Lambeth, London Metroplex
Wednesday 12th April, 2051
10.00 PM

After a night in Sharktooth Tony’s palace of once-was-war — a night punctuated by the sounds of laughter, glasses clinking and voices raised in drunken argument until the small hours, then by the sounds of cooking, domestic activities and a baby crying — the Lazarus team rise to find the converted museum busy with the lives of the sixty or so people who call it home. After a breakfast of tea, toast and real orange marmalade worth a small fortune, they are ready to face the new day. Able has been scheming, and has a plan on how to tackle the favors the team now owe Tony.

Mac stretches as he paces back and forth, stuffing his light paperback novel into his trenchcoat pocket. “I hope you guys are well rested. Don’t know how any of you slept with all the snoring.” He rocks back on his heels. “So what are we doing, convincing the local thugs we need the drug shipment? How are we doing that, intimidation or bribery?” Able turns around, a thousand-watt smile piercing out from a brand new face. “We ask them kindly.”

Mac blinks. “I like it. Simple, daring, and it just might work. How are you planning on getting that to work, by the way?” He then sighs as he looks Able’s new face over. “You’re skeeving my stomach every time you do that, you know?” Able spreads his hands. “We replace the target. Lure him out, away from his friends – and insert me to temporarily take his place – and give his boys their orders.” Mac taps his feet against the runner along the wall. “Keen. Having many faces is useful… hard to pull off that plan otherwise.” He stops and flicks open his pocket watch, gesturing with his fingers and throwing a few surveillance photographs into the air above it. “Bit of a problem, pals. Our betty doesn’t go anywhere without his bodyguards. We’ve got to be real creative if we want to draw him out alone. Something properly peculiar.” Able nods. “Yeah, that is the nugget there. Of course, if we had a real Betty it might not be so difficult…”

“Any chance we have info on his vices? Hookers or the like? Even paranoid gangers need private time every now and then – we could operate under the Everyone Has to Pee theory,” Pacoy asks. Mac taps his teeth with his fingernail. “Well, we could get one, or you could certainly put on a facemask or whatever you do to impersonate a proper Betty.”

The curtain separating the team’s suite from the rest of the museum is pushed aside as Marquis Deeds enters. “Mornin’ mates, who needs to pee, did you say?” Able speaks, “Everyone, according to Pacoy. Taking him out in a bathroom would probably work, actually.” Deeds stops in his tracks as he catches sight of Able. “Bloody Nora, who let you in, Yardy?” he goes to pull a Scorpio plastic-8 from inside his jacket.

Pitbull grunts as he lights his cigarette. " We could blow something up not too far but not too close to them. Some of his body guards would be forced to break formation and investigate. That would at least bring down our head-count, right?" He growls as he exhales a fog of smoke. Mac digs his hand into his pocket, feeling the reassuring weight of the hilt of the revolver naturally curve into place. “Hey, bosco, cool your iron. It’s not Yardy.” “Whoa-whoa-whoa! That’s Abe, Marky-Mark!” Pitbull blurts out as he gets between them.

Deeds seems stunned for a second, then: “Woah, that’s heavy. You almost gave me a bleedin’ heart attack, Yanks!” but the pistol disappears again. “So, what’s this in aid of then?” Able’s face shifts again, this time taking the mirror to Marquis himself. “Just one of my many talents.” Pitbull turns to Abe. “Have I ever mentioned how awesome that is? Do one of Saxby if Saxby had an underbite!” Pitbull says with mock-geek level enthusiasm.

Deeds looks pale for a second and grabs the back of a regency chair to steady himself. “Ok, stop that! I get it.” His face becomes calculating. “Wow, if I could do that, I’d own London. Anything I can help wiv, guv’nor?” Able nods, seating himself opposite Deeds. “As a matter of fact, perhaps you could. We need to get Yardy away from his guards temporarily – long enough to replace him.”
Why would anyone want to own this place… He releases the revolver back into the depths of his pocket. He nods along behind Able, mentally cataloguing the gear he has in his briefcase. I should have brought a change of clothes…

Deeds grins, then says “That ain’t easy, guv – ‘cept for one afternoon a week. Yardy Bob is as nasty a gutter scum as they ever made on the Southside, but he fancies himself a toff, see? Now he’s a rich gangster bugger, he has lunch at the Regency Club, his private club, every Thursday afternoon. Alone, since the club has its own corporate security on hire and won’t let his scumbag yardie lackeys in. If you looked like someone who belonged there, you could way-lay him when he went to the john, I’d think.” Deeds looks pleased with himself. Able mirrors Deeds exactly, right down to the smug look on his face. “Yes. That’ll do nicely. That’ll do nicely indeed.”

Outside the Regency Club,
Knightsbridge, London Metroplex
Thursday 13th April, 2051
3.00 PM

Deeds looks over his shoulder from the driving seat of the team’s loaner van and points under the dash so no-one outside can see. “That’s him, the big cove with the ugly face in the fake ashtrakhan coat. See, he’s got three of his boys with him, but they’ll stay in the limo.” He points again to a black C-700 luxury sedan at the curb outside the Club.

Mac winces. “Never did get that style. Too… frilly. Once we nab him and you get in that sedan, Able, we’re committed. Can’t really turn back, and extraction would be difficult. How do we want to get in there? Bop one of the unlucky fobs as they come out of the place, then slip you inside the club?” Able, his face bearing the look of an annoyed French aristocrate complete with Van Dyke beard, steps from the car. “No, monseure. We ask to have some of my good friends from out of the town seated while they sample the clubs fine staples, to be reported back to one of the finer fine dining blogs from the States.” Mac grins and rolls his eyes. “Unnerving, but endlessly amusing. I’m with Pitbull. I want to see a Saxby later.” “After that I want to see a Tom Cruise from Top Gun.” Pitbull adds as he nudges Mac.

