Mosca Syndrome

IVAN:

Whatever he airhypos into your leg numbs it up pretty quick.  He adjust the lenses over his eyes and goes to work.  First he uses a scalpel to open up the original wound.  The he spends about ten minutes alternately grinding, prying, sanding, and otherwise preparing the bone for the application of a large amount of some kind of cement that, as he explains it, reinforces the structure of the bone yet is eventually consumed as the natural bone grows back.  While it isn't recommended for small bones (hands, fingers, etc.), big bones like the femur, humerus, and hip are common targets for the stuff.  

He adds a fixative to the cement and tells you not to move for ten minutes.  He spends this time stapling up a couple of minor knife wounds (no anesthetic) on a pre-teen ganger, who screams bloody murder the whole time.  He collects forty dollars in cash from the kid's buddy and they scamper off.

After ten minutes has passed, he begins sealing up the wound with the dermal stapler, swabbing on some disinfectant and applying a bandage over it.  He follows this with a somewhat complex knee brace--two large neoprene wraps with hinged and dampened metal bars in between them.  "Too much torsion on that leg in the next couple of days might pop the glue lose.  Keep this thing on for at least three days if you're walking.  Ligaments and tendons are gonna have to be on their own, but the brace and your muscle and bone lace oughta help with that."

"You'll wanna pick up some supplies and change the bandage daily until it's closed up real good.  That anesthetic is going to take another fifteen minutes to wear off, so go sit down if you want.  It's gonna be sore for days when it does.  You oughta consider wearing some more armor if you're gonna get into any more gunfights."

"That'll be two-hundred twenty five dollars....and ninety-one cents."  

Your leg feels like a log attached to your hip.

Haven't seen as much anime as many here probably have, but I agree that Japanese animation is in many ways an effort to capture the power of live-action film (not necessarily American film, but live-action nonetheless).  Many of the things that make anime visually impressive--"lighting," "camera angles," and whatnot--are techniques adapted from live action film.  

American animation makes no such effort, but instead generally tries to tell the story in simple terms.  Oranges to the Japanimation's Apples, really.

To me the technical side is moot though.  A good story with interesting characters and events easily trounces a bad one with better visuals.  While it is singularly impressive that the Japanese have done so much to capture such cinematic quality with their cartoons, I can't ooh and ah at the visuals if I can't keep my eyes open.  And plenty of Japanese animation has left me snoring.

WILL/RENATA:

Someone flips the TVs' feed over to one of the Extreme Sports Network's local feed.  More highlights from the races earlier.  The purple girl spots this and rolls her eyes.

"Hey, Barwoman!" shouts the purple cupie doll, "Turn to different channel!  Turn to cartoons, huh? Channel 4-8-3!"

Her accent is almost ludicrous.  The lack of articles (a, an, the) is stereotypically Russian--to Will it sounds a lot like Ivan's stilted speak.  However, Renata is aware that there is a distinct cadence to it, almost a caricature of the lead in a bad old vampire movie.  A heavy Romanian influence, perhaps?

The barmaid casually extends a middle finger.  Cupie looks annoyed.  She speaks to her companions. "Come, guys!  Let us go home.  Is lousy night.  Car is crash, Vodka is like water of donkey, and I am hurting barwoman if I stay here."  The two guys seem more than happy to go along with this.  They start to get up.

RENATA:

She seems devoid of shakes or twitches.  On the contrary, she moves with a certain precision and control particular to dancers, jugglers, and solos.  Whatever the trouble is, it's either not neurally- or cybernetically- based or the cocktail is doing its job well.  It is hard to tell if the hand was designer or not.  Only that it's dark purple and appropriately sized for someone who's only about 5 feet tall.

RENATA and WILL:

Porter arrives with the drinks as the other group is standing.  They leave the squat tumbler and the gold can on the table.  The girl makes no effort to conceal the fact that she is looking at Will as they walk by.  She smiles.

Porter speaks, holding a mug of pale beer.  A shot glass sits at the bottom of the mug like a downed submarine.

"I'm Porter, and this is Will."  He glances at your bags.  "Just arrived from somewhere, I take it?"

IVAN:

The doctor looks at Mullet, who is now lying face-down on his back.

"You are gonna dispose of that, right?"

"I don't care whose credit it is, as long as its good."

The fact that he's willing to take any credit means either:

a.  Doctor Octagon is stupid, and it's just a matter of time before he's busted, OR

b.  Doctor Octagon is connected to some kind of organized crime outfit and has access to a heavily crypto'ed money launderer.

Whatever the case, he goes to work on the leg.  "This is more my speed.  Diseased bums, People get bitten by freaks, get somethin' stuck up their a**--it's good to see a simple GSW for a change.  You want a local anesthetic?  I'm gonna be poking around that bone, doing a little grinding and shaping.  It's gonna hurt."  

He has gotten out what looks like a set of miniature dremel tools, various picks and tiny prybars, an airhypo, and what looks like some kind of epoxy dispenser.

