Mosca Syndrome

All the reach in the world doesn't matter if the smaller opponent is skilled at staying inside that reach and fighting from there.

Additionally, where are they fighting? A super tall fighter may find himself at a disadvantage in a bathroom stall or a narrow stairwell or a steam tunnel or a crowded mosh pit or the back seat of a taxi cab, where those gangly limbs are going have to contend with all those physical boundaries.

As others have said, a skilled fighter is going to know how to work to his/her strengths in a given situation against a given opponent. Rather than complicate your game with one-off bonuses and penalties (which will only encourage your players to want to negotiate them on every freaking roll), just consider this to be part of their hard-won fighting skill.

-MS

So it's a Bond story in a cyberpunk setting? Sheesh, the possibilities are endless:

Earlier in the story, 007 was facing the villain (who at that point did not know who he was) in a high-stakes card game. Bond had been making a show of toying with a rather large and gaudy gold cigarette lighter, mentioning that it was his good luck charm. This lighter had, of course, been designed by Q Branch specifically to appeal to this casino-villain's garish tastes, so the villain could not resist attempting to win it from Bond in the card game and demanded it be placed in the pot as the stakes rose. Bond, of course, gave in to the cajoling and then deliberately lost the hand, folding despite the fact that he held the better cards.

Now, late at night while the villain sleeps off a night of gambling, drinking, and diabolical laughter, Bond calls up the control app on his Q Branch-issued smartphone. A door on the bottom of the lighter opens and a tiny ornithopter drone a few centimeters long crawls out onto the villain's nightstand. The drone spreads its wings and buzzes to the control console for the penthouse's stand-alone security network. It jacks into it and a team of specialized hackers back in Old Blighty patch in and quickly suss out the system. They send the cyborgs on a wild goose chase to the other side of the building and then reprogram the keypad on the door so that Bond can slip inside while the cyborgs are thus diverted.

-MS

Hello edgers, long time no see.

Hi, Chalx. This place does seems to be an island lost in time, doesn't it?

-MS

You get out of the market well ahead of the raid, though others are still breaking their booths down and loading up a variety of vans and pick-ups.

You get back to the car, loaded down with the various swag you picked up. Oz wheels the Suzuki into the early morning streets. Traffic's already starting to get miserable as the legitimate side of the city hustles off to work.

OOC:

The free room at the Philpott Hotel is probably the nicest place you have to sleep, though both of you have a few boltholes scattered around, and there's always coffin hotels and other places if you're really feeling paranoid.

Just let me know where you plan to sleep (if you plan to sleep. You're both pretty tired just from the adrenaline-soaked events of the night, but sleep-deprived PCs can be a lot of fun, too), and we'll start CHANNEL 2 EPISODE 2...

...hey, I guess you found your third teammate on your own.

The doll is a blandly attractive, buxom 5'5" brunette in a clingy, trampy black cocktail dress and cheap pumps. In poor light, she would be virtually impossible to distinguish from a live person, especially if seated in a car. It's a little creepy, like carrying a dead body around. I suppose it's up to you guys to name her.

OZ: the .22 is in good working condition, but is somewhat crudely cut down. It's a classic gangbanger rumble gun, the 30-round magazine allowing you to spray lots of little bullets all over the place at a rate approaching full auto.

The Ticklebox, still in its package, is not activated. It has to be squeezed firmly to "arm" itself, but after that there is no way to shut it off short of destroying it. Once it's running, the slightest touch or movement will provoke some kind of reaction, ranging from giggles and chuckles to absolute hysterics. The power source is said to last some five years.

Oz draws out his pay on the way there.

Rozzie's marketplace, named for the guy who keeps it together and (hopefully) off the law's radar, isn't exactly hopping tonight, but it's the only place still moving at this hour. It's also sort of a low-rent place to do business. The problem with these sorts of markets is that you almost never really find exactly what you want.

You have the following options (please specify which, if any, choices you make)--consider these prices to be the result of the streetdeal rolls Porter makes.

1. You can sell the M-16 for $150. You're pretty sure Nazir would do a lot better for you on this. Of course, Nazir is probably asleep right now and waking him up would seriously compromise your negotiating power.

2. The same "gun dealer" has a pretty pitiful selection on hand, which is typical of this place:

A> a sawed-off .22 semiautomatic youth rifle with 500 rounds of ammo in a plain box ($65)

B> a 9mm, 2-shot derringer disguised as a cell phone. No ammo. ($60)

C> The closest thing he has to what you're after, a Western-style single action cowboy revolver in .357 magnum. It comes with a tooled faux leather gunbelt, the cartridge loops stuffed with what appears to be 20 hollowpoint handloads of unknown origin. The wooden handles of the revolver are decorated with a heat-burned image of a rattlesnake. The gun does feel nicely balanced and reasonably well-made, though it's kind of big. ($120)

He does have knives, brass knuckles, spring whips, and other typical street melee weaponry at $10 per item. He does have two Japanese-made monoblade knives, Applegate pattern, that he wants $100 each for.