“Mac and Able, one of you should take an Areani just in case,” Pacoy notes, offering a compact spy-ball, “I’ll have a Pinbot watching the outside and one inside.” Mac steps out of the van in a clean, well fitted and unwrinkled suit, doing his best to hide his discomfort. “This certainly does look like a fine establishment.” He grins and looks towards Pitbull. “Of course you’d go for a movie with gun in the name, wouldn’t you.” Mac holds his hand out to take the Areani. “Good plan, pal. My stomach is grumbling already. Can we head inside?” Pitbull yanks and tugs at his tie in frustration. “Ack! I’ve been strangled with less strength than this tie…” He growls as he pushes himself out of the car, revealing himself to be in a suit slightly too tight around the chest.

Heading around to the side, the team come to a plain metal door, the servant’s entrance, which faces onto a clean and well-tended alleyway. A camera looks down on the doorstep, and an old buzzer intercom sits beside the door handle. Mac sighs, taking a moment to adjust Pitbull’s tie before fixing his own bowtie. He flips out his notepad and begins jotting down notes on the establishment, looking around casually. Pitbull breathes a sigh of relief. “Air! Fucking delicious air! Thank you, Mac. There was a reason why I didn’t take my dress blues with me.” Mac looks Pitbull up and down. “Probably because you’d stain them with some red sauce? Honestly, can’t take you anywhere these days. At least he cuts a fine figure when we’re overseas.” He thumbs at Pacoy

Able, schwancing up to the servant’s entrance, presses on to the buzzer as he looks up at the camera. Within seconds, the door is opened by a man in a well-pressed butler’s uniform that does nothing to disguise the muscles under it. On the jacket breast pocket sits the subdued logo of the world-renowned Whirlwind security corporation. "Wotcher, “Arry. Thought you was down wif the lurgy today? Who are these coves?”

Pacoy fidgets with his tie while taking note of the Whirlwind logo. Pitbull stiffles a snigger. “Ol’ Whirlwind. We’ve had our share of dealings with these ass-clowns, Abe? Pac?” Pitbull H.U.D. texts the team. “Well, we know we’re dealing with pros,” Pacoy comms back in answer.

Able smiles up at the ‘butler’, speaking in his best French accent – exaggerated greatly, like there is any other kind. “It iz with great ple-share that I announce my ray-tern to the working world. My dear fronds from America here broat with theym a cure-all for my ills, some pro-doct of this man’s lab at GeniTech. The othayrs, they are hare to rey-view the finaste dineng aystablishmonts of Britain for wone of they most highly reygardayd blogs among they Americans. I thought, they least I could do for such dear fronds was to at least get the a seat at the chef’s table for tonight.”

Mac looks from Able to Pacoy and Pitbull before whispering into their ears, “You are all never allowed to make fun of how I speak again.” “We are equal opportunity mockers here, Mac,” Pacoy comms, “There is plenty of mock to go around here.”

The big security man smiles and winks. ‘Say no more, me old mucker. Chef Nahim isn’t expected in until six, so as long as your pals behave themselves and are out before then, no-one’s the wiser, eh? Unless the maitre-di catches you and he’s been in a meeting with the wine supplier since ten minutes ago." He steps aside and allows you all inside, down a short corridor to a splendid old kitchen full of modern culinary technology. The rest of the staff, only four for lunch, hardly raise their eyes from their pots and synthesizers, except to nod a greeting. The person Able is impersonating, sous chef Harolde Demezet, is often in charge of the lunch run.

Mac continues scribbling down notes, ever the observant culinary reporter, though his nose is far more active than his writing hand. “You don’t suppose we could have a large lunch here, hm? I’d love to see what these lads can do…” “Harolde” leads the troupe to a table at the back of the kitchen – the chef’s table, situated at the perfect position to view the rest of the cooking area. “I am sure the fare shall be quite appetizing, my friend. I’ll be sure to cook something for you special. For now, situate yourself – I’ll go check on the main dining area.” By private comms, Able gives Pacoy the go-ahead to start using his little drones to stake out the bathrooms. At a gesture from “Harolde”, one of his underlings brings across the first course – a bouillabaisse fish stew served in gilded bone china bowls.

Heading to the restrooms, Pacoy releases a pinbot to scout the area with a brief series of mental commands. Mac takes one taste of the stew. “That’s it, gentlemen. We’re moving here. Absolutely fantastic. I imagine it would be better paired with something with a hint of alcohol, though.” Pitbull does his best to look refined while eating, which is basically just him being his usually slobby self in slow-motion. Mac looks at his comrades at the table before sending a silent communication. “How do we grab him? Force him to the… what do they call it here, poo closet? With some uncooked seafood, then have Pitbull lying in wait to kosh him?”

Able takes a little walk into the main area, greeting the various staffers he sees with a slight nod before popping in to the dining room. He begins a circuit of the tables, greeting each patron to see how they’re enjoying their meals – all while on the lookout for Yardy Bob. As the team are served an excellent Chateau De San Merci Mercurie, a rare white burgundy that compliments the soup perfectly, Able finds himself in the kind of Old World opulence that can only be made possible by decorations and furniture that were in place before global warming and mass extinctions. Italian palatinate marble floors, carved stucco ceilings, and the gleam of wax-polished rare hardwoods in unbelievable profusion and mass. Halfway around the room, he sees the target, Yardy Bob. He’s sitting alone at a massive mahogany table, with a damask napkin tucked under his chin, dining on foi grasse and a real winter salad.