Porter looks this (what looks and sounds to him like a) fresh-off-the-boat refu prostitute up and down and smirks.  He replies:

"Yeah, I think my partner and I have a little time to kill here.  I'll go start us a tab.  What are you having?"

WILL:

Unless you've killed the music by now, you don't hear any of this.  But you do notice the purple-haired girl rolling her eyes at the display.

RENATA:

The group at the table (two big men, one small and young-looking purple-haired girl) have been there for a while.  You actually saw them come in.  They don't seem too sociable, and it looks for all the world like the two men are bodyguards and the girl is quite sick of their company.  She's wearing a rather stylish brown leather coat with sheepskin at the cuffs and collar over blue jeans, a cabled turtleneck, and large white sneakers.  When she took off her gloves, you noticed her right hand was purple and clearly cybernetic.  The goons (described earlier in this thread), seem well aware of your presence but look like they are killing time while the girl drinks.  She seems to stop midway through a slug from the gold can to look at the two guys coming in--as if she recognizes them from somewhere.

As a medtech, that plain gold can strikes you as significant.  Typically such a can is used to distribute some kind of medicine, often a combination of nanites and drugs, to someone with special needs--often certain nasty illnesses or debilitating neural/nervous conditions, or, in some cases, keeping a borderline cyberpsycho connected to reality.  It's usually custom-tailored to the person in question and quite pricey.

The guy with the headphones does notice you.

WILL:

Someone has just come out of the back hallway (where the payphones and restrooms are).  She doesn't seem any more typical of this place's clientele than the three at the table.  You're starting to worry that this place is getting trendy.

IVAN:

"I don't want him.  Even if I wanted to do something for this man, I don't have the facilities to do it.  It could be days before he's conscious enough to tell you anything.  I'd say dump him at the hospital and sneak off, hunt him down later to find his phone-eating friend, unless you know a medic with time on his hands to look after this guy until he comes back from la-la land."

He lowers his voice.

"Don't get me wrong...I am a compassionate man.  But I know brothers who'd cut me up for doing anything to help this special-K fool."

A gas bubble escapes Mullet's unconscious mouth with a healthy belch.

((NOTE--Joe Q. Public is joining the game at this point, so don't be confused by the new poster.  Watch for another addition or two in the near future.))

WILL:

The cab whisks you back to the Tiki Lounge.  The place looks the same as it did when you left it, except that it seems Malkie is gone.  

The creepy, purgatorial timelessness of the place is no doubt futhered by the fact that the jukebox is playing the same song it was the last time you walked in--the filthy little ditty where the young girl's voice details a lot of outlandish sexual propositions.

Of course, this is lost on you as you are piping your own music directly into your ears.  Porter nudges you.  You see him mouthing something to you and motioning with his head toward a booth that is slightly obscured by a cieling support column.  

As the booth comes into view, you see three people are sitting there.  In fact, it is the two men who passed by earlier in apparent pursuit of the girl in the purple car, who is seated between them with a squat glass of what looks like ice water and another one of those featureless gold cans like the one she threw at the truck.  She is quite small in comparison to the two men and looks rather sullen.  The two men look like they haven't been getting much sleep.  One (the one with the buzzcut) is reading a magazine about sailboats.  The other (bald, with a neck brace) is sipping a pale domestic beer and watching the close-captioned news report on the TV.

She takes a sip out of the gold can while looking at you with some vague glint of recognition, her almost too-big eyes framed by the dark purple bangs.  

IVAN:

Octagon is the only one who doesn't seem too impressed by the wounds.  Of course, it's part of his job.  The strange multi-lensed goggles add to the unflappable image.    

"Ain't nobody but the most rat-soup eatin' poor people use iodine anymore.  You can use this if you want.  Go easy on it."  He tosses you a can of some spray-on stuff for disinfecting and sealing minor wounds.  

Octagon holds another cryptic device over Mullet's unresponsive eye.  He attaches a set of trodes to various spots on his skull and checks another in what seems like an endless supply of small LCDs.  He looks over to one of his bruisers.  "Hey, Lavelle, come tell me if this guy is who I think he is."

Lavelle, apparently the one with the afro, walks over and has a look.  His eyes widen.  "Dat's Mullet!"  he says, nodding.  He doesn't sound nearly as educated as the other guy did.

The Doctor looks back to you.  His tone is suddenly controlled and free of his urban inflections:

"This man needs a hospital.  He's either in a coma or well on his way to one.  I'm surprised he's alive, but his breathing seems stable enough that he'll pull through with the proper care.  Might lose that leg, but that's what cryobanks and hardware is for..."

"...but you're not that good of a friend if you brought him to me.  This man is one of the biggest cracker racist two-bit no-business born insecure inbred junkyard motherf***ers in this town.  I don't think I can work on him.  I might be too tempted to compromise my world-famous ethical standards.  But if you take him somewhere and he pulls through, you let him know who didn't put him away when he had the chance."

"Now with that on the table, you still want me to look at that leg?"

