Dateline: December 29th 2050, 0800 Local Time

With only three days to go until New Year 2051, the dog-tired Edgerunners – Candyman, Pacoy, Able, Mac and Pitbull, along with their new associated Saxby – were given a break from their duties as added security at the Grey Auction in the salubrious Ottoman Hotel. They returned to Candyman’s headquarters at Cabrini Grean but, exhausted, tumbled into beds instead of interrogating their captives – members of the 23Enigma terrorist group they caught trying to turn the hotel into an enormous bomb, including the cell leader Professor Gregori.

After several hours sleep, Candyman’s minions awaken them and remind the team they have a lot to do before they’re due back at the Ottoman at midday.

Pitbull stomps into the area, bleary eyed, completely dressed but looking as though he had just rolled out of bed. Mac grumbles, looking up briefly from his notepad, his eyes cast in the shadows like beneath a streetlamp. He looks over at Pitbull, a smile on his face. “Got some shut eye? Looks better on you than passing out did.” Hope he got up on the right side of the bed too. Hate to see what he’d do if he hadn’t. He presses a mug of coffee into Pitbull’s hand and raises his own. Pitbull grunts to Mac, “morning person” far from descriptive of the soldier. He takes the cup and downs it’s contents, before dropping into quick, huffing push ups.

Able steps out of his room into the hallway, his head bleary from half-remembered dreams. There was something in those dreams, something important – but all he has are fragments. The noxious smell of fumes, the sound of a giggling child, a flash of wavy brown hair – and through it all, the impression of falling, endlessly down… Able shakes his head to clear it, his hand resting on the wall in front of him as his eyes focus upon the door in front of him. He recognizes it almost immediately, before he notices the minimap bleeping in the corner of his awareness. Behind this door sat the prisoners – and there were only a few hours left before they had to go back on duty. It was time to put the dreams to bed and focus.

Saxby awakes experiencing a brief moment of where-am-I panic. The memories of the night before flood in, and he glances around his guest room at the cartel’s headquarters. He sniffs and rubs his eyes, set at ease by the generic beiges and maroons of the room’s dressing. He stands and stretches, then begins to gather his clothes. He chuckles to himself at the sheer banality of the room, like the love child of a waiting room and an airport. Stepping out into the hallway, he yawns and stretches again. Hearing the others stirring down the corridor, he trudges toward them. Mac looks up. “Mornin’ there young Sax. Catch any sheep in those monotone rooms? Heavens knows I couldn’t.” Mac winces into his coffee, flipping his notebook closed before anyone gets close enough to read it, stowing it into his jacket pocket with a casual ease. Saxby gives a one fingered salute to Mac. “Mornin. Coffee?” He grabs a mug and fills it. Turning to the group, he asks nonchalantly, “Dr. Creepy?” He sips, eyeing the group. “Yeah… real disturbing brain. Professor Gregori’s had something to say about everyone here that’s rattled them a bit – well, most everyone.”

Pacoy grabs a bagel and coffee from the kitchen after a quick shower. “You guys talking to Dr. Creepy before we leave?” Pacoy asks Able and Pitt. Curiosity over the professor is strong, but Pacoy decided his time would be much better spent examining the war-borg, leaving the interrogation to the interrogators. “Keep the comms open, and I’ll pipe in if needed, but until then, I’ll be tinkering with the tin-man.”

Candy’s henchman and chauffeur Hugh glides into the room on his electric wheelchair, effortlessly negotiating obstacles as he steers the chair via his interface implant. “Good morning. Pater is still asleep for now, I’m afraid and I wouldn’t want to intrude on him under the circumstances. I’m sure he’ll be here soon, but most of you know where everything is.” He heads into the kitchen area for a caff himself.