As Able approaches the big man, he begins a broadcast to the rest of the team so they can follow the action. Able leans down when he reaches Yardy’s table, smiling at him. “How are you enjoying the faire, monsieure?” Yardy Bob swallows, dabs his mouth with his napkin and replies in a voice that is deep and trying to sound cultured but still has a hint of Jamaican immigrant slang. “It’s wonderful as ever, Harolde. My compliments. I wonder, is there any Spotted Dick and Custard today? I’d quite fancy a dessert.”

‘Harolde’ smiles at Yardy. “I just got in from some time off, but if the line didn’t change my menu we should have some settling right now. I’ll have a nice big portion sent out to you.” Pitbull sniggers to himself. “Hehehehe… He needs that dick checked, I tell you hwhat…” Mac sighs and slaps his forehead. “Can’t take you anywhere. Can we get another drink for my uncouth Southron friend here, sirs? Something to wet his bob would surely quiet him down.”

As the team are served their second course, the “dish of the day” which they are told is “Faggots in a truffle gravy, with fresh roasted potatoes and mushy peas”, the main doors to the dining room open and two men in long dark-grey trenchcoats enter, then take seats at one of the tables. Pitbull sends a video to the team via H.U.D. of an animated brunette teen, lips curled back from his braces, chuckling dumbly, “Huh huh, huh huh, dick. Huh huh, huh huh.” Pitbull laughs. “Come to think of it, that’s how the Texas Marines serve up their faggots as well…” Mac winces and taps his glasses, temporarily disabling part of his H.U.D. His eyes slide over to the section of the H.U.D. being broadcast from Able, silently dissecting the grey men’s demeanor.

Able’s HUD relays his glimpse of the new diners. The team recognise one at once, although the last they saw him was in the Ottoman Hotel in Night City. He’s a DI5 agent who was attached to the British Embassy there by the name of edgar Cranshaw. Able’s ghostly General personality recognises the other man too – Cranshaw’s immediate superior Colonel Arthur Higginsbotham, head of the London divison of DI5. Pitbull frowns in consternation. “Well, that’s inconvenient…” He growls as he continues his systematic consumption of his food. Mac looks at his comrades, mouth full of potato. “What are the odds. This just complicates things, doesn’t it? How are we going to make a grab from the bathroom now?” “You know, 3 doses of laxative isn’t any harder than one…” Pacoy suggests over the comms. Mac snorts peas all over his almost empty plate, no doubt further damaging international politics. “The irony of your humor is not lost on me.”

Able comes walking back into the kitchen, stopping the first line chef who isn’t horribly busy. “Prepare some Spotted Dick and Custard for me; I’d like to deliver it myself. A healthy sized portion, if you can.” “Yes Chef” the cook replies, and hurries to comply. Soon, Able is handed a bowl of steamed sponge cake, with raisins in it, surrounded by a pool of hot vanilla custard. Able looks down at the custard, then places it on the ’Chef’s table’ next to Mac’s dinner and carefully tastes it with a spoon. “Hmm. I don’t see why it needs any so-called secret ingredient to add to the flavoring…” Able pulls out a vial of unlabeled laxative, pouring it into the custard and mixing it in. “That should do it. Customers and their requests…” He shakes his head as he heads back out into the dining area, sending a digital wink to the team as he goes.

[3/19/2014 10:08:33 PM] Mac: Mac chuckles at Able’s antics before turning to Pitbull, making smalltalk while he sends captions to everyone’s H.U.D. The captions read: “For this to work, I figure we need one bloke in the toilets to bust this fool’s head, one outside to catch the body. Able will likely need to change in there, and we’ll need to exit quick. Body’ll have to stay in the alley until he drives off, then we need to book it to the van and follow as best we can in case something goes off.” Pitbull H.U.D. texts back. “I can do the window. Does he need to stay alive?”

Able brings the spotted dick to Yardy, his brightest smile on his face. “And we are, monsieur. One spotted dick with custard; I hope you enjoy it.” A quiet message is sent back up the chain to the team. “And remember, you need to evade the DI5. I’ll try and stall them while you deal with Yardy, make sure they can’t see one of you dealing with the bathroom.”

By the time he’s finished his dessert, Yardy Bob is looking decidedly uncomfortable, even starting to sweat. With a muttered curse, he jumps up and hobbled, slightly bent over, toward the opulent toilets. Cranshaw, the DI5 agent, notices but only quirks one eyebrow and mutters something to his superior, who laughs cruelly.

Mac grimaces. “I’d rather he didn’t bite the big dick, but we may not have a choice. This is Able’s life on the line here. Pitbull, why not take this excuse to step out and have a smoke by that back window? Impolite to do it in here.” “Death maybe the safest route… unless you think I should try and convince him D15 are here for him, and trick him into hopping out the window himself?” PAcoy wonders into the comm. Mac sighs. “Any way we look at it, we need his clothing.”

Able’s neural circuitry transmits Cranshaw’s muttered “Wow, a gangster who was too greedy, who’d have thought it.” to the team as Pits ghosts into the bathroom, utterly un-noticed by the two internal security men enjoying their joke and good food. Pacoy gets into position, ready to burst in on Yardy, but not before he has to clean up an extra mess. Yardy Bob barely looks at Pacoy as he lurches into the restrooms and heads for a cubicle. He simply says “Got any peppermints, attendant?” as Pitbull stalks his form into the bathroom, breathing a sigh of relief as he notices that there is no bathroom attendant on duty. So his amusement at Pacoy being mistaken for the bathroom attendant elicits a dark chuckle from the tall-bald killer.

