Mosca Syndrome

OZ:

Something's not right when you turn this guy over. It's not just that his body is dead weight, but that it seems more limp than any body should be. When you roll him over, you see about a foot of intestine spilling out from underneath his jacket, and a fecal smell assaults your nose. Sometimes bullets can do unexpected things as they plow through the body. A lot of blood seems to be draining from the thigh wound. The guy's eyes seem to be twitching, and his mouth is quivering slightly in the flashing light.

The two Apple mechanics seem to recognize you. They approach the scene warily.

The one mechanic yells "Jen's out there somewhere," motioning toward Claude Street with the gun. "What happened?"

"I'll get the first aid kit," the other guy says, his voice shaky and barely audible over the car alarms. He backs toward the garage, looking like he might throw up at any moment.

OZ:

The guy isn't moving, or really doing anything except bleeding. He's in a heap on the pavement, twisted into an unnatural position. In the flashing sidemarker lights of the car he's lying next to, you can see that his jeans are stained and shredded at one buttock and lower on the other thigh. The matte-black fighting knife that he apparently brought to this gunfight is lying on the ground near one of his hands. The gym bag is still underneath the truck, as is a set of wire stripper/cutter/crimper pliers.

A couple of the local mechanics--you forget their names at the moment--open the personnel door on the garage and peek out warily. One is holding a long-barreled revolver.

The cars continue to scream, whoop, and honk.

PORTER AND CHANTRY:

More organ notes begin to slowly flesh out a pulsating, tense, slightly dissonant chord that seems to be taking on a life of its own.

Porter spins and deals the panel access door a mighty wallop with his jackboot. The door, dented beyond usefulness, springs open and bounces off the wall at the end of its swing, vibrating heavily. Behind the door is a pair of matched control panels, apparently one for each restroom. Each has switches, buttons, timers, and little LED indicators that say how much disinfectant foam is left in the tanks.

However, the particulars of the panels are irrelevent--Porter knows how it works, and that if he activates the cleaning system, much of the bathroom will be coated in a disinfectant foam (which also serves as a fire-extinguishing medium in an emergency), then rinsed with cold water, and then the hot air jets and ventilation blower will come on and dry the room out. However, the system is equipped with a motion sensor to keep it from working if people are in the bathroom, and an automatic lock that will keep the door from opening while the cleaning system is in operation. There is an override button that will defeat these safety features, but someone will have to hold it down for it to work. It's unlikely that anyone inside will be hurt by the cleaning system, but it would be an unexpected and disorienting surprise.

OZ:

SECONDS FOUR THROUGH SIX:

The "thuds," "chunks," and ricochet whines continue as whoever is in that fleeing vehicle lays down a hail of on the general area of Jenn's truck. This time you definitely heard a heavy pistol shot mixed in there. The top half of a plastic glow-in-the-dark Virgin Mary figurine, formerly married to the bottom half of a plastic glow-in-the-dark Virgin Mary figurine which was glued to the dashboard of Jenn's truck as some kind of ironic kitsch statement, bounces off the car next to you and lands at your feet.

By the end of the sixth second, the SUV has made the next corner and the parking lot is out of the line of fire. The place is a circus of screaming car alarms and blinking lights. The guy you shot (and who seems to be unlucky enough to have cohorts who bail on him at the first sign of trouble) is sprawled awkwardly on the pavement, the yellow parking lot stripe disappearing under a spreading pool of dark fluid.

At this point we'll duck out of second-by-second mode.

OOC: Keep in mind that this is not happening concurrently with the action that's going down at Club Terranea. Oz had to walk all the way back to the car, whereas Porter and Chantry's actions picked up right after handing off their hardware. Even if Oz called Porter from the middle of the spontaneous war zone he's found himself in, it would probably be a couple of minutes in the Porter/Chantry part of our show before Porter's phone would ring. I hope that makes sense--if not, let me know and I will try to clarify.

PORTER:

The panel doesn't have a handle--it looks as though the key itself sort of becomes the handle when the bar employees need to open it. It's similar to an apartment mailbox door, though much larger (about 40cm on a side square). The metal is kind of flimsy, though, being primarily to keep people from playing with it rather than to stop safecrackers. It looks like a stout impact to it, a very solid punch or even better a kick or, best of all, a blunt object strike with a lot of clout behind it, would probably bend enough it so you could pry it open around the lock's pawl.

