Mosca Syndrome

Guinea Pig!  That explains it.  Blues decides that there's no time like the present to see if she can walk.  She asks Arrow for a notepad and pencil and scribbles down the names of the painkillers and the number of the mystery drug.  She then hands the clipboard back to arrow and begins detaching the various leads, tubes, and whatever, taking care to make sure none of the devices starts screaming an alarm.  She is in the middle of this when that crocodile wrangler guy strolls in.

"Hi, Weyland.  Yeah, I'm still in the game.  I do need a couple of extra things if we've got time to get them."

She puts out a hand for someone to help her get to her feet.  While Blues finds Arrow's presence relaxing, Weyland for whatever reason (some gender issue?) makes her feel the need to be professional and get moving.  As soon as she determines her footing to be steady, she'll wander over to the drawers the nurse was digging in to find her pills.  Hopefully whatever is left of her stuff is there.  Her jacket is probably nuked, as was the T-shirt she was wearing at the time.  She'll pull out a fresh T-shirt at random (it turns out to be a dark purple jersey-style thing with yellow stripes and the number "23" emblazoned on the front and back).  She doffs the hospital gown and carefully writhes into the snug-fitting jersey and into whichever pair of Black BDU-style pants is the cleanest and most intact.  She pulls the suspenders over her shoulders and s-l-o-w-l-y crouches down to put on socks and her Chuck Taylors.  She steps into the bathroom, brushes her teeth and hair and ties the latter back into two low-riding pigtails.  Everything she isn't wearing gets stuffed into the convertible bag.  Any money left ends up in her pockets.

She finds her own notepad and pen and hands Arrow's back.  She begins writing things down.

"You two have had more time to learn your way around this place.  I want to get this stuff before we leave.  If there's time, I mean, and nobody already has it.  Shouldn't take more than an hour or so."

The list contains (using whatever proper names that a medtechie would know and I wouldn't):

Medical Stuff:

Two extra airhypos.

Five doses of each of the following in airhypo-compatible format:

1.  Some kind of knock-out drug

2.  Some kind of stimulant to help revive people

3.  Some kind of truth-serum type drug

If airhypo form is not available, dermal "slap" patches will do.

A week's supply of whatever painkillers she's been put on, preferably in dermal patch form.  

5 small first-aid kits for individual team members to carry.

1 large kit of medical supplies (bandages, painkillers, disinfectants, etc.) that could be used to keep a badly shot-up group of people going for a day or two.  

6 hits of whatever combat drug is available that supplies a long-term energy boost and a relative immunity to pain (not terribly worried about side effects--it's for emergency use only).

2 capsules of Potassium Cyanide.

Clothing and gear:

1 light bullet-resistant jacket (SP10), in size XXSmall, in some dark solid color

1 pair of discreet smartgoggles (look like regular shades--preferably tortiseshell Ray-ban Wayfarers) equipped with low-lite, anti-dazzle, and digital zoom options.

1 package of compressible foam earplugs (like for plane travel-usually comes 8-12 plugs to a pack)

A second convertible bag.  

A mastoid communicator and whatever add-ons are necessary to be able to communicate with the team (scrambler, etc.)

Other:

1 box of 20 .357 armor-piercing bullets

1 box of 20 .357 hollowpoint bullets

1 paddle-style waistband holster to fit her Ruger revolver.

2 pocket-sized cans of Mace or equivalent.

She'll ask if Weyland will mind going and getting the stuff listed under "Clothing and Gear" and "Other" while she and Arrow go grab the medical stuff.   She'll give Weyland what she thinks is enough money to cover it if he's game.  

Before she leaves the hospital, though, she wants to see if she can learn anything more about this strange drug they've used.  If possible, she'll talk to a doctor, and if not then to a nurse (making sure Arrow and Weyland are around to back her up if that scheming nurse tries to sedate her and tie her up again.  Cheeky Monkey!)