Able begins another circuite of the room, checking on everyone’s dining experience – especially the DI5 guys when their time comes. Cranshaw and his superior nod their approval to “Harolde”, showing no sign of alarm or even suspicion. Mac sidles out of the kitchen, cigarette bummed from Pitbull in hand as he heads out towards the rear window.

Inside one cubicle, there’s the prolonged sounds indicating Yardy Bob is purging himself of his rich and heavy lunch, and finally a flushing sound. The cubicle door opens, with Yardy Bob still fumbling with his clothing and breathing hard. As Pitbull stands just out of the way of the opening of the restroom door, smirking in anticipation, Pacoy raises the pistol, augmented reality highlighting strategic options throughout his field of view, and fires off a knockout round from the stealth pistol. Bob coughs once, then his eyes roll up and he slumps bonelessly, fast asleep.

Pitbull steps forward and catches Yardy Bob as he collapses, growling “Surprise, mothafucka” as he keeps his arms clamped around Bob’s torso. He yanks up his unconcious form and throws him over his shoulder as he marches him to the window. “Help me get this tool’s clothes off, Pac.” Pitbull growls, showing no discomfort from hauling the man’s body over his shoulder. “Man, Pit, this better not become I habit!” Pacoy mutters as he helps strip the large man. “What? Knocking out grown men and taking off their clothes? Sounds like Wormie’s Wednesday nights from what I hear…” Pitbull growls as he gently puts the man down and undoes his shirt.

Mac looks back and forth up the alley, unlit cigarette hanging from his mouth, remembering earlier gaffs in his career as he checks around for cameras. He looks about the alleyway, eyes sharp, ensuring there are no cameras then looks up towards the window. “You boys done faffing about with your boy in the bathroom?” He calls up wordlessly, waiting for the body to begin it’s descent. “Okay, Pit, as soon as we get our frat buddy here out, you climb out the window, then help catch me as I come out, avoid D15.” Pacoy advises.

Able, having taken care that nobody else walks in on the team during their snatch-and-grab, slips into the bathroom after sending a pretty young server with a complimentary bottle of wine to the table with the DI5 agents. “Looks like you’ve done good work. Let’s get this thing going.” Able’s face and body begin changing shape as he slips his own clothes off and puts the ostentatious stylings of the yardy on.

Pitbull finishes with the man’s undressing, leaving only his luridly terrible Union Jack underwear on him for a little dignity. He hurls the body through the open window, grating “Catch Mac!” before leaping through himself. Mac bends his knees as he catches the man across his back, almost grunting with the strain before laughing at himself internally. He stashes the still breathing body against the wall, covering it with his jacket before waiting for his colleagues to join him. After tossing the K-O’d gangster out of the window, Pacoy helps Pitbull into position for the jump, prepared to follow him as soon as possible.

Able tips an imaginary hat to the others before tossing his gear out the window. “I’ll keep in touch when I can.” Making sure he has all of Yardy Bob’s clothes and accoutroments, Able walks out of the bathroom and heads to his table to settle the check with Yardy’s credit chits.

Pitbull lands with a loud double crack of his dress shoes, lighting a cigarette as he straightens himself back up from a crouch. “That was fun.” He growls simply. As soon as Pitbull clears the area, Pacoy follows. “Texans and their ideas of fun!”

Mac laughs silently to himself before sending a comm to Able. “Give us a heads up when the car’s on the way so we can get this filth into the van.” He shakes his head. “Figures that Pitbull’s idea of fun is stripping a man naked in a public restroom. I wonder what your girl would think if she saw you now.” “At least I didn’t go with my first idea of snapping his neck. That might’ve made the undressing a little more messy.” Pitbull growls, smiling big at Mac.

As the others scramble around the mirror of Able’s new body, Able steps out the front door of the club, raising a hand to his new yardy buddies in the waiting sedan. As the car opens up at his approach and he slips in to his nice plush seat, Able smiles over at the new marks. “Boys, I scored us the job of a lifetime. It’s time we stuck it to that toothy shark but good.”

Soon, Able is ensconced in Yardy Bob’s limo, speeding away into a rainy London afternoon towards Bob’s nightclub lair, while the rest of the team and the unconscious Bob are back in the van and speeding in the opposite direction back towards the docks and Lambeth. Mission accomplished, now for the next phase of the plan.

Travis Industrial Biochem Ltd
West Finchley, London Metroplex
Friday 14th April, 2051
11.00 PM

With Yardie Bob safely imprisoned in Sharktooth Tony’s basement, Able has assumed his appearance and command of his gang. Swiftly, he has led some of them on a robbery at a bulk pharmacy located on a small industrial park in the suburbs of North London.

The rest of the Lazarus team has followed – at a discrete distance, of course – and their black van is now parked on a residential street adjacent to the estate as “Yardie Bob” and eight of his best pull up to the estate’s security perimeter in a removals van. One of Able’s gang turns to him. “What’s the plan, Bob? Run the gate, cosh the nightwatchmen and blag it before the rozzers get here?”

Mac grumbles as he shoves discarded curry containers off of his attache case. “Next time, can we get the cushy job riding in the fancy car, and stick Able in the support van with the shoddy icebox and strange stains?” “Eh. Reminds me o’ home, if I am bein’ honest.” Pitbull growls, as he pulls a paper coffee cup that got stuck to his back of of his coat. Mac sighs. “You need to move in with that nature lady. Proper broad would do you a world of cleanup, I’ll tell you what.” He idly flips the pages of a virtual novella aside as he pulls Able’s cam-feed up to fill his HUD, idly muttering to himself, but still quite audibly, “You know, this is the problem with stakeouts. Long stretches of doing nothing but waiting, and it used to be fine. Used to be normal. After joining together with you yahoos, I keep expecting some gunsel to show up throwing lead like it’s confetti at a parade, and it’s playing fiddle with my nerves.”