PORTER AND CHANTRY:

Loud organ notes begin to sound, as if a heavy, tense-sounding chord is being built very slowly. Almost Bach-like, really, but the timbre of the sound is thick and synthetic--not like a real organ or a high-tech sample of one, but an approximation of an organ note with a slight shimmer to it. Given that the instruments looked pretty archaic and primitive by the 2029 standards, it makes sense.

OZ:

SECOND THREE:

The guy who was trying to make a run for it falls to the pavement on the opposite side of Jenn's truck from you. It's unlikely that anyone in the garage could react so quickly to make it outside at this point, but you take a glance over there as all hell begins to break lose:

There is a squealing of tires and a fusillade of fire from the direction of the dot's original source. The reports are far too loud to be a handgun or SMG, but not thunderous enough to be a shotgun--probably a light rifle of some kind. The rate of fire seems a little too slow for a full-auto rifle, but seems a little fast for semi-auto. You think there is at least one random heavy pistol shot mixed in there somewhere, but it's too much to pick out at this point.

There are thudding and and popping noises as slugs hit the cars around you, and your back is showered with tiny cubes of safety glass. At least one bullet ricochets and whines off into the distance, and at least two more cars begin screaming alarm sirens and flashing their lights.

PORTER AND CHANTRY:

You hear the sound of a match being struck, amplified by (gratuitous number here) watts of power. Most of the crowd is hushed, but a few hoots and cheers are sprinkled here and there.

PORTER:

The hallway light is dim, but you recognize a sticker on the metal panel at the end of the hall. The panel is a door, behind which is probably a control panel for the bathrooms' automated high-pressure cleaning system. It has no handle, but a relatively flimsy lock (the type normally seen on desk drawers) securing it.

OZ:

SECOND TWO:

The 11mm handcannon thunders twice, the muzzle flash strobing the area underneath the truck with light. The reports are deafening here, surrounded by the hard surfaces of the concrete and the cars on either side of you. It kind of feels like somebody jabbing at your eardrums with an icepick.

You hear the sound of the guy thudding into the side of the next car over. You're pretty sure you hit him, but we're not talking about the kind of timeframe that would allow for in-depth investigation.

The car next to Jenn's truck on your side has one of those godawful car alarms that sounds the horn in quick, random bursts as though some panicked person inside is beating on the steering wheel. Apparently the sound of the shots was enough to trigger some kind of thin-skinned sensor on it, and the thing begins to honk and flash its lights.

(ooc: Wilphe, I have two guns listed on your character sheet--one 9mm and one 11mm. I need to know which one it is you are using before I can go further...thanks...)

PORTER:

You arrive in the hallway. Chantry is waiting next to the mens' room door. A couple of guys onstage are tuning instruments. What seems like a couple of overenthusiastic people start applauding. Then...

PORTER AND CHANTRY:

Suddenly, the lights (specifically, the video sky) go out. The place is dark except for a few glowing items--clothes, jewelry, and even some mixed drinks, fire-code compliant red signs pointing to exits--visible in the crowd, which immediately begins cheering. A droning organ pedal note, breaking up at the ragged bottom of the PA speakers' frequency range, begins rumbling through the whole place, seemingly ionizing the very air and searching for resonance in your chest cavities. A dim sign marked "RESTROOMS" bathes Chantry in a sick yellow light at the end of the hallway.

PORTER:

(yikes...it's Porter's turn for the astounding awareness roll!)

You spot the three guys just as they disappear into the restroom hallway. The guy in the fedora looked like Skyler, a fixer you've done business with before but don't particularly like. You know some of the same people around town. Skyler used to be a pimp, but began diversifying last year. You've got an idea that he might be behind some supply issues you had with that counterfeit Gucci handbag racket a few months back, but you're not sure. Skyler can be kind of abrasive and rude in what seems like a gratuitous way, and seems to be kind of a sadist.

If it is Skyler, the two goons are probably a couple of refu hardcases--guys who aren't good at much except hurting people and talk like Crazy Ivan does. If they're after D'Angelo, D'Angelo is sure to have a bad time at this particular Chimes show.

You also spot Baldine trying to surreptitiously follow and keep an eye on Chantry, who seems to be making a beeline for the same hallway. She's just not subtle enough for this kind of work.

