Keene Arrives.

Old GE Plant - Warehouse

During it's tenure as a legitimate industrial facility, natural light would flood the workshop floor -- some thirty feet beneath the peaked roof -- by means of louvered skylights. In the transition into a gomi shrine, these have been long since sealed away beneath plaster and black paint: webbed over with extension cords and network cable. The sole artifact of the original facility -- an enormous iron cargo hook, suspended by an equally cyclopean length of chain -- supports the loft's dim noveau sun[1]: a sphere of gutted television screens some five feet in diameter.
Where oiled machines once crouched, muttering and grinding implacably along, new beings[2] now congregate in silent communion: gathered in dimly illuminated corners, their faces turned upwards to the flickering solaris. Mickey Mouse -- or, at least, a plastic facimile thereof -- is here, human-sized and cheerfully vacant eyed. Ronald McDonald[3] sits on a wooden bench, his injection-molded face fixed in it's familiar, eternal grin. They number in the dozens; the fading icons of commercial success.
Twin rust-colored cargo containers stained with graffiti[4] scrawl flank the loft's dominant space -- the wide expanse of open lucite[5] floor -- in a broad 'V'. Fat bundles of zip-tied cables pipe electricity and data down to and up from the consoles which dominate a raised platform atop each container: the left bearing slimline turntables and mixer, the right a complex array of patchwork electronics and monitors.

[Footnoted +views]

Contents:
Harrison
Obvious exits:
Fire Door Hallway Roof Access

Harrison is standing by the entrance to the hallway. He spins around at the sound of the door opening.

***

Harrison:

The fourty-something man before you is a striking figure indeed. He stands about 6' tall, with a fit, barrel chested form. It is clear that this man is in very good shape for his age. His eyes are a deep chocolate brown, and he sports a neatly trimmed beard and moustache that matches his short 'salt and pepper' color hair.

His clothing is a bit odd, perhaps he's an entertainer or a hotel waiter. He's wearing black trousers, black dress shoes, a fitted violet waistcoat and a deep red cravat. The sleeves of his Victorian collared amd starched white shirt are rolled up exposing his muscular forearms. A diamond stickpin holds his cravat in place, and the chain of a gold pocketwatch dangles from his waistcoat pocket.

When he speaks, you detect an upper crust British accent. It's clear that he's 'not from around here' as he seems slightly unfamilliar with routine American customs.

***

The door doesn't open immediately. Before anyone else arrives, there is the sound of a luxury sedan -- glimmers of it are seen through the dirty windows and gaps in the walls -- rolling past the gate, winding around behind the building, and coming to a halt. The vehicle shuts off, and a man in a suit gets out. The driver's side door closes; the trunk is popped. The man takes something large and heavy-looking out of the trunk, then slams the trunk shut. The large object rolls unsteadily behind him while he walks towards the factory, the familiar *blip blip* of the car alarm arming a second later.
The man in the suit opens the fire door. He is smoking a cigarette and looks moderately aggreviated about something. The case behind him is one of those matte black metal operations that, in movies, usually contain nuclear weapons or other unpleasant things. When it hits the concrete, it makes a scraping sound as the wheels dig into the flatter ground and even the case's travel out.
He doesn't even look up as he trundles forward through the center of the factory floor, ash flicking off his cigarette behind him.
"You," he directs to Harrison, flatly. "You're trespassing. Beat it."

Harrison arches an eyebrow at the well dressed man as he slips a handheld device of some sort into his waistcoat. In a cultured British accent he replies, "Really? I was led to believe that I was welcome here. Though current experience seems to indicate otherwise."

The man wheels the case into the center of the room, orienting it up on its side using the handle. He smacks the handle against the ground, driving it into two conveniently available holes to keep it moored in place.
Keene takes the cigarette out of his mouth, ashes it, and looks over intently at Harrison for a few moments. He squints, takes another puff from his cigarette, and looks at something that isn't there behind Harrison before speaking again.
"Who invited you?" he asks. "What is your authorization here?"

Harrison says, "As I mentioned to your.....er....collegues..." He stumbles a bit, trying to find the right word to express his thought. "My name is Lord Harrison Wells. Of the Electrodyne Engineers. Does that answer your question, Sir?"

The annoyance fades from Keene's features slowly. Either the nicotine is starting to kick in, or he has some reason to expect visitors. He takes another few puffs from his cigarette, getting within polite conversational distance of Harrison.
"It answers one of them," he says. Keene reaches into his jacket, producing a pack of cigarettes. Tapping on the pack, he offers one of the cigarettes -- it's a pack of Merits -- to Harrison.
"You'll have to excuse my rudeness earlier. We're all a little jumpy from the circumstances that brought us here. My name is Steve. I'm promotions and public relations for the group."

Harrison extends his right hand in greeting, waving off the offer of the cigarette with his left hand. "No thank you Mr. Steve. And I do not know of the circumstances that brought you here, but I take it they were somewhat less than pleasant."

Keene fluidly returns the pack of cigarettes to his breast pocket while giving Harrison a proper, firm handshake. "I won't go into the gory details. Suffice it to say, we have become wary of unexpected visitors, especially when we haven't gotten to know the other people in our community yet. It is fortunate that nothing untoward has happened to you -- it's lucky I got here when I did. If you had set off any of the alarms ... well, those things are entirely automated, as are the countermeasures."
Keene ashes his cigarette to his side, with the wind, to knock the ashes away from the two of you. "So what brings you here, Lord Wells?"

WEATHER REPORT: The sleet begins to slow and then stops altogether, though the dark clouds still remain overhead.

Harrison chuckles, nodding in response to your comment about the alarms. "I suspected as much. I was in the process of calculating the likely location through the labyrinth you have set up here."
"I am here simply because I was hoping to meet a few like minded individuals. I too am new to Erin's Vale and I have yet to meet any associates."

That prompts a small, fleeting smile from Keene. "Yes. I imagine anyone in your position would be interested in locating comrades. I wish I could provide some assistance to you, but I have only just arrived in town this morning. I haven't even checked my e-mail yet."
He takes his cellphone out of his jacket, meddling with it for a while. Text messaging, it looks like. He paces as he does this, continuing to speak. "Tell me a little bit about yourself."

Harrison says, "Only arrived in town this morning? I do not mean to offend, but how do I know that you indeed are someone to be trusted? You have the advantage Sir and yet I have no assurance as to your intentions."

"May I remind you," Keene says, continuing to tap at his cellphone, "that on meeting me, you introduced yourself with your full title and affiliation without me so much as soliciting it. Now is not the time to be second-guessing yourself in terms of issuing trust."
He finishes tapping at his phone, hits send, and puts it in his jacket pocket while awaiting a reply. He looks back at Harrison. "Not to be rude, Lord Wells, but you are on our property demanding things of /me/. This is somewhat backward, wouldn't you say?"

Harrison nods. "Indeed. I simply extended the courtesy of an introduction. Evidently I will not be recieving one in return. If you wish me to leave, I will do so. If you wish to discuss matters of interest to both of us, I will also do so. What I will not do is subject myself to an interrogation when it should be obvious to you that I am who I say I am.

Keene reaches into his pocket when it vibrates, producing his phone. He looks at the readout, scrolling down through the message quickly before pocketing the phone again.
"No," Keene says, patiently, "nothing is obvious, Lord Wells. Since I don't have all of the information about who is who in this city, you could very easily be a disguised Technocrat, a robot duplicate, an intrusion clone of someone calling himself Lord Wells, or a hard-light hologram projected from an orbital platform that appears to be someone called Lord Wells. You could also be controlled by a vampire by some means, or otherwise not be entirely who you say to be."
He puffs on his cigarette, looking evenly at the foreign gentleman. "That I have not sounded the general alarm indicates that I have a small measure of trust in others. Said measure is all I have left after my experiences elsewhere in which several of my friends and colleagues were murdered without cause. Therefore, I would appreciate at least a small measure of patience from you? It is not as if I am asking you for anything more than a very basic statement about who you are and what you are interested in."

>> He had to leave, then.

Deeper in.

(continued from the last post)

As the familiar homeboy struts from the alley, the gang lounges still, but the hollow eyes now glitter with lust unspoken. It remains so as they rise to their feet, gathering about the one who has journeyed into shadows known for sins enjoyed. Hands are stuck out; brown, crooked teeth are flashed in vulpine smiles as voices coarse echo in a confusing chorus. "Buddy!...Jose'....What...Give...Fucker hogging...Whiny bitch...GIVE IT!" The last cry is one of unanimous assent as the outstretched hands are thrust again at the newly arrived figure, demand writ plainly upon ape-like features.

"You got the fuck-up, we get the shit, remember?" The question comes from one of the unholy choir as the others echo their approval of this statement. Brows lower as they glare now, waiting with impatience for the dulling of sense and quickening of pulse...

"Step the fuck off, yo."

Deep within the soggy sponge that is Cash's brain, a foreign source of neuro electronic activity is hard at work.

Looking into our world from a watery dimension, sits an old Chinese man over a thousand years old. Chicken legs crossed and his knobby fingers grasping the gnarled end of a walking cane, Sifu Sun Fook doesn't look a day over five hundred. This altered state has been kind to him. And in the deep recesses of a parallel stream of reality, he strokes his white beard and produces a sucking sound between the gaps of his ancient teeth. The celestial lotus he sits upon offers up a jewel encrusted cup, filled with an ethereal substance that measures five thousand percent alcohol. It's sipped, he cackles, looking through a portal cut in the shape of Cash's dull eyes.

And when Cash' speaks again, wearing the skin of another monkey, he sounds utterly convincing to match the clone which his body has contorted into.

"I said step the fuck off, fuckin' vultures. This shit's on time. Boy came correct up in here. Ya'll check it." Looking about, the interloper spots the lead man on the totem to address further. A stream of Mandarin characters scrolls down his mind's eye, feeding him the secrets that were held in the dead man's skull. To the fat cat, he hands over one of the rocks, his bounty. So he may be measured and weighed. "Check this shit, top dawg."

At the words and the hollow echo that hangs for seconds upon the air in their wake, a glass tube with a rounded bowl at the end is produced from beneath leather jacket. Eyes rimmed with red and darkness flicker to one of the dark ganstas standing beside. The loyal acolyte draws a lighter from a hip pocket with a dazed smile. This action is mirrored by a hand plucking the proffered prize. The prize is lifted to the bowl and dropped into place as the iighter follows suit. A bubbling drawn from tales of Shakespeare and destinies fatal begins and a deep breath is drawn. Eyes close as muscles slacken, leaving a mask of idiocy in its wake. Silence as the eyes of all remain focused upon this still figure and when he exhales, the gang echoes the harsh rasp.

"That's good shit. Fuckface must'a been a narc. Glad ya wasted the fucker." The eyes are open now, glazed with symptoms known and settled upon the young gansta who holds the glittering treasure. "We needa show this shit to Marco. Get lots of money." The eyes narrow, focusing upon the gansta's hands as there's an addition to this statement. "We coulda be real rich. Real rich, amigo."