IVAN:

He regards you coolly, apparently slightly surprised that you managed a better description than "Me hurt, need fix!"...

"I charge a minimum of fifty dollars per GSW.  That's without drugs to keep you from feeling it.  Goes up from there, depending on the severity.  That one in your leg looks like a hundred dollar baby to me, at least."

The Doctor looks at Mullet, pushes one of the unconscious man's eyelids open, and looks you in the eye.  "You a friend of this man?" he asks, his tone inscrutable.

WILL:

Roadrunner is still looking up and down the street as you climb out.  She looks at you just as you execute your sweeping bow.  She jumps back, placing one hand on the fender and the other on her heart.

"Don't DO that!" she hisses, "You scared the crap outta me!"

Roadrunner jumps in the cab and gives you a perplexed look from the window after you say that thing about "the doodway."

"Let's go."  Says Baldie flatly from the passenger seat.  Roadrunner releases the airbrakes and begins wheeling the truck away from the area.  She waves at you as the truck rumbles off.  The minivan follows close behind.  

You and Porter are standing alone in the street next to the AutoPetro station.  Porter pats the jacket where the envelope is tucked.

"Not a bad night's work, unless Crazy Ivan somehow manages to bring the heat down on us.  Why don't I get us a cab to the Tiki Lounge."  He dials his phone and gives the address as being at the other end of the block."

After a short stroll to the end of the block and a brief wait of seven or so minutes, a cab pulls up.  White electric car with green roof, hood, and trunk panels.  Greenback Cab Company.  Passable transport, not too clean but not too dirty either.  Porter gets in and leaves the door open for you to follow.

(This thread is going to be home for a second campaign happening in the same time and setting as the original Streetlight Serenade campaign.  I don't have full details on Chantry yet, but I have enough on Porter and Ozcar (wilphe's character) to get this ball rolling.  I'll get Chantry involved ASAP.  Bear with me while I get back into writing form!)

January 4, 2029  1:54 AM

The Futura lounge at the Hi-Lanes Bowl-a-Rama is decorated like an early 1960s vision of Utopia.  Posters of crystal-spired metropolii haunted by bubble-domed flying cars molder on the walls in cracked plexiglass frames.  The chairs and tables are molded plastic in a variety of now-faded primary colors.  The wall facing the parking lot is made of dingy, diamond-shaped thick glass blocks that allow the few remaining neon tubes in the massive sign outside to flicker feebly through, adding their voices to the cacophony of vintage and current illuminated beer signs that give this place its permanent, sickly light. It's enough to make anyone with a scrap of empathy feel that this place was once somebody's vision of the future, and it's for the best that he's probably long dead....

There's no waitress here, and no trace that there's ever been one.  The guys at the bar might as well be glued to the injection-molded, trumpet-shaped stools.  They seem to be straight from Central Casting's "Barfly" department.  The barkeep simply leans against the back counter, watching the hockey game on one of the flickering flatscreens that's scattered around the bar and rubbing his temples like he's got a mother of a headache.  Otherwise, the place is empty, save for Porter and Oz.

Thankfully, the bowling alley has been shut down for the night.

Porter and Oz are having a beer (or whatever they want if they don't drink beer).  They are in the middle of a job.  Larry Stubbs told them about another local fixer, Rag Falfa, who's been stepping on the toes of some people who were a few links higher on the food chain.  Back at the office at the 45th Street Butcher Shop, Larry explained that said important people wanted to have a very serious talk with Mr. Falfa.  Larry felt that Porter and Oz would be good candidates to make sure Mr. Falfa made it to the meeting.  He paid them $600, all upfront, to grab this fixer, soften him up a little, and wait at the bowling alley for a couple of guys to come take him off their hands.  Larry told them that in addition to the $600 bucks, they were welcome to any cash Falfa was carrying but to give any personal effects to the contact at the bowling alley.  

Even on the way out of the butcher shop, Porter was already on the phone.  It took him all of three calls to figure out where Rag Falfa was tonight (the Skyline Drive-In, doing his little free-lance fence racket with the local lowlifes), and one call to get a clean mace--that is, a stolen car that has had its records in the DMV database tampered with just enough to pass a routine traffic stop--much safer than a freshly stolen ride any day of the week.  It's usually safe to keep it for anywhere from two weeks to a month, as long as you don't make it hot through your own deeds.

This particular mace is a Repli-Craft recreation of a 1957 Chevy four-door sedan.  Repli-Craft, a division of Hammamatsu Heavy Industries, has made a killing by taking a few different standard chassis and engine combinations and allowing people to choose what body they want from a huge catalog of past and present styles.  Just pick the car you want and in two weeks they've had it fabricated at their giant facilities in Detroit and it's on the way to your dealer.  They don't get everything just right--sometimes the wheelbase length is off or the interior doesn't quite look like it's supposed to, but their business model has proven hugely popular.   As a result, the roads of America in 2029 look like a mixmash of different timeframes, and something like a '57 Chevy, a '65 Mustang, or a 1970 Cadillac El Dorado Convertible isn't that rare among the cookie-cutter jellybean cars everyone else is cranking out.  Of course, this is the only '57 Chevy that has Rag Falfa tied up with gaffer's tape in the trunk.