“We’ve kinda talked about that. Told her about how I had grown accustomed to living almost homeless before squattin’ at the HQ, and she almost dragged me by the ear to move in with her.” Pitbull chuckles as he flickes a molding french fry off of his arm. “Well, we should worn her you’re not exactly housebroken,” Pacoy smiles, “She’ll end up with her furniture chewed and her shoes soiled, but she looks like she could break you in if anyone can.” Mac gives a suttering laugh that he attempts to stifle and fails. “Oh the imagery. Pacoy, you’ve ruined dogs and horses for me forever.” “I at least shit in the toilet. I think that counts as good house manners. Otherwise, the fleas, lice, and ticks don’t give me no shit.” “You’re hot-bunking with a guy named Pitbull, and just now caught the dog jokes?” Pacoy raises an eyebrow. Pitbull turns and gives Mac a grin. “Don’t worry Mac. I ain’t gonna hump your leg or anything. But if I scratch at myself in public, I’m only doing what comes natural.” “The Way of the Dog: If you can’t chew it or screw it, well, Piss on it!” Pacoy laughs.

Able looks around, giving Mac and the rest a good view in his vid-feed of a gang of London tough boys, all squashed noses and scarred faces. All are looking expectantly at “Yardie Bob” waiting for his word. Able turns Yardie Bob’s big grin upon the gangster. “That’s about the long and short of it. I’ve got a guy in the watchman’s organization – new blood, this is his test before he gets invited to a proper initiation with the gang – that’s going to come calling when this poor sod cries for mamma. We don’t have the time to pull the big stuff, but if we drop it in the dumpster he’ll secure it for us. The little stuff we can make off with on our way out.”

Mac sighs and slinks back into his chair, taking another mouthful of bap and speaking around it. “Maker preserve me, I’m trapped with an animal and a wisearse. I thought Able was going to have it tough today, but apparently it’s me!” He listens to Able speaking, chewing thoughtfully.

The ugly hoodlum grins. “Just the way I like it, slam bam and thank you Ma’am! OK, Goggles, floor it!” The driver does just that and the big removal van hits the flimsy security barrier at the entrance to the park doing 40 or more. As it careens through, two big men carrying axe hafts jump down from the back of the van, roll, then jump up and set about the startled night watchman. In less than a minute, the van rolls up to the loading dock of the pharmacy company and another gangster runs up to the locked doors with a crowbar.

“It’s always better to travel with a Smart-Ass over a Dumb-Ass,” Pacoy nods to Mac as he follows Able’s feed.“But we ain’t got no Smart-Ass! Just a Wise-Ass and a Nasty-Ass, apparently!” Pitbull guffaws at his own joke. “And a Noir-Ass!” Pitbull giggles through another drag off of his cigarette. Mac grins to himself before slipping up between the front seats and repurposing the rear-view to check his hair. “Say, you guys think I can pull off a decent flatfoot for hire? I mean, I’ve got the jaw for it, sure.” He gives Pitbull a playful slug on the arm.

Able steps out of the vehicle as it rolls up to the pharmacy, being sure to be caught on the pharmacy’s camera system. With a simple bionic command, Pacoy activates a marmalade drone and sets it out discreetly.

“Yeah, Mac. Just put on that face you gotta do when the guy you’ve been hired to investigate catches you and there’s no way out of it other than staring him in the face. That and you need to look like you can draw a gun at any moment. You got this shit, bruh.” Pitbull growls through another smoke cloud.

The lead thug finally breaks the loading door lock by sheer brute force, wrenches the door aside on a sliding track — and a gleaming metal and fur shape arrows out of the gap to grab him by the throat. The gangster doesn’t even have time to scream as monowire edged teeth slice through his neck, then the cyberhound guard dog turns to aquire a new target.

“WOW!” Pacoy gasps at the feed, “Did not see THAT coming!” “I did. Tiajuana. How it started to go downhill.” Pitbull growls, unfazed at the scene as he takes another healthy drag off of his cigarette. Mac tenses up. “Able’s got this, right? Please tell me he’s got this.”

Able steps past his goon’s body to reach into the gap in the door, uppercutting the cyberhound with an electrified fist. The uppercut sails by the creature’s chin, but is quickly followed by a second punch to its snout in combination with a brutal attempt at an electrified head-lock with the other hand. Just then, Pacoy’s drone arrives on scene, activates, and puts a blanket of static over every channel – including Able’s feed. “Aaaaw damn! Just when the movie started gettin’ good.” Pitbull growls, as he flicks his cigarette to his right, before looking over his PDW. “Would it be in poor taste to ask Able to try and take the hound with as little damage as possible? I mean we could end up with a new mascot!” Pacoy smiles, as he readies his gun, just in case.

Mac winces, spinning to glare at Pacoy. “That’s no good. We’ve got to know what’s happening in there. If I can get to see a window, I have a laser mic that will let us at least hear what’s going on in there?” “I’m on it,” Pacoy agrees as he fine-tunes the marmalades signals, opening the teams feed.

The cyberhound keeps avoiding Able’s blows – until he lands a full-on grapple of its head in his electrified hands, sending thousands of volts through its brain. The hound lets out a howl mixed with a cybernetic screech, then slumps to the ground with smoke whisping from his ears and mouth. Able steps back, patting his hands to rid them of dogstench. “Pick him up and bring him back to the van. We’ll give him a proper burial. Drop some bleach on the stains if you can find it, but let’s get back to it.” He shakes his head as he steps into the pharmacy propper. “What a waste…” In the aftermath, an alarm bell can be heard ringing. The yardie gangsters ignore it as the race into the warehouse area. Shortly, one yells “Boss, is this the thing you were after?”