Glancing around, you see that heavyset girl with the clown face and braids talking to a large guy with a beergut in a black shirt with "SECURITY" in glowing yellow letters on the front. Clownchick holds her hand up at about Chantry's height as she speaks.

Roadrunner leaves through the front door.

A dwarf, sitting on one of his brethren's shoulders, is hitting on drag queen in a shimmering purple caped pantsuit and peacock-feathered headdress.

Someone wheels a purple velvet sofa and a large wrought-iron floor-standing candelabra out to center stage front while someone else adjusts an smallish, old-style acoustic drum kit (in red sparkle finish) on a riser at center stage rear. "The Chimes" is painted rather plainly in black letters on the front skin of the kick drum. Other people set up other instruments and their respective amplifiers--guitar, bass, some kind of keyboard organ on a podium--all very old-looking stuff.

CHANTRY

You get to the short hallway to the restrooms, with the ladies' room on the left side of the other end and the mens' room on the right. There is some kind of silver access panel on the wall at the very end of the hallway. A couple of festive-looking young women are walking out of the ladies' room and brush past you. Some guy (nobody you've seen yet) is shoved bodily out of the mens' room door. He stops to get his bearings, and starts walking back toward the club proper with a worried look on his face, stuffing his shirt tail into his pants. No goon is posted at the door, but when you try to push it open, it only opens a couple of inches before it hits something large and semi-solid, most likely a person.

A voice calls out, in a thick Balkan accent:

"Toilet closed. You come back. Ten minutes, huh?"

OZ:

SECOND ONE:

As you look, one of your eyes registers a brief nanosecond flash of brilliant red light, radiating from the window of an SUV parked in the "No Parking Zone" across the way from the entrance to the parking lot. You drop to a kneel, pointing the gun at the guy underneath. There is a truck and some other nondescript sedan between you and the source of the laser. Unless that thing is a grenade launcher or something, you should be safe for the moment.

It's pretty dark here between the cars, and it's hard to see what the guy is doing. There's what looks like a black nylon gym bag on the ground between you and him.

"Don't move please..."

While you are doing this, he seems to be rolling out from under the truck, away from you, leaving the bag behind. "F*ck me!" he yells.

CHANTRY:

You catch sight of D'Angelo again. He seems to have just broken off from a small cluster of people and is heading to the restrooms, which, according to a sign, are down a short hallway off the main drag of the club.

A group of three guys are lurking near the entrance to this hallway. They look about as out-of-place here as you and Porter do. They're covered in glitter, and are wearing nametags that you can't read from here. Two of them are pretty big with thick "I'm a hired goon" faces, and dressed rather plainly--heavy-looking jackets, dark colored pants, gloves. One of those two is wearing a dark knit watch cap. The third guy is much smaller and is dressed a bit more flamboyantly (though it's nothing even remotely "flamboyant" relative to this crowd), wearing a fedora and a brown duster coat.

These three specimens seem to be doing their best to look nonchalant. After Bobby passes them, the smaller guy motions for them to follow him as he follows Bobby toward the restrooms. They two goons look around, classic street paranoia, as they turn and amble into the hallway.

PORTER:

Chantry is moving with a purpose. Perhaps he's spotted Bobby D'Angelo? Baldine, smirking maliciously, seems to be following him at a somewhat discrete distance.

Someone in the clot of people ushering Wonderful Digby away stops Roadrunner to tell her about what "that creep in the suit" did. Roadrunner, looking tired and mussed from performing, seems absolutely perplexed as to why this person is telling her about it.

"So tell a bouncer, hippie!" she interrupts, and shakes her head as she continues for the door...

OZ:

You don't recognize the voice at all. And Jenn is not the type to let others work on her baby at all, let alone while she's not around.

The dot's source is somewhere on the street behind you, perhaps in or around a parked car. The street was relatively dead when you strolled up, so you suspect a car, but aren't sure which one. It's pretty unprofessional. Oz is well aware that accurate shooting doesn't come from knowing where to point the gun--it comes from smooth, even control as the trigger is pulled. Aside from the intimidation effect, those dot sights generally only help rank amatuers, bad shots, and chronic hipshooters, and even then it's only at close ranges. Still, depending on what the sight is bolted to, it may be a moot point.

Sure enough, an engine is starting. Probably someone in a car.

As you begin to walk alongside the car, the voice hisses something to the effect of "Do him! Do him!"