Falfa was easy to grab.  His "bodyguards," two musclebound goons from the local gym who delighted in busting the heads of the desperate junkies who usually sold stuff to Falfa, fled like startled minnows when faced with the likes of Porter and Oz.  Falfa reached for his weapon, a gold-plated 9mm automatic, but was quickly disarmed, subdued (one stiff punch to the gut was all it took), and his chubby form bundled into the trunk of the Chevy.

Oz has heard some ugly rumors about the way Falfa treats some of the local joygirls, so it was no problem "softening him up" on the car ride over to the alley.  Speedbumps?  No problem!  Sudden starts and stops?  No problem!  By the time they reached the Hi-Lanes, Falfa was as tender as Filet Mignon, but still conscious and wide-eyed with terror.

While they rode along, Porter went through the sack they'd dumped Rag's personal effects into:

"One ugly pinky ring.  Gold-plated."

"One fake gold necklace chain with gold dollar-sign pendant"

"One goldplated 9mm handgun.  Loaded."

"One wallet.  IDs, pictures of hookers.  Two hundred bucks cash!"

"One pair of asymmetrical sunglasses with low-light enhancement.  Gold-plated frames."

"One spray vial of 'Atlas' Cologne for men."

Larry gave you $600 bucks.  The car cost you $250.  Finding Falfa didn't cost you anything.  You found $200 in his wallet.  That leaves you with $550 to split between the two of you.  Easy money.    

After arriving at the bowling alley and checking on Falfa, you two went inside to grab a beer.

PORTER:

You are sitting with Oz(a driver whom you've worked with before on similar jobs for Larry) at a table in the back of the lounge, next to the dormant and dusty foosball game, waiting for some guys to show up and take Falfa off your hands.  You've never been here, and it's a little surprising that you've actually found a place even worse than the Tiki Lounge.  Between the car and this bar, you're starting to feel like you've entered some kind of time warp.  You make the occasional phone call to people involved in your little rackets, just like always.  

OZ:

You are at the table with Porter.  Both of you are seated with a good view of the door.  You have a view of the Hockey game on one of the LCDs.  The Cleveland Gamecocks have managed to land all five players in the penalty box at once, and the Edmonton Oilers are scoring goal after goal with no opposition whatsoever.  The score is now 47 to 1.  

ALL

The front door opens, and a couple of thick, pale guys in suits, overcoats, and porkpie hats (Again with the early 60s look! What's going on here?) stroll in.  One of them speaks:

"Cripes, it's cold out."

They look around the place, spot you, and begin to walk over.  The one who made the astute observation about the weather smiles below his crooked nose and speaks again:

"Hey, uh...Larry says you got something for us."  

One of these two guys also wears 'Atlas' for men.  Lots of it.

(ooc:  Please describe your characters--height, clothes, hair, skin tone, demeanor, etc.--so that others in the game or those reading along will know what they look like.  Keep in mind that it's cold outside--something like 28 degrees F.  Luckily for Falfa, you guys were compassionate enough to leave him in his jacket.

Sorry if it seems I've railroaded your characters, but I wanted to set the mood and get things rolling.  It's all yours at this point!)

(sorry about the lapse of attention on my part...I won't bore you with the lurid details of my outside life here, and I'll try to get back on the ball today!)

Blues, sitting cross-legged on the floor and nibbling gingerly on a slice of cheese pizza, replies to Arrow, "The pre-made packs should be fine--really even just enough to take care of one or two minor wounds.  I intend to take care of some of the more specific stuff myself, but the fact of the matter is that I make a pretty lousy pack mule."  She emphasizes this point by pretending to make a bicep bulge.  "People tend to assume the medic will be carrying all of that sort of thing, and I felt I should dispell that myth right off the bat.  I may need room that will be taken up if I'm lugging piles of bandages everywhere--I just wanted to spread the load out."

She turns to everyone.

"I'm hoping I'll be able to get a hold of some innoculations appropriate for the area--the last thing we need is for half the group to come down with something nasty that's going around Cartagena.  If anyone has a problem with being innoculated against this sort of thing, do let me know so I don't buy any extra doses.  Also, if you are dangerously allergic to any common medicines, let me know ASAP so I don't have to ask later."

Her expression darkens considerably, and her eyes develop that sudden focus that first manifested itself (to this group at least) back at the meeting room.

"And now that Black Knight is out of the room, I need to put something else on the table.  If, during this job, it turns out that there's a nasty secret surprise that Michaelson could have told us about but for any reason chose not to, I am going to be the first one to abandon it."

She leans forward, and it almost seems that the lighting in the room dims as she speaks in spooky, conspiratorial tones:

"Call it a hunch, but given the industries our ultimate target is in, I've got an idea that Michaelson wants more than to fulfill some blood debt or business deal.  Make no doubt about it, I think he's a very nice man, but he's looking Death in the face and Death never blinks first.  I have a grim suspicion that we may be the pen with which he intends to sign some Faustian contract..."