"Faggot said he hadda gang a this shit. But, I only found this, knaw wha' 'm sayin'. But they gotta be more a' this shizzle somewhere, believe dat." The interloper jabs at the prize with one finger from way above his shoulder. Keeping a respectable distance from top dawg, but feigning interest in the second hand effects of Pobble's uber-crack smoke, Cash lingers.

"Yo. 'M gonna check if dis boyz' address on his I.D. is fer reals. We'll come right ta Marco. Get some mutha fuckin' props up 'n here."

"Si. Stupid fuckers donta deserving it. Fuck man, we fuck Marco." The words are delivered with a slight slur as his eyes twitch from the promsing gansta and the giggling acolytes. The pipe is lifted again for another toke. An acolyte's grimy hands rise as if to take the pipe while the silver breath is savored. The hands don't make it far before a hand falls to the leader's side. It rises again in the next second, a trail of droplets flying through air as the rising hand bears a knife which steals grasping fingers from the now-marked Judas. Nothing is said as the Judas falls to his knees clutching the hand and cursing in a high-pitched voice. There is a kick then. The thud marks the change in cries from loud curse to low whimper. Blood pools beneath as Judas clutches his groin with tearing eyes and drooling mouth. The silver breath is now released, frosting the words now spoken with illogic.

Floating by, the formless embodiment of a character dreamt up in the bed of a nine year old Hindu boy swims and distracts Sun Fook for a moment. Dirty and long nails rake through the spirit matter, which feels much a spring breeze from the back of 69' Mustang. Lips smack a toothless sound, the Sifu returns to the conversation at hand. The purple lotus leans him towards the window of Cash's eyes so that he may reach through them and into the fat street urchin's weakened mind.

A handful of thoughts are pulled in his weathered and callused grasp. Those pertaining to Marco, those that describe the man and his position, and how to find them, thoughts that are inspired by the scheming mention of fuck overs and dirty dealing.

Cash, as gangsta, grins just as broad as he should, and not a millimeter more. "Yo, 'm come back in a few. We'll halla' at Marco then, see what the shit we come with."

This Little Piggy Goes to Market

Downtown - Diaz District
-= Raven and Pike =-

It is the three-story mall that seems to beckon people from all sorts of financial incomes into the area. Its large parking lot is available for plenty of room for shoppers to fill up their vehicles with its goods and empty their pockets in one easy day. Various crosswalks and shopping centers have sprung up surrounding the mall's center of fame, seeking to draw consumers to their market as well and indeed, succeeding.
Across the street from the mall lies a large shopping center, featuring a large movie theater in its court. Also to draw attention are large fashion stores, everything from the upper end dresses of the year to the inexpensive photography studio to show off your looks to friends and family everywhere. An interesting concept of note is the shuttle bus that moves from the mall to the shopping center across the street, allowing consumers to easily make their way from one area to the next with little effort.

===============================| +IC Time |================================

Current Time: Thu Dec 18 14:27:17 2003

Time of Day: Afternoon (Daylight) Weather: Overcast
Moon: Waxing Crescent Temperature: 45F (7C)

===========================================================================

Penny has run off to the goddamn bathroom. Girls going to the bathroom in malls is almost an hour affair. And. You guys have all her purchases. You are loaded with bags. Not just any bags - these are definitely girly-looking shopping bags. An embarrassment and an eyesore.

So. Where there's a mall, there's a food court. where there's a food court, there's cheap food. Where there's cheap food, there's McDonalds. So these three people: one Penny, Hiro, and Compton - a young lady and her disheveled gentleman callers. And they're standing in front of the McDonalds counter, right?

So - Penny's off in the bathroom, /powdering her nose/, dig, and Compton's drunk, and Hiro is arguing with the pimple-faced girl behind the counter, apparently over the contents of the happy meal. There's some contention over the toy.

"They have them in Canada," he tells the girl, glowering. "I swear to fucking god. Where's your manager? Who made you a manager? How can you NOT KNOW?"

Compton looks around lazily like a Hindu cow. MAss consumerism seems to be draining the life from him by the second, with only his belly full of liqour to numb the pain. Mall security would normally be all over this type of guy and sweeping his quietly out the door, but for some reason they haven't noticed him. Most likely a Union outfit has sway here and no one else has screamed 'BUM!' yet. So he continues as Penny's pack mule.
---------------------------------[ Glance ]---------------------------------
Mike................An introverted, wild-haired academic.
Height: 5'10 Weight: 170# Age: App: 2 Cha: 1
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
Compton.............Dirty old man.
Height: 1.8m Weight: 67 kg. Age: 69 App: 2 Cha: 1
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
Hiro................Swine-featured asian geek. Technicolor dreamcoat.
Height: 5'9 Weight: Heavy Age: 22 App: 2 Cha: 3
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
Penny...............Tall. Hot. White hair.
Height: 5'9" Weight: %b Age: App: 3 Cha: 3
-----------------------------------[ - ]------------------------------------

Mike is all but unnoticeable in the food-court crowd. Like most Americans and most geeks he has absolutely no clue of the caloric value of a double bacon cheeseburger with biggie fries and a super-sized Dr. Pepper, and devoured them like a thirteen-year-old girl reads _Tiger Beat_. Now there are just empty wrappers, vestigal shells of the carbohydrates which they once contained, and a brown plastic tray. He finished some time ago, judging from the appearance of his small and uncomfortable food-court table, but he's still sitting there writing furiously in his notebook. And writing furiously on the inside of his burger wrapper. And writing furiously on the back of his hand. And writing furiously on... whatever it is that he's doing, it seems to involve an awful lot of writing.

Hiro comes up with this little like, piece of paper, right? Not even a piece of paper - like one of those reminder notes for UPS or USPS or PSU or whatever to tell you that you missed the package, asshole, and now it's gonna take you 3 days to find it. And he's scribbled something on the back -- looks kinda like a tamigotchi's face, like one of those little keychains. Only the face is like a symbol, right? Following? And that symbol just happens to be ole Gabe, gabby, Gabriel's name. As in archangel. And these things were on TV maybe six months ago in another country and Hiro's right now just like jabbing his finger at the piece of paper. Like - what's this. Look at it. Stop lying.

"Jerking me around," Hiro accuses, loudly. Making quite a scene.

"Hey man, it was like another country, ya know?" Compton says, his voice rolling across the gravel in his throat, "Fucking Americans thing Canada is the States. It ain't ya know? Shoulda got it the first time you saw it now leave the poor kid alone." You sense Compton isn't sticking up for the McClerk as much as he's just annoyed with everything around him right now.

Mike isn't looking at the scene, but not in the same way that everybody else is not looking at the scene. Everybody else is not looking at the scene in the way that they would deliberately not see a big gray elephant in the middle of the room. Noticing the disturbance would necessitate them making some difficult social decision, like calling the cops or telling you guys to grow up and get civilized, so it's easier to just not notice anything. Mike, on the other hand, doesn't notice anything because he's so locked away inside his own head that he probably is no longer aware of the outside world existing. At least, existing in any sense beyond "the place where I write down my stuff".

"Fine, fuck, just trying to kill the days we're waiting for mr level fucking seventeen half-elf illusionist to show up." Hiro crumples the post-it note up as he abandons McJobette, hurling the scrap of paper into the garbage. Hopefully Gabriel won't take notice. "We've been here like fifteen minutes."

"Here" says Compton as he heaves the bags towards Hiro, "Go, find a place to sit. I'll get Pizza while Shoperella does her thing."

Compton. Old hand at surviving Malls. Fuck, the guy is older than the concept of Malls.

"Don't go to Dominos," and Hiro says it like he's threatening murder. Brand loyalty enslaving us and all that. Shouldering the gargantuan burden, Pigboy hop jump skip stumbles his way right to Mike's table. "Yo," he greets, before depositing the load of crap onto his table. "Nice day out." We're inside.

Mike finally takes a break from writing _War and Peace_--or whateverthehell he's doing--and stares for a moment at the burger wrapper he's littered with glyphs. He reads it, blinks a few times, scowls a moment, mutters something about utter trivial tripe, and crumples the failure up just as Hiro comes over. "Uhh." Brilliant conversation-starter, isn't it? He just looks at Hiro, blinking a few times, still holding the crumpled wrapper, desperately trying to shift mental gears into something vaguely resembling normalcy. Then--"Hi."
And you know why it's been fifteen minutes? 'cause fucking Penny is taking her goddamn time. Should know better by now not to cut a woman loose in a mall if she hasn't left her bag. The one she keeps the creditcards in. This fifteen minutes will surely turn into an hour - count on it. Piggy'll remember in just a few how she couldn't put down those dumb slogan undies at Urban Outfitters until he forced her to. And at about the same time, Compton'll think "Bathroom my ass."

"Is that a tamigochi?" Hiro doesn't so much take a look at the paper as leer at it, snatch at it. Grabby bastard. Like he's gotta have it right now. Oh, and his pupils are like an animal's when your headlights hit them like right before you plow over the fucker and make roadkill burgers. Wired. Now's the time to note, when he's like a foot and loose change from your face and grabbing wildly.

Mike doesn't contest the hold on the wrapper; he just lets it go as if it's of absolutely no use whatsoever. Which, to his lights, it probably isn't; after all, it's trivial tripe, easily discarded. What's on the wrapper? Scribbled linguistic analyses of ... good lord! There's Chinese, Devanagari, hieroglyphics, an entire Comparative Linguistics thesis boiled down into tiny, terse letters and symbols. If this guy speaks all these languages, it's real puzzling that he's so lousy with English.

"HmmMmMM," Hiro spits out, like he's really pleased, interested, fascinated. So much so he crumples the wrapper up and drops it -- complete with overflow ketchup and a couple onion bits -- into Penny's bag. The one she got from that really expensive store. The stuff that's all silky and wrapped in tissue paper. "You're Mike," he accuses.

Mike shakes his head no. "My name is /called/ Mike," he answers. "My /name/ is Michael. I am neither Mike nor Michael." Okay, someone's just shown themselves to be a few flavors shy of a Fruit Loops box. He says nothing else, showing a talent for conversation that's nothing shy of autistic.

"Well the method by which I choose to identify you is Mikey Mike, or Mikeadoodleskroodle, you dig. I'm Hiro Stice. You can infer the identities and names and nicknames of my esteemed associates, right." And Pigboy here, he lays like this card out in front of you, some kind of like rave flyer, but it says THE INVISIBLE COLLEGE and it's got these numbers, names, words, ideas all over it. "Yo, call us tonight, huh? You can come by the warehouse. Meet everybody, like. We can talk shop and braid each other's hair."
Mike looks up at Mike, blinking a few times as he tries to parse out these words. "Okay," he finally says, taking the flyer from Hiro and placing it into his notebook. Quietly, he gathers up his papers and tucks them in as well, then closes it all up and returns it to his satchel. "If you'll excuse me? I've got things I really must be doing." Things in Devanagari, no doubt.