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OOC:

At this point Oz is entering a sort of second-by-second detailed phase. You can approach this one of two ways--either by posting what you're trying to accomplish in the next second, or by posting a longer-term goal and letting me break it down into seconds. The old Streetlight Serenade game has a pretty drawn-out example.

PORTER:

You manage to step aside from the drama that is unfolding around Wonderful Digby and scan the room. This place is quite the carnival right now.

The club is pretty big--it's apparently built inside a small underground shopping mall. What was probably a large fountain in the middle has been filled in with concrete to create a stage, upon which several people are still setting up instruments for the next act, which is likely the Chimes. Behind this is a large wall (clearly a more recent construction) separating one half of the club from the other, probably a backstage area and storage. You suspect that somewhere back there is some kind of corridor to the store up on the surface where you had the ordeal at the ticket window. The huge round-column radiating speakers pump out some obscure, but catchy rock from another era--canned music to keep people grooving between acts. There are lots of raised areas to provide a good view of the stage, and plenty of room on the floor. Most of the ceiling and the wall behind the stage have been painted with that liquid TFT-matrix stuff that allow you to attach inductive video feeds into it and put whatever images you want on it. Currently, it's set to look like a night sky as seen from maybe the moon or something, because there aren't many places in the world where you can see that many stars and an excessive amount of meteors. It bathes the whole room in a muted silver light.

The old stores on either side of this main corridor seem to have been adapted to different uses. One looks to be a "chillout" lounge, with about 20 old couches strewn about. Another houses the bar. A third has several little art-and-craft booths--people selling beads, jewelry, T-shirts, whatever.

The most striking element is the people. There must be 800 people in here, and it's a diverse freakshow of different subcultures. Blissed-out hippies. Sneering goths and punks. Pirate Posers. A bunch of laughing fratboys in matching athletic jackets. A pack of dwarves (not Tolkein-esque dwarves, but "little people")...drag queens...mimes...an Elvis Impersonator...Random uber-freaks like Wonderful Digby, and a generous sprinkiling of "normals," some wearing nametags and being very sparkly. The attitude seems remarkably positive for a bunch of people who ordinarily wouldn't go to the same hangouts, but none of this is helping you spot D'Angelo.

You do spot Roadrunner, the truck-driver chick who works for Larry that Will and Ivan were hitting on that one time, heading for the exit with a guitar case slung over her back and a second large, flat case in her right hand. She hasn't spotted you.

CHANTRY:

The cheers as Wonderful Digby was about to throw the glitter become brief shouts of disbelief. People crowd around Whimpering Digby, some saying things like "Why did you do that?" and others asking what happened. Most of them just seem confused.

"Get away from him, you creep!" shouts a heavyset girl with long, red braids and smiling clown makeup. People begin to help Wonderful Digby away toward the room full of couches, giving you evil looks as they retreat.

Baldine is practically doubled over with poisonous laughter, as if some joke has gone over unexpectedly well.

Porter seems to have taken a step or to away and is scanning the room, which, if you'll read the description above, would probably qualify as a circle of Hell for someone like Chantry.

OZ:

You hear the sound of some small object or other--perhaps a tool or something of that size--drop to the ground underneath the truck, and a gruff male voice answers:

"uh, yeah....my flashlight's dead and I, uh, think there's something wrong with the, uh, shift linkage..."

Out of the corner of your eye you see a little red dot dance briefly and spastically along the grille guard of the pickup. Whatever the source, it's clearly not from the guy underneath it, and as jumpy as the dot's movement was, the source is not too close. Either that or someone drinks a whole lot of coffee.

CHANTRY:

The strike connects. You were very subtle about it. However, Wonderful Digby is not a subtle person when it comes to suffering pain. If you could see them through the oversized shades, you would see his eyes cross momentarily. His lips pull back to reveal huge teeth and a girlish shriek leaps from his mouth. The bucket plummets from his grasp. His other hand jerks reflexively into his chest. The net result is that virtually all the glitter is dumped at his feet, with little collateral damage. It would be another touchy situation alleviated by the careful and subtle application of violence, but the fact is that Digby seems about to slump to his knees as if mortally wounded.

(ooc: You essentially got the drop in initiative, but before going too much further I want to see what Porter is up to. Incidentally, I'm not sure that I've ever had any cyberpunk characters who would be at home in this particular scenario either )

PORTER AND CHANTRY:

As Chantry begins to respond to Wonderful Digby*, Wonderful Digby's free hand begins arcing up and out of the bucket with a big wad of glitter clenched therein. In short, the choices boil down as follows:

1. Attempt a "Dodge Suppressive Glitter" roll to avoid being showered with glitter(there's not much of a way to accomplish this and still look nonchalant).