With the word "contract,"  her gaze slips back to its normal distant self.  She delicately takes a few more nibbles from the slice of pizza and washes it down with the water.

She turns back to Arrow.

"Do you think it would be possible to check into our employer, too?  'never hurts to know more about the boss."

IVAN:

Fat chance.  One of the problems with being in the 99th percentile in size is that it's hard to find clothes that fit from your average random stiff.  

"S***!" shouts Octagon, "GET THAT S*** THE F*** AWAY FROM ME!"  He pushes Curtis-with-the-bite-on-his-neck away from the van.  "DISEASE MOFO!  GET OUTTA MY SIGHT!"  The Doctor's left hand disappears inside the PVC lab coat and returns with a squat 10mm holdout pistol, which seems to add a few exclamation points to his order.  

One of the goons makes a step toward Curtis-with-the-bite-on-his-neck.  Curtis-with-the-bite-on-his-neck runs off into the night, making primal sobs of fear.  The goon doesn't chase him.    

The doctor begins resterilizing himself.  "Stupid fool gets bit full a nanite crap...f***ing comes to me thinkin' I'll give him a shot, he'll fine tomorrow.  Teach his stupid a** to mess with them crazy people!" he mutters to nobody in particular.

"Okay, big white refu with the gimpy leg and the dead cracker on his shoulder, you up next, dog!"

You think he's talking to you.  

WILL:

"They didn't say, so leave it running.  I'm guessing they'll be taking the truck and we'll be taking a taxi, though."

Baldie-from-the-butcher-shop spots the truck and gets the attention of someone who is standing out of sight behind the minivan.  This person joins him and they approach the truck.  It's the young lady truck-driver, Roadrunner, also from before at the butcher shop.  She looks nervous.  Baldie, however, walks with purpose and confidence, and seems to have produced a rough brown envelope from the folds of his equally brown overcoat.  He's still wearing the smartgoggles, and cautiously looks around the area before getting too close.  Seeing nothing worrisome, he and Roadrunner approach the passenger side door.  Smiling benignly, he holds out the envelope toward Porter and says "We'll take it from here."  Roadrunner stands near the driver's side front fender, not-so-nonchalantly looking up and down the street.

Porter takes the envelope, and Baldie heads toward the back of the truck.  You hear the rear door of the trailer open briefly, then slide shut again.  

While this is happening, Porter peeks in the envelope, then puts it inside his trench.  "I think this is our stop," he says, and gets out of the truck.

A third guy at the minivan has closed the hood and is getting into the driver's seat.  After Porter closes the door, you can see Baldie reapproaching the cab in the right side mirror.

IVAN:

Perhaps it was the aggressive, confrontational attitude you displayed, but the legbreakers don't seem to be interested in conversation.  As a matter of fact, when you approach one, the other positions himself where he would have a clean shot if necessary.  If you persist, the one with the pillbox hat will tell you to back off in very polite and polished English (which leads you to believe he learned it somewhere else).  It's clear that they do not want the situation to escalate, but also that they are here to keep people from messing with Octagon, and although there seems to be little threat from the hoi polloi right now, your being in their face is compromising their effectiveness.  

There is a flurry of activity as Octagon seems to be losing the guy with the gut wound.  The Doctor spits out a stream of obscenities and works feverishly on the dying man, but to no avail.  He twitches a few times and it's over.  Octagon strips off the various electrodes and pickups and tells his buddies, "It's over.  Get him out of here."

Said "buddies" pick the guy up by his arms and legs and carry him over to the fence, where they proceed to root through his pockets and steal his boots.  

The Doctor sprays himself with some sort of hospital grade disinfectant-in-a-can and shouts "Curtis with the bite on his neck!  You up, homes!"

The guy on the couch with the blood trickling from his neck gets up and walks briskly over to the doctor, who, after fitting a new pair of latex gloves and a surgical mask, pulls the guy's hands away to look at the wound.  The doctor then pulls out some sort of fluid analyzing device, consisting of a penlike pointer connected by a wire to a handheld box with a display screen.  

Out of the corner of your eye you notice what looks like a couple of preteen kids climbing out of a hole in the ground and skulking towards the place where the toughs are selling food.  

WILL:

You seem to get out of that area without incident.

"I've got a connection at a chop shop, and I've seen that car there before, like maybe whoever owns it works there.  I don't know for sure who drives it, but I didn't want to be seen in it, much less have anyone I know try to dispose of it.  Turn right on Ganymede Drive, here."

You do so.

"Okay, Larry said his guys will be waiting at that automated gas station up ahead, next to a minivan with the hood raised.  He said to pull up to the curb just before the station and stop, and they'll approach.  Stay cool."

The station (with its big red-and-white sign reading "AUTOPETRO") comes into view on the right side of the street.  You can see the minivan sitting at one of the pumps with its hood raised as though the driver were having engine trouble.  Several men are crowded around it.  You recognize one of them as being the stocky bald man from the butcher shop earlier--Larry's muscle.   There doesn't seem to be anyone else around here at the moment.  The station is automated and therefore has no clerk.