"Pleasedtapleasedta, Mikey." Hiro looks back at Compton, or at least looks for him - and kinda like, forgets Mikey Mike. Not in a rude way, but in a 'walls bleeding must stare' kinda way.

Compton's booty is held low and close to his body, by his quick movements and darting eyes you get the sense that he's up to something. "There ya go. Tacos." he says as he deposits the tray on the table. No, not pizza, tacos. Easy mistake though.

"Taco bell. You fucking swine," hisses Hiro.
Hiro steps through a void into the OOC Nexus.
Hiro has left.

Compton shrugs and retorts a 'Yeah, whatever Piggy.' and grabs up Penny's bags and makes tracks before the Taco's owners get wise to their food whereabouts. He heads towards a La Senza boutique. May contain Penny, but if not - oh well.

Solo

(Cash starts in his effort to infiltrate the local drug competition.)

Another foggy and shitty day here in lovely Erin's Vale. A blanket of obfuscation for the seedier elements of the world to hide under. If it was ever sunny, the dealers and pimps might scatter like roaches when the lights go on. But, the lights are off. And the roaches are deeply entrenched in their hidey holes and comfortable corners of opportunity.

Enter Cash. White, disheveled, and out of place in this neighborhood. 'S a miracle he's made it this far, really. Brothers watch the semi retired video editor shamble through the concrete jungle, probably another junkie looking for the next high. His sneakers carry him towards a few gangstas patrolling the front of a liquor store. Looking for marks, johns, or victims. Cash could be any of the above. Whiskey aura just detectible, he approaches said gangsta.

"Hey, man."

Amidst the fog and human detritus that lie across broken concrete and beneath black shadows of ancient sins, the white man draws interest and hunger. Yet, there is no action taken. Those hungry eyes merely widen as the man walks without seeming care or knowledge of the dangers held within this dying land. They withdraw to hidden alleys and soft curses as the fool walks towards the lords of this realm, daring to tread where even seraphim fear to look.

The words uttered receive a look of surprise, wide eyes and dropped jaws, from those men to whom the foolish white boy speaks. There is a pause as the comical expressions refuse to leave their features before a bout of laughter wracks the group. The laughter dies soon enough as one of the crew takes a swaggering step closer to this fool as a hand slides beneath loose clothes to grasp the unseen.

"What up, holmes? Bit far from home?"

"Yeah. Totally." The slurred response of the inebriated. The picture gets clearer; this must be a bum who's lost his place in the soup line. Homeboy can smell alcohol leaking from Cash's pours. He sweats the stuff. There's even a personalized bottle tucked under layers of denim which looks just as worn as the man himself.

"Ya know, I don' even know where I am, ta tell the truth, man. Like, where cin cracker like myself score 'round here." The jean scarecrow looks about, ensuring the relative safety of their interaction. It's not safe, for him. But at least there's no pigs patrolling. That could be a good thing, or a very very bad thing. Ether way, he continues to play the part of the searching white junkie.

"Ya wanna' score?" The chorus of jeering laughter rises from behind the delegated representative of the lounging gang at the question asked. The laughter is acknowledged with a quick smile and look over shoulder. Then, with that smile firmly in place, another step is taken as the young man reaches out to lay his other hand reassuringly upon the junkie's shoulder. "Right place, wrong time, amigo."

There's a quick look about the street before attention settles once more upon the drunk with a smile grown wider by several degrees as an additional question is broached. "Got some money, amigo? 'cause if ya do, we might have the hook-up. Just gotta have the cash is all." There's another glance back towards the lounging men behind as another chorus of coarse laughter rises.

"Mmmm. Yeah. Dinero. Well... here's the thing..." Cash reaches into the greasy depths of his jacket pocket, withdrawing a handful of Pobble's primo cooked surprise crack rocks. It's held in his weathered and callused palm, jiggled within as his heavy eyelids are propped at half mass.

"I got these rocks here. 'N I don' really dig the stuff, ta tell ya the truth. I want some weed, but 'm willin' ta fork over like... two sixty bags of this shit for a good eighth of green. Or a lil' tar... Here..." Cash palms the off-white rocks over in a conspiratorial fashion. "Check that.. see if ya like it. If you gotta a rig, I'll smoke with ya. Ya know, jus' so you feel alright 'bout me, man."

Standard police narcotic procedure forbids partaking in controlled substances; this is an offer to show the homeboy he's not a cop. Might be a victim, but he's not a cop.

The laughter dies suddenly at the mention of a lack of green. Narrowed eyes and absent smiles greet the prouncement. Yet, the dark expressions lighten once more as huge grins spread across coarse features. The young gansta who stands before the would-be junkie blinks and then drops his hand from the junkie's shoulder to the white rocks glittering upon the proffered palm. One rock is deftly plucked from the offering and lifted to eye level. A moment's inspection returns a slight shrug as askance is looked at the crew steps behind.

"Try it!" The words are harsh as greedy eyes widen and their utterance prompts the gansta to pocket the rock before the hand rests upon the shoulder of the junkie once more. Pressure is delivered firmly as he takes a step towards a nearby alley. "Come on, amigo. There's a pipe back there. We can smoke a few and talk."

He'll find a willing subject, and Cash will accompany the gangster without abandon. A funeral march of sorts. Dead man walking. But this is Cash's game. And if there's a coffin in that alley, it doesn't belong to the wandering Jew.

"Far out." Words escapes Cash's chapped lips, and two fingers reach up behind his left ear. They're placed in a precise spot, a practiced movement he's intimate with. It's stimulates the Ki source lying dormant beneath tendons and muscle. Pressure's applied, and he adds a swig of whiskey from the bottle hiding under his denim flap. Lips smack at the sensation, and he wipes a small river of alcohol that threatens to run down his chin.

The pressure point spreads throughout his body warmly. Coupled with the rush of fire water, and an unseen hand gesture, his organs and vital points align themselves in a configuration least likely to suffer injury from a surprise attack. He prepares his mind and body for a deal gone wrong, though there are no signs of such an event.... yet.

WEATHER REPORT: The snow changes to a cold rain.
The guiding hand draws the junkie towards the alleyway as another look is shot towards the now-snickering crowd. That hand, the one kept beneath clothes slips free finally with its contents hidden from the junkie by the gansta's body. The snickering grows louder as the young gansta starts talking with a jovial air, "Very, amigo. You gringos are nuts. Ya got rocks to match the huevos swinging between yo legs. Ya got style. Shame man." The final word ends with the hand slipping from shoulder to center of the junkie's back.

There's a sharp pressure and the junkie receives a sharp shove as the gansta swings his other hand up in front of his body. The hand's contents revealed now, black steel glinting with dangerous promise. The gansta laughs and spits out, "Real shame. Bueno dias, senor."

Not that this wasn't to be expected, but perhaps Cash had thought this part would come latter on in the game. Bearing gifts of crack cocaine doesn't usually get one shot, but this is the path this unlucky gangsta has chosen.

At the edge of the cliff, Cash offers one last life line for this homey to grab, before the jagged rocks below consume him utterly. "Hey... man. You go mugging yer customers, 's bad for business ain't it? I mean.. check that stuff. It's primo. I could be a cash cow fer you." The remains of the rocks are held out for the plucking, palm open and inviting. His other hand, meanwhile, has fingered out a small red chili pepper which is placed between his teeth. The 'hotter than shit' variety teeters in his choppers.

"Shut up, fucker. Only really stupid pieces of shit just up and offer prime shit like that!" The words are uttered with the sharp taint of rage that is followed by a quick step that draws the gansta even closer to the junkie. The gun is lifted in a sharp gesture as the rant is continued, "Any last words, bitch? Like an offer to suck my dick, you fucking homo?"

The rage only grows as another step is taken and brows draw together. Lips pull back from teeth far from the color of white in a bitter snarl. "Get on your knees, fucker." The hand is lifted slightly to direct the barrel towards the ground as the phrase is repeated with a harsh jabbing motion, "On your knees!"

The snap of the chili pepper's skin starts what appears a wildly stupid move to the untrained eye. Small white boy junkie versus gun wielding gangster on his turf. But this is beyond the eyes of his croonies, and this is no ordinary shmuck. The chili is crunched between his teeth, spilling its acidic contents into Cash's mouth. The sensation fuels a strike, now that the gangster has made the unfortunate mistake of pointing the tip of his barrel at the ground. He couldn't ask for a better opportunity to end this, real quick-like. And so what appears to be a drunken stumble forward ends in the deft protrusion of a two fingered strike to the underbelly of the would-be assailant's chin.

The strike aided by the configuration of his fingers, and the tingling of chili spreading over his tongue.

There's a harsh exhalation of breath between clenched teeth at the stumbling junkie's approach and the barrel of the gun starts to rise. Yet, the motion is far too late as the junkie moves past the barrel's end and places him within inches of the gansta. There's a sharp pain that prompts eyes to widen in shock to accompany the wet tearing sound of flesh and tissue giving way before force. The junkie's fingers slip past the boundary of skin in a spray of blood.

Muscles slacken as lips part, a crimson tinged bubble growing before his lips. Fingers slide from the striated grip of the gun with a clatter of steel and broken thought.

Lazy eyes drop to the crumpled mass below, Cash shakes his head at the waist and wipes his fingers on jeans stained by thousands of miles of concrete.

"Fuckin' mushugina."

At that, he bends at the knees to place the gun in his waistline, not that he'd know much what to do with the thing. At least his face is intact, it'll make it that much easier to copy. Wallet's next. He'll know the name; he'll know the 'alleged' address. If this gangster's not connected, he'll know someone that is. And the game will continue. The puffy Phila jacket looks retarded on Cash, and it's a tad too big. But when he leaves the alley, it'll fit just right. Away from prying eyes, fingers still ripe with blood are placed on ether side of Cash's Jewish face. This will be vulgar, but he's got time to kill. A little paradox sandwich, he'll enough it with a pickle.

The shifting of muscle and pigment is inaudible as he depresses portions of his skull that cause his skin to convulse. It feels right strange, but he's done it before. Cash, looking down at the dead dregs of humanity, slowly takes on the appearance of the failed criminal. Skin darkens, bones adjust. Within seconds, he's the shvatsa.

Attaining his new height, just a few inches taller, he tests his shoulders and rolls them. Knuckles crack as Cash gets used to this new form. For effect, he takes out the clumsy weapon on his waistline and points it down at the dead man's face.

*BAM*

That should alert his homies that the task is done, and when gangster runs out the alley clutching rocks and tucking away a piece, it's a good indication the white junkie will never be coming out of that alley again. The shot was placed close enough to the gangsta's face that he should be unrecognizable to forensics.