Blues is careful not to walk too quickly and is paying careful attention to the level of pain in her abdomen.  Hopefully, if all goes well, they'll end up back at the plane soon with the stuff.

At some point while shopping with arrow, Blues gets distracted by a booth full of touristy crap.  She buys a floral-print sundress, a wide-brimmed straw hat, a pair of sensible sandals, a Gucci knock-off purse and a canvas shopping bag, into which all this crap goes.  It should be pretty clear to Arrow that she's buying a get-up that will allow her to look like a tourist in Cartehegna.  She tops it off with a cheap digital camera on a strap.

While crossing a narrow gangplank from one section of the Argos to another, Blues asks "Arrow, has any hard planning been done?  Do things seem sane or do you think we might be running support and cleanup on a major bloodbath?"

"The Argos People are paying for it?" she asks, her voice low and tinged with disbelief and a concern that somewhere the devil is laughing.  Faustina!

"This is surprisingly painless--well, painless for someone like me," she says with an emphasis that's peculiar even by her standards.  "Either that or they've got me so loaded with painkillers that I can't feel it very much.  That's why I want to have a look at this chart.  I should be able to tell pretty quickly if I need a little more rest or if I can get up now.  You guys can't wait around for me, though.  The Eu--um, you-know-whos may already be there."

When Arrow hands her the chart, she says, "Thanks.  Keep an eye out for that nurse and her pack of thick-necked orderlies while I have a look."

Blues carefully scrutinizes the LCD "clipboard", hoping to determine:

A.  What parts got ripped out, put in, and otherwise.

B.  What drugs they've got her on

C.  If it might be safe to move or get up.

D.  Any notes about her the nurses or doctors might have left for each other.

(OOC:  oops!  I had forgotten about Arrow's "race change" operation.  Well, Blues does have a high awareness and tends to look at things differently than most, so I'll roll with it    )

"Thank you," Blues says as Arrow begins to loosen the straps.  She hopes that diabolical nurse doesn't get mad and return with a pack of thick-necked orderlies.  "Be careful.  The nurses here are very tricky."  

Carefully, so as not to disturb the IVs and other rigamarole attached to her, Blues lifts her gown and has a look at her abdomen to see if she can gain some insight as to what's been done to her.  Her suspicions about this place being expensive are well-founded.  If she was blown up only a few hours ago, she has to wonder what all has been done in the meantime to get her back into such decent shape.  Things taken out, things put in.   If nothing else, she'll want a rundown on what was done before she leaves.

So this attack was personal.  It must have been really personal to get those gangers to attack Dragon in plain sight in a place that throws you overboard if you do so.  Sadly, sometimes Karma comes in the form of an area effect weapon. Literally and figuratively in this case.  Given Dragon's condition, it looks like his skeletons are going to stay closeted for a while.  Blues is glad that her enemies are pretty much confined to the US.

She feels bad for Boon.  Not so much because he got killed, but because he was born in the first place and had no choice but to be Boon, who was apparently the type of guy to get blown up by a hand grenade on some godforsaken boat somewhere, yet not be an important prophet like she apparently is.  

"I'd like to continue if I can and it won't slow everyone down.  I don't really have anything else now."  

She looks at Arrow and pauses.

"Arrow, how long have you been Hispanic?"

She looks around for a mirror.  Is she Hispanic now?  Azules?  She pulls a pigtail around to where she can see it out of the corner of her eye, trying to determine if it's still blue.  What a day it's been!  Ride in Weyland's antique flivver to this boat-island-thing, get blown up and killed, return as a prophet, and possibly end up Hispanic.  La Madre!  

"I probably shouldn't get up before I talk to the nurse.  I don't know just how delicate whatever they did is.  Arrow, can you grab my chart from the end of the bed and hand it to me, please?  That'll help me."

Blues' stare locks on to Arrow, who's coming in as the nurse walks out, like a homing missle.

"Arrow!"  she says in a way normally reserved for people who've just seen a fondly remembered relative get off a jetliner, and far too loudly for a hospital ward.

