehended by the Kuroikaze-- Saito's marines. I'm told he dispatched a few before he was subdued." He releases his grip on the pew and wipes splinters from his palm. "Fortunately, I have an informer embedded in Saito's intelligence bureau. He secreted out a communique but has since gone radio silent. Achak is being held at one of Saito's infamous black-sites-- a place code named Kujira, or Black Site K. This facility is located on Alcatraz island in the San Francisco bay."

The leaden weight of Preacher's gaze finds Yung's. "It is imperative that Achak be freed as soon as possible. It's only a matter of time before he is interrogated. Or worse."

The candlelight flickers in an errant breeze that slithers through the doorway. Preacher's face is a grim mask of determination and consternation.

"I have a contact in Sonoma, a close friend and ally: a man by the name of Conrad Sharpe. He has constructed a plan for executing an extraction, but requires additional manpower. The first step is to rendezvous with Conrad at his home: a place called Bluedog Ranch." Preacher pauses. "I don't expect you to agree to this task without knowing the particulars. I will of course pay you to travel to Sonoma and meet with Conrad. Once he has gone over the details of the extraction and, should you decide to go forward, we can negotiate a second payment."

The fixer's fingers stray to the large cross around his neck. "You would be doing me a great service by aiding in this endeavor. I would not forget it. I understand the severity of what I'm requesting, but Conrad assures me his plan is sound."

For Yung’s efforts, the brief performance earns him a snort of laughter from the typically quiet Mouse. If only he spent as much energy reading the air as he did rehearsing, the team might actually be in a good position to bargain. To his credit, at least Preacher has established himself as the type to turn the other cheek at such slights, probably out of sheer necessity given his audience.

Still, with Yung’s dramatic entrance, the team is gathered in full- which actually brings Mouse a sense of ease. Sure, the church is still old and weird, but it’s familiar. She’s even taken the liberty of ARO-tagging it for her own reference: [Altar: Save here] [Deity Statue: Revives fallen party members] [Organ: Opens secret passage to dungeon]

Surrounded by these more comfortable trappings, and these familiar drekheads, she can actually focus on one of the more pertinent lessons of late: how to communicate like a fragging normal person.

”Rule one: if your goal is to establish rapport, you have to start from the same emotional level as your target.”

That part, at least in theory, is easy. Both Decker and Vicar are already in clear agreement that California is a godforsaken place, and that nobody should ever go there. The mention of the Saito regime alone is enough to draw a visible bristle from the elf. “WAKARIMASU. REST ASSURED, THE NEED FOR EXPEDIENCY IS WELL APPRECIATED.”

Perhaps this is a cultural difference, but even the antisocial netnerd isn’t so thoughtless as to directly shake such human desperation for cash. Far better to assure them of how well you’ll handle the job, and milk the gratitude for a bonus. “IF MEMORY SERVES, WE ALSO KNOW A FEW THINGS ABOUT HOW TO QUIETLY HANDLE A DANGEROUS EXTRACTION," she jerks her head toward the more deadly members of her team, trying to bite back any sense of irony as her gaze passes across Yung. “IF NOTHING ELSE, WE CAN PROVIDE YOU WITH A PROFESSIONAL ASSESSMENT OF YOUR CONTACT’S PLAN.”

She returns her focus back to Preacher, forcing herself, despite her every introverted instinct in her, to meet those eyes. “BUT EVERY SECOND COUNTS, NE? EVEN GETTING INTO SONOMA WON’T NECESSARILY BE EASY.” She tries not to think of what any kind of border crossing might entail, given their diversity of metatypes… and the quality of their SINS… and T-Bone. “SO ANYTHING YOU CAN PROVIDE, PARTICULARLY INFORMATION, THAT MIGHT FACILITATE A SEAMLESS TRIP, WILL HELP US ENSURE ACHAK’S SAFE RETURN.”

(( I’m assuming Yung will probably take the lead on actual negotiation. I just want to set him up with some of dem sweet, sweet teamwork-test bonus dice if I can. ))

Preacher turns to Mouse. There's obvious distress behind the trenchant, azure gaze. It's clear that this is more than an organizational inconvenience-- Preacher cares about this man. This fact seems at odds with the indefatigably stoic demeanor, somehow rendering the fixer even more anomalous.