The first stage is done. Identity stolen, Gangsta Cash appears with a smile to his 'new' homeboys and takes off racing. "Fuckin' score, yo." He'll be back, to find the big fish at the end of this line.

Time Crisis 3

Penny stumbles into the arcade over cans of red bull. They put the garbage cans by the door in places like this; garbage cans, zines, local pennysavers and japanese candies. It doesn't fly off the shelves, the candy, but it's colorful and definitely something to look at. It attracts attention, sterile and neat; super-plastic. So Penny pauses, eyeing the lime green wrappers and the bright red kanji. She kicks another crushed can of red bull from underfoot and throws down some change on the only counter in the place, picks up something brown. Could be chocolate, offers some to Daisy. "So when is it?"

Kaching! Ching-ching-ching-ching-ching! Flashing lights and noisy
coin-drops are the hallmark of a winner in this place, and lo it seems
Mark has struck gold. Or silver, at least, earning himself a payout
comprising mostly of dimes and quarters. It's probably only a couple bucks worth. Better than losing it /all/ straight away, right? He seems
embaressed by the noise and fuss his particular machine makes, pulling
away from it as soon as he's done scooping up his ill-gotten loot. How is that people like Hiro always seem to be loitering in arcades? Strung out, collar up, shoulders forward, head down. He's gnawing on a thumbnail, feet fixed on the ground a foot (maybe two - well inside her personal bubble) from Daisy, lackluster eyes fixed on the lurid luminescence of a flickering street-fighting game.

Daisy Inscrutable. Veteran job-hunter.

Having been fired from a job as a nurse's assistant, a supervisory position at McDonalds, a non-supervisory position at Hardees, a telemarketing job in Newark, as well as having been kicked out of half a dozen homeless shelters, Daisy has considerable experience at applying for things, from which she's clearly learned nothing at all.

Holding a dirt-smudged set of application papers and a dot-matrix resume, she's standing by the counter, attempting to apply. The oily teen behind the counter with the 2nd Edition Dungeon Masters' Guide doesn't seem to be interested in taking the application.
Daisy, over her shoulder, shouts, "It's, like, on the cusp. Which means it should work like it worked before. You got a magick marker?"
Somehow, you can hear the 'k'.

Daisy senses "Penny sticks the candy in her back pocket, sweeps the change back off the counter. "Course I do." Easy, fast. But not even the noise gets 'The Manager's attention. "Seriously - early or late century 'cause I think she really fucked with us this time. When was the last time you saw actual MONEY coming out of a game? Nine-teen-eighty, that's when." She looks left then right, nudges Hiro "Even if he can't hear us or see us," indicating the kid behind the counter "..maybe that kid can," indicating Mark.

Penny brings Daisy with her, half hooked by the elbow.

"Hey," they all kind of hover."

He can't hear nuffin'. Mark is far too busy trying to look innocuous to be
listening to talk about magick markers and the 80s, stuffing change into
his pocket and trying to find a safer game that doesn't spit coins at him. That's just embaressing. He settles on Time Crisis 3, picking up one of the two pistols out of habit and racking up a line of quarters to keep him 'alive'.

Hiro is picking his teeth with the edge of a prepaid calling card. There's no other explanation or description that befits the behavior -- the corner of the cheap plastic rectangle wedged between two of his front teeth. He's still staring at that arcade game - Tekken, or Mortal Kombat 387, or whatever the fuck it is. "Erin's Vale," he mumbles, quietly. "Crash and I were out last night." He inspects the calling card with the wordless intensity of a artist examining his work. Some kind of yellow caked material - he hasn't flossed recently. "No subway system. We lost six."
Having not quite noticed Hiro out of the corner of her eye -- but
expecting him to be in a place like this -- Daisy turns back toward Mark.

"Hi," she says, hand shooting out. "'m Daisy Inscrutable. You got, like, a pen or something, 'cause I gotta sign something real quicklike."
Already, Penny's tagging the side of the machine Mark's playing on. Whatever she's writing, clearly she's involved otherwise Daisy would've asked to borrow her marker, right?

Right?

Squeak-squeak. Idgy-idgy-squeak. Circle circle. Dot dot. "I'm gonna try
something. Remember that thing with the stop-signs? Daze?" Penny peeks around the corner of the side of the machine "Daze, if I'm not back in an hour, get Jesse."

It's a pretty drastic thing to say, if you know Jesse. Even if you don't,
it's still a pretty drastic thing to say. She waits for a nod, any kind of
affirmation.
He barely glances aside, busy picking off the "bad guys" who plague Time Crisis 3. Mark fumbles a hand into his duster coat pockets, fishing out a bright green felt-tipped pen and offering sidelong to Daisy. "Nice t'meet you," he murmurs halfheartedly, still working on killing off the enemy. Blammo, and all that.

Daisy sidles around to obstruct the geek's view of Penny. The latter being considerably taller than the former, this requires advanced sidling
technique. Still, she manages to block out most of Penny's scribble-hand.

"Right. Call Jesse. Will do. He still got that tarot number?", she asks.

"Yeah." (says Penny)

And then she runs out.

Welcome to... where are we again?

The dirty air and stench particular to bad hoods are the same all around the world. Certain cities spice their poverty with a missmash of borrowed or imported culture. Not this one. It's purely American trash-lash. So it's not suprising to find two genuine pieces of American trash patroling the lands of their ilk. Here come Cash and Hiro. Cash a few paces behind, wrinkleing his nose at the dwindling contents of his bottle in a bag.

"Fuck man. 'm low... You got... you a couple bucks?" Cash asks the pig boy and stumbles to catch up.

Dale, on the other hand, walks along at a good clip, eyeing the streetsigns carefully at every intersection. She looks about as out of place here as does the Audi -- no doubt stolen -- parked in front of the army surplus store halfway up the block.

Hiro runs a grimy knuckle across his soup strainer, giving a single, sharp sniff. It is not, per se, that the half-asian mutt -- nothing is more ameritrash than racial mish-mashes such as he -- is dirty. It is merely his hands. Dirty, grimy... these words are mere abstractions. His hands are the pinnacle of filth. He looks like he's been giving prostate exams to the local homeless population. "...it's just, that. It's not enough. You know?" He looks back, eyes gleaming. "We don't have enough energy, enough vis, enough spunk. Things need to be done. You know? We're walking all over the place, and we're just not GETTING anywhere. Do you understand me? Do you dig?" He gets that out fast. Not fast enough, perhaps.

"I dig… I dig that I still dunno where the fuck I am. Thas' what I dig, man.... 'n, 'm a half quart empty." Leaning back in his swaggering gate, he downs the last of the harsh liquid. Crash. Glass shatters as Cash tosses the bottle into the open maw of a metal trash bin when he passes the mouth of an alley. "I was tellin' P, we outta get some peanuts 'r airplane food for her, ya know. Make these random stops more bearable. Every time she drops us off... I'm jus'.. I really want fried chicken." Eyes that have seldom seen sobriety, drift in Dale's direction. "Mebbe she knows..."

"Hey. Ya. You. Cin I ask ya... what city's this?" Cash asks of the flannel girl upon their approach.

On a slightly closer inspection, the yuppie-ish chick doesn't look quite up to snuff for casual day at the office, either. The edges of her boots are caked with cracking mud, her pockets are bulging with who-knows-what, and a few winglike maple seeds are caught up in her hair. She starts, abruptly, when addressed, and one hand goes to the hair over her right ear, dislodging a couple of the seeds. "Uhm. Erin's Vale, it's called, unless they have different names for the 'burbs in this town." She lets out a weak chuckle, the sort which typically displays nervousness rather than humour. "I'm kinda not from around here." She's probably not lying, given that her accent's so acrid as to make vinegar jealous.
Hiro shifts his attention towards Dale. Squinting, suspicious eyes. Black coal piggy eyes. Fingertips curl, rubbing together at his sides. And that -- not Dale's response -- is what solicits his -- "Dear venerable judge whopner. Someone has covered my hands in filth," this screamed in a 'sweet holy jesus look at the bats' kinda tone. "Observe my digits. This is disgusting. Who the fuck in responsible for this shit?"

Piggy eyes dart. Dale. Cash. Back

The screams startles Cash's lazy eyes and he woozily turns back to lock his focus on the screaming Asian. His tone is even and pleading. "Holy mackerel.... man. Ya know. No one's responsible for like... yer own dirt karma.... man. Thas'... thas' all you. Thas the dirt /within/ you." To emphasize it's location, Cash pokes a dirty finger of his own back at the open swine mits. With a 'so there' type swipe, the denim wonder points and shuffles back.

Dale flinches as Hiro begins screaming, as if the grating volley of sound is something she can physically duck away from. She edges away up the street, keeping to the edge of the sidewalk that's closest to the buildings, the wary hint of a crouch insinuated into her posture. Still, she doesn't sneer or stalk away in your typical not-in-my-backyard huff; something keeps her hanging back a bit, just keeping an eye out, watching.

"You're a lying fucking swine," hisses Hiro. Dale's departure doesn't cause him to so much as bat an eye. The screaming has stopped, at least -- leaving him with a quiet, manic intensity. Like he's breathing through his eyes. "Someone has done this," he replies, quietly. "And when I find out who, I'm going to eat their fucking liver." Pause. "Not that I'd really. Uh. Eat someone's liver. Just like joshin you around, man. You need money?" His voice takes a dangerous turn for the high-decibel again. "TAKE the fucking money." And just like that, a crumpled wad dredged up from a pocket, all pennies and dimes and dollar bills. Hurled at the sidewalk.

"Easy... EASY... man. Thas' almost six dollars." Concern follows the falling bills that threaten to run off on their own. Cash does need the money, and he stoops low to get his prize. So low. But by fuck, he's got it. And he's smiling. Fun with booze, more of it.

"See? Now we cin.. ya know. Go drink. And you cin stop with yer... sss'''bullshit." Cash walks past the raging mess that's Hiro, grinning a bit and running his fingers over the discarded green. "Erin's Vale. Wha' kinda shit is this place..."

Sure, it's probably a rhetorical question, but Dale volunteers an answer anyway. "Just your average small town going corporate." Whatever else she was about to say gets cut off in a garbled noise that might very well be "Fuck!" as fat raindrops splatter onto the sidewalk, the cars, and her. She fumbles with the zipper of her rain jacket and yanks the hood over her head, shadowing the top third of her face.

Hiro holds his hands out, so the drizzling rain might cleanse the filth from them. He power-walks behind Cash: a slum Jesus in nutjob clothes, offering his revolting boon to the heavens. "Who the fuck is Erin Vale?" he demands of the dime-bag cowboy, as whatever is coating his hands begins to liquify in the rain. This does not make the spectacle more attractive; his fingertips now drift with a material the consistency and colour of something you find under your elderly aunt's sink.