She tries to sit up, but again bounces off the straps.  She still doesn't know who bought it, but is glad it isn't Arrow.

"I've been looking all over for you!"  she smiles without the vaguest hint of irony.

"I got killed!  But I'm feeling much better now, except my stomach hurts and I've got this itch on the top of my head that I can't reach.  Will you scratch it for me?  What happened up there?  Did I get shot?  I hear somebody else got killed too!  Who?  Is Dragon going to be okay?  Are we still going to Cart-ummmm, you know where?  If we are I want to go too if everyone isn't mad at me for getting killed."

The analyzer picks up the pace again.

"Shhhhh!"

Somehow Blues figured Dragon would have been the last person from their little group to end up here.  Not good.  Whatever happened out there, it must have been bad to take him out.  And she still didn't know which member of the party was killed.  Besides her, that is.  She hopes she hasn't been left behind.  Her mind races.  Poor Blues!  A lonely prophet in a strange land!  The biometric analyzer starts beeping faster as her stress increases.  The last thing Blues wants is to get dosed again.   "Shhhh!" she hisses at it.  She winces as she realizes the nurse is nearby and she's just told an inanimate object to shut up.

Blues wiggles her toes and thinks back to the bumper sticker patching the bullet-holed window at Shiela's apartment:

SOME DAYS IT JUST ISN'T WORTH GNAWING THROUGH THE STRAPS IN THE MORNING

She takes a deep breath, trying to slow the meter down again.  Probably time for a pink flower.  Despite the fact that she believes most nurses are treacherous control freaks who, with little provocation, would happily keep her tied up and doped out of her mind for weeks on end, she decides to speak up.

"Hey, um....I don't know if you or the doctor knows, but I am on drug therapy for, well...certain personal issues.  I had a quantity of Heliotrope 23 tablets in my jacket pocket and should probably have taken one by now today.  Things get a little...strange...if I don't get my dosage.  If you haven't taken care of this already, can you help me?"

She bites her lip.

Mark, I admit it took me a while to change my first impression of you ("know-it-all loudmouth yahoo") to my current impression of you ("knowledgeable loudmouth yahoo with lots of good ideas that I would want to game with if I didn't live 3000 miles away").  Overly sensitive types could easily mistake your (shudder) "in-yer-face" style for bullying or condescension, but these people are going to find this in the damndest places anyway.

As far as certain people on other boards (upon which I don't post but sometimes peek in on to see if anything good has been posted) go, yes, people argue and are opinionated.  But when one finds that the common thread in most of the worst arguments is himself, he should maybe look at what he's doing wrong or find somewhere else to go.  Sometimes when you're right, it's okay to stand by silently and watch others be wrong.  If they are wrong, they'll typically prove it soon enough without your help and they may well stumble onto something good in their efforts (a lot of progress is made by mankind spamming the world with dumb ideas until one of them evolves into a useful one).  But most of all, I can't imagine why anyone stays at a party when they're clearly not wanted.  

Cheers,

MS

Deciding that the nurse will at some point be a valuable ally toward Blues' goal of someday being a person who isn't strapped to a bed in a strange hospital, she takes a deep breath and calms herself.  She knows from experience that nurses usually ask nicely the first time and with an airhypo full of sedatives the second.  Nurses are very good at concealing their hidden voices.

Back from the dead.  Ghost!  Zombie! Vampire!  *shriek* Prophet!  Clearly, her inability to play the song on the piano represented the fact that she was not yet ready for the beyond.  Or it wasn't ready for her.  Or that there were great plans afoot in the world of the living and she will play a decisive role therein.  She bites her lip.  Why her?  

Giving the nurse a suitably cowed look, she glances around.  This place sure looks expensive.  She recognizes a Honeydew-Eiberhoff P238L Biometric Analyzer.  It's not a cheap piece of gear, and neither is the identical one right below it in the equipment rack.  Just how many pieces of her did they have to glue back together?  She's worried.  She really needed the money from this job if she was going to have any chance of getting help when the pink flowers reach the end of their effectiveness.  Death'll be a picnic compared to that...