"A year ago, it would have been nigh impossible to cross the border. The recent uprisings have introduced instability, which may work in your favor. Saito still controls the borders, however, meaning successfully crossing at a legitimate port of entry would prove problematic. I would suggest purchasing the services of someone who can facilitate a clandestine crossing."

Axel arrives just as the others have finished filing into the church and takes up position at the periphery, preferring to let those who want the limelight to take it. He listens intently to Preacher's spiel, his heart dropping to his feet during a few moments as the grim man lays out the difficult road ahead. His mood is lightened by the one-two punch of Akela's casual line of questioning, and Mouse's hurried attempts to smooth over any ruffled feathers in Akela's wake. He imagines briefly the pair playing good cop/bad cop, but gives up after a while when he can't decide who would fit which role best. He lets a breath out through his nose, finally admitting to himself that these mental games are just him trying to avoid the issues. And there are issues.

Goddammit, Elias, what are you doing here? You haven't even been to Free Cal. Hell, you haven't been outside Seattle in what, 7 years? Frag, the 'Crush are going to want that "rent" up front, or scavengers are gonna strip the shop bare by the time I get back. At least the ones who come after the sentries run dry.

"Gotta say, священник, I didn't expect this. Two weeks ago, we were stealing stolen contraband from gangers, and now you're willing to pay us to go all the way to not-so-Free Cal just to talk to a man about a job we might not accept when we get there."

He briefly considers a jibe about desperation before some vestigial sense of decorum rescues him from himself. He pauses, then understands.

"I see, this missing, uh, Missionary must be pretty near and dear," he says, hoping his face reflects a sense of empathy. "So we need to travel a thousand clicks into Imperial Japanese territory, meet with a clandestine operative, and infiltrate a military black site?" He stops to think, even though the lie is already loaded onto his lips, "Sounds like something we can handle."

He clasps his hands behind him, if only to keep his nervous energy from showing. "Tell us more about this missionary. Was he looking into the Imperial Army, or was that just bad luck on his way somewhere else? And this Conrad, what sort of man is he? And you mentioned us as being 'additional manpower' for him. Will we be working with more of your flock?"

Preacher turns to Axel. "On it's face I admit that it sounds like a herculean task. However, Saito's forces are overstressed, contending with insurgency and unrest on many fronts. I'm putting my faith in Conrad's knowledge of the locale and the enemy. If you allow him to explain his plan, I'm sure it will assuage at least some doubts."

"Achak was following a lead I had discovered-- one unrelated to Saito's junta. All the evidence suggested that it was a low-risk venture. I have no way of knowing, but having full knowledge of his skill of subversion, I have to assume it was extraordinarily bad luck. I'm not even sure if he was captured en route to, at, or leaving his destination."

"Conrad? He is a loyal and cunning man. I've known him for many years. We fought together in Novosibirsk. After the war, he sought his fortune in California. He has become a man of considerable means, as you will see if you accept the job. Many of the rebel factions in California pay him tribute, so he is well informed of Saito's machinations. The Bluedog Ranch is probably the safest place in California at the moment. I'm not sure who he has tapped for this mission, but considering our common enemy I would hazard a guess that they're affiliated with the freedom fighters."

Two things Yung truly understands at the moment, the importance of time, and the universal gravity of friendships, nay, relationships. The Preacher has struck a chord, *pang*, deep within the soul down to the very essence. First Reiya, now the Preacher, this is the universe at work.

What’s more, Mouse. The mere fact that she danced around this notion with enough vim and vigor to speak more than a few words speaks volumes. She, a meta, braving the lion’s den for the biz, it’s enough to cause cracks in the foundation of Yung’s persona.

“There is no doubt, you carry the weight, Preacher.” Yung’s typical tone and swagger bordering on arrogance gives way to a solemn respect.

He turns 90 degrees in the aisle to face one of the pews. After a moment's hesitation he lifts his gaze to the ceiling of The Immortal Son, before letting out an audible sigh. He then makes what most in his profession would consider a cardinal sin, he turns his back on the Preacher. He reaches out with his right hand and grasps the pew cap rail with such force that the mocha colored skin of his knuckles turns white. The brief crack of splintering wood can be heard, echoing like the snapping of a bone in a cave.