"Aeahhhgg." If you listen closely, that's the sound of god shitting on a homeless man's parade. The heavens open to drop a deuce on Cash's head, in acid rain form. "I dunno man. Mebbe... ya know, she was like an explorer. Who... explored... this place." The side swaggering is curtailed to the side of the buildings to offer some shelter from the downpour.

"Is there a... a liquor store or.. bar 'round here?" It's often really hard to escape from drunk ramblings in the middle of the day, somehow the offending drunkard always seems to corner you for a few questions past smelly. Yes, Dale's downwind. She can smell the old whiskey slightly muddied by the weather clinging to Cash.

Now that beak Dale calls a nose does wrinkle up, in response to both the piss-reek of whiskey coming off Cash and the stench, whether real or imagined, of whatever foulness is rinsing off Hiro's hands and re-exposing itself to the world. Shifting from one foot to another as the mud on her boots re-liquefies, she peers out from under the awning of her hood, casting about for something that might fit the bill. "Got me," she answers at last, then cinches the hood tighter, presenting an effect oddly reminiscent of a bright green snowman.

Hiro flicks his hands at the ground, limply, dislodging several small chunks of particulate matter. He looks off to the side, squinting through the fractal distortion of raindrops spattering his spectacles. "Back this way, wandering jew." The power-walk diverts. Reorients. A goal is now in sight, infusing Hiro with purpose and clarity of direction.

"Later, sheyner ponim..." Cash's off balance smile slurs that out at Dale as she tightens up her face hole. His course wanders, indeed, wherever the tides take him. Today, they lead through drizzling streets towards an unknown destination. Backing Hiro, the denim kid follows the loud pig towards Nirvana.

And we're back.. (to the future?)

You turn up the side street, as the businesses gather together; just past a dry cleaning store and just before a four-story apartment building, the courtyard opens up and you step in.

Tourist District - Courtyard of Shrines

This small courtyard is perhaps twenty feet by thirty feet, open to the street on one side and blocked by buildings on the other three. A dry cleaner is on the first floor of one building, but its upper stories and the other two buildings appear to be residential. The one that forms the back of the courtyard even has small balconies on the upper two stories, and first-floor windows peering right into the courtyard. Near the street are two stone benches, freestanding, and a discreet stone-exterior trash can.
The courtyard itself is mostly paved in cobblestone-style, the stones a diverse lot of shapes, but set well and pleasing enough to look at. Between the paths and the wide central areas are a few flower beds with flowers or even small bushes, and set against the walls along the courtyard are a variety of shrines, all constructed to survive the weather since they will be exposed to it. Here is a stone Buddha statue, and there a figure of Kwan Yin; each shrine occupies a small area, leaving space for the diversity of its neighbors, though they are spaced so that it is possible to face any one without facing its neighbors, at least if you are close.

Contents:
Cash
Rai
Obvious exits:
Out

Rai sits cross-legged in front of a statue of the Indian God Hanuman, and nearby Cash leans against a statue of Buddha. The boy gives the older man a disappointed look, though gets distracted by the sparklers in the statue's stomach going out. "Perhaps placing them in the rain was not wise," he opines quietly.

"Well... shit. Yeah, thanks for that. Nobody likes.. a smart asss... fuckin'... smart ass." Take that Asian youth, Cash stands open arrived before the fat man's statue looking into the rain with scrunched features.

To his left, the sogging remains of what once was an offering straight from T.J. "Nobody makes sparklers like Mexicans. They use dog shit ya know."

Under the hood of a large, dark golf umbrella are a pair of long, skinny legs swishing open the sash of a wrapped raincoat. Moving fast through the courtyard, she's sure-footed - clearly a she - the umbrella hefted by the wind. This way. That way. Can see her face. She touches the bronze of a statue, an absent gesture of balance coming up slow behind Cash. He'll notice the shade and she'll say "De nada" quietly then if it's possible to take that down a notch "Supposed to make ourselves scarce til Piggy gets the gr-" Penny looks at the boy "dogs settled in."

Rai blinks slowly at Cash, and doesn't look like he's quite sure how to respond to that. An uncertain, "Oh," is the eventual reply. "Does that burn well?" He looks about to add something else, but promptly goes quiet as Penny comes into his field of vision, looking at her curiously.

This young Chinese boy stands at four foot two, a little under average for his age, and whipcord thin. A strong breeze probably wouldn't blow him over though, there's sinewy muscle there, but it's a highly athletic figure with no excess muscle or fat on him at all. Even as the slimmer average builds of Asians tend to be, this boy is exceptionally lean, lending him an almost starved look. His features are typical of his race, hair so dark a brown it may as well be called black and slanted brown eyes in a flat face. Though not much of a looker, he really does exude a hefty amount of 'cute' in that way kids often do, despite - or perhaps because of - his usually quiet, withdrawn manner.

His clothing shows that he likely comes from a poor household. Baggy, worn black cargo pants that look like they belong on a kid a year or two older than him, dirty old black sneakers and a dark gray zip-up hoodie that's also starting to look worn. He's usually got that layer of general dirt and grime on him that children accumulate, as well as frequently sporting the various bumps, bruises and scrapes of an active kid. When he talks, though his pronunciation is clear, he has a heavy Hong Kong accent that marks him as foreign-born.

"Where are we... again?" The question for miss come lately. Cash shakes his head, nose squinting to match his eyes. "I dunno where the hell we got off." He wields no protection from the rains, his hair smelling like a wet sofa as it soaks in. The answer's not waited upon; Cash gestures back towards Rai with his nightly liquor thermos. "Thasss... Wha' was yer name again? Said it's bedder I dunno."
Penny tilts the umbrella into the rain, the noise and bounce echoing in a way that makes Cash a little bit hard to hear. Or did she do that on purpose? She spins it again, repositioning herself to Cash's right, "You know," a look on her face - ponderous "I have no idea. Eva just gets these," picking fallen leaves off her coat, irritated - taking the weather personally "ideas. She get's these great big ideas and runs with them and never tells us anything. She's probably still pissed off at us. Did you see any signs?"

Rai offers Cash a small, almost patronizing smile at the question, but apparently takes Penny's replying to the man as an excuse not to actually respond himself. He reaches up long enough to slick his wet hair back out of his face, but otherwise continues to watch the two of you quietly and as unobtrusively as one can when sitting, well, right there.

"Well, wha' whas' the... thee, uhhh." Cash's thoughts get lost in the rain for some time, though he's sure to cover the neck of his bottle to guard against contaminant. "Fuggit." He waves it off and lifts his haggard form the wet fat man. "I dunno. I don' care. But... I kinda want some chicken. This rain sucks azz...anywayzz." Back into the pouring weather, he peers up a single eye.

The road weary marks of foot traffic have left their stains on this man. An aura of abandonment radiates in a ten foot circle around Cash. It is perhaps the strongest sensational quality about him. His unkempt hair and attire enforce this visage. The man himself stands no more than five foot seven, and that's generous. But a wide little bugger he proves to be. Shoulders set squarely apart from one another. And arms decently adorned with a squat brutish quality. Though his modest beer gut says this isn't a formed build. It's probably genetic. Cash's eyes are usually obscured by wavy dark locks; he's been growing that mop for at least a year or so. In no particular style, really. One day he just stopped going to Super Cuts and it grew with an alien will all its own. Muddy brown eyes peek out occasionally from below the curtain of hair that falls barely below them. This man's a Caucasian, that's obvious. Probably in his late twenties. He's got a large nose to, most probably Jewish or Italian in origin. There's bowed lips below that and a cleft chin. Cash is sporting a good three or four days worth of facial hair, with badly groomed 'burns reaching down ether side of his jaw line sharply.

His clothes are a tad low end. It's typically referred to as a 'Puerto-Rican' suit. Really though, it's just a lot of denim. Faded blue jeans frayed at the cuffs, and a spiked rocker belt with a metal buckle. It's inscribed with flowing letters that read 'Grandpa'. He walks on Chuck Tailors, a pair that've seen better days. They were probably 'white' at some point. Though now they're more of a dingy off-white, showing off black socks through the holes in their heels. To complete the suit he wears a denim jacket. Beneath it, there's a white T-shirt with a picture of Alice Cooper's face. A small golden Star of David about in his neck dangles from a modestly thin necklace. The last notable detail pertaining to Cash, a smell associated with whiskey if you happen to be downwind.

Penny mutters to Cash, "... so... saw... place?... artery-hardening slop... in... then as an aside, lower... we in Michigan?... I... I knew.." she links arms with Cash - her's across his back and vice versa - "..used to know... guy... Nods.... a... you... there's... seven... jails... like... go... Says something,... it." Penny looks over her shoulder at Rai... friend?""
You whisper ""Wait so you saw a chicken place? I seriously doubt it's that artery-hardening slop you found back in Michigan," then as an aside, lower "..are we in Michigan? Fuck I wish I knew.." she links arms with Cash - her's across his back and vice versa - "..used to know this guy Frankee Nods. Heard he did a stretch and a half up around there. Did you know there's eighty seven county jails in Michigan? It's like they expect half the population to go bad. Says something, doesn't it." Penny looks over her shoulder at Rai "Who's yer friend?"" to Cash.

Rai shifts his feet under him, standing up and giving himself a small shake to lose the excess water. Rather ambitious, since more just falls on him again. The two of you are presented with a small bob that's a bit much for a nod, but not quite enough to be a bow, and then he turns and takes off quickly towards the street without another look back.

"Yeah." Cash nods, ducking for a slight reprieve from the rain. "No." Then immediately he denies it. "I dunno who tha' kid is." The bottle that's helping him make a mess of himself, is nudged into Penny's chest for her benefit. She could use some dirt. "Weird though. Lil'... weird lil' freaky monkey boy." The pitch of his voice is raised so he may shout a departing word over the downfall. "Later... man...."

Cash waves.

Penny finally catches on, trades Cash the umbrella for the bottle "Fuck me, what day is it? Tuesday already?" Penny swigs and immediately gets confused "When is it? I need a watch or something. Something Eva won't like enough to steal. I always thought those cushions had no seams, but there's a lot of loose change," sloshing through puddles, she waves to Rai too.

"A lot of loose change."

There's no response from Rai, he doesn't even look back, and is soon out of view as he leaves the courtyard and hangs a sharp left.
Rai leaves the courtyard, heading back down the street and out of sight.
Rai has left.

"Drink tha' 'n less get outta here. I don't wanna get all dunked by Bhudda. I'm all... farblondzhet." The exchange is forced again, Cash takes the whiskey bottle back for a damp jacket and starts down the path.

Each collar propped like the Fonz, he'll cool it all the way down to the little people. "I cou' /really/ use some chicken though. We gotta get some kinda airline food up in her or somethin'. Maybe... a... a lil' thing a' peanuts. Salted, ya know."

"Salt peanuts? With Eva?" Penny keeps walking, but unevenly - as strangely poised as her words "Not unless you get fat, turn black and start playing the trumpet." She swipes at the corner of her mouth, phantom alcohol and the damp making her fingers twitch.