2. Attempt some sort of Hand-to-Hand block to prevent Wonderful Digby from launching his glitter offensive.

3. Get Sparkly. Very Sparkly.

4. ??? (Gotta be open-minded!)

OZ:

I should add that you are about 35 meters from Jennifer's truck when you first spot movement underdeath it. It is parked on the opposite side of the employee's lot from the Chevy. The big garage doors at the Apple Substation are closed, but there are clearly some lights on inside.

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OOC:

*ORIGIN NOTE #C2-1

The name "Wonderful Digby" was appropriated from a silly old Clint Eastwood film called Coogan's Bluff...in that movie, ol' Clint plays a cowboy-like cop from the country who comes to swinging' 60s San Francisco in search of some kind of fugitive or something. He visits a sort of mod-psychadelic nightclub and there is a character there who calls himself "Wonderful Digby"...other than the name and the idea that he's in a strange club, this character has nothing to do with the Wonderful Digby featured in this storyline--I just thought that, given enough time and people in the world, probabilities dictate that sooner or later some other clown is going to call himself "Wonderful Digby"...

TRIVIA CHALLENGE!

The first player to name the "mod" nightclub in the film mentioned above may find that his character will receive a mysterious (and as of yet undecided) bonus. I may issue further trivia challenges, but will give the three of you veto power (if any two of you don't like the idea, please say so and I'll sh#tcan it!)

The transfer of hardware is easily accomplished. The only person who has any clue of what's going on is Darius, and he doesn't seem to care as long and he can wave his wand over you and not have it go off. He's a bit lackadaisical about it, really. It probably wouldn't be hard to get a derringer in by hiding it under your hat or something.

"Have fun!" he says. You're not sure, but there may have been an ominous undertone in that.

PORTER AND CHANTRY:

You enter the club. Before you even get far enough in to get a good look at the place, you see Baldine from outside standing nearby. She points at the two of you and shrills, "VIRGINS!"

"Virgins? Virgins?" a cartoony male voice shouts as somebody seems to be moving through the crowd.

A strange character breaks from the cluster of people next to Baldine with the speed of ninja on crystal meth. Very tall and reed-thin, he's dressed in a gold lame tuxedo and a matching top hot that seems strained to contain the massive afro-like bush of curly brown hair that pokes out from below the brim. Ludicrously oversized round sunglasses perch on an oversized beak that only a mother could love. He's holding a clear plastic bucket of glitter in his left hand.

"I am Wonderful Digby!" he declares in a sort of singsong way. It's as if a bad community theater actor were told to behave as though he were a foppish 19th-century dandy timewarped to Woodstock, 1969. "Welcome, Virgins!" he cries, planting his free hand into the bucket of glitter. Several people, including Baldine, begin to cheer.

CHANTRY:

This whole place is starting to remind you of Dante's Inferno...it's like a bunch of circles of Hell, each with its own guardian that must be passed. However, thanks to a stellar awareness check, you actually caught sight of Bobby D'Angelo before Wonderful Digby appeared, and are pretty sure you know about where he is...

PORTER:

Your awareness check didn't come out as great, but thanks to Wonderful Digby, you are pretty sure you know why guns aren't allowed in here...

OZ:

You are blissfully unaware of the Wonderful Digby incident as you find your way back to the car. Claude Street is a big, vibrant jukebox of noise and color, and a guy like you is practically invisible there except to the hawkers outside the various bars trying to get you to come in for a drink, and the occasional looney or street bum too stupid or desperate to realize that you're a hard motherf***er and ask you for spare change.

Things seem routine at the Apple Cab outpost. As you approach, you can see Jennifer the mechanic's pickup truck--a black, purposeful-looking 4X4 on chunky tires, bristling with extra lights and tubular grillework--sitting in the same lot where you parked the Chevy. She normally works at Apple HQ, where you punch in, but tonight she must either be on Claude Street or has stopped by to play some poker.

Wait a minute! You think you see a shadow moving underneath her truck.