Yung lifts his gaze to see Reiya, her face at a crossroads of concern and frustration.

Get it together.

Yung swivels back around to face the Preacher. “Lo siento, Padre. You see, this is just muy complicado. Your request is monumental, herculean as you say, but we understand why you make it, and the respect you show asking us to undertake it for you.” He pauses for a moment to let the weight of his words be savored.

“Still, three metas, in Free-Cal, maybe you give us some coins and we barter passage with Charon.” Yung says, a brief attempt at levity as he regains his confidence.

“Regardless, it seems like you piqued the interest of at least a few of the crew, so the next thing to ask is what you’re offering for us to go and hear what Senor Sharpe has to say?”

Preacher watches Yung's theatrics silently. If the fixer is offended, it doesn't show. His face remains a veil.

"Once you've crossed the border, Conrad's people can insure your safety. He does not discriminate, nor do his compatriots who fight for the rights of all people. God made man in his image-- this includes all meta-variants, and Conrad knows this. I will pay you ¥30,000 if you will go and speak with Conrad at his ranch, deliverable after he has briefed you. I will also compensate any reasonable payments made to third parties in order to cross the border into California proper."

As before, Reiya is content to listen and learn. As the runner with the least amount of experience, she has nothing to add, and any questions she might ask can’t be answered here.

The shaman’s nonchalant expression falters from time to time: interest at the details, concern for Yung, fondness for the elf. To keep her mask up, Reiya listens but also thinks about what she knows about the Free California State. She’s certainly never been there before. She thinks it’s the one with the “Live Free or Die” motto, which she thought was so badass as a moody teenager. Otherwise, all she knows is the names of the various Indigenous peoples of California, drilled into her by an exuberant, militant, and exacting elder at school. Modoc, Achumawi, Atsugewi, Bear River, Mattale, Lassick, Nogatl, Wintun...The list manifests in her head, and while oddly pleased that she remembers it all so clearly, she smiles inwardly at her lack of useful knowledge for this particular situation.

Still, she’s game for this, no matter the danger. Reiya considers it part of her education on things NOT Native or magical, with pay. Plus, she gets the sense that this run could possibly provide some Intel on the fraggers behind the modified VITAS epidemic. She realizes she could ask the decker to do some digging for her, but it feels too soon. Maybe after another run or two.

For now, there’s the promise of danger, travel, and money. And getting away from that damn workshop after two weeks of spellwork, boredom, and prowling aimlessly around outside. What more could a girl—or an angry, rootless shaman—want?

Yung approaches the chancel, buttoning his great coat as he walks; eyes locked with the steely gaze of Preacher. He stops a few feet short of the fixer.

“We accept your terms.” Yung says. His intonation in giving this response is distinctly different from his usual cadence.

Yung bows his head before extending his hand to Preacher.

Preacher's visage remains as hard as Ural stone, but Yung can swear he glimpses a brief wavering in the fixer's demeanor. Relief, perhaps. "Excellent," intones Preacher. "I'll let Conrad know so that he can arrange an escort for you. When you have organized a border crossing, contact this number."

Yung's commlink alerts him to the presence of a new shared contact.

"Far be it from me to give advice from my lofty position, but take care not to venture far from Bluedog Ranch. While Saito's might is scattered, his soldiers are fanatical. Good luck."

A flash of white hot annoyance crests the surface of Taipan's impassive demeanor at Yung's use of the word "we" in his acceptance of Preacher's terms. You do not speak for me, kid, he thinks as his mouth twists into a sneer, eyes glaring daggers into the back of Yung's cocksure skull. A confrontation in front of Mr. Johnson would be an extremely unprofessional breach of decorum, however. Taipan draws a breath slowly through his nostrils and blows it out through his mouth in an attempt to slow his quickened pulse. Words would be exchanged later, but now is not the time.

The whole mission sounds like all the worst parts of a grab bag of bad ideas rolled into one giant clusterfrag. That said, thirty thousand nuyen just to make it across the border and listen to some crazy chummer's plan is pretty close to a good deal, even if that border is Cal Free's.