Mac fidgets in the van, flipping the cylinder of his revolver open and closed. “I don’t like this, I don’t like it one bit.”

Able turns towards the loud thug. “Bioprinter, full of cartridges. Should have a box with spares around here, too. Put them in the dumpster – they may have a tag on ‘em, and our security man said he’d disable them.” “Got it, ok – all of those ones, guys. And grab some of those canisters of blue bills too, we’ll take ’em with us for the after-party!” Within three or four minutes, the gang has packed several shipping cases into the nearest dumpster and loaded several others onto their van alongside the corpse of their friend. “Ready to go, boss!” one calls out.

Able steps out, walking towards the van – his brain full of images of the Yardy gangsters robbing their way through the pharmacy. They’d make a nice upload right into the police’s inbox later tonight. He steps into the van after checking that everything’s in its proper place. “Alright. Get us out of here.”

Mac watches from his feed, silently calculating the distance they have to travel with a digital ruler, counting yards on his fingers. “We’ll have to move fast. The flatfeet are more than likely already here. So we’ll pull it like a Bobby Kennedy. Pull up hot to the dumpster, we load the kitch, Pacoy gets the jam-bot back to the van to jam the homing beacon and we vamoose into the night while he gets to disabling the homing beacon.”

The removals van rumbles away from the warehouse, down the road and past the gate, picking up the two toughs there as it goes. Pitbull nods as the van starts rolling. He lays the PDW on his lap and pulls out another cigarette as he growls. “That went well. Hitchless almost.” His eyes narrow as he finishes his sentence. “Alright dudes, keep yer eyes peeled. Shit usually tacks itself on at this moment.” “Why did you say that? Of course it’s going to, because you said it!” “No, Mac! Don’t you watch movies? When shit goes down in any action-heist-flic, there is always some loose end waiting around the corner thinkin’ their smarter than you! I didn’t call the storm, I just pointed it out!” Pitbull grates as he grips his PDW tighter.

Able sits back in the van, smiling a sad smile. “Aside from the trouble with the dog, that went reasonably well. Now we just see if our inside man can make good on his word. Drop me off at my residence; we won’t know if he’s done his part until morning, and I don’t want to crash your celebrations.” The toughs with Able in the cab of the van look at him with even more respect than before – he’s just cemented Yardie Bob’s reputation as a mean man to cross. “Sure boss. Ummm…what residence? I thought you lived on the top floor.”

Mac tenses a bit. “Dumpster, now, quick as you please, Pitbull. I’ve got a bad feeling about this. I told you that you’ve brought bad luck to this endeavor..”

Able under a mask of Bob gives the boys a smile. “What, you don’t like this new way of referring to my private entrance? I thought it had more class than ‘by the back door’.” The toughs laugh too. “Classy, yeah man. OK, Sir Yardie, your private manor it is!” The removals van rumbles off into the night, headed back to Stepney.

As Mac and Pit grab the loot, Pacoy quickly disables all power-sources from the cyberhound and pulls it to the van while grinning “Why yes, Santa, I have been a good boy this year!” Pitbull heaves the hunk of tech into the back of the van after Mac passes it off to him before noticing the still smoking cyber-hound nestled next to the printer’s new seat. “Pac… You really are a… Pac-rat.” Pitbull guffaws again, as he slams the van doors shut. Mac sighs as he settles into the back, resting his heels on the printer. “Is it too late to walk back to Night City? That was terrible.”

Getting the beefy dog into the van, Pacoy grimaces, “Oh, cyberhound! In the chaos, I was thinking it was one of those fancy new robo-dogs that are all the rage. Now I kind of feel bad.”

As they speed away from the pharmacy, Able begins the task of uploading his captured video to the ‘CrimeBusters!’ anonymous crime-reporting website, carefully tagged with location information and carefully-edited dossiers of each of the gangsters involved – including one Yardy Bob.

Mac slides into the passenger seat to get away from the unconscious dog. “This is just great. Now we have to worry about house breaking two different types of dog. Take this next left up here, then keep on straight for half a mile. We’re out of this mess in no time at all. Treat you all to a drink when we’re safely back.” The van slides off into the night, laden with ill-gotten spoils.

- Fade Scene -

Imperial War Museum
Lambeth, London Metroplex
Saturday 15th April, 2051
9.00 PM

The scene in the small room is jubilant but expectant. Able, having slipped away from the Yardies the previous night and now wearing his own face again, watched the holo-vid report with Sharktooth Tony. The news anchor sums up: “Most of the notorious Yardie gang were rounded up at their Stepney nightclub in a dawn raid. They have been charged in connection with a robbery at a pharmacy wholesalers last night and more charges are expected. The gang’s leader, Yardie Bob, remains at large but police have said they expect to arrest him and recover more of the stolen goods soon.”

Tony laughs through his sharp teeth. “Well, if they find Bob he’s more ‘at small’ now than ‘at large’ – or to be exact scattered in biteable chunks among the pig swill. We’ll give it a month and move in to buy out the club. Nice work, Yanks, I’m impressed despite myself. We’ve got the gear set up in the east wing making mostly antibiotics and vaccines. The folk of Lambeth will be really greatful for last night.”

Pitbull chuckles at the news story. “I love when inside jokes come together.” Mac winces, not relishing the idea of Tony’s particular brand of justice. “As long as those people’s lives are going to be improved, yeah, it may just be worth it. So what are we left to settle up, a cracked jaw?”