3. Milner's dope is the subject of some commotion, and after an "expert" verifies which type of euphorigen it is, a bidding war erupts, stealing the limelight even from the cockfight in the corner. The top bidder has $725 if you want it, which is considered serious action in this place. Must be good stuff.

4. The guy offering to buy the dope has a shipment of "GheddoSheeld" Armor Hoodies . A shapeless sort of hooded sweatshirt, SP12 in red, blue, and black with no embellishments--the idea is you go to a T-shirt shop and put your preferred gang emblem, sports team logo, or elaborate spraypaint-style tag on it....He seems to like you guys well enough, and offers them to you at $30 each. The handwarmer pocket on the front has a special inside pocket designed to hold a small handgun.

5. Both of you find what you're looking for as far as liquor and wine goes--this place is always good for cheap booze. What you want will cost you $20 each and is of fine quality, particularly the wine. Someone must have flooded the market recently with good stuff.

6. You get $10 for Milner's flash club gear.

7. There is a huge assortment of other crap to buy if you want. It would take days to sift through it all. Of note:

a> A folding Yamazaki electric motorscooter that fits in a car trunk. Top speed 40mph. $125 in color-shifting paint.

b> Ticklebox, a featureless cube of some fleshy foam that laughs out loud depending on how you rub or squeeze it. An irritating toy that people give to children that they don't have to live with. $20

c> MAX ROBOTO! A Japanese bipedal toy robot (60cm tall) that's illegal in this country thanks to very restrictive AI laws. Very difficult to find. $250...Porter, you might be able to turn a profit on this, and they've got three of 'em.

d> Indestructible Plastic Crucifixes in a number of sizes $2 each

e> Latex sex dolls for the gentleman with no time for dating, or the man who wants to cheat traffic and use the carpool lane. Slightly irregular, all with mechanisms in need of repair. $150 each

f> Lots of cheaply made, gaudy throw rugs. $20 each

g> Cheap imported full-face motorcycle helmets. Negligible ballistic SP, but fine for stopping whacks to the noggin. $45 each in a variety of colors.

h> Pink canvas straitjackets. $30 each.

If either of you want to buy any of this stuff, just say so.

8. It's when you're talking to the only guys here who might be interested in the medical junk that the alarm sounds. What this means is that Rozzie's contact on the police force has found out a police raid is going to happen here this morning, and people need to start packing up their illegal stuff and arranging to get it out of here. The market is consumed with the clamor of people breaking down stands and loading stuff onto trolleys. The medical guys tell you to catch up later--they really want to get out of here--you can't blame them. This close to the water and the raid is likely to involve the Harbor Patrol, who have a serious rep for being blind to bribes. Half the people in here probably have long rap sheets, and warrants for their arrest.

Looks like the market is closing down early. People are irritable and tense, and above all, leaving. It's a good idea.

It's about 6:00AM at this point...

Porter: Same (lack of) effect from the drink.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

OCC:

Okay, this is likely going to be a "fast forward" point. You mugs let me know what it is you're going to be shopping for at the Black Market, what you're trying to sell, and whatever else you may be trying to accomplish until the next evening (say, 6:00 PM or thereabout)....

At which point, Channel Two Episode Two will begin in another thread (this assumes you guys don't end up doing something or something unexpected happens during your shopping trip--I don't want to be accused of being closed-ended. If you fellows want to go hunt for Skyler or King Soloman's Mines or the Ark of the Covenant, it's up to you) I'm trying to streamline the game a little bit. I think I'll try to do away with that second-by-second action setup. Took too long to do anything. I'll keep something like it in mind when I describe events, but won't actually have it in the game. Also trying to provide alternate plot elements for you to branch out into, and will be posting a "PC wanted" ad to see if we can get a third in here.

There are no directions on the can whatsoever. Just a bar code and some numbers in hard-to-read white type. The stuff is kind of thick and vaguely tingly, with a heavy licorice taste, almost like anise. Really, it's a lot like cough syrup. Thank heaven it's only ten ounces or so. Blech...

The coffee helps--you know you'd be tasting that stuff for hours otherwise. You feel no adverse effects aside from the "flavor"...

(Wilphe, I've PM'ed the Oz info I have...hope it has what you need...I just cut-and-pasted out of the .doc I have)

The hotel shower is a nice one. Hot and hard-hitting, like a liquid bed of nails on your skin. The special shampoo works pretty much like any other bathing product might, and you experience no noticeable effects other than a slightly thicker lather than you might expect from any conventional product. You feel pretty darn clean, though, when all is said and done.