Taipan composes a brief message on his commlink: <<Noah.. It's been some time. May have some work for you.
A large shipment, but less... personal... in nature this time.>>

Mouse dips her head in respectful acknowledgement, both of the agreement itself, and this new reality she’s signed up for. “UNLESS WE HAVE ANY PRESSING CONCERNS, PERHAPS WE SHOULD LEAVE THE GOOD PREACHER TO HIS PRAYERS? WE HAVE LOGISTICS TO DISCUSS.”

Beneath this controlled demeanor, she can feel her pulse racing. Of course the job in itself sounds batshit insane: a dumpster fire with a far greater chance of discovery and subsequent dismemberment than success. For all she knows, this Conrad could just be some trust-fund fraghead who wants to throw his nuyen into playing rebel leader. If that’s the case, she’ll likely have to spend her cut getting back out of dodge.

But this rush is different than the usual buzz of anxiety. If anything, this newfound fire in her veins smacks of something far more dangerous and troubling: Excitement.

(( ((Posting this here now, unfinished, just to keep it concurrent. Screaming baby and a sick 1st grader making it v. hard to write this week! This is purely an introspective RP post and wont affect anything in this scene so please continue on, I will fill it in when able)) ))

Thoryne groans inwardly at the prospect of revisiting the Free State. It isn’t so much the retracing of his footsteps- in this case a shivering three-day voyage sealed behind a false wall in the live hold of the Molly Malone, entombed by nearly two hundred tons of ice and fish, spent sucking on soy bars and cheap rum, shitting into a plastic bag while silently cursing the bastard dwarf who had smelled desperation and profit and a man without options.

As was typical of most seamen, Thoryne was predisposed to the

"This is Achak," says Preacher.

The team's public PAN receives an image. Achak is a lean young man of Amerind descent. Long, wild hair emerges from behind a widow's peak, becoming braids that dangle out of frame. Prominent cheekbones, a narrow chin and an obsidian-sharp jawline lend the man a resolute hardness-- made harder still by a crescent-shaped scar across his left cheek. A pair of hazel eyes contrasts eerily with the ruddy, clay color of his complexion. Tattooed over his larynx is a stylized depiction of the sun.

"His full name is Achak Speaks With Meaning. Although, I suspect he gave the Kuroikaze a false name."

Taipan's commlink informs him of an incoming message.

<< Well, shit! If it isn't Kiyoshi, my Nipponese buddy. You had me at large, omae. I hope you don't have your heart set on the North again, because I'm not on very good terms with the council. Or the border patrol. Anyway, send me the destination and the number of packages and I'll start pulling strings. >>

Noah's message flits over Taipan's AR feed, eliciting a somewhat disgusted sneer from Taipan, regardless of the fact that he'd initiated the conversation. The sentiment is quickly followed by a sense of relief that the occasionally unreliable man had been presently coherent enough to issue a response. Taipan is mildly reviled at the need to rely upon Noah's services once again. The man's professionalism was a fragging joke in the best of times, but, limited though his experience with the man has been, Taipan hasn't yet found occasion to criticize the man's results.

Taipan stares at the visage of the Amerind filling the upper-left quadrant of his image link, memorizing every detail as a matter of trained-in habit. << You're not on very good terms with anyone, are you? >> Taipan frowns while composing the next message. << This isn't like the last crossing up north. Cal Free. Seven souls, plus equipment. Armed. >> Taipan glances sideways toward Axel. << And one of them's got a menagerie of chrome to drag along behind him, if you can get creative enough to transport it quietly. >>

Axel studies the face of Achak, mind racing at the enormity of what the nascent team has just agreed to. His eyes refocus on the solid world beyond his AR workspace, revealing to himself that he's been staring at the Vantichrist through the front door, beyond the narthax. Yeah, he thinks to himself, I guess you're right. Focus on your strengths, let the others focus on theirs.

He clears his throat. "I'd have no trouble in Salish territory, but we've got the Tir between us and Free Cal, and no one comes back from trying to cross their territory. We could go around, but it'd be a hell of a road trip, not to mention the Free Cal border itself. Air or sea would be quickest, but I'll need to bring my little friends along for a job this serious."

Mick clears their throat and, standing, says, "You all seem real eager to take the word of a guy we only met a couple weeks ago on why he wants us to cross into Free State. You sure there isn't anything else going on here we should know about, holy man?"

Preacher glances at Mick. "I'm sure Conrad can make do with six if you're not interested in the job."