IVAN:

On the way, you don't see a clothing hustler, but you do see that one of the people in line at Rag Farfa's seems to have a shopping cart full of clothing he's waiting to fence.

At Dr. Octagon's van, your shoves are greeted with some level of protest.  

"Hey, hey, hey, HEY!"  Shouts Octagon.  Two rough looking guys nearby in long coats, one with a bushy afro of his own and the other with a shaved head topped by a pillbox hat, are paying close attention to you.  The former's hands disappear into his coat.  The latter gives you an icy stare.  Obviously the Doctor isn't dumb enough to come here without some bruisers to keep order.

Everyone else here gets the h*** outta your way.  

The Doctor continues, "Now unless you got a gold nugget stuck up your a** and you need it pulled out, you'll be next when I say you're next, honky!  You can sit in the waiting room 'till I call you!"

With that, he motions over to a couple of trashed couches arranged around a campfire fueled by trash and kibble bars left over from some corporation's "Free Food For Kids" programs (The idea was that the free food bars were nutritious enough to keep people alive, but tasteless enough to keep people from eating too much.  Said corporation got a big subsidy for doing this, and then made a lot of money back anyway just selling condiments for the bars to make them palatable.  Of course, low-level gangs often staked out the free kibble bar dispensers and charged fees to use them, which made it less hassle to just pay for food at a store.  However, the bars also burned well, making them good fuel for campfires like this one).

One of the couches is occupied by a ragged-looking man who seems to be covered in hives and lesions.  This guy is stretched out over the length of the couch.  The other couch has just one guy sitting on it, at the end furthest from lesion-boy.  This guy is holding is hand up to the side of his neck, where a trickle of blood seems to be leaking out.  He seems to be murmuring something.  

Strangely enough, there are some magazines scattered about the "waiting room"...even stranger, they're more current than the ones you typically find in legitimate doctors' waiting rooms.

WILL:

The light changes, and the car in front of you takes off briskly, hoping to leave the scene behind as rapidly as possible.  Porter continues to give you directions as you drive.

"D***....hopefully that guy's too messed up from breathing that gas Ivan let out to know what's going on.  I'm more worried about the runner that you chased than him, really, but I don't think any of these guys were heavy enough to be a threat.  They were just trying to save their own skins. Amateurs, I'm sure.  I'm just glad that guy fell off here rather than when we pulled up to the drop point.  That would have looked bad.  Take a left here..."

He re-holsters the AMT at a convenient moment.

"If you're making shopping lists, I would recommend that everyone here buy and carry their own First Aid and/or Medical Kits,"  Blues says to everyone as she passes a can of Jolt to Arrow.  "I'm not carrying a whole hospital with me, nor can I be everywhere at once."

She gets a bottle of water for herself and grabs a pen and notepad to begin making her own shopping list.

"Does anybody know any details about the current climate and weather in Colombia, specifically where we are going to be?"

WILL:

Although Porter has drawn his gun, he is keeping it down by his leg.

"I am not gonna shoot that guy here in front of all these people.  He looks really out of it.  Just chill and pretend you have no idea who it is..."

While he's saying this, he puts his gun in his lap and turns to you and shrugs, as if trying to get the message across to the people outside that the two of you are as baffled as they are.

The guy in the car in front of you gets out for a moment to look at the back of his car (which doesn't look hurt), but between the unsavory crowd and the look Porter seems to be giving him, he climbs back in.

The guy crawls to the curb.  You can see the opposing light go yellow, so in a few seconds you'll have a green.

"Just keep driving, and don't look at him."  He rubs his right temple as if he either has a migraine headache or is trying to conceal his face from passersby.

IVAN:

The SkyLine is jumping but the biz is low-rent--the general idea is to keep things off the police radar if possible.  You recognize by name or face a dozen people, but few of them stick out as anyone really interesting.  Among the groups here:

A small band of people who have hijacked a shipment of good pre-packed food and are selling it box-by-box out of the back of their truck for far less than retail.  They look pretty rough--a couple of big guys and an lean woman.  All three of them are heavily armed and seem festooned with chrome tattoos that catch the orange light from nearby fires.  They seem to be doing good business.  

A raucous group of what you would guess are Central Asian taxi drivers all crowded around an improvised gambling pit of some kind in the center of a circle of bright yellow cabs.

A stolen goods fixer (You're pretty sure his name is Rag Farfa) who has a line of people waiting for him to appraise and make an offer on various goods they've boosted--mostly portable electronics, laptop computers, and other easily moveable things of value.  When Farfa strikes a deal and purchases something, he hands it off to some goon who puts it in a well-guarded truck some ten meters away.  Farfa himself is a short, pudgy guy with a puffy face. His eyes, nose, and mouth seem far too small and close together for his head.  He wears his dark hair in a sort of sculpted blob-shape, and is wearing a shiny black overcoat over a silk shirt, chinos and expensive shoes.  He regards his line of "suppliers" with disdain through his pink-lensed asymetrical glasses, picking the most profitable-looking ones out of the line.  