The hotel has both self-service and full-service laundry facilities. To be able to add the remainder of the nanite-eating shampoo, you have to use the former, which is located in one of the sub-basements in an area you need your room keycard to access (to keep non-guests from using it). It's fast and cheap, and by 4:00 you and your clothes are pretty much all cleaned up (though Oz' armored vest and coveralls are beyond salvage) but both of you end up spending two bucks to do it. The six-pack of anti-nanite drinks still awaits you ominously on the credenza with the other remaining pharmocopia when you get back.

There aren't many people moving around the halls of the hotel at this hour, save for some cleaning staff and the occasional baggy-eyed, rumpled shirt businessman. None of them pay any attention to you.

PORTER:

The crinkly note reads, in somewhat hasty scrawl:

Rickman pharm #267 (Methodioxidran-23

NEED HELP!

BIG $$$!!! (this part is underlined for emphasis)

MUST TALK W/YOU GUYS ALONE!

BAR @ TOPOGIGIO'S PIZZA.

8PM TONITE.

WATCH BATHROOM HALLWAY.

AWAIT MY SIGNAL.

TELL NOBODY!

Below this is a jumble of horizontal lines where she pretended to be scratching something out before ripping the sheet off and crumpling it.

Topogigio's is a somewhat pricey (fresh ingredients) all-you-can-eat pizza buffet restaurant with a separate sports bar in a part of town called "Embassy Row"...while not really a "row," the neighborhood is home to many consulates and embassies for both foreign nations and corporate sovereigns. It's kind of a nice area (it doesn't have access gates, but is much better-patrolled by the authorities than the older areas you guys usually haunt), and is out on the part of town that's built up on man-made islands extending out into Lake Erie.

"See you around..." Blues says, and Twang opens the door. He waves briefly to the two of you. The other guy, who hasn't spoken, nods. They leave, with Blues up front and Twang bringing up the rear.

It's 2:40 AM. The room is quiet.

OZ:

Your comment on "cutting edge" sparks further elaboration from her. She seems to be quite the chatterbox:

"Well, Fractal F Nanites aren't uncommon or that new--they're used in all kinds of things. Those new buildings, for instance--the ones where they sort of make a big blob and carve out the parts they don't want? You just don't want unchecked live ones inside your body if you can help it. They tend to grab whatever they can find and start building. Next thing you know, you're a hunchback--which is probably what would happen in your case, or your heart gets so powerful it pops your arteries, or your fingernails grow so fast you can see it happen."

"The explosive is unique in that provides a "culture" for them to survive for an abnormally long time. Most people who are into that sort of thing are attracted by how powerful it is, though, not by the bugs in it. However, I have heard stories about assassins loading a bullet full of the stuff. The things people will do to each other..."

When you ask about a phone number:

"Well, I don't have a phone of my own, but my team--"

One of the guys speaks for the first time, interrupting her:

"It would be best to go through Yard Dog."

He's smiling pleasantly, and there seems to be no threat in his relaxed West Texas twang. Blues, still with her back to these guys, hugs the legal pad to her chest and shoots a worried sideways look at nothing in particular. She then nods and smiles again, though her voice is far less assertive than a moment ago.

"Yeah, it would be best to go through Yard Dog..."

"...but maybe we'll see you guys again soon, huh? I mean, try not to get hurt, but you know, I'll see you around..."

Twang, still smiling, puts his hand on the doorknob and unlatches it, a less-than-subtle hint.

"Word is you got blown up," she says to Oz, "but don't worry, it happens to the best of us." She sticks a latex-gloved hand out to shake yours.

She looks at Porter. "Will you help me out by moving that ottoman over here?" She points to the semi-stylish round ottoman in the living area.

One way or another, we can assume the ottoman gets to the middle of the room. This "Blues" walks in a circle around Oz, looking him over. She slips into a clinical "doctor voice" and claps her hands twice.

"Okay, shirt off and have a seat."

She starts with the cuts on your face and the split in your your ear.

"This ear's gotta hurt. Mine sure did. Especially out there in the cold. I'm gonna numb it up and glue it back together. Same with these scratches." She swabs something on that stings at first, but causes a localized numbness. She cleans, glues, and does whatever else medtechies do to close things up safely. She's very gentle and precise, though it takes fifteen minutes.

"You're handsome again already!" she says, "but you'll want to be careful nobody nibbles on that ear for a while. That stuff can be fixed at the mall if something does happen to it. What I'm really concerned about is your back."

What follows is a tedious session of poking and applying pressure and her asking "Does this hurt? How about this? Really? And this?" Eventually, she gets something out of the bag and starts swabbing a cold gel on your back and neck. "Hold still for a minute or two..."

During this pause, Porter's question about upgrades his asked. She lights up for a moment, and looks at one of the muscleboys. Said muscleboy shakes his head almost imperceptibly. She turns back, a little crestfallen. "I can't do it right now, but I hope to be free to do that sort of thing real soon..." The same guy makes another significant frown. Porter, who is less distracted by the treatment, is catching on that the goons seem to be here as much to watch her as they are to watch you.