Taipan receives a reply to his message. << California, huh? It's a hot destination right now. A lot of mercs going in for both sides. Yeah, I can swing it, got a good route in mind. No vehicles though. You'll be on foot. When do you want to leave? >>

Having concluded negotiations, Yung spins on his heels and makes his way through the foyer and out the doors of The Immortal Son. He sends a message via commlink while he waits to receive the verbal thrashing from half the team.

< Hey Kento, looks like work is requiring me to travel a bit. Not sure how long it's gonna take, but my guess is a week, maybe two. I don't know if I'll be able to keep in touch while I'm gone. I'll miss you, hope to see you soon. >

Mouse can feel her breath hitch with Mick’s objection, muscles tensing into an instinctive flinch. It’s one thing for the orc to breach the more expected back and forth with such directness. That’s in part why she’d suggested moving these discussions, so they could vent such concerns in front of some takeout char-siu empanadas rather than the Johnson himself.

More than any of her other teammates, however, Mouse feels an undeniable sense of tension in addressing Mick. Her other teammates, while still strangers in their own rights, at least have some predictable range of outputs in their interactions. With this one, however, the decker can’t shake the impression that she’s handling a data bomb.

“IT’S NOT IN PREACHER’S INTEREST TO GO WASTING USEFUL ASSETS.” She chooses her words carefully, mentally cursing Yung’s sudden departure. She gets the impression that between his easy way with words and the blood he’d clearly spilled at Bongoland, his opinions would be much more welcome here. “THIS JOB IS ALSO ALREADY DANGEROUS ON ITS FACE, EVEN JUST MEETING THIS CONTACT. THERE’S NOT MUCH HE COULD DO TO DISGUISE THAT.”

No, from her read, Preacher’s limitations might be in his own ignorance, whether calculated or genuine, of the logistical snags involved in even simple asks. She looks uneasily to Axel, who seems to be caught up in his own mental calculations as to how to avoid being stranded and powerless in the heart of enemy territory… again.

“CLEARLY, WE HAVE A LOT TO DISCUSS. I CERTAINLY HAVE RESEARCH TO DO.” She gives the Preacher a nod before turning to follow Yung. The deception is in her sense of conclusion. She may be done here, but if one thing is clear, absolutely nothing has been settled yet.

Taipan's frowning gaze settles on Preacher as he considers the coyote's question, weighing his demeanor. Something tells me 'now' wouldn't be soon enough.

<< I don't think we've got the luxury of time on this one. Can you get us a solid plan in 48 hours? I realize that's a tall order, but given my read on this one, I expect our... benefactor... would make it right with you. We'll also need an exfil plan for eight souls.>>

Taipan's commlink chimes: another message from Noah.

<< I can give you a plan right now. We can take the Sierra Express mag-lev. It'll take us from Boise to Reno. The Ute border is a breeze-- won't catch no hassle if we're riding on that fancy rail. I got a guy in Reno that can collect us at the station. He's solid. Then it's just a quick jaunt into the mountains and I'll lead you across the border. I used the same spot last year for a family, but they were going the other way. I hope you got transport arranged in the Free state, because I can't help you there. Should take about three days to be boots down on Cali soil. I cut you in on the valued customer discount, so the whole package is only ¥9,000. Soon as I get the transfer I'll head down that way. How long you gonna be in the golden State? I can stay in Reno for a while, do some gambling. >>

Axel takes the temperature of the room, and starts walking toward the door. "So," he asks, "Powder Keg?"

Taipan's eyebrows rise a few centimeters in surprise. << Well, consider me impressed. Just get us across the border and we'll work out the rest. Not certain how long we'll be there, but five minutes is five minutes too many in Free Cal if you ask me. Hope it won't be more than a few days. I'd hate for you to piss away your entire savings in Reno, and given the professional you are I doubt it'd take you long to do.>>

Taipan nods to Axel. "Sounds that way. Guess we'll find out once we talk to Conrad." He addresses the room, "Got a guy that can get us boots on the ground in Free Cal in about three days, assuming he isn't sleeping off a hangover when it comes time to go." He turns to Preacher, "¥9,000 reasonable enough for your taste?"

Something tells me he'd pay more.. quite a bit more. Taipan initiates the transfer to Noah without waiting for a reply.