If she can see the person in the next bed, she'll try to see who it is.

I have always found that basing starting money on the SA is really just another incentive to raise the SA when you don't really need it.  For example, I have seen a number of people play techies with a zero in Jury Rig but decent scores in many tech skills--the character is obviously a wiz with a lot of stuff, so why should they start with nothing?  Also, I hate to see a player pulling points out of "fleshing-out" skills for the sake of bumping their SA so they can get a little bit more equipment right off the bat.  I would suggest setting a fixed amount of starting cash for any character in that campaign.

No matter how many times it happens to you, you never really get used to waking up strapped to a bed in a strange hospital.

-Mittens "Blues" Ballard

She can't think of much to say.  

"It hurts."  she replies softly, shifting slightly and looking around the room.  It does.  She's not in any position to check herself out any further than that, so she tries to relax.  She tries to think back to what happened.  She remembers standing on the deck of the Argos, thinking about...something...and being completely caught off guard by the commotion.  She remembers Arrow yelling at her, and then it seems there is a big gap in the mental tape, and then a series of strange episodes involving a lot of sinister and faceless doctors, bright lights, and long stretches of time spent sitting at a piano in a large empty room, trying over and over to play a simple melody but getting it wrong every time.  These last parts may have been a dream, as she often--wait a minute...Arrow?  

Oh, sh*t, the others!

"Where am I? Where are the others? What day is this?"  she half demands, half pleads.  She tries to sit up but finds her efforts again thwarted by the straps.  Her hands are balled into fists and her legs twitch slightly.  She tries to look into the center of the Nurse's mind for a clue.

After just perusing Edges  (yes, it took being hit over the head with it twice to go look), I have to say that this looks pretty good.  I hope I can find some time to read the whole thing soon.

I haven't been around for a while--is this part of a greater modification to the game?

Seems to me that the vast majority of situations where characters want extra special abilities revolve around one thing:

Having their cake and eating it, too.  

And the icing on this cake is almost always one flavor:

Combat Sense.

It makes some sense, too.

Players with Non-solo characters get tired of the action being over before they can react.  I can relate.  What good is their bada$$ Nomad with a great character concept when some bush-league solo is all it takes to wipe him out before he can react?

Players with Solo characters like the initiative/awareness bonuses, but get sick of having to rely on fixers, techies, corporates, and whatever else to do everything else.  Heaven forbid one character need another to accomplish something and encourage interplayer cooperation, but I can see the silliness in a Solo not being able to score his own ammo from time to time, rigging up a booby trap, or even trying his hand at some kind of cybersurgery if he's got the background.  You can complain about player personality, maturity, and whatever all you want, but the idea of the Solo character lies close to the heart of many of CP2020's munchkin issues.

If you must continue using roles and special abilities, just drop COMBAT SENSE and the "SOLO" role.  "But," you might ask, "how will everyone know my character is a battle-hardened bad-a$$"  Well, it would be reflected by REF, COOL, awareness, and combat skills, wouldn't it?  Think about it--never again will anyone argue that about when they should get their combat sense added to awareness.  Nobody will be able to puzzle over why a cop or nomad or even corporate with years of military and street experience is inherently slower and useless in a fight compared some magical thing called a "solo" with the same basic past, stats, enhancements, and skills.  Heaven forbid, some of these people might play a rockerboy instead of a solo for once.  

If you've done away with combat sense and want to continue dealing with special abilities and still have people who want multiple abilities,  Just impose some drastic limitations on it.  For example:

1.  All special abilites scores may not add up to more than some total, say 10 for example (this could be a crazy powerful character, but it does reflect that you are only one person with only so much time to devote to things).

2.  You can't start with multiple SAs, but if the GM agrees that you have been roleplaying that sort of thing well you can bump them up with IP at some brutal multiplier, like 8x for the second SA, and 16x for the third.  Make it cost.