That's it for a while from her. She's entering her s.o.p. for new places - easy to catch once you know what to look for - a long walk, loaded to the gills, for as far as she can go until the roads divide the landscape into well-groomed and doomed.

"Find me somewhere quiet - I need to," trails off.

The Invisible College takes a night off.

Overdrives Alley - Main Bar(#6632RlJM)

This is the large, open main room of a rowdy biker bar. Near the entrance is a single bouncer who casually looks everyone over as they enter. On the far side of the room is a long, wooden bar with old, leather-covered bar stools in front of it. Behind the bar is a long mural of a naked woman, sprawled out on her side. The liquor selection here is fairly limited, but there's a wide selection of beers to choose from.
Around the room are wooden tables of varying sizes, surrounded by wooden bar chairs. Along the wall across from the bar are a few booths. In one corner, next to the bar, is a door marked 'Staff Only'. Opposite it, on the other side of the room, is a staircase leading up to a more private room. There are two old, battered pool tables to the right of the front door. They charge a loonie per play and have a limited selection of pool cues, none of which are in good condition. A juke-box sits next to a small dance floor that is rarely ever used for dancing.

Places available
NIGHTZONE

The street out front is visible through the only window in this room.

Contents:
Akiko
Tom
Jesse
Jake
Amano
Owen
Luthor


Luthor finishes his final drink and stands, walking away from the bar.
Luthor stands and leaves Long wooden bar.

Jesse looks back down the bar. "So, is Cade okay?" As though he hadn't just said that thing about the strapon. Back to whatever passes for dignity and composure to him. He yawns, rubs his face, grins faintly as the pills find their way through the brain/blood barrier. "Who was the guy?"

Owen merely sighs at the turmoil, apparently unmoved by the incident at the door. Looking both sullen and bored, he summons the barkeep to settle his bill. Apparently calling it a night, the large man rises from the bar...vacating a valuable seat in the over-crowded bar.

Amano's mental wince manifests in a half-swallowed yelp, spinning 'round to confront her. "Hey! That's not fair!" Too little, to late... He backs off a few steps towards the bar.
Akiko Hops back onto a seat and grabs her drink sipping it for a long moment before turning to view the bar scene and look to see if anything changed.

Jake looks at Jesse a bit, "A few cuts, a few bruses... no idea who the guy was. the cops aren't saying anything on the matter. Except he apparently shot his own hand off. People today..."

Akiko Rolls her head in a streching manner looking extremly bored herself now as she looks about crossing her legs and letting the dangling leg bounce in time to music.

Tom continues to lean against the bar, not even looking up for 'shot his own hand off'; being a fair bit of a bore, actually, a really boring fellow. His jaw tenses... loosely untenses. He takes a break from looking thoughtful and intense - no doubt involved in formulating some kind of big creative breakthrough or whatever. But then again, maybe not. His eyes give him away: he can often be found brazenly gazing at Akiko, enjoying the view while he has it. In, you know, a purely... chaste. Anthropological-slash-artistic way. You know, like that. (pfft.)

Amano is all sulky and exausted after that random little oredeal, draping his arms upon the bar, laying his head there, and wondering over the freaks who rest nearby. He actually seems rather interested in the goings on, which is rather special of him.
Rising from the bar, Owen makes his way through the rough crowd. Still, his size and foul demeanor grants him some personal space as he heads for the door. Brushing past the bouncer, he bids the man "Good evening" and disappears into the moon-lit night beyond.
Penny drinks long, listening to the conversation but really more intent on those biker chicks. She's busy. Busy keeping them at arm's length with the occassional dirty look and brow lift. As if to tell them it's better on that side of the bar. That's not what she's here for, a bar fight. Penny doesn't have time for anything as low as fisticuffs with people; least of all people with helmet hair (she must only take on the pretty people, she looks like the kind of girl that may have been paid to mudwrestle.) No, a fight isn't her scene. No, the height of drama was between her and a feather and now? "Oi, freebie over here" a hand up wave-wave-waving backwards behind her at the bartender.

"Well, serves him right." Jesse shakes his head, tossing his artfully bobbed hair, and lights a new cigarette. "You think that Daddy Frank cat had anything to do with it?"

Luthor heads out to the street.
Luthor has left.

Jake thinks for a bit then comments, "Who's Daddy Frank?"
Jesse shrugs again, returning to his slow, gloved scratching at the length of his arm. "Dunno. His name came up in conversation a couple times. Thought he was the competition."

Daisy comes in from the street.
Daisy has arrived.
Penny laughs, catching that "What, you're saying there's only room in this town for one kinda cult head shop?" Penny uh uhs like she knows everything and Jesse's just being paranoid. And still she's waiting for this elusive free beer.

Jake thinks for a long time, "I never heard about him... competition you say... there's a posibility."

Akiko Is a bit of a regular here she spots penny having a spot of trouble . She takes a pull of her drink draining it before looking over at tom with a smirk she slowly wets her lips with a pink tounge gives him an air kiss and moves over to where penny is " Hey back off sluts she's my girl got it? " a few of them seem to want to say something but back off from the tiny girl for some reason.

"Well, I mean..." Jesse just being paranoid is a little like the ocean just being wet. "Like, we were talking about him the last time I was in there. And, I mean, it's not his real name, obviously, so he's already got an alias, and plus Cadence said what he wasn't really a Bokor, but Voodoo says he'll work for paper. So he's some vreiboter houngan, and the whole martyr complex thing just seems a little too pat, you know what I mean?"

His attention, then, snaps to Akiko. He looks her down, then up, then down again.

"You. Bubblegum. Fuck thee off t'a nunn'ry. Past your bedtime, sweets."

Amano arches a brow at their weird gossip, watching it all with sideway interest. When the freaky little lady with the unzipped pants saunters into the mix, he gapes openly. Woo. Crazy. He forces his mouth closed in a naughty grin and backs off to get a better, safer, view.

Jake nod and seems to think about what jesse said. Alot.

Tom read your description.

Daisy's all pomp and swagger, striding in long and straight, like a man. Aviator sunglasses are propped up amongst her bangs; a cigarette droops, angled, from the corner of her lips. High-fives are dispensed at random to assorted punks. Not a regular, but recognized.

Tom is leaning against the bar, his back to the room in general. A broad expanse of back exposed to numerous disenfranchised fringe types who no doubt would like to take a swing at any gentleman matching the description of 'The Man' - and Tom rather fits the bill nicely. Brave man. As Akiko, you know, tongue-wets and air-kisses, and et cetera, she has his full and complete attention. She carries it all the way over to Penny, where, in fact, his attention diverts. Because, he notes to himself, drinking the beer, while Penny looks different, much different, she is in fact, still who she is, and there is little denying... you know, who you are, especially when you know it - or seem to know it - as well as Penny. So, there she is, and there's Tom, sort of studying her, recognizing her instantly but still. Drawn to the sight of a familiar face by an the sight of unfamiliar flesh. God, verb as he is, as Buckminster Fuller identifies Him, does do his action in mysterious ways.
Akiko Looks to jesse and flicks a finger at him " Hey I didn't ask you besides I don't see you help her with the riftraft you balless dick " she sighs " Hey girl anybody else gives ya greif just say so I'll nail'em other then that have fun call me if you need help " she then moves back to hop onto her seat.

Penny looks over at Jesse and down at the little asian chick. Literally - downward sloping of the nose, chin and maybe even adjusts her stance because it's one thing to look at him in heels and quite another to look at her - size differences being what they are.

The pitch of her voice changes entirely, turns out a different kind of molasses than the stickysweet lingering at the bottom of those glasses at the end of the night "What he means to say is 'I'm with him'" tipping a nod at Jesse in a stern kind of voice, with a certain kind of educated laughter involved for those in the know "..y'know what I mean? You ah, have a nice night.." And her tongue follows with a kind of clicking, drags on a cigarette and makes some gesture in the air at Daisy-low-on-the-radar.

Jesse is on his feet the moment the word 'balless' clear Akiko's lips. Drawing himself to his full height. Rolling out of his seat and flowing upright to, well, loom. Menace, threat, and the certain presence of jailhouse violence in the angles of his stance as he stares down at Akiko, his head listing slowly first one way and then the other, as though his assessment of her might change, given the rotation of his neck.

"Stand up and say that again."

Akiko Hops down from her seat and looks up at jesse her own blue eye's now ice " Sure " she looks up " I said you didn't seem to be helping her with the other biker girls so I decided to do if for you " she pauses " Or perhaps it was the fact I said balles did i touch a nerve? " .

Amano shrugs up his shoulders, baffled, his fingertips tap-taping on bartop like nervous spiders as he inches away and twist 'round to face them. Hell no, it ain't his place, He winces for the girl's sake, if she doesn't have the sense to do so herself.

Penny hangs back, huffing out another cloud of smoke saying "Jesus he's really gonna blow a hole through somebody f'he don't get laid soon" under her breath. Or maybe to Daisy. Depends on a body's unique perspective. Penny could be talking to herself entirely. So she hangs, kicks a boot onto the bar rung and knocks out another cigarette from a nowhere pocket for the other chick. "Smoke'em if y'got 'em.."

And what she's doing, really, is bracing herself for impact.

Jake just watches for now.

Daisy screws herself down into a seat beside Penny, elbows backed up against the bartop. Lit cigarette transitions from lips to hand and lights the other one, which queues up behind the mostly unsmoked first one.

"He still carryin' around that shiv?", she asks nonchalantly, tapping the aviator glasses down over her eyes. "Fucker don't know that's a parole violation?"

Hiro comes in from the street.
Hiro has arrived.

And so this is it: what the evening has been inexorably gliding towards. From the moment he stepped in, Jesse's had a vague foreknowledge that it would come to this, to his gloved hand flexing and adjusting its grip on the neck of a beer bottle, to his squint as he reassesses the space between himself and his fill-the-blanks-in target. The night's had barfight written on it since the beginning, had had the story of the first punch determined even since before Jesse rolled out of bed. His jaw clenches. He looks at the bottle, looks at Akiko, and frowns for a moment, lost in some private reverie. Then blinks.

"Oi, Piggy. Wotcha. You wanna get yer wick dipped? Gotta bluelight here."
Some people do not belong in biker bars.

Hiro, however, posesses a certain fuckered countenance: a indefinite bearing that indicates that -- even if he doesn't belong here -- he personally feels utterly at home anywhere substances which damage neurons are sold.

As such: Hiro, in technicolor dreamcoat, lounge-slumping against the bar alongside Jesse. He rubs his fingertips against the base of his nose; sniffs once, nostrils flaring, scrub with the back of his hand. "Oi, whatsit Jesse J. What's this then?"
Akiko Blinks " What? do you speak English at all or ya dumb as well as balless ? " she shakes her head looks at the bottle " You need a bottle too ? big man arn't ya taking on a girl half your size and you need a weapon too , my my arn't we a standing example of macho might. " She clicks her tounge stud on her teeth.