Preacher gives the briefest of nods and extends a finger from his hand.

The Tengu loitering in the recesses of the church vanishes. He reappears less than a minute later. The Yokai crosses the aisle to the nave. Taipan finds himself face-to-face with the masked guard. Without a word, the Tengu presses a credstick into Taipan's hands. As promptly as the exchange is made the Tengu turns and whisks back off into the darkness of the ambulatory.

If Yung is embarrassed about leaving the negotiations before everything was concluded, he certainly doesn't show it. He leans casually against T-bone, once again wearing his outlandish headphones. He slowly removes them as the group exits The Immortal Son. "bout time, thought y'all might have stayed to join the congregation."

Upon hearing the plan for transportation arranged by Taipan, Yung clicks his tongue "Drek, hoofing it across the border, no bueno. Still, some of the easiest 30k I ever made, eh?"

Yung pulls open T-bones sliding door before continuing, "Well I ain't gonna go wearing my best threads, and especially not these kicks."
As Mouse steps through the threshold of T-bone's familiar interior Yung asks "Hey Mouse, you think you find any info on dis Conrad Sharpe and Bluedog Ranch? Probably not a whole lot out there, but maybe worth a little diggin, yeah?

Yung steps into the van, reclining slightly on one of the bench seats. "Anyway Amigo's, we probably head to a Stuff'r'shack or something before making any moves, eh? Gotta make sure we got everything we need for da biz."

After making the suggestion Yung once again places his headphones back over his ears and dons his glasses, before he appears to get lost in a world of his own.

After an arduous eight hour drive (with a few stops to allow Reiya to vomit on the side of the highway) the Vantichrist reaches the I-84 junction to Boise. The city is a sprawling mess of frenetic development, as if God tossed an urban metropolis in a cocktail shaker and dumped it out over the Great Basin. Some newer constructions emerge among the rabble: a dozen or so Corporate arcologies, their domes gleaming in the prairie sunset. At the outskirts of the city is a massive airfield, riddled with communications towers and rows of hangars-- the Salish-Boise military base, formerly Gowan Airbase. Boise has a very opportunistic feel to it and for good reason: it's smuggler's mecca.

Axel navigates a maze of intersections, passing capsule hotels, brothels, stores with dubious names (all of which seem to be closed) and the ubiquitous, inevitable holy trinity of gas stations, liquor stores, and stuff-r-shacks. The van passes under and through a fifty foot hologram, showcasing car-size coins being ejected from a slot machine. The Boise Score is the largest casino in the Pacific Northwest, and the flashing logo reminds Axel of that fact as it nearly blinds him.

The weary team finally arrives at their destination: a non-descript bar at one end of a strip-mall, aptly named 24 Happy Hour. The bar itself is little more than an over-sized concrete bungalow, covered with so much graffiti and a mosaic of old posters that it's created a sort of protective shell. A pair of old-fashioned saloon doors serve as the entrance. From within drifts the tail end of the drum solo from Johnny Nuclear's Augmented Angel.

Mouse peruses through the tidbits she collected while enduring the road-trip from hell, trying to parse out anything of particular interest.

In her research she came across several articles in which a Conrad Sharpe was awarded a 'Medal of Gallantry for acts of heroism above and beyond the call of duty,' while engaging with insurgents in Siberia during a UCAS campaign. The name Conrad Sharpe also shows up on a variety of patents, building permits, land deeds and as the CEO of about a dozen companies incorporated in California. One Conrad Sharpe also appears to be the Vice-chair for the Sonoma County Rotary Club, and the treasurer of the California Free People's fund. The matrix is conspicuously absent of any photos or trids of anyone named Conrad Sharpe, which strikes Mouse as peculiar.

~♪Elf girl's heart is made of dreams. Ork girl’s love is DETERMINATION. Let’s enjoy a detention together. ♫~

The opening of “Love Love Meta High” rolls in the peripheral of Mouse’s vision as she works, each episode marking off the passage of another half hour. The old anime, retro by today’s standards, seems somehow appropriate for the impending journey into FreeCal. Maybe it’s the misguided idealism it represents, when Yamatetsu-Ani thought they could overcome decades of culturally-ingrained Nipponese racism with good ol’ harem anime.