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(OOC: IMPORTANT SPLIT-PARTY ACTION NOTE: Keep in mind that Oz is somewhat ahead of the actions of the other two at this point. I try to keep continuity intact, so if somebody picks up the phone and calls the other "half" of the party, I may have to either delay the call or backtrack a bit to make it work. Should a backtrack have good reason to change a character's actions that have already been posted, we'll "rewind" and go from there.)

Porter ends up chatting with the bouncer. He calls himself Darius, and he explains the situation:

"Sorry, man...s'no check-in on a Chimes night. Th'band--at least little Miss Tomorrow--thinks that by discouraging people who pack heat from coming to th'shows, they're cutting down on the p'tential for violence. I think it's stupid, myself...."

His eyebrows arch comically as he says the word "stupid," betraying a sense of humor under his imposing presence.

"...but I ain't the boss. Those people who do pack either leave their s--t in a locker up at the maglev station, or pay Greta the flowergirl t'hold onto it for 'em. She's got sort of a cottage industry, but s'only a matter a time the police catch on and shake her down."

The people who were behind you in line arrive and give their tickets to the skinny guy in the Mackinaw.

"'scuse me...work to do..." Darius says, waving his wand over the mooks. The wand seems satisfied that they aren't armed. They proceed into the club.

Porter does know Greta and could probably get her to hold the stuff as a favor. The maglev station's at least as far away as the car and likely has a cop or two wandering around.

The wide concrete stairs and weelchair ramp descend to what looks like it used to be a row of glass doors before someone took it upon himself to cover most of them up with sheets of thick pressboard, all painted black and reinforced with random bits of angle iron. These boards are covered in layers of posters and grafitti that seems to have spilled over from the steps. The one remaining door has sprouted a short line of people. It seems to be moving far more quickly than the ticket line did (thank heavens). People hand a skinny guy in a red plaid Mackinaw their ticket. He stamps their hand and, if they look young, checks for ID. A barrel-like hulk of a bouncer in a long black duster over a black hooded sweatshirt casually waves a slender, beeping wand over people before allowing them inside. They seem relatively efficient about it.

This area is shielded from the swirling chill breeze of the courtyard and is much more comfortable. Still, it's far from warm. Someone out on Claude Street leans on his car horn for a prolonged period of time for reasons unknown. Someone else yells for him to "shut up" in the most profane manner a drunken person can manage.

OZ:

As you stick the tag on your lapel, she smiles as if it's the two of you against the whole world. It's as if that gesture said a lot more than your words.

CHANTRY:

She turns from Oz as you speak, her eyes lingering on him until her head is facing yours, at which point she looks at you again. She tilts her head sideways as if she's trying to understand you better. This sort of thing is nothing new to you, especially with those people whose lives seem to revolve around joy and mirthmaking. The difference in this case is that it's almost as if she has a pressing need to connect with you. She slides the nametag toward you as if it's some kind of sacrament.

ALL:

A male face peeks out from the curtain behind her. Short, spikey red hair over a young, distinctly Nipponese countenance dusted with glitter. Upon spying the scene taking place, he rolls his eyes and shouts to someone behind him, "She's still in here!" in as native a voice as any whitebread kid in the suburbs.

"Mona! Show! You know, singing? Music?"

She holds her left hand behind her, palm toward him, one finger raised--the universal "In a minute!" gesture.

The guy's face disappears into the pleats of the curtain with another roll of his eyes.

OOC: Darn it! I'd added a post during that space between the downtimes, and it didn't make it to the changeover. Hopefully I can recreate it...

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CHANTRY:

The warm air spilling out around her through the openings in the thick glass window smells faintly of jasmine.

"Chantry," she smiles. "That's a unique name. Very old, I'm sure...."

ALL:

Her eyebrows furrow slightly with an apparently genuine sorrow. "I'm sorry, guys...you've pretty much missed the Phe-Ramones. If you want to get in to see the rest of the show, it's still gonna be twelve bucks each."

While she's speaking, she produces a purple marker from the mass of curls and picks up the roll of "Hi! My Name Is:" tags from the counter. She tears three tags off at the perforations and fills them in..."Porter," "Oz," and "Chantry" (the last is even spelled right--many people go with "Shantry" at first). It's as if she has little doubt in her mind that you'll want tickets.

"All new people have to wear a nametag!" she declares officiously. She looks like she's about to push the nametags through the arched counter opening, but hesitates, one iridescent-painted fingernail pinning the tags to the formica.