”The last several hours had been most trying, both for the Bey’s every present worry as well as the relative boredom of babysitting during the auction. Even as I watched the proceedings, the Corporate bidding war over the fringe-tech weapons, my thoughts were constantly rushing off to Grigori and 23Enigma held in Carpai Graen, to Miss Wolfir. Even as I lead Veracity on, the silent words between us outside the apartment complex, those words ran through my mind like fire. That Mrs. Blaize took my arousal to in relation to herself, only worked to my favor, she is an impressive woman but she is no wolf. Perhaps it is the exhaustion, but I am glad to heading home and hanging my mask up for a while. It’s times like these that I wish I could forgo the act and be Elwin Cypress again. “

Dateline: December 28th 2050, 1700 Local Time

The Lazarus Group – Candyman, Pacoy, Able, Mac and Pitbull – have been contracted to help protect Friedlander Bey’s Ottoman Hotel during his “Grey Auction” – a three day sale of stolen goods and massive party which draws the rich and famous from all over the world. They’ve already foiled an attempt to blow the hotel up using a gene-tailored bacteria that turned the contents of the entire buildings waste system into explosives, and captured the people responsible – members of the enigmatic 23Enigma group of techno-nihilist terrorists.

Now the team has had to postpone interrogating their prisoners at Candyman’s headquarters in order to rush back to the hotel in their luxury AV flyer. Bey has called to say he wants them there for the second auction session – and in any case Able’s masters at the Rossum Corporation want him to be their proxy in bidding for a consignment of prototype weapons which will come under the hammer in this session.

As the team lands at the Ottoman Hotel’s capacious mid-tower AV hangar, they find the hotel’s gruff security chief, Jonathan Haroun, ready and waiting for them.

“Took you long enough! The Emir wants to see you before the auction session, in his penthouse. I suggest you run.” The man seems to have watched too many pre-collapse cop movies and thinks he’s the precinct Captain.

Candy steps out of the AV and smoothes his suit, “On my way, Marid still down?” Haroun growls, “Yeah, he’s still down. Fucking AI gave away the jackpot on the slots three times in ten minutes!” Pitbull scoffs as he stomps past Haroun. “Ok, Agent Johnson…” He mutters as he puffs off of his umpteenth cigarette of the day.

Candy stops a moment, “I’m sure it was not his fault, Marid only does what he’s told. Try not to be so hard on him Haroun, it only hurts you, blood pressure and what not” and continues around the corner without waiting for a response. The AV’s camera tracks the conversation just outside, short identifiers and threat-assessment summaries appearing beside each person as the camera moves to them each in turn. The AV’s engines slowly shut down, the landing lights turning off – and the pilot canopy pops open. A small datajack eases out of the socket at the base of Able’s neck as his eyes open, blinking as he re-inserts himself into the real world. Pitbull stops an inch from the entrance, before sighing and stomping back to the V-TOL and deposits the Reaper in the back seat. “Sorry. Forgot the Emir and people and panicking and shit…” He half grumbles to the group.

Mac follows Candy, wobbling a bit as he does, glad to see solid ground again. “I still maintain that if we had been meant to fly, we’d have wings and not have made them ourselves. I’d prefer if we could leave it to the birds next time.” He glares at the bus behind them. “Three times, eh? Pacoy’ll be pissed.” Exiting the Av, Pacoy does a quick pat-down of all of his gear, then heads off to the penthouse, wondering if he’ll get a chance to look at the inner-workings of Madrid. “Nah, Mac, Slots are for grannies and drunks… and one time with Candy…. There’s real gamble there, but I bet it sure was a pretty sight to watch ‘em spill!” Pacoy answers. Smiling wistfully, Mac’s shoulders rise and fall. “Still, those one-arm bandits giving cash away like sweets on Samhain?” He lets a whistle escape from between his lips as he makes his way to the penthouse. “Yeah, Pennies from Heaven…” Pacoy ponders the image.

Dateline: December 28th 2050, 1530 Local Time

Friedlander Bey, hotelier and crime boss, has hired the team as security consultants at the Ottoman Hotel for the duration of the Grey Auction, a three day event selling high-priced stolen goods which is attended by Glitterati from all over the world. The event had been threatened by two groups: rival Russian mobsters from the Southside and a terror group called 23Enigma. The team caught some people hired by the Russian mob to cause a scene and know there are others, but also discovered that the terrorists had used a gene-tailored bacteria to turn the hotel’s sewer system into one gigantic bomb. The team identified some of the terrorists and tracked them to their lair, hoping to discover a gene-tailored answer to the bacteria infecting the hotel.