Maybe it’s the hindsight- that their efforts did not, in fact, solve racism. Instead, pissed off traditionalists razed their animation studio, and the only change their show inspired was a new trend of fetishizing hornyposts, (with such enduring memes as “Step on me, Troll-Mommy.”).

As the van trundles to a stop, she pauses the vid, catching the screen in a timely still of ‘Orksuka’s’ fist connecting with the bland protagonists’ face. With a soft grunt, she uncurls herself, muscles shuddering into a stretch. “PLEASE TELL ME THIS IS IT, AND NOT ANOTHER PUKE-STOP.”

She swipes a hand under the bench, snatching up a can of P90 as she pushes her way toward the nearest window. “BEFORE WE ROLL INTO THIS HIVE OF SCUM AND VILLAINY, IS THERE ANYTHING WE SHOULD KNOW ABOUT OUR NEW BEST FRIEND?” She swivels her head back to her teammates. “OUR ‘COURIER’, THAT IS, NOT GLORIOUS LEADER. ALL WE HAVE ON CONRAD IS THAT HE DOESN’T LIKE SHOWING HIS FACE, WHICH MEANS HE’S EITHER PARANOID, A SELF-LOATHING META, OR MAYBE INFECTED?” She clarifies, rattling through these options with equal nonchalance, and not a hint of self-awareness.

Taipan stares blankly at the entrance to the grungy dive. The scuzzy watering hole invokes memories of his last rendezvous with Noah, which took place in a venue nearly identical to this one. He isn't sure whether the coyote chose this location for its relative seclusion or because the man simply likes places such as these. Probably both, Taipan figures.

The interior of the 24 Happy Hour is hazy and ripe with an urban spoor. The flooring is a faded parquet, so soaked in spirits that Taipan has to forcibly lift his boots as he enters. Taipan waves aside a cloud of tobacco smoke, but the vacuum is quickly replaced by more. He resigns himself and looks around.

There is the usual compliment of stained booths, mismatched stools, and an ancient oak bar. A grizzled looking elf woman with a dozen facial piercings and a shaved head tends bar. A trid of the 2041 World Cup final game plays out in an alcove behind the bar, seemingly on repeat. A few civilians (truckers, maybe?) are tucked away in booths, nursing beer out of mason jars.

And there's Noah: human, slender, and trying-- obviously unsuccessfully-- to chat up the bartender. He's dressed in a simple gray pea-coat over armored clothing, tailored pants and jungle boots. A pair of Deladyne designer sunglasses rest on his forehead and a lit Alpaca hangs perilously from his bottom lip. Noah has a wild shock of blonde hair and a messy goatee. He looks as though he could have been a second-rate model, maybe ten years ago.

"--over a speeding ticket. A speeding ticket! Can you believe it?" Noah is saying. The bartender is politely ignoring him, overly engrossed in mixing some obscure cocktail.

Taipan glares about through the strobing, neon-lit haze of the club, consciously suppressing the relentless square-waved thud of the bass track. He hates this place, and all those like it. People subject themselves to this sensory assault willingly, for whatever reason. Presumably for the neurochemical cocktail produced by the unrestrained assault on the panoply of human senses, of course supplemented by any and all combinations of whatever chemical supplements were preferred by its denizens. To Taipan, this is a place of business, requiring the careful and somewhat exhausting control of his augmented senses, but, at the same time, offering discretion and anonymity.

The cocky, exaggerated syllables of Noah's story cut through the clamor, his word slurring noticeably, but not enough to get him removed from his seat. Taipan sidles up to him, resting his forearms on the bar next to him.

"I can believe it. My guess is you deserved whatever comes next in your story." Taipan peers sourly at several empty glasses arrayed in front of the coyote, and finally at the mostly empty one in his hands. He catches the bartender's eye and nods his head toward the near-empty glass. Taipan knows he's not the most reliable man... but more reliable when he's well lubricated.

"Well, you look about the same as I left you." Taipan grabs the drink from the bartender and slides it over to Noah. "Glad we got here before you got too comfortable." This man might be a scoundrel and a mercenary, but Taipan has never had occasion to question his results. He claps the man on the shoulder in mock comradery that he doesn't really feel, "Good to see you again, my friend."

Taipan nods to the fresh drink set down in front of the mercenary. "Perhaps the last one before our little trip, eh?"