Eventually, she starts taking samples of the gel with a swab and checking them with what you know from TV shows as a nanite detection device. Her brow furrows in concern.

"Damn. This is an extremely high count of cooked Fractal F nanites. You were right next to an explosion, right? See, there's this new explosive out there--insanely powerful for its size. It uses a fractal nanostructure to acheive near-infinite surface area, so it burns quick. Properly shaped and contained, it makes a huge bang with very little material. The nasty part is that Fractal F nanites, if blasted into your skin or bloodstream, can really mess you up if they survive the blast...DNA recombinations, mutations, bone growths, really hellish stuff. It's considered 'geneological warfare,' though it was never intended to be as such."

The goons take a step back so that they are a little further from Oz.

"Yard Dog knows that a quantity has made it to the streets of this town, but he doesn't know who has it, which worries him. So he was kind of pushy in getting me to look at you. We can't take any chances. Luckily for you, I know how to treat it, so you won't grow a hump or develop cancerous tumors. It's a simple treatment, but by the time you noticed any symptoms, it probably would have been too late."

She gets out a towel and gently wipes off the gel. She puts the towel and the gloves in a plastic medical waste bag. She reaches into her case and pulls out what looks like a six-pack of undersized soda cans, though the cans are featureless and copper in color. She sets the six-pack on a nearby credenza. Then she reaches in and pulls out a couple of plastic bottles, each full of white goo.

"These cans are an anti-nanite drink tailored to wipe out Fractal F. I highly recommend that you both, especially you," she says, pointing to Oz, "drink one of these cans every twenty four hours for about three days, starting now. It tastes kinda bad, but it will wipe out the Fractal F, and few people suffer any side effects. I would also recommend that you both shower with this special body-and-hair wash ASAP. It's based on the same formula. Use half of the bottle to wash up, and the other half with the laundry when you wash whatever clothes you were wearing, unless you want to throw the clothes away."

"Lastly," she says, "Here are some mild painkillers if you want them for the ear or your back, and two powerful slap patches if you experience any nausea or internal pain. It's unlikely, but some people just get sick from the nanite cola. Be careful with the patches, they will put your ass out of commision for an hour or so. Assuming you don't use the patches, you should be okay to be up and about. And you, you take it easy on your back for a day or two--that explosion hit you like a hammer. I'd recommend seeing a massage therapist, if you know of one."

She grabs her legal tablet and pulls a ballpoint out of a shoulder pocket. Clicking the pen open, she says "I'll write down the names of the products I'm giving you so you can investigate them or get more if you think you'll need it. I realize it might seem smart to get a second opinion, but you might not have time."

With this, she turns her back to the goons and begins writing. At some point, she says "Shit...I always write that one down wrong. It's similar in name to a completely different compound. Nanopharmacy is a harsh mistress...." She tears the sheet from the pad and crumples it into a ball. Holding the ball in one hand, she starts writing things on the tablet again. When she's done, she tears off the new sheet and sets it on the credenza next to the cans, bottles, pills, and two slap patches.

She looks directly into Porter's eyes with a piercing stare.

"Where's the wastepaper basket?" she asks, pointing to the ball of paper. Still looking into Porter's eyes, she taps the ball with her index finger and very deliberately mouths two words without making a sound, out of sight of the goons...."read this"...

"Oh, there it is!" She tosses the wadded ball of paper into the bin...two points.

"You guys are pretty lucky! This is a better room than the ones Yard Dog gave us..." She claps her hands together, smiling. "Any questions before we head out?"

OZ:

Upon seeing your tattered visage, the woman makes the same face she'd probably make if a puppy had walked into the room with a cast on its leg.

"You poor thing! What's happened to you?"

Her look of concern is genuine. Her face is pixieish and aqualine, though marred by a patch of what appears to be bluish scar tissue on the right cheekbone. Her blue hair is pulled back to reveal further scars on her right ear and the left side of her neck. Unnervingly, it looks like the pupil of one blue eye is slightly larger than the other. She seems to be in her mid-to-late twenties, maybe an inch over five feet tall. The muscle behind her looks relatively generic and inscrutable behind matte-finish smartgoggles.

Grabbing the handle of a nylon bag on wheels (the sort of thing you see pilots and attendants hauling around at the airport), she steps inside as Porter exits the bathroom. The goons step inside behind her.

PORTER AND OZ:

"Hi," she says cheerfully to the room. "I'm..."

She casts a furtive glance over her shoulder at the two guys with her and sighs slightly.

"...Ballard..."

She smiles again.

"...but you guys can call me 'Blues'..."