The terrorists were holed up in an apartment on the 12th floor of the Peach Trees Hab-Block in Pacheco Prospects, a down-at-heel area of hi-rise cheap housing. As the team crept up on the apartment, they were discovered and attacked by three cyberhounds, the terrorists and by their secret weapon, a homebrewed cyborg war machine. The team killed the hounds and cyborg as well as managing to capture all of the terrorists except one, after incapacitating some with non-lethal weapons. The terrorist’s hacker – Raymond Skyberg – blew his own brains out with a pistol rather than be captured.

Now, the team are standing in a partly-ruined apartment where the kitchen seems to have been converted into a micro-biology laboratory. In the living room there’s a large and expensive looking computer rig obviously used by the hacker. The window is missing, the front door hangs from a single hinge and there are sleeping bodies everywhere, with two sniveling terrorists in the bedroom. The team knows who one of the survivors is – the biochemist Bianca Klieber – but has no I.D. on the others as yet.

Mac crouches near Bianca, eyes full of concern. _Broad just went through a tough time – first she suffered through an assault, then watched a hacker become an amateur artist with his own fluids and a cold metal paintbrush. His eyes flit to Pacoy, then to Able. “Is there any way we can secure the rest of the team so they’re not a threat, and then see about what cyber-coward here was desperate to hide from us?” His eyes then flick to Pitbull. “You alright pal? Was worried when you were coming through the window.” “Not a scratch I didn’t already have.” Pitbull says as he plucks one of the slugs that had imbedded itself in his ballistic trench coat, without taking his eyes off of the bloody mess that use to be the hacker.

Able nods at Mac, then glances to Pitbull. “Use the rope from the rig to tie the prisoners up.” Able turns to the hacker’s setup, first checking that there are no deadman switches or other nasty surprises before setting himself up to investigate its contents. “I have some vac tape, anyone have anything more secure, or should we just do it ‘quick and dirty’?” Pacoy asks.

Candy leans against the shattered doorframe, monoslicer held limply between thumb and forefinger, “No harm will come to anyone here, that you all are still alive is testament to that fact. We’ll talk more when you’ve been moved to safer quarters.” Candy says more to himself than anyone in particular.

Dateline: December 28th 2050, 1300 Local Time

The team have met up back in their Ottoman Hotel suite. there. they’ve received a briefing from Mac and Pitbull about their little scouting jaunt to the Pacheco Prospects and seen [[News 24/7 Breaking | the mid-day News 24/7 segment]] featuring a carefully disguised Candyman. They have exactly five hours until the evening Auction session begins – and Able has been told his Rossum masters want him to bid on Lot 63, a crate of forty examples of an experimental gauss weapon. Bidding on the new technology in the crate is expected to be keen and David Elkins has authorized a bid of up to $800,000, four times what the crate is worth in retail terms.

Mac paces back and forth, threatening to wear out the room’s carpet. “Five hours? What do we want to do with five hours – worry about sanitizing the septic system, deal with the hacker, or something else?” Able stands near the entrance to the room, his ‘normal’ face currently out and active. His voice is simple and professional. “Our best chance of sanitizing the septic system in such a short time is an antibacterial, and our best chance of getting one is the scientist who made it – and you just found her for us, Mac.” Pitbull pops his neck and rubs at his side as he drags from his cigarette, trying to remember how many he has smoked today.

A sly grin slips across Mac’s face like a glass across a well polished bar. “Just doing what I was trained to do, same as anyone else.” He frowns. “She’s got a pack of Dobermans between us and a negotiation, though. Not to mention a pair of gams six miles long.” “I’ll take the Gams, you take the Dogs…” Pacoy offers with a smile “Teamwork.”

“Hell, I’ll take the dogs. Easy shots, easy kills.” Pitbull growls through his hand as he scratches his lip. Mac laughs, “You have a strange definition of easy – cybernetically enhanced attack dogs in a narrow hallway?” Mac looks at Pitbull. Bo’s as crazy as the day is long, but I don’t doubt he could do it. Laughing a bit, he looks at Pacoy. “That’s teamwork all right, I guess. Never did go in for chem-addicts.”

Able opens the door. “Let’s move out, then; maybe we can avoid the dogs entirely, find another way in.”