Any number of small-time pushers who will be more than happy to sell you a dose or two of something that's been stepped on more times than a whore's doormat.

A guy selling the latest in pirate music and video chips out of what seems to be a converted ice-cream cart/bicycle contraption.

Finally, near the back...by the big chainlink-and-razor-wire fence with the big plywood biohazard signs all over it that read (in twelve languages):

WARNING!  BIOHAZARDOUS AREA!  ABOSOLUTELY NO TRESSPASSING!  AUTOMATED LETHAL SECURITY SYSTEMS IN PLACE!

...is a familiar-looking blue van, around which is clustered a small group of people.  At the center of this cluster is Dr. Octagon, a tall, reed-thin dark-skinned fellow of African descent.  He's dressed in a white PVC lab coat, an obscenely complex pair of multi-lensed goggles that would make even Malkie flinch, and his hair is what can only be described as a faceted afro some 50cm in diameter.  He seems to be effecting some field surgery on someone who's taken a messy wound in the gut.  The victim's screams are muffled by a big wad of fabric that's been stuffed in his mouth.  

From your dealings with Dr. Octagon, you know that he is motivated by money and tends to be abusive to people he perceives as fools, which is almost everyone.  Including you.

WILL:

The truck wiggles a little in the lane as you hit the brakes, threatening to jacknife, but due to a rather heroic effort on your part, you manage to get the rig stopped inches from the guy's bumper.  Porter has gritted his teeth and has braced himself for what seemed to be inevitable impact.

As this happens, you hear a noise like a large object bouncing along the top of the trailer.  Then, and very quickly, a much louder one as something impacts the roof of the cab, tumbles forward onto the hood of the truck, and subsequently lands on the trunk of the small car in front of you.  

Apparently it's a person.  He holds his arm up in front of his eyes (the headlights of the truck are practically in his face) and slips off the side of the car.  He seems dazed and starts crawling toward some rough-looking people on the sidewalk.

You and Porter glance at each other (he mouths the phrase "what the f***?") for a moment before turning your attention back to this guy.

IVAN:

You pause at the top of a small (and little used) overpass where you can see the SkyLine Drive-In a few blocks away.  It looks like there's quite a few people there....lots of vehicles and fires in old 55-gallon drums.  This area is not very well patrolled by the police, so the SkyLine is a popular spot for various activities from the occasional black market to nomad parties to grudge fights between rival gangers.  Dr. Octagon could be there tonight for any of those reasons.

IVAN:

The alley is easy enough to find.  After making sure nobody is around, you dump the body behind a convenient dumpster bin.  

You have to stop at a pay phone to figure out where Doctor Octagon has set up shop tonight.  His "Clinic," which he operates out of the back of his battered Dodge van, tends to move from place to place.  The typical spot is an abandoned warehouse, parking garage, or other similar place.  A couple of calls to other Fists gives you a pretty good idea of where to find him tonight.  

Tonight he's working in a long-trashed drive-in movie theatre, a relic of the 1950s, that's located uncomfortably close to an equally abandoned neighborhood called Grover's Corners, which was sealed off due to a massive toxic waste incident some time back.  The area around GC is safe, providing you don't spend more than a few days there or drink the water, but the neighborhood itself is said to be completely uninhabitable.  

It's quite a drive from here.  It'll take a while.  Luckily, it's not a bad truck--plenty of headroom, decent radio/chip player.  

Mullet's form keeps slumping forward in the seat.  

WILL:

The tow-truck with the battered mustang takes a side street that isn't on your route.  The cars at the accident scene still seem to be sitting there when they finally disappear from view in your mirror.  

The route to the drop point takes you through an area of the wharf that can only be described as a red-light district.  Lousy strip clubs, nasty bars (even worse than the Tiki Lounge), and tattoo parlors all crowd around this one particular intersection.  There are all manner of seedy types about--longshoremen, raving derelicts, prostitutes, hustlers, sailors, and other prize specimens of the wharf district.  

The stoplight at this intersection particular intersection turns yellow as you approach.   A random car in front of you begins to slow down, anticipating the red.

Upon recognizing Flavio, Blues instantly sinks down in her seat, shaking her head.  At least his "secret" is out.

At Arrow's, she agrees with the idea of getting food delivered.  She carefully (and slowly) pulls Elvis out of her jacket and reloads him, letting the chip guide her movements.  

"Yes, it really is two separate jobs, and we can't really plan much for the second one until we complete the first.  I think we should favor speed on the first one and preparation on the second.  Barring interference from our European rivals, I don't see why we can't complete the first job within three days.  If any of us have any trustworthy connections in or near Cartehegna, it might help us immensely."