One of the guys frowns significantly. She takes off the loose-fitting overcoat and sets it on a chair. She's indeed wearing some sort of tactical uniform, navy blue with varied pouches and bits of equipment on on the belt and shoulder harness, including a holstered sidearm. Not the sort of thing that's comfy for lounging around a hotel room. Making a quick sweep of the room with her gaze, she crouches at the bag, unzipping one of the compartments. When she does so, you both notice two things:

1. The sidearm, (possibly an Avenger like the ones Oz favors), has no magazine in it.

2. She's wearing one of those plastic transmitter-equipped ankle bracelets that are usually locked on to people who are under some kind of house arrest.

Smiling briefly at Porter, she turns back to Oz. "Is it just you that needs looking after?" She hangs a stethoscope from her neck and pulls a couple of pouches from the bag.

The room's as it was when you left. The maid staff hasn't been around. Larry must have specified "do not disturb" when he rented the room. There's a switch that will light a tiny LED outside the door that tells the maid staff to come clean the room at some point.

Thankfully, there are no blimps nearby.

PORTER:

$3718:

30 $100 bills.

12 $50 bills.

5 $20 bills.

3 $5 bills.

3 $1 bills.

ch-ching!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

OZ:

Porter goes into the lav.

The doorbell rings, which kicks on the TV set and automatically sets it to the "peephole" camera mounted over the doorframe, a feature which can be turned off if you so desire. On the screen, you can see three people out there, distorted by the fisheye effect of the camera lens:

In front is a rather short, youngish-looking woman, who is directing a rather piercing stare at the camera from under a row of dark blue bangs. Behind her are a pair of serious-looking heavies who are standing shoulder-to-shoulder. All three are dressed in what appear to be dark blue or black fatigue sets under bulky winter tactical jackets, with plain patches velcroed over the area where there would likely be a corporate or government logo. The heavies are wearing baseball-style caps.

Without saying a word, the woman lifts a legal tablet into the camera's view. On the top page is scrawled "YARD DOG?" in marker pen. She smiles cheerfully. The heavies don't. She has a prominent dark-colored blotch of some kind on her right cheek, but you can't tell what it is on the camera.

Harry agrees and the arrangements are made.

It's clear the trolleys won't fit in anything smaller than a van or sport-ute. Luckily, Porter has an array of anonymous storage units scattered around town, and one nearby contains nothing more than 144 knock-offs of a Lloyd Veritas designer handbag, surplus from a racket three months ago. You drop off the machines (let me know about the uniforms and the satchels and the M-16), knowing that even if somebody found them there, it would take divine intervention for it to be tied to you.

Thirty minutes later, two of Harry's "kids," cocky young car boosters, show up in the car, which is exactly as Harry described down to the shutdown bypass chip.

It's the sort of car an entry-level corporate buys in an attempt to show both thrift and an appreciation for the finer things. The interior is top-of-the-line, grey faux leather with the better stereo and GPS navigator. The outside is a rather generic shape in darker grey. It's well put together, but doesn't feel as substantial as the Chevy did. It won't win any races, and it won't turn any heads. It seems to be in excellent shape, and Harry even topped off the fuel tank.

The two kids look over the ambulance just enough to determine that it's roadworthy, and unless you delay them, are off and on their way with it.

You get back to the hotel without incident, and a call to Yard Dog is made.

"Okay, I'll call the medic team and have them up to your room in no time...I, uh, should warn you, that the people who come to your door may seem a little...odd. Every time I've seen them, they've been dressed up as some kind of corporate security or something. They apparently insist on it, even though I tried to persuade them not to on my clock. I'm not sure what their story is, and at least one of them doesn't come across like a corporate, but they do good enough work and medical teams aren't easy to find, so I've been tolerating their quirks...I just don't want you to see this crew through your peephole and freak out. They're on our side. I hope that's okay. On another front, I don't yet have a third for your cadre, but I'm still looking for someone of the right calibre who's available."

Chantry shuffles off into the darkness...holding the red Larry phone to his ear.

(If anybody has been reading along with this game and thinks they might like to run a new character, PM me. If nobody responds here, I'll go ahead and post in the general online gaming section. I know in the past I probably promised certain people they'd have the next available slot, but I've had to clean out my PM box since then and don't

PORTER:

Larry says, "Well it's too soon to be sure, but if we can get some good info, I thought maybe I'd have you work at least part of the Skyler project, since you seem to have a personal interest. But I'm only interested in him if he really is tied to this.

"Other than that, I have a couple of things in mind for tomorrow, maybe some light courier work and there's this bookie that's I'm worried is gonna get hit. But I have a few teams at my disposal, and as information cystallizes it helps me decide where to put them. The opposition and I are still feeling each other out, so it hasn't gotten hectic yet. Go with whatever mace lights your fire, and if the job won't abide it, I'll see if another team can take it. If not, we'll go from there."

"Chantry's out, then? Okay, tell him I'm good for a reference if he needs it. I'll see if I've got anybody that might fit your team and give you a call. If not, I guess you're a two-man team. Porter, I have another call coming in. Make sure you guys get some rest, okay?"