Just some thoughts,

MS

From the character that caused the phrase "Mosca Syndrome" to be coined.

In the various pockets of a surplus Romanian army jacket, woodland camofluage, two sizes too large, with the name "KOLODNI" stencilled over the left breast pocket:

$2,343 in cash, contained in a paper bag with a dollar sign drawn on it in Sharpie ink.

A small package of cookies (Preferably Oreos)

A package of obnoxiously fruity bubble-gum

A package of Pop Rocks candy

A small, threadbare stuffed bunny rabbit

A silly caricature of a local Immigrations agent drawn on a cocktail napkin (the character was an illegal Eastern European immigrant with a nemesis in the local IM/NAT squad)

Several tiny plastic toys of the sort that come in exotic mixed drinks.

A leatherman-type tool

A Swiss Army Knife

A small butane torch

A small LED flashlight

A lockpick set

A Sharpie marker

A small first-aid kit

A small coil (1m) of piano wire

A couple of small rolls of duct tape, flattened to save space

A video chip featuring numerous episodes of various Neo-Soviet children's cartoons.

(sometimes, if paranoia was high or if she was actively out to get someone) a small homemade pipebomb with an electronic timer on the end.  The timer features a large button and a set of four dip switches.  The red button (protected by a cap when carrying the thing) starts the timer and the dip switches select how many seconds elapse between when the button is pushed and when the thing goes off (selectable between 0 and 15 seconds.  Obviously, you want to set the dip switches ahead of time, as they're very tiny and require a sharp, pointed instrument to change.  It doesn't do a terrible lot of damage, but a character with a high pick pocket skill like this one can often start the timer and slip the device INSIDE another character's armor (one nasty npc with a penchant for rape ended up with one of these tucked into the front of his armored pants).

The worn brown leather motorcycle pants have no normal pockets, but do have intergral knee and hip padding and there is a standard police handcuff key and a razor blade in a hidden pocket inside the waistline in back.  The pants are held up by suspenders, and a Spyderco-type folding knife with a mono-section blade is clipped on the right hip.

Shirts are typically simple T-shirts--usually promotional items featuring cartoon characters, trademarks, or whatever.  

If there are bigger job-specific tools, they would typically be carried in a "convertible bag," a sort of carry-all that could be configured as a hand duffel, shoulder bag, or backpack.  

On those rare occasions where this character carried a gun (often when other characters insisted she carry one), it was usually some little popgun like a .32 or .380 automatic.  In the one case where she was required (again, by other characters) to tote something heavy, it was one of those shortened variants of the M-16 with a telescoping stock (she was only 4' 11" tall, so a light-recoiling gun with a short stock was necessary).

Quote (Bookwyrm @ Jan. 28 2003,19:31)

Welcome back Mosca!! So what did happen to you? (if you don't mind sharing) (Oh, and check out Wilphe's game, Return to Night City - you'll recognise a certain mad Russian! )

I really wish it were an interesting enough story to share, but it really isn't and would just be a bunch a prattling to anyone who doesn't know the people involved.  

I did see that Mad Ivan and Renata had found their way into another game, and I'm glad to hear it.  It would have been a shame had the characters gone to waste.

Hi all,

Just stopping by to apologize for dropping off the face of the Earth last spring and leaving people hanging the way I did in the online games.  I had my reasons, but they don't really justify vanishing without a trace and leaving some cool people wondering what the h*ll happened.  I'm sorry about that and hope you'll forgive it.

Obviously it's a bit late to to get with any of those games again, and I won't kid myself into thinking I can reliably take part in another one, but I hope I'll still be welcome to participate in the forums.    

Thanks for a moment of your time,

Moc-a-Syn

The other ideas leave him completely unfazed, but Porter visibly flinches at the mention of mnemonic couriering.  "Maybe we'll pop by the store tomorrow and find a jacket or something to tide you over until the next paycheck.  Shouldn't be more than a day or two.  As far as a recorder goes, well, let's wait until we've at least actually worked together..."