Jake finishes off his beer and puts down the empty glass. He rubs his face a bit and humms a little to himself.

"It's like Batman," Daisy explains to either Penny or no one in particular. "He got this idea beforehand that the fight's gonna go like this, that he's gonna kick some ass, and you can almost see the cue cards. Biff bam boom. Maybe he seen it in a dream, that's why he's gotta do this shit."

She drags from one cigarette and then the other and exhales their intermingled smoke.

Jesse blinks again, looking back down to Akiko. "You still here?" He bares his snaggletoothed grin again. "Ain't your momma worried?" Jesse looks past her once more to Hiro and giggles. "Shit, 'rho. You gotta help me, here. I think I'm gonna hit a girl."
Jake waves over to the bartender, "Another beer." And he moves a few seats down out of the way of the impending fight.

At the outbreak of what looks as though it may be violence - well, ok, it's got Tom's bourgeoise values all stirred up, and he's got his middle-class backbone up, which also makes his head dip right down at the suggestion of... a fight? That's what criminals do, isn't it? Well, anyway, it's not what Tom does, and -- more reasonably, with much less cowardice involved, Tom knows enough about crowds to know what fights do to them. It gets them, well, freed up from certain social inhibitions. It's why you so often see armies looting, raping, pillaging. You break one commandment, you might as well go for broke - and when one fight starts, you start to see wild eruptions of others. But Penny, no doubt either his guardian angel or maybe just looks settled - and so Tom doesn't go anywhere. Just yet. Tom finishes his Heineken - by prior arrangement, or happy accident, or perhaps the contrivance of the bartender on his behalf, another is brought to him, and promptly, as in just as he finishes his old one. Oh, kind fate! Happy fortune! Tom sips the new Heineken (perhaps his last) in his civilized fashion, and when he isn't sipping beer, he's got his mouth set into this purposeful, determined line. And, you know, he's sort of occasionally still checking out Akiko's unzipped pants, the tattoo around her tits, the whole thing.
//.etro: Petruchio will be joining your location.

Penny mutters to Daisy, "... no... looking,... does... in... direction. That... gesture... passingly... the... a... comraderie... them.... cigarette... lips,... the... stressing to her... impolite and obvious... you slice... down... smoke,... connection... and... starts to... she... motherfucker..."

When no one's looking, Penny does that sidelong thing in Tom's direction. That incredible and timeless gesture of the demimonde. It involves passingly good lighting, the tip of a bottle in a gesture of comraderie and eyelashes. Great huge sweeps of them. Her cigarette burns between her lips, an extension of the words "We're /here/, Daze" stressing to her but talking to Tom's stare, impolite and obvious "it's a violation any way you slice it." Quick fingers draw down the smoke, ashes, re-establishes connection once again. There and there. Penny starts to nod at Tom as she puts a hand on Daisy's arm "So if he's Batman, who's that cool motherfucker over there."

"Why hit her when you can hit that," Hiro mumbles, coming up with a cheap GPC -- once, twice, thrice through the fingers, turning end over end -- and wedging it into one corner of his mouth. The cigarette vibrates at a low hum; pig-boy slaps at the bar for a book of matches, and brings them up for examination. His head tilts to one side; he stares at the little paper sticks. "She looks like a slip'n slide. You got a light, man?"
Amano licks his lips and pushes away from the bar, weaving backwards among the tables until the back of a chair japs into his spine, and he takes the hint, takes a seat, and minds his business while he... browses.

And on down the line goes the cigarette, Daisy's second cigarette, to Hiro. It slips between the Asian kid's fingers without a word, and she turns back to Penny, chevrons of concern having already formed across her brow.

"And shit," she says, perhaps too loudly. "I ain't seen one of them since we left San Fran. Never shoot an honest cop, though, that's what I say.

Akiko Shrugs " Swing or get out of my face but youw anna fight me show some back bone and fight with your fists not with some weapon " she spits to the side " Use a wepon I got nothing wrong with sending you to the hospital other wise this is a bit fo friendly sport I don't mind educating a Gaijin every once and a while ".

Jesse reels faintly, rolling his neck back as though with the force of Akiko's words. His brow furrows, his lips twitching as they sound Akiko's speech out, repeating it to himself, as his shoulders rise and fall, nodding with the rhythm of the phrases. Then he grins, and shakes his head no.

"Nope. This is the part where you go home. And I get drunk." He giggles again. "I had the wrong movie for a sec there. Are you sure you're not up past your bedtime?"

The borrowed cherry dips, rises in the smoky atmosphere; Hiro cups a hand around the tip of his smoke, puffing to ignite via the coal. Then, the cigarette goes to his lips; travels to the same corner as it's twin, and both tilt upwards as he inhales. "Don't be so grouchy baby," he advises. He doesn't even look over; he's staring silently across the bar; as if he were struck with a vision. "You're clearly too sober f'r this kinda shindig. Clearly in need."
The bouncers slowly come walking over to the altercation in progress.
Akiko Snorts " Just as I though balless and dickless " she shakes her head and turns towards the bar " Go away you obviously don't have what it takes gaijin ." she motions for a drink from the bartender.

You paged Petruchio with 'PHENOMENON: With something as simple as the right look at the right time, Penny can lower her target's confidence completely. It's schoolyard rules. Don't mess with the cool kids. (Mind 2) ACTION: She'll come off the bar about a step and get the look in over Jesse's shoulder, briefly, to unnerve the target. Just to check and see he's got things under control and casually move back toward the bar. THEORY: Acting as backup for people (not like bouncers or security but like solid friends with certain knowledge that doom lives in their fists) it is entirely possible to make them look better/more fearsome than they actually are.'

Petruchio pages: Ok... t#5, roll to me.
//.etro: Penny rolls "arete" privately to Petruchio at diff 5.
For a total of 3 success(es) including 1 ten(s).

Petruchio pages: Is she nervious about you or about Jesse?
You paged Petruchio with 'Jesse. Should he hit her, she'll have a really hard time getting up the nerve to a) get back up and b) hit him (raised diffs by +1 or number of succs? your call totally)'.

"I..." Jesse looks confused. He rubs his face, pinching his nose under his glasses. He takes a deep breath, and tries again. Nothing. He shakes his head. Looks to Hiro for support. I mean, you tell me. Guy standing, bottle in his hand, debating whether or not to break it on the side of some girl's head and she's walking away from him. She's walking away. But she's still talking. Jesse's flummoxed. This isn't the way it works. Something's gone very wrong.

If there is a bottle on the bar in Act One, it must be used on the girl with tape on her nipples by the end of Act Two. This violation of fundamental dramatic rules seems to vex Daisy: you can see the bloodlust seep out of her expression, and her interest return to the bar.

A flick of her fingers summons beer to her side. The bar's bad; the bartender's considerably better.

Igg and Ook, the bouncers, look from one person to the other and say in their best shakespearian terms, "I'd der a problem?"

Jesse is pointing after Akiko and gaping, no comprehensible sound escaping his lips.

Hiro exchanges a wordless shrug with Jesse. "You fucked it up," he offers, mildly. "And it won't work -- that's the wrong kind of liqour, and her hair's the wrong color. Not to mention the bar name isn't even a meaningful anagram. Give it up." Upwards look; ironically or hopefully or seriously or balefully - he flashes a peace sign.
Penny looks both ways across the bar, at the bouncers. They see this sort of thing day in, day out - nothing new to them. It'll probably sort itself out. She kinda smiles at one and looks over Jesse's shoulder at Akiko. It's a look not often seen on her face, one so grim and self-assured. Determined. "Go on, JT" chiming accelerated taunts through the bottle. She doesn't touch him - that would be stupid, clearly - but lets the springs inside him tighten, moves back toward the bar.

Akiko Snorts and and hops off her stool walking for the exit " Fuck this place and this shit, no problem I was talking to nothing. " she complete ignores jesse he's beyond her notice now as she saunters towards the door.

Jake puts down his empty mug and heads out himself.

A chemical tang hangs in the air: one of Hiro's cigarettes is giving off a strange aroma, and he doesn't seem to notice. Both get plucked from his mouth in unison; he leans forward to go into assvision mode as Akiko strides off towards the exit.

Let's be honest: Tom is not at all concerned. This is how things operate in the realm of the rational. One guy pisses off one girl, harsh words are exchanged, someone almost gets hit in the mouth with a bottle, and fuck it, it all resolves itself, you know? No one gets hit in the mouth, no one bleeds out, no one dies. Especially not Tom. So Tom relaxes. Tom drinks his beer. Tom looks like a real load got taken off, like his shoulders are no longer stooped under the burden of extremely imminent violence done to his person. Tom lets his own spring come un-sprung, whatever pressing business he was deep in the contemplation of, completely the furthest thing from his mind, such as it is. He fetches a discreet little black box from the pocket of his coat and flips it open. Lifts out a tiny blue pill and discreetly swallows it with a gulp of beer. Before you can say 'the synergistic effect of alcohol with mind-altering psychotropic narcotics', he's got the pill box safe away in his jacket in the midst of all this chaos, and good for him, by god.

Jake slips through the crowd and heads out.
Jake heads out to the street.
Jake has left.

Amano shrinks down and slinks out of his seat, and since the bouncer's concern has drifted off elsewhere, he hopes his exit will warrent less attention than his enterance.

Amano heads out to the street.
Amano has left.
Sacha comes in from the street.
Sacha has arrived.
Akiko heads out to the street.
Akiko has left.

Jesse slumps back onto his barstool, the narrative thread of his evening lost. He blinks sleepily and bares a wide yawn, propping his head up on one hand. "Huh."

Nonchalantly, Penny observes of the door hitting Akiko's ass on the way out "Well that was ..fun." A puss a sour turn, a drop in the corner of her mouth where there was the curbed mark of a grin just a moment ago. To her collegues she sighs, flicks a butt off to the side and gestures for another "What the fuck are we /doing/ here?"

In the pocket, an open plastic bag. In the open plastic bag, an anonymous powder. Thumb goes in pocket, thumbnail (a rather unorthodox cokenail, but the only one she can't maneuver to bite down effectively) comes out with a loose payload of upper, and goes to Daisy's nose. She inhales sharply.

Entire maneuver takes, what, four seconds? Entire maneuver's hard to detect, but a sudden rush of induced paranoia causes her to turn back around and pay especial attention to the beer sitting in front of her.

"This place's a buzzkill," agrees Hiro, freeing himself from the counter's gravitational pull with a carefully placed elbow. "I'm gonna go watch the golden girls." With that, Hiro begins to totter off towards the door.

Sacha walks in. It's been a loong time since he's been seen around here. Not since almost getting into another fight with some random person over shit and other shit. The tattooed man heads towards the bar nodding to the bartender looking for familiar faces.