Transcript, Midday New Extra, News 24/7 Night City, December 28th 2050

VB: This is Veracity Blaize, reporting for News24/7, your eye on Night City. I’m sitting in the main auditorium of the luxury Ottoman hotel and casino in Core Night City, which just an hour ago was the filled with the rich and famous of five continents as the inaugural session of the 2050 Grey Auction got underway. The auctioneer, as ever, was Mornington art dealer and bon vivant Agustin Hashaway, who managed the often-frenetic pace of bidding like an old master. Bidding was brisk and excitement high as the first consignment of items came under the hammer, each one with a reserve price of no less than $100,000.

The big ticket items of the day were: a pair of matched 18th century handmade British shotguns, which made $2.5 million and were bought by Sensie star pairing Hector Dahl and Corine Ven; a mint condition 1964 Chevy Malibu which last belonged to the Texan President, which went to an undisclosed Net bidder; and the electronic ghost of the head of the British secret police, which went for a dizzying $3.6 million after a two-way bidding war between Shaina Chacon, the new head of DreamCorp’s Night City facility, and the British Consul-General himself. The Consul-General was as obviously very pleased with his purchase as the DreamCorp’s exec was unhappy – especially when she received a phone call just before the last bid.

But the auction is not the only story, or even the biggest story, here today.

The light was as dim as the glow of a dying fire as we stepped through the sliding doors to exit the Ottoman. Pitbull had to pull me back as I almost walked into the police barricade stretched around the body of the poor man who went off like a cheap firework earlier. The scattered crowd and news crews made navigation difficult, but we were able to duck through without causing too much of a scene, hopping onto the next subway train headed to Pacheco.

Approaching the Peach Trees hab block, I pulled Pitbull into a nearby alleyway, netting myself a low growl before it became apparent I had accidentally grabbed one of his injuries. “Sorry big guy. We should get those looked at when we get done snooping around here.” That got me a grunt of assent, so I unholstered my camera and began snapping shots of the block. A few of the ground floor shops were as empty as an Irishman’s whiskey bottle, but some of them had been fortified with mangled barricades of Quickcrete and metal bars. Spotting some movement amongst the fortifications, I quickly pointed it out to Pitbull. “Sentries? Is Skyberg like The Sultan of Swat around these parts? A real big league hitter?”

Pitbull glanced sidelong at me as he snatched the camera from my hand, peering downrange at the holdout. He snorted and began to play with his combat knife after lighting himself yet another cigarette. “They ain’t with Skyberg. He’s a two-bit hacker. This is just some boostergang staking their turf. Two men watchin’ over the main entrance, probably six others off-guard inside. Leader’s in, the rest probably out causin’ a ruckus.” His grating voice sent a chill down my spine as he told me exactly the best way to neutralize the entire holdout with minimal exposure to ourselves. Here was a man with a violent past, and if there’s one thing I’ve learned over the years, is the past is a tool to be learned from. If its lessons are not adhered to, one is doomed…

Dateline: December 28th 2050, 0515 Local Time

The Ottoman Hotel never sleeps; it is an ever-busy hive, a temple to restless hedonism – there is no rest for the wicked at the Ottoman and so in the darkness before dawn the team find themselves in the office of the hotel’s security chief, Jonathan Haroun.

Haroun stands behind a gray metal desk the size of a small aircraft carrier, his calloused hands placed on the clear smart-glass surface as he leans over the desk to yell at them. “What the hell did you think you were doing? Never mind! You weren’t thinking! If it weren’t for Jacob’s fast talking, one or both of the keynote artistes contracted for the Auction’s entertainments would have walked by now! As it is, the boss has had to promise Lady Yan a bonus. On the bright side, Kali!‘s team have got her under sedation and say she’s likely to remember none of what happened. As to the little spat with Big Bill Farthing….” The security chief pauses at last for a shaky breath. “Let me make it very fucking clear to you – our V.I.P. guests are called that for a fucking reason, and are entitled to bring their own security into the hotel. You have to allow those bodyguards to honor any reasonable threat, and give them time to stand down before you try to shoot them. Am I fucking crystal on that? Do Not Shoot Them Unless There Is No Alternative. I want to hear a ‘hell yeah’ on that. Well?”

Able nods. “Yes sir. But may I make a suggestion?” There’s a squeak of abused metal as the security chief’s right fingers dig into the edge of the desk, but he straightens and takes a calming deep breath. “Yes, Able?”