Porter gets the keys to a pair of non-adjoining rooms on the second floor.

While Ivan drives off in the truck, Porter begins leading Will toward one of the rooms.  "Renata, I hope you don't mind sharing a room with Will.  The rooms are doubles, and I don't think he's going to be trying any funny stuff tonight....eh Will?  I'm gonna stick around outside and wait for Ivan to get back so he doesn't knock on every door in this place until he finds us."

Porter unlocks the door to one of the rooms and helps Will inside, where he dumps him on the closest (queen-size) bed.  He tosses the key to Renata and walks back out.  The rooms are clean enough, with arched doorways and very steretypical south-of-the-border artwork glued to the off-white textured walls.  The bathrooms have actual water showers.  There is a desk built into one wall with a DataSphere (Internet) port and a 100cm wide TV screen built into one wall and surrounded by a rustic-looking picture frame.  The remote and a telephone sits on a table between the beds.  There is some sort of complimentary chocolate mint on the pillow.  The only exit to the room outside of the door is a large picture window immediately adjacent to the door.  The doors are on the outside of the building and open toward the parking lot.  Outside, signs pointing toward a large greenhouse-like structure indicate that it's an enclosed swimming pool/jacuzzi area in five different languages not including the little pictograms.

IVAN:

After some effort (this area is far more populated than the warehouse district even at this hour), you manage to torch the truck.  As you are approaching the hotel, you spot two guys sitting in a maroon Mazda sedan with dented front left fender and a left-to-right crack in the windshield in the hotel parking lot.  This would not be TOO strange if you hadn't noticed a car matching that description sitting near the Tiki Lounge as well, though it was empty at the time.  The guy in the driver's seat notices you looking at their car with you while you are still about 15-20 meters away.  You can see him moving to start the engine.  

You also spot Porter sitting on a bench near the lobby entrance, chatting on a cellphone and apparently oblivious to your presence.

(thanks for your patience in this hectic few weeks)

RENATA:\

In the cab, Porter speaks:

"Chunky is nobody.  Basically he came to us with a little job and told us it was exclusive.  The problem was that it was exclusive to us and every other outfit Chunky bumped into that day and someone else got to the mark before we did.  Word was that Chunky needed money quick, so I'm guessing he's on his way out of town if he's not gone already.  I've put out a couple of feelers on him, but really he's low on my priority list.  Fortunately I was able to hook us up with a "Plan B" and make us some money."  

"Ivan, however, holds grudges.  That's part of the reason I'm interested in having you around.  You seem to have a good rapport with him.  He's got a lot of potential but bad judgement--he pulled some stunts tonight that could have gotten him killed or all of us busted.  He's very handy to have around when you need him, but someone with a good rapport and an ounce of sense could really help us all professionally, even above and beyond medical skills.  I'm not asking you to babysit him, but if you see an opportunity to direct him away from a bad idea and towards a good one, by all means take it.  I do the same thing when I can."

He looks back at Ivan, who is weaving slightly in his lane.

The La Hacienda Inn is a rather half-assed attempt to create a hotel that looks like a Spanish Villa.  White stucco walls, orange tiled roofs, palm trees made of some indestructible polymer, and so on, and so forth.  It is three stories tall and sprawls on the opposite side of the street from the shoreline, just West of the spot where Cleveland's New Downtown begins to extend out over Lake Erie.  The cold wind from the lake makes it seem even chillier outside, and completely wipes out any fleeting resemblence to a tropical paradise that the architecture might have seeded.  

Porter pays the cabbie and climbs out.  

"Ivan, don't you think you should be getting rid of this truck now?  It's a little, um.....incriminating..."

ALL:

The parking lot of the Tiki Lounge is pretty desolate, the only sign of life being a feral cat pawing at something crawling along the sidewalk.  It snaps its head to attention at Ivan's booming voice and scurries into the shadows.  Porter is on the phone with a cab referral service.  He finishes the call.  