OZ:

The hood and front body work are knocked quite askew, and there's a crease on the leading face of the rear compartment above the driver's cab. Wire cages saved the headlamps, though most of the emergency lights are cracked. A look underneath shows a big dent in the oil pan. It's a good thing they still use metal for these truck engines. One of those ceramic jobs wouldn't have lived long after your impromptu bulldozer impersonation. You can see what needs to be done to realign the front wheels, but would need a shop to do it properly. All in all, the thing's not in terribly bad shape, and you think the thing is salvageable. You are Porter's main mace and chopshop contact, so it behooves you to make a few calls to see what's available at this hour. Your guy's name is Harry Xiao, an affable Asian guy covered head-to-toe in fineline tattoos of near-fractal intricacy. He doesn't say much, but a lot of the more successful criminals in this town are like that.

You tell him about the ambulance, and he's interested. He doesn't seem to care where it came from. He's got three solid vehicles with excellent "paperwork" on file with the Department of Motor Vehicles, and he'd be willing to trade one of them straight out for the ambulance:

1. 2021 Trabatka 250 Cargo Van: Eastern European surplus truck converted for civilian use. Looks pretty much like a 2001 Trabatka 250, which looks pretty much like a 1961 Trabatka 250. A large six-cylinder engine with good torque specs, but not the sort of thing you'd want to get involved in a car chase in. Lots of room and cargo space. He says it's green, which, if you know your Trabatkas, means it's that awful mint green, and that it's currently got a bench seat at the front.

2. 2023 Suzuki Riverside: A very pedestrian-looking small 4-door sedan. Pretty much the epitmoe of mediocrity, it doesn't do anything very well, but its biggest strength is that it looks like every other imported 4-door sedan on the market. He says it's got all the options and is charcoal grey. Although this model comes from the factory with an "anti-crime" chip that allows the police to shut the engine down at will, Harry says it's been bypassed.

3. 2014 Ford Mustang GT: Older, but a real firecracker. Throaty pre-ceramic aluminum V8, loads of power, medium-good handling, but the back seat and trunk are pretty minimal. Harry says it's painted a dark iridescent maroon color with electroluminescent rally stripes that can thankfully be switched off.

He mentions that the "paperwork" on all three vehicles is such that they could pass a routine traffic stop or a plate check without difficulty, but if the cop checked into the VIN numbers (they rarely do), it might be trouble.

He would rather have one of his guys come out and make the swap than have you bring the ambulance to his current shop.

PORTER:

While Oz is talking to Harry, you and Chantry toss the ambulance. Chantry grabbed what he thought were the two more expensive trolleys. One contains a blood-spattered stack of medical monitoring machines, its cables and tubes dangling like limp tentacles. The other seems to be a cryo-containment unit of some sort that's running on an internal power cell. From the readouts, it's apparent that the three of you are in possession of some stolen organs. The cryo-unit is certainly valuable, but there's not much chance of finding a buyer immediately. As for the organs, well...that's an ethical question that only you can answer, assuming you can find a contact.

There are also the two satchels, the two paramedic uniforms, and the M-16-style rifle.

Chantry at some point pulls out a vibrating phone, and gets involved in a detailed conversation with someone. Some of the information is apparently quite relevetory, as he seems pleasantly surprised by some of the things he's hearing. After he hangs up, he explains that, although he's terribly sorry, he's got a chance at getting his piece of his old funeral business back and that he cannot let the opportunity pass unmolested. He must leave for his home town at once, and he hopes you'll understand. As he's telling you this, he fishes the phone Larry issued out of his pocket, apparently to let Larry know. Of course, you are enough of a calculating criminal mind to think that if Larry didn't know Chantry had left and you arranged to keep his bank card, it would be more cash per day for you and Oz. If Larry did know, though, you might get another man for backup.

He waves his palms at you.

"With the exception of the laptop, which I'll be happy to return after I have my geeks look it over, I don't want to be near anything that Milner has touched, really. I figure you can move whatever you managed to grab yourself. Just call me when you're ready to have Oz looked at and I'll send people over to wherever. I guess he must not be too bad if you think he can wait, but I would prefer a professional opinion on whether or not he'll be in good form if we need him tomorrow. Your call, really," he shrugs, "Or his, I guess..."

"You guys did real good, despite the circumstances. I'm glad you're working on my side, really. If this laptop pays off, and/or my hunch on Skyler is correct, there's gonna be a substantial bonus in it for all of us."

He sips the drink again and turns to Malkie. "Malkie, wake up the geeks...you're the only one here that gives Little-Miss-Snakebite the creeps enough to get her out of bed."

"Sure thing, boss" wheezes Malkie, and he heads for the stairs. It's just you and Larry for the moment. He stands again and reaches out to shake your hand, he speaks, in quiet voice that imparts a sense of confidentiality.