Mac looks down his nose at Haroun, his trigger finger flexing instinctively as though scratching an invisible itch. This boob’s awful uptight. Mac shrugs and looks over towards Able. Pacoy stands calmly, listening the lecture and thanking himself that he restrained his first instinct to shoot into the melee with his actual pistol – that probably wouldn’t have gone over very well.

Able stands straight, looking the security chief in the face; his little ‘intimidation’ attempt hadn’t exactly impacted his brain, since it had its fear center surgically burned away. “It’s typically standard practice to evacuate civilians from an area where combat is taking place, especially if they aren’t within the line of fire. Further, all information we were given, including the arrangement of the room and the civilians taking cover and the newsies coverage, suggested that Lady Yan was the perpetrator and currently attacking that room. If we had been provided with adequate information, or the hotel’s regular security team had followed typical guidelines, then this would not have occurred.”

Candy places his arms behind his back with clasped hands, “Marid has facial recognition, all the V.I.P’s are in the data banks. All we need to do is allow him to validate individuals as V.I.P’s, staff, or unknowns or customers. No need for there to be a repeat of this incident, Marid, can you do that for us? Set up a subroutine to follow us around and through Augmented Reality give us status’s of everyone we see in your domain?”

Haroun sighs, and finally sits in his big desk chair. “You’re both right, of course. I got an ass-reaming from Mr. Battersea over this and as you all know shit has to roll downhill some, but you are still right. Marid, implement Candyman’s suggestion with all the roving teams. Also, whenever they respond to an alert I want a burst of whatever surveillance you have of the previous three minutes sent to them, ok?”

Marid’s voice issues from the desk: “yes, Sir. Run-time reallocated.” Able nods, satisfied with the result. “Understood. We’ll take our lumps, but it’s always best to use negative situations as a learning experience.” Candy looks to Able then the rest of the team, “I don’t think any V.I.P’s are going to be in on this gig – blowing up a locale good for their faces to shine and to book a profitable night? We can only expect so much from Marid – he needs pushes in the right direction, A.I.’s are particular like that. Yes, he told us about the fight but its not in his programming to spell it all out for us. Lets try to keep that in mind and make his job a little easier, it will sure as hell make our job easier.”

Mac starts laughing under his breath, lips barely moving as he mutters into the sub-comms, “Able, were you born with stones like that, or did you have them installed after?”

I ran out of Bey’s Casino with the closest thing to fear I’ve had since my childhood. Whatever this was, I knew it damn sure wasn’t anything like coincidence. Wilson was dead. He had to have been. I made his throat smile red myself!

I ran as fast as I could possibly go. I had to catch up to the urchin, or at least make it to my current hideout. It didn’t take long for me to just cut the idea of catching Stick’s kid, and return to my hideout to bunker down. If Wilson was coming for me, he’d have to get through an abandoned hospital lined to the corner with traps and explosives.

I rushed around corners, knocked over streetwalkers, punched out a dumbass mugger, and trampled a street performer in my rush to my hideout. In hindsight, all of that running only made me a prime target. I had compromised my hideout in my attempt to hide. Foolish, but I was in a hurry.

The ride on the elevator, the couples talking in the halls, even the deftly hidden watchers of the Bey – things were beginning to grow dire. I’ve seen this before, everyone on the outside is oblivious, but the internal pressures build and those on the inside can no longer wrap themselves in the comfort of ignorant bliss. The blind were already reacting to the changes, even if they did not understand it, the ever so guarded postures and the lingering eyes. It would not take much to blow this amalgam of humanity into full riot – how even the most powerful are at the whims of a thousand baying sheep. Now I seek a shepherd, Mrs. Blaize.

The Level 9 media center sprawls out like a modern day ‘Cave of Wonders’ in the subdued twilight – video banks throwing blurs of light against the hungry specters darting viciously about the room. I’ve never particularly cared for the media, even when they were on ‘our’ side, running damage control or convincing the local denizens to sell their land rights away to us. Even if you get a few under your thumb – everyone’s got a pack of wolves. Then, here I am, seeking out a pack alpha. Then again, what’s a few mangy mutts fighting for scraps compared to a lion.