"If we don't have any such connections, we will probably have to build some kind of plausible cover story to explain why we're there.  For example, quickly set up a bogus charity organization and go down there claiming to be a Christian Missionary tour or something, then figure out how we'll get this girl out of jail, do it, and get gone before the whole house of cards falls down.  Really, that's just an idea, but unless we've got connections people might wonder why we're there."

"Either way, I'm guessing Colombia is going to be quicker but much less high-tech than here or Japan, so we'll have less information until we are actually there and seeing the situation with our own eyes.  I'm not sure we can do much of our actual planning here, though."

(OOC:  Did Black Knight come back to Arrow's place with us?)

WILL:

You start the truck and rumble out toward the street.  The tow truck passes by in front of you, in the direction you intend to travel, pulling the purple Mustang, which looks like it's been run directly into a pole of some kind.  You glance over at the accident scene and see that the two other vehicles (the police SUV and the sedan the two guys were in) are still there, and several people seem to be standing around.  You ease out onto the street.  The truck is far more sluggish now with a trailer full of goods attached.

Porter whips out his phone and the directions Larry gave him.  He dials and a moment later is speaking:

"Yeah, Porter here.  We've got the truck and we're on our way.  Yeah, everything went off real smooth, no problems at all."

He tells you where you need to take the truck.

"I'm kind of annoyed that Ivan is running off to take care of some a**hole when we haven't really finished the job yet, but I'm also worried that he might have decided to do something crazy when we're dropping this thing off.   He needs to shake that gangbanger mindset if we're going to keep these jobs up..."

IVAN:

For the moment, the pickup is sitting out on the street--Will had to move it to make room for the semi to get in and out.  I'll assume that even Ivan has the sense to wait for Will to get out, then bring the truck in--there is a car accident scene just a little ways up the street and the police are present, so lugging the stolen gear and limp bodies of your foes out onto the street and tossing them into a truckbed may not be the best plan.

The machine lands in the truckbed with a clatter.  The visor dangles over the side of the bed on its cable, but you pick that up and throw it back into the bed.

The guy on the ground has a pulse and is breathing, but neither are very promising.  You get him into the pickup.

Porter says:

"No, not the meat yard!  We're taking the truck straight to the drop point!  If you're not going to stay with us until then, meet us at the Tiki Lounge."

He climbs into the truck with Will.

He says to Will in a low voice, "Let's get out of here and get this job over with before it gets any messier."

She speaks with a slight lilt in her voice that seems more typical of raving derelicts on the bus than professional underground medics:

"Yeah, I like to stay busy.  Keeps me from thinking too much.  I sure am glad to be out of that place, though.  It's so...well, it's nice to be outside again, even this outside."

The problem with being a closet claustrophobe, is that it's awfully cramped and small in that closet...

Blues laughs out loud at this thought, though the laughter manifests as more of a snort through her nose, followed by a chuckle.  She gets into the first cab after Arrow.  She holds her bag in her lap and presses her besneakered feet against the partition, obscuring the head of the newscaster/corporate shill on the seatback LCD screen.  She stares balefully at whichever party member climbs in next as they sit down.  If enough people pile into this cab, she'll inch closer to Arrow.

During the cab ride, she'll again yawn in an attempt to make the others do so.  Alpha Donkey!

IVAN:

Porter holsters his AMT and says, "That other guy is over behind that bulldozer-thing.  I put him there because the front door was wide open and I didn't want anyone seeing him.  He's totalled, man."

He motions to Will, "He says he just saw a cop do a roll-by.  We need to get gone, and quick.  I know a doc we can go to for your wound, but I don't want anything to do with that other clown."

You do know of two ripperdocs.  One is cheap and the other is not.  Both could probably deal with your wounds, but you don't know enough about the other guy's state to be certain that either one could help him.  

WILL:

Porter turns to you.  "I'll be with you in the truck.  If we are going to take another car with, we need to grab the pickup.  NOT the Camaro.  I'll tell you why later if you really need to know."

A characteristic smirk crosses Blues' face as she reads the card.  It strikes her as funny that the demoness would go through the trouble to get a 666 area code but not change her name to something a little more, well--demonlike.

Unless, of course, the name is a pun that Blues doesn't get.  She flinches.  This thought could torture her for days. She ponders it for a moment while she is waiting to get Elvis back.  She tips the checkroom attendant with three crumpled singles from her pocket.  She is very curious about this she-demon, but the tone of the card seems to indicate that Blues is not exactly being invited over for a gab session over coffee.

Oh, well...maybe if I need a place to stay anytime soon...it's not really that far-fetched that this job could get ugly enough to make whatever her idea of "play" is seem safe

Blues' mind switches back to the name, trying to figure out if it's some kind of clever joke.  Her concentration is broken by Arrow's query.

"Oh, well, I was in med school and had to drop out due to...circumstances beyond my control.  Since then I've done quite a few different things but I've been taking care of people for three years or so.  A lot of trauma work, and some chemistry and cybernetics to boot."

Something probably doesn't ring right about this--Blues seems a little young to have gotten a four-year degree, dropped out of med school, bopped around for a while, and then established herself as a street medic.