"Anyone who wants to ride in the cab with me is welcome to.  It should be here in a few minutes.  I figure we'll go to the La Hacienda Inn on Lakefront Drive.  It's big and anonymous and the rooms are nice enough there."  

RENATA:

There is currently no trace of Miss PurpleArm and her entourage.  There are a few dilapidated electric cars here in the parking lot that might belong to Tiki Lounge staff or one of the losers that are still inside drinking.  Ivan is apparently loading Will into a pickup truck.  

WILL:

The device is pretty dented and scratched, but seems to be of heavy-duty construction.  It seems to be an industrial-strength pair of smartgoggles, designed for diagnosing mechanical equipment.  It's clearly designed more for adjustability than portability (there are several large dials and keypads on the main unit that's bolted to a cart), but if you were analyzing an engine to figure out what the problem was, it would be far more useful than the sort of things you get at the typical optics shop.

(ooc:  as far as immunizations go, I just thought it would be a background, realism thing--since I'm not really a doctor I don't know how long it takes or if the 2024 equivalent can be administered quickly enough to meet the group's timetable.  I was just wingin' it, is all!)

Blues is somewhat startled by Weyland's question.  Cheeky monkey!  

"They haven't got anything on me other than the fact that I need to make some money.  There are a certain amount of hoops you have to jump through to do what I do on a legitimate basis, and let's just say they aren't exactly going to give me a chance to try it any time soon.  Like I said before, if there is some important or nasty catch that Michaelson had to be aware of but "forgot" to tell us about, I'll be the first one to cut and run...but unless he's faking his condition, I can't imagine why there would be."

"I would like to stay here tonight, Arrow.  I don't have a place right now and I feel more safe with a group.  If we want to group into teams then I will gladly stick where I'm most valuable."

She yawns (for real this time...no mind games)...

The barmaid picks up a remote control and shuts off the jukebox after Ivan's episode with the vodka bottle.  The murmurs and insane ramblings of the few remaining patrons are now quite noticeable.....

Porter very definitely takes notice of the heroic alchohol intake of Crazy Ivan.  This is replaced by a somewhat intrigued grin as he realizes that the newcomer seems to be getting on well with Ivan.  Ivan is capable of wreaking a startling amount of violence, but seems to lack self control.  Perhaps the girl can influence him to keep his power better in check.  Better set the hook.  He finishes his beer-and-bourbon--he's been drinking conservatively--and pulls out the rough envelope.

"Well, I'd hoped to wait a little to distribute this, but we've practically got this place to ourselves.  It'll be easier if I round up."

He counts out $1335 dollars (the bills seem to be in fives, tens, and twenties) and passes it to Ivan.  He counts out another 1335 and stuffs it in his pocket.  

"Not bad for an evening's work, eh?  I'll wait for Will to get back for his.  People always think a little clearer afterward.  I don't know about you people, but I'm wrecked--it's been a long day.  Will's in no shape to keep moving at this point.  I'll talk to our man in the meat market tomorrow and feel him out to see if anything else is coming our way.  As far as Chunky goes, well, let's think about him and your telephone guy on a full day's sleep.  Renata, I said I'd make sure you have a place to stay.  Tell all of you what.  I'll spring for a couple of decent hotel rooms for tonight.  Nothing spectacular, but real showers and beds that don't fold out of a sofa.  You game?"

(sorry guys, getting KILLED by work this past couple weeks or so.  Light visible at end of tunnel, though.  Persevere!)

(ooc:  The Tiki Lounge is a dive.  At best, at this time in the morning they are likely to have two things to eat:  Stale microwave combed-protein loaf burritos, and stale pretzels.  Sorry, it just isn't a classy enough place to rate a real kitchen.)

(in the interest of getting the party together again, we'll fast foward through about forty more minutes of hanging around and chitchat and the occasional cocktail--the one thing the Tiki does have going for it is the fact that there's no last call--to when Ivan finally gets there.)