"But before I sell you three any tickets, I'm gonna be completely straight with you and I hope you'll be straight with me."

She briefly glances at the stairway leading down into Club Terranea, and back to you again.

"Everybody who comes out to see the show is important and dear to me. I would hate to find out that someone dear to me had a bad time at my show. You three don't really even look like you'd be hanging out together, let alone coming here together. It brings a question to mind: Are you guys here to cause trouble at my show?"

Her tone still undeniably sweet, but now it has a different undercurrent--that of someone who is used to being in command of other people's emotions and takes the responsibility seriously. She glances from one of you to the other expectantly, making it clear that she didn't mean that as a rhetorical question.

Still smiling, she looks directly into Porter's eyes.  "Porter..." she says.  It sounds nice when she says it.  Much nicer than when Malkie says it.  

"The Phe-Ramones won't be on for too much longer," she says, her voice heavy with sympathy, "You've missed most of their act.  It's almost time to for me to go get ready, actually.  We just play music we like, and other people seem to like it.  We're not much like the Phe-Ramones...we do mostly original songs...we just sort of draw our opening act out of a hat.  It's fair to everyone that way.  Unfortunately it's still twelve bucks to get in."  

There's certainly something very appealling about her.  Something that makes it okay that it's going to cost twelve bucks to get in.  She seems to have a massive personal presence.  Charisma, even--it tends to tug at one's empathy.  It's difficult to "check her out" while she's looking into your eyes because it takes some measure of willpower just to break her gaze.    

She moves her eyes to Chantry's, peeking up at him from under her eyebrows.  For Porter, it breaks the spell long enough for him to notice the bit of skin between the bottom of the back of her vest (the vest is stenciled with a large black numeral "3" for whatever reason) and the top of her low-slung iridescent plastic jeans that's revealed by her hunched over position.  She's striped there, too.  Porter also notices a whole roll of nametags like the one she's wearing on the little counter in her booth.  

"And who--"

A male voice from the other side of a curtain behind her interrupts, "Hurry up, Mona!"

"In a minute!" she calls back.  

She gives Oz and Porter a conspiratorial smile.  "Can't be late to my own show, can I?"

She returns her gaze to Chantry's eyes.  "And who are you?"

From a more fantastical angle:

Perhaps a trained and cybered dolphin or sealion that swims alongside and attaches limpet mines to the sub?  

The mines could have built in contact speakers that press up against the hull and relay a message to the occupants:

"ATTENTION SUBMARINERS!  YOUR SHIP HAS BEEN FITTED WITH A LIMPET MINE.  YOU HAVE FIVE MINUTES TO SURFACE AND SURRENDER, OR FACE CERTAIN DEATH!"

Alternately, a borg who's been set up as a mermaid/merman and can swim up to the sub could do the same thing.

She ("MonaJane," it would seem) raises an eyebrow at Oz, still smiling and not budging from her relaxed, but vaguely obstinate position.

"Oh, they look pretty real to me, Oz..."  she says (as if she and Oz are now a part of some smug little conspiracy), and tilts her head to look at the other two of you  expectantly.  "..but there are things they don't look, too.  Real or not, I know they've got names.  I just know it!"

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

ooc:  PR who, what?  Is that a reference I'm not getting?  

"Wise asses!" Baldine says, rolling her eyes.  She moves along to the people behind you and starts her routine again.  One of them actually appears to be giving her the money.  She walks to the front of the line, ignoring Chantry's question on the way, and barges right in front of the neo-beatniks as the group of college types leaves the window, gets her ticket, exchanges some surprisingly pleasant words with the girl selling tickets, and marches off toward the entrance to Club Terranea, pausing only to flip the bird to the three of you.

The beatniks are getting their money together and buying their tickets from the girl at the window, who is close enough to see and hear and is perhaps worthy of description here:

The first thing you notice is all that hair.  Thick, almost black curls spilling down over her shoulders despite being tied into two voluminous pigtails at the upper sides of her head.  Here and there, flat curling metallic ribbons are either woven in or perhaps implanted into the scalp.  This sparkling mass of hair frames a face that's more "girl next door" than "fashion magazine covergirl", but is still quite unique and striking--too much so to have sprang from the knife of some stripmall  plastic surgeon.  Her eyes are the tiniest bit too narrow, and her nose is just slightly crooked, and her mouth is maybe a little too wide, but for whatever reason the features all harmonize beautifully.  She smiles broadly and exuberantly as the beatniks buy tickets, and seems to know most of them by name and asks them how they've been, how so-and-so is doing, and so on.  She's sitting in a small room behind the glass of the ticket window, wearing what appears to be an old olive army vest of some sort over what looks at first to be a formfitting shirt with 2cm wide black horizontal stripes evenly spaced.  She laughs at some obscure reference one of the beatniks makes a pun out of.  