"Thanks for the report, Porter, but I think you should probably at least give a call before you stop by next time...I'm trying to keep this place as discreet as possible, and unexpected visitors make my staff really uptight, you know?"

Larry is a smooth bastard, timing his movements and requests to shuffle people to other rooms when he wants, like he's directing a play or something. By standing and offering a handshake, it's pretty clear that he's asking you to be off on your merry way. You wonder if he was a corporate at some point, and what he got spit out for. Then again, a lot of criminal organizations these days seem to run themselves like corporations. Too much, perhaps, but it gives someone like Larry, who works between the Orgs and independents like you, a niche.

Anyway you look at it, Larry's sat back down at his PC and picked up the cigarette he put down when you walked in. It really feels like it's time to go, now.

Larry nods as you tell him the story. When you're done, he speaks, scratching his chin in thought.

"I'm definately interested in talking to this Skyler. The information I got on the D'Angelo connection was supposed to be very exclusive..."

He begins pacing again. Gesticulating with his hands as he tries to feel out the situation:

"I'm getting this idea that if you were to draw a line from Milner to whoever is taking delivery of those organs, it would pass through Skyler. He got involved in this somehow, and was making good money and had a good supplier. A huge break for him, even if it is ghoul work. But when Milner dropped out of sight he panicked. He was scared Milner might get caught and turn over on him. So he goes to D'Angelo to try to track down Milner, and he gets chased off by bigger dogs. Now he's really scared, so he gets himself some big dogs on short notice and pretends to butt in on the meal when he's actually desperate to cover his ass. The bomb wasn't to make a mess...he was trying to clean it up..."

If Larry's right, it's a pretty impressive bit of induction on his part. Then again, he may be giving Skyler too much credit. He sits down and opens the laptop and starts rattling keys.

"Yeah...I definately want to talk to Skyler, and maybe these Skolotnicks. Does Skyler know if you're alive or not? If he thinks he offed you and destroyed the evidence, he's probably still in town. Paranoid as all Hell, but still in town. Porter, I'll look into it tonight and see what needs to be done. In the meantime, where do you want me to send the medic for your guy Oz? And do you want a martini? Malkie pours a real treat."

Malkie waggles the pitcher again, smiling.

Larry looks perplexed for a moment. He sips the martini.

"Nice work on Milner. First things first--I'll call my medical staff and send 'em wherever you need 'em. They're currently staying in the same hotel as you, and it's been a slow night for them. Good people. They should be able to help you out, depending on how bad Oz is. If you're going back to the hotel, I'll have them come to your room if you want."

"Now, about this other guy, this...Skyler...what do you know, Malkie?

Malkie sips his martini and speaks:

"I looked him over once for potential. Dat was enough. He's just what Portah said. A wannabe. Barely even on da charts. Nickel and dime stuff--with da emphasis on da nickel. Fencin'...stepped-on drugs...pimpin' a few refu girls...killed a few people, but nothin' that counts. You'd gotta be desperate to hire him to find anybody. Can't keep his cool for nuthin'..."

Larry thanks Malkie and waves his hand in a gesture of dismissal. The goons turn around and wander back toward the kitchen. He turns back to you and steeples his fingers at his chin.

"It's no problem to give this...Skyler...a bad time. But before we do that, the presence of some...nobody...in the middle of this has my curiosity piqued. It's an anomaly. I was assured by my connections that our info was exclusive, and they're usually spot on..."

Larry stands and paces behind his desk as he rapid-fires the questions:

"Porter, how was he 'on the case?' Did he tail you, or just show up at Milner's, or what? Did he seem to be, uh, unusually well-funded for a bottom-feeder fixer? Did he seem antsy or desperate?"

Chantry follows suit with, well, getting out of the suit.

Oz finds a discreet place to pull over near the condo, and Porter gets out. Chantry elects to stay with the vehicle, but offers a sleek, expensive-looking laptop computer to Porter.

"This was among the machinery in Milner's operating room. It seemed portable, valuable, and likely to contain valuable information, so I took it thinking it might help us net that bonus..."

PORTER (I am assuming Oz is waiting with the truck. If not, then Wilphe should specify and consider Oz along for the ride.)

You make your way to the same condo, #187. The doorgoon (same guy, if it matters) is uptight at first about letting you in. He tells you to wait and closes the door, and eventually comes back and waves you in.

Same place. Split level. Doorgoon waves you downstairs. You notice he's got the Arasaka slung on his shoulder this time, and a couple of the card-playing guys are standing here in the main room, apparently doing nothing in particular. The computer people aren't in this room, but their gear is still blinking. Malkie sits on a raggedy stool next to a small chrome bar-on-wheels, nonchalantly pouring martinis into a set of mismatched glasses.