WILL/RENATA

Porter smiles and speaks again:

"Will, you can crash at my place if you want, but we need to wait for Ivan to show up.  We'll give him another hour.  Get a beer and kick back."

"Renata, I've done my share of dirty deeds for money, but you have to admit it's kind of suspicious when some lady comes up showing off her curves and proposing a bunch of illegal activity.  Three words come to mind:  Scam, Police, and Psycho.  Also, for you to just show up in a town with no contacts means you had to leave home in a hurry."

"It's no secret that I buy and sell a thing or two here and there, but a reputation as a professional "ghoul"--someone who actually rips the cyber out of unsuspecting people--is poison in this city, even when people know d*** well where the used cyber is coming from.  I want nothing to do with that.  However, I am moving up in certain circles, and a talented medic is a valuable contact.  How about you hang around with us and we'll chat--get to know each other a little better--until our boy Ivan, who just needed some medical attention, comes back.  At that point you can have a look at him and see what you think.  Either way, I'll make sure you have a safe place to sleep tonight.  Sound like a deal?"  

IVAN:

(timewise, you're a little ahead of the others.  Hopefully they'll elect to just kill time chatting and we can fast forward to your arrival at the Tiki)  

The transactions go smoothly enough, except that the chip guy doesn't have the Phe Ramones.  In his words, "If I don't have 'em, they're either small time with no album or they're just no good!"

From Rag's place, you manage to get rid of the ID and credit cards and score what is the only set of clothes big enough to fit you--a brightly colored (blue-and-orange) zip-front jogging suit that looks like something a mobster would wear by the pool on Sunday while watching hired floozies prance about topless.  All that's missing is the gold chains, rings, and tan-in-a-can.  Large white sneakers complete the look.  Buying the food is just a matter of shoving in front of everyone else and holding a little money out.

(ooc: The three of you (Will, Porter, Ivan) never discussed the division of the money.  Rather than go back and calaculate about what time it is, I’ll wing it and say it’s about 3:00AM--You have had a long evening and night.)

RENATA:

Porter finishes a big swig of his beer-and-bourbon and lights a smoke while Will is speaking.  

“Yeah, you’re really cute, sweetheart, but save the double-dog dares for people who haven’t been around the block.  If you’re a medic, you’ll find that there’s plenty of work to be had here.  H***, we could’ve used you about a half hour ago, but that’s neither here nor there.  However, you do seem to be hinting about something, so if you have an idea I’d like to hear about it.”

“What, the little purple thing?  Naw, we just saw her earlier.  She crashed her car or something.  Those goons are either her muscle or her clean-up crew, from what I can see.”

The gold can is completely featureless except for a small (1.5cm) emblem stamped into the top opposite the pull tab.  The emblem consists of an arc with a four-pointed star at one point, suggesting a stylized picture of light reflecting off a dome or a moon.  That logo is known worldwide as that of Illumina, the large and mysterious scientific arcology and the source of all the world’s legitimate nanotech.  There is about one sip worth of a heavy, viscous fluid in the bottom.  The fluid smells absolutely awful.

IVAN:

Lavelle has a lot to say about Mullet, who, according to Lavelle, was a very outspoken white supremacist.  However, most of what he says seems to be things he has heard from other people--Lavelle seems to be the sort who believes unconditionally the things other, more charismatic people tell him.    

The doctor runs the credit card and it goes through without any trouble.  He hands it back to you before taking off his latex gloves.  

"There.  Pleasure doing business with you.  Now get your refu-a** away from my van before you scare off any of my clients.  And take that cracker with you!"

You can sort of walk, but it's not pretty.  The leg is kind of hard to manage in its numbed state.

The doctor sprays himself down with disinfectant.

*walks in and adopts that annoyed look and high-pitched exasperated voice that Kurt Russell gets in Big Trouble in Little China when he sees that thing with all the eyes floating toward him in the tunnel*

Aw, jeez....who got Bunny Girl all wound up?