Able leans backwards, a smile on his face. “That’s how I like to get things done – efficiency first. When’s our would-be boxer extraordinarie going on?” Tony gestures past the curtain towards the main hall of the old re-purposed museum. The boys are setting up now, the crowd will start to arrive in maybe two hours. there are some important people going to be there, folk i want happy with me. So, no mistakes right? Your man goes down in the second round. Who’s it going to be, the big Texan there?" “Nah, man I know myself well enough that if he hits me right, I won’t stop. Big dumb ego and all that. I vote Mac or Abe. Both of them are very capable with the ol’ …erm fistycuffeds.”

Mac looks at Able, feeling a massive twinge of guilt for the events he set in motion. “I’ll go top bill – I can take someone boxing my ears for the cause. ‘sides, Pitbull can attest – I can take a beating in the ol’ square circle.” “My votes on Mac,” Pacoy nods. Mac sighs, looking sidelong at his reflection in a pane of glass. “Just promise me you can put everything back where it belongs, doc. I’m too young to get made ugly.” Able raises his hand to Mac – and brings it down quickly after noticing it beginning to shake. “I’ll leave it to you.”

Sharktooth grins. “Don’t worry, the other guy will be told not to knock you out in the first.” With that, he leaves to arrange some details for the fight. Mac looks around at his comrades, then pointedly at Pacoy. “Hey, since we know the outcome of the fight already, can we pool some cash and put a bet in on the result?” “I was thinking the same thing, We’re from macross the pond, Mr. Sharktooth: what would be a fair bet with being greedy or disresprectful to your operation?” Pacoy asks.

Tony turns on the way out. “The house maximum is 10 thousand. You’ll get two gets you one odds on the other guy. Fifty to one if you back your guy, but we know he’s going to lose so that wouldn’t be bright.”

Mac runs his hands over his face again, staring at his synthetic features in the reflection as talk of betting goes on about him. He thinks to himself, I’ve never taken a beating for money before. I hope it’s going to be worth it. These looks may not be genetic, but…

“Anyone got the Mortal Kombat theme? I think it’d work right about now.” Pitbull growls as he stubs out his cigarette.

Imperial War Museum
Lambeth, London Metroplex
Sunday 16th April, 2051
00.45 AM

The old war museum, now become the palace of an urban gangster warlord, hums with activity as the time for the big fight nears. In the center of the main hall, a caged ring has been constructed. Around that, several hundred people mill – or hover near their comfy seats in the V.I.P. grandstand at one end as they circulate and “network” like busy bees.

In a curtained off area, the Lazarus team is clustered around their fighter – Mac – as the final minutes count down. He’s stripped to shorts and boxer’s hand wraps, nothing more. The marquis sticks his head past the curtain. “Fifteen minutes, mate.” Then he’s gone again.

Mac subconsciously reaches to confirm the time on his pocketwatch and sighs as he finds it not in it’s customary location. “So, how do I look guys? Think I can take the old one-two roundabout? Pac, did your stitch job ever heal up properly on my back?” “It should be more than ready for you to take a beating!” Pac says grinning and giving a thumbs up. Able looks the robot up and down. “Looks a little horrid back there – Pacoy isn’t exactly a master of fine stitching – but it’s holding. You’ll just look even more fearsome.” Pitbull sticks a lit cigarette in the corner of Mac’s mouth and stands to the front of him. “Yeah, dude you’re good. Especially with the smoke hangin’ from your face, you look like you take no shit.”

Mac smiles wistfully. “Shame, I had always hoped to have that unblemished charm.” He fusses with the cigarette before breaking into a grin. “Pitbull, don’t you know these things could be hazardous to my health? So, refresh my memory… was it round two? And you lot went to the bookie, yeah?” "All taken care of, Mac. Down in two, We cash in on your bruises, it’s a win-win.” Pacoy nods. “Nah. They make these outta seaweed now. You’ll need to go to Mexico to get real cancer causin’ tobacco now. I got a pack. Burro Fuego’s. They taste like cat shit, but that’s Mexican tobacco, right?” Pitbull growls, chuckling as he lights his own. Mac doubles over with laughter. “Can’t say as if I’ve ever tasted cat shit, but you’re the expert!” Able shakes his head. “Naw. That’s just tobacco. The false stuff has a different aroma – more pleasant.” “Nah, those Black Sobra- uhh- Sobeh- Somedah- fuggit. Those cigarettes that the Bey gave us a while back were damn good. If that was cat shit, then I’d own eighteen litter boxes, if y’know what I mean.” Pitbull laughs again. “18 litters boxes, huh?” Pacoy thinks for a second, “Maybe we should invest in an alamid farm after this gig.”

The Marquis ducks in past the curtain again. “Anyfink you need, mate? Show’s on in 10 minutes. They’ll announce you first, as the challenger, then the other guy.” Mac looks at the Marquis, eyes wide. “Any chance of getting a monogrammed souvenier towel? Never been in a proper match before. Well, ‘proper’. If I get fussed up in the fight, I want to be seen by my own doc, not anyone else. Is that okay?” The Marquis grins, “Sure, no problem. Your own sawbones and no-body other. I’ll get you a towel, too. Imperial War Museum stock, good stuff. You know the rules right? No killing, and a count of ten is final. I’d tell you not to kick the other bloke in the nadgers but he ain’t got any…”

Able looks over at Pitbull. “Who that agrees to a fixed match does?” Pitbull guffaws as he takes another drag off of his smoke. “Well, Mac. Looks like your fighting a eunuch! And Abe’s gotta point. We’re now gettin’ into WWE shit tonight!”