Hiro heads out to the street.
Hiro has left.

Yeah. Well. Whatever Tom was here for, well, either he got it (free beer) or it's gone (certain intangible sense of promise - the whole night lie out in front of him, like, to rudely paraphrase, some patient etherized upon a table)... and so, finishing his second beer, feeling the effects of the pill begin to radiate out, feeling a certain clarity of thought, a lack of distortion, an increase in mental fidelity... he's leaving crisp dollar bills on the bar, he's making sure he didn't leave his cell-phone out on the bar, he's performing, yup, all the stuff you generally do before you split.

Penny ohs! like there was something extremely important that was supposed to happen much, much earlier in the evening. "Daze, listen hold up wait, wait" tugging the girl back over to a table near the front. Or whatever. In between biker and bouncer glares, Penny reaches into the deep trench-coat-pocket and pulls out a folded newspaper clipping "We should definitely do this."

The flush that passes over Daisy's cheeks lights her acne scars in sharp relief, even underneath the too-much-makeup. The posture changes too: from shoulders-forward punk swagger to an aw-shucks slouch, eyes averted and expression pointedly unreadable.

"I ain't what you'd call prime material for that," she says, "on account of they'd have to do some pretty serious work on my scars."

From the hand that crosses over to rub at the opposite forearm, it's apparent that it's not just the acne.

And that's that, isn't it? Affairs settled, et cetera, Tom makes for the door. Without objection, it should be noted - the bikers are as gracious letting him out as they were letting him in - that is to say, he has a sore spot on the /other/ side of his ribs, a pleasant little symmetry to contemplate as he eases out into the night and gratefully makes his way home.
Penny snatches the paper back from Daisy, just looks at her and says in the most obvious tone "We totally need the money. And I'm not going by myself. Fuck that, my luck I'd get raped and murdered. And I'm *so* not bringing Piggy. He'd .." well whatever it is she says, it's funny and clever and totally girl-talk-private. "Please come? You don't have to like.. do anything. Picture you're an agent," guiding Daisy out the door on the heels of Tom.

Once that's out of the picture, the swagger comes back, and Daisy's inscrutable expression stabilizes, finally, into a scowl. "Yeah. Picture I'm seventeen feet tall and made of gold, 'cause that's way more believable."

Rose White walks in, smiles, and heads over to the bar.
Rose White sits down at Long wooden bar.

Tom tries not to let the door hit him on the ass, on his way out.
Tom heads out to the street.
Tom has left.
Penny links arms with Daisy because they are going home together. Not "together" but ..together. Charging out the door. So long, farewell, Auf wiedersehn, good night.

"Good. Because it's on my list of things to do before I die."

Meeting people is easy... [wherein Penny meets a cop and hears voices]

You walk north along Parliament to Wellesley.
Downtown - Parliament and Wellesley E(#179RJ)

Sitting on the edge of Cabbagetown, the homes here are nearly as old as those just south of here. However, the residents themselves are a little poorer. The old townhouses crunch together along the street, their dark-brown paint jobs chipping away to reveal the weakening wooden panels beneath. One-way streets become the norm here as well, creating no end of traffic problems. Residents park on the roadside since the homes here rarely have driveways. Small variety stores, grocery stores, hair-care salons and restaurants are all common here, all within easy walking distance of the residents of this area. With clean sidewalks, freshly paved roads and the newly added plants to create a comfortable air.

Contents:
Clairance
Obvious exits:
Corso's Books The Dubliner Pub
//.etro: It is 03:37 am, the dead of night, on Saturday the 18. day of April, 2009.

Clairance is making his routine rounds along the street. The townhouses here need little police attention, of course, but the officer is eager to spot any trouble that may revolve in or around the local pub. Clairance walks with his hands clasped behind his back, his green eyes constantly surveying and scanning the area as he walks. His pace is ginger and not filled with haste, although it could not well be described as 'leisurely' either -- an average pace.

Clairance read your description.

And so little in the way of pedestrian traffic that Penny is as evident, and just about as useless, as tits on a bull in a china shop. She's loud and .. well just loud. Singing at the top of her lungs, her head enlarged by mammoth headphones, the cord dangling and looping from neck to knee. Crossing the street she narrowly avoids getting hit by a crawling cab just outside the Dubliner. The cabbie doesn't get out to check on her - just picks up his fare and moves out, business as usual. Her singing gets a little lower around a smaller crowd of university drunks, mouth moving most likely out of sync with the track. She hun-huns a few words and bursts out again somewhere around the chorus.

The officer of the law, Clairance, doesn't seem amused in the least by this. Checking the time on his watch, he then takes a healthy stride over to where the girl -- not far from his age, anyway -- is walking. Making note of the various University students in the area, he takes the moment to gently tap the girl on the shoulder and motion above his own head for her to remove the headphones. Clearing his throat, he waits for the other to comply. "Ahem." The rookie cop seems a bit nervous as his eyes glance here and there, but this should be something he can handle easily.

There is a rustle, and the sound of footsteps as Micah steps out from the shadows...
Micah has arrived.

Micah steps out from a little gaggle of folks hanging out infront of the Dubliner, he pats one of them on the shoulder and says "Thanks man..." before walking down the street, smiling.

Those other kids clear the area; cops at this hour are all business. Business they don't need, want and fear writing home about. Those kids couldn't make bail if they sold themselves. Penny, however. Let's call her reckless. Drunk and disorderly. Blissfully unaware or maybe she's just numb. Whatever the reason, she doesn't feel Clairance's cattle-prodding finger, goes on bobbing her head, starting intently at the traffic light or cross signals.

Unseen beyond the Shroud by the majority of Quick, Flay stalks along behind Penny. Looking bemused by her antics and sucking the blissful vibes trailing behind her. His face darkens and his lips curl in to a sneer as the Officer approaches.

The police officer taps Penny on the shoulder once more, a bit of a frown forming over his features. He may go as far as to grip her upon the shoulder, but not quite yet -- unless she doesn't respond, of course.

Micah strolls across the street, jaywalking. He dances through the traffic rather gracefully, comming on over to observe the Constable and the Citizin interacting. Micah is a devout Libertarian, and he would hate to see any abuses of power.

Penny jumps and whips her body around, right forearm first. They teach this sort of thing at civic centers. Put out a good strong elbow/arm and it's possible you won't get mugged. Maybe she's that side of drunk, which is why she misses and looks surprised, caught in a stumble. Turning head then shoulders and pivoting fully, Penny's other hand wrenches the headphones off her ears. With eyes half-closed she bellows "HEY why don't you watchwhoyou'rebumpin inna! Goddamn don't be all touchin'an" It's possible to sense the eye's focus through the conduit of the voice as she slows. Slower. Staring at Clairance, she mouths 'oh shit' and backs away a few steps. Lucky for her there's no oncoming traffic.

The police officer offers a bit of a smile, nodding his head at the obviously preoccupied and perhaps otherwise... engaged... woman. "Ahem. Ma'am, I think there's a slight problem here... you see, the hour is rather unfashionable for the loud noise you were creating. So, I'll have to ask you to not be quite so loud in this area... and, are you alright? If you need to get home safely... perhaps due to partying a bit much... we can arrange that for you. Don't want to see anyone getting hurt.." He clears his throat, stepping out of the way of traffic and speaking to the lady in a polite tone.

OOC> Micah says "crap i gotta go...sorry..."
Micah escapes OOC.

Wide-eyed, Penny blusters "It's perfectly appropriate! I'm GOING to a FUNERAL" red in the cheek, red in the eye - it's probably true. Granted being drunk and singing dirges isn't the most obvious way of representing - generally and traditionally it's all black clothes, black armbands, black limos and a cachet of flowers to rival any wedding.

Penny has none of these things. She has a discman, maybe an open container and a head full of steam "I'm Fine, I'm just going" a scowl creeping past her lips and into the curve of her shoulders "going to a funeral okay so just go shove a bum offa bench o ..er..or something.."

The dead have very few liberties, and thus few libritarians. Flay has a chip on his corpus when it comes to people in uniforms, 'The Man' so to speak. Seeing the growing confrontation starting to form between this nights entertainment and the bastion of the status quo he moves between them. Of cource being incoporeal and trapped beyond a veil of disbelife it would not seem to do anyone any good.

"Oh." The officer takes a step back, nodding his head at that for a moment. "I see. Well, do you need a ride or perhaps an escort? And could I still ask you to keep the noise down, mm? I am sorry for your loss, but we still have our laws I am afraid..." He nods his head at that, confident in his approach.

Penny looks up and down the block. There. There's the cruiser. Spotting it's location, Penny makes sure her destination is in the opposite direction. This? is obvious. She was walking right for it about a minute ago while she was busy singing and waking up the neighborhood. Still she carries on at an indecent decible, possibly on her way to eleven "Oh yeah, right! We chat," elongating vowels and biting off the ends of phrase "you put your arm around me, then ease out your cuffs, shove me in the backseat and I WIND UP IN PRISON and MISS the FUNERAL. Yeah right you're sorry, you're sorry.. yeah you're sorry.." hiccupping in the middle, grief interrupted "you're sooo sorry baby.." She covers her mouth and turns, leans on the nearest thing; the hood of an old plymouth and casually vomits into the space between its tires and the curb.

"I don't have any desire to arrest you, honestly. I'm about your age, and I understand how these sorts of things happen... now, where is the funeral? I'd be happy to take you there. Unfortunately, you're not really in a state to go there yourself... you could hurt yourself, or somebody else." He says with an authoritative nod, clasping his hands behind his back and offering a weak smile.

Flay reaches forward and waves a gloved hand over Clairances eyes... all unseen by the living officer and his perspective chargee.

//.etro: Flay rolls "charisma+pandemonium" at diff 7
For a total of 3 success(es) including 2 ten(s).
OOC> Clairance says "Eep. What happens?"
OOC> Flay says "Lemme explain."
OOC> Flay says "You're experiancing a momentary hallucination. Will only last a second, but will seem real. I'll @pemit the exact results."
OOC> Clairance nogs.

Penny retches, dry heaves and shrugs off Clairance's hand. She flinches, presses herself forward to the car and twists away. "Told you to lemme'lone man," spittle dropping off her chin in a long spidery vein. "JESus mary and joseph," stubbing her toe on a garbage can, she doesn't seem to notice "you can't go where I'm goin'and anyway you got no" her tone of voice angrier, swallowing whole truckloads of bile (both real and imagined) "BUSiness at a FUNEral for a body you never met so just fuck.off.and.die."

"Oh, shit!" The rookie cop is immediately on his radio and running in the direction of the shots, quick to pull his own weapon and begin an impromptu investigation.

Watching the pig in uniform scurry off in pursuit of the wyld with a smug grin, Flay wispers across the Shroud to Penny, "Better get going chick, he won't be gone long." and turns and slinks off into the night having taken his fill.