Larry looks calm but concerned. He rests his cigarette on the rim of a gunmetal-colored ceramic ashtray shaped like a lopsided boomerang and closes his laptop, both simple gestures that let you know that you have his full attention.

"What's up, guy(s)? I didn't expect you to come by..."

Malkie sets a martini on Stubb's desk and looks at you, smiling. Larry ignores the drink. If Malkie had eyebrows, one would likely be raised slightly as if to ask "Do you want one?"...but he doesn't have eyebrows. Which is probably why he holds up the pitcher and waves it slightly.

OZ (assuming you wait in the ambulance. If not please disregard and see above)

Not much happens in the ambulance while this is going on. Chantry sits in the passenger seat, and yawns.

Oz deftly wheels the ambulance from backstreet to backstreet in the general direction of Larry's condo, but still leaving plenty of options to change course. There are a couple of close calls as far as encounters with other emergency vehicles appearing from rather unexpected directions, but none of them seem to be paying you any heed.

The ambulance seems to be handling fine, though the front suspension is way out of alignment, pulling it to the left if you release the wheel. The front end is quite dented and scarred, though thankfully the headlights are intact, and any external surfaces that you've seen are covered in dust.

Chantry manages to get the equipment he looted locked into one of the tracks so it won't roll all over the place. He kneels between the front seats.

"It doesn't look as though anybody is tailing us. I have to agree with Mr. Oz on the subject of going directly to Mr. Stubbs. Perhaps we should call him, if for no other reason than to secure Mr. Oz some of the medical attention that was part of the agreement."

The ambulance pushes onward through the city. Chantry is watching out the rear windows for tailing vehicles, and periodically reports that he hasn't spotted any. He suggests switching on the emergency band scanning radio.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

OZ: I am for the moment assuming you are heading toward Larry's "base of operations" condo. Let me know if you are doing any talking with Porter or Chantry along the way. As the adrenaline ebbs, the pain seems to find a little more resonance.

OZ:

You look the Chevy over and spot a few dark stains on the passenger floormat, which only takes a few seconds to grab out of the car. You also spot a shovel from Porter's "body disposal kit," and, feeling it might be useful in getting the ambulance out, snag it as well. That's about it for immediately noticeable items, and there isn't time to make a further investigation. Keeping well clear of the geyser of flame (which incidentally brings the immediate area around it up to a nice, comfortable temperature), you pick your way through the slagheaps into the organ warehouse. What a mess. You're not sure what happened out here, but it's clear to anyone with some knowledge of the rudiments of demolitions (ie, you) that a rather powerful bit of fireworks went off in the street, separate from the (ineptly-executed) car bomb that claimed the Chevy. Either that latter piece of work wasn't big enough, or was the wrong tool for the job. The whole thing strikes you as eerie, given that brief bit of daydreaming from earlier tonight.

You stop to push a large chunk of the Subaru's front right suspension, still attached to the wheel, out of the ambulance's path. Porter is in the passenger seat when you make it to the ambulance.

PORTER:

Oz carefully winds his way into the building, his form backlit by bright orange light from the fires outside that diffuses in the settling dust. He looks like he's walking a little bit stiffly. He stops to lever some mass of auto parts out of the way with the shovel, and gets into the ambulance. His hair's a little singed, his ear's split and bleeding, there are some rather dramatic scratches on his face, and the back of his "business suit" is shredded and scorched.

BOTH OF YOU:

Oz opens the driver's side window and sticks his head out as far as he can, looking back toward the piles of old organ shells. He pulls his head in and sits back in the seat, bracing his head in the headrest. The others note this and brace themselves as well as possible.

Shifting the ambulance into "R," Oz sharply accelerates backward, the truck crunching into the rotting plywood carcasses, which makes a lot of ugly noise but gains you another ten feet of runway for this flight. Oz then drops the selector down into "L," looks around to make sure everyone is ready, and takes off, feathering the accelerator just enough to keep the tires from spinning on the slick concrete floor and costing traction.

The truck jolts several times, almost tearing the wheel out of Oz' hands. It slows dramatically as it hits the largest pile of loose bricks that lies in the way, but manages to power through, snowplowing a wave of rubble right out into the street. Oz cuts the wheel hard to the left, but the meatwagon fails to comply. It hurtles straight out, almost to the opposite sidewalk. It takes a few moments of shifting back and forth between "R" and "D" to free it from the pile of junk it's dragged with it, but Oz is able to break it loose and get you moving Westbound away from the devastation. It is at this point that Porter spots the twisted wreckage of the Chevy, which likely has something to do with his current state. He's in remarkably good condition for a car bomb victim.

You're fleeing the scene, in a rather haggard-looking ambulance. Just let me know where you're headed. Somewhere along the way there, Porter's phone (his personal phone, not the one Larry gave him) signals an incoming call. The display lists the call as originating from "Public Dataterm, 3000 BLK Offenhauser Ave"...maybe a couple of Km from organ factory.