After a minute or so, the beatniks clear out, tickets in hand, and it's your turn.

"Hiya guys!"  says the girl.  She's got a stick-on nametag, the sort you see at family reunions, interoffice corporate dinners or substance abuse meetings.  The phrase "Hi!  My name is:" appears in red block print at the top, and the name "MonaJane" is scrawled in the white space underneath in flowery purple markerline.  

She leans forward to look the three of you up and down, and promptly folds her arms on the little desk and rests her chin on her crossed wrists, so her face is right at the opening where you'd hand over the money.  Two things become apparent:

1.  Those black stripes are not a shirt.  They're either tattoos or they are painted on her skin.

2.  Something about her gaze makes you think she's looking right into you.  Not through you, like a schizoid or a shellshock victim, but into you, as if she's probing your thoughts.  It's a little unsettling, but has a certain palpable warmth to it.  Either that, or it's just the heated air from her booth spilling out through the openings in the glass.    

Still resting her chin on her arms, she looks from one of your faces to the other, smiling impishly.  She blows an errant strand of dark ringlets out of her eyes.  

"So...what are your names?"

She emphasizes the word "names" melodically, as if she's just met three precocious kids and is asking them the same question.

Baldine looks at Chantry as if he's just stepped off a flying saucer and told her that his hovercraft is full of eels.  She turns to Porter and Oz, lifting a gloved hand up close to her shoulder and pointing at Chantry.

"Is he for real?"

The surly pack of goths have their tickets and are moving toward the entrance.  Next up are some average-looking college hipster types in blandly stylish clothes.  A couple of groups of people have joined in line behind you.

The inevitable happens.  The bald (assuming you don't consider a few days' stubble to be "hair") girl works her way back from being ignored at the front of the line to being ignored at the back of the line.  She will herein be known as "Baldine"...

"Hey guys...can you spot me the money for a ticket? I only

need twelve more bucks..."

OZ:

There's no way she's packing--I mean that coat could be hiding a multitude of sins, but she doesn't look like the type to be packing.  Her tone has a hint of whine to it that makes it seem more like she wants to be on something but isn't 'cause she can't afford it.  Kind of a suburban brat-turned-streetkid vibe.

PORTER:

While telling a local street-level dealer named Skelly on the phone that you've "sold out" your supply of Blue Glass--it's easier than explaining the problem with Habib and his limited grasp of English--you can see Greta (the drag queen with the flower cart), but that's about it for people you know.  You can recall rumors that Henry Haldemeyer, who owns the music shop and the club, is some kind of retired badass or other, and isn't very tolerant of such shenanigans as ticket-scalping on or around his property.  If you're not mistaken, he's also one of the more prominent locals in the fight to keep this area of town from being corporate-ized, sanitized, and otherwise reduced to the type of place people like him wouldn't want to go to, and has some considerable pull around here.  A real crusader type.    

ALL:

The line isn't too big, and seems mostly to be small groups of people.  The annoying part is that it seems to move kind of slow, as if a brief conversation is being held at the ticket window before each group leaves to head to the door.  Anyone who cranes his neck to look will notice that the girl working the ticket window is the same as the one featured on the everchanging backlit LCD "posters," standing among what are presumably the other members of The Chimes.  Apparently she's selling the tickets to her own show and is treating the work as a sort of social event in and of itself.  She's currently waving at two hippie types who have just bought tickets and are heading for the door.  

The cluster of latter-day beatniks in front of you, clad mostly in a variety of worn dark coats, cordouroy pants, berets, and striped scarves, begins discussing the merits and flaws of subversive amputee poet Elvis De Milo while they effeminately suck coffee out of sipper-topped foam tankards.  The whole line moves forward.  The mopey, dour-looking pack of goths now at the window don't seem to be in the mood for small talk, at least.  They should be gone quickly.

"C'mon, you guys can spare it..." says Baldine.  She looks expectantly at Chantry, who is easily the best-dressed of the three of you.