The Marquis grabs a Queen Anne chair, turns it around and sits astride it. “Tell you, there’s a lot of scratch getting blown on this fight. See, it’s a way to give out bribes to those as needs them – easier to get caught in gambling on a bare-knuckle fight, y’see, and as good as handing ‘em the dosh if they know who’s gonna win and when.” Mac sighs. “Do we have any assurance that the other banger isn’t going to lay down if I tap him? I was hoping this was going to be more of Jerry Lewis if I do say so myself.” The Marquis laughs. “Don’t you worry about hurtin’ the other guy, mate.”

“Ah, c’mon. He can’t be much bigger or broader than me, and I’m sure Mac could take me if I got a wild hair up my ass.” Pitbull smiles as he folds his arms into his chest, smoke clenched between his teeth.

Marquis Deeds blinks, “They didn’t tell you, did they? Bugger me. Mate, you’re fighting some pro Yank pit fighter they’ve brought in special-like. Name of Samehdi, he’s like SoCal champion or somefink like that.” Pitbull shrugs. “Never heard of him, but he sounds like he might know some dudes we know. Just watch, he’s gonna be like five-three, ninety pounds of angry little dude.”

Mac blinks several times, then scrabbles in his pocketwatch to do a quick search, his face growing paler by the second. “No, they failed to mention that part…” More searching ensues on the watch as Mac’s lips draw tighter as he reads aloud. “Usama Safar, aka Samedi – born in Night City but lives in SoCal now. Recently became local pit-fighting champ in a bout in which he defeated a former military cyborg. Looks like he paid a bonesaw to stuff him with Cybernetic pit-fighting augments.” He makes some gestures and flicks through some footage.

He glances at Able, then snaps the pocketwatch closed and shoves it back in his pile of clothing. “It’s been nice knowing you gentlemen. If he hits me with a Zombie-Maker, I’m done for. I don’t think I can take one of those. He’s a speed-fighter, to boot. At least I won’t have to look out for his feet, or him trying to grab hold and tear my stitches.”

“He ain’t gonna kill ya, Mac. He’s gonna hurt, but I doubt he’s dumb enough to beat you to death.” Pitbull growls, the humour drained when the information was laid out to him. Deeds grins, “You guys want me to put some extra on for you? It’s 1 to 2 for Samedi’s win, but you’ll get 10-1 on Mac here lasting past the first round.” Pitbull pulls out a fist-full of cred-chips. “$2K that Mac makes it to round two. Mac, I know you got this shit.”

Able smiles as he steps forwards to follow Mac out the room. “Well, at least it shouldn’t be too hard convincing the crowd that you were outma..” As he speaks, Able’s hands begin to twitch – hard. He doesn’t quite get to the end of the sentence before his body has hit the ground, twitching in a full-body seizure, his body-morphic implants going haywire with renegade signals, switching him rapidly between multiple different faces, hair colors, and body shapes, not all of them particularly connected to one another.

Deeds shoots upright in shock, “What the fu—?!”

Mac attempts to wipe the shock off his face but only succeeds in forming a scowl. “The more I think about it, the less my confidence in myse—-” He stops and drops to one knee, checking Able’s vitals. “He’s fine, I think. This is why I have to make it to round two. Guess I needed a reminder. Just… a bit more shocking than I was expecting. Deeds, pal, what’s the max we can put on me making it to the second round?” “I’ll sit with Able, Keep an eye on him and all, you worry about not getting your CPU Casing smashed all over the ring: I have plans for that hardware!” Pacoy deflects the drama.

Deeds does a double-take, “Huh, wha…uh, ten grand. What’s up with your pal?” Pitbull looks at Able in shocked confusion. “Abe? Abe? Is he gonna be alright?”

Able’s spasm passes, but he seems disoriented, unable to speak – and all of his limbs flop uselessly as if they’ve been disconnected from his nervous system. Mac looks Deeds square in the eye. “He’s having some health issues, and I’m going to be making it right. Is that ten grand a person? Or overall?” He pulls his credit stick from his pile of clothing. “If it’s per person, I want to put a full ten on me making it. I have a feeling I’ll need it to pay some bills if I come through.” Deeds gulps, “I think it’d better be infull, Mac me old mucker. You’ve already got five large on Samedi’s win, so all told this’d bring your take to near 25 grand.” He holds up Pitbull’s two thousand. “Any more and old Tony might think you’re taking the piss.”

Mac shrugs and re-buries his credit stick. “Had to try. If this pays off, I may not need the cash anyhow. Certainly won’t if I lose. Can you get Pacoy a feed so he can watch the fight?” Mac begins testing each of his limbs, making sure nothing’s frozen up on him, a sudden fear after observing Able. “I assure you: The last thing we want is Tony’s piss,” Pacoy says, “Would half that be more reasonable?” Deeds nods, “Sure, but Tony knows this is a loss fight for him, so you’ll be ok. It’s all about the infuence the moolah rolling out buys.”

Just then a booming voice fills the whole central hall. “Ladeeees and Gentlemen, welcome to Sharktooth’s Palace! Tonight we bring for your entertainment a pugillistic contest between two fighters from across the pond. First, in the red corner, we have the pride of Night City and a member of the infamous Lazarus Group – the fast and furious MAC THE KNIFE!”

Deeds pushes Mac towards the curtain, “You’re on pal!” as somewhere the P.A. begins playing a familiar tune. Pitbull laughs. “Infamous? We’re infamous?! I didn’t fuckin’ know that! And Mac the Knife! I can’t-I can’t even!” Pitbull guffaws in hysterics.

Mac stumbles forwards before grinning to himself, shaking his head and jogging forward to the ring, to make his circle. He practices some punches and his footwork, making nice with the audience as he sings along to the song. The audience yells, whistles and stomps as he walks up to the ring and swings up into his corner, then an expectant hush descends again.

The M.C.’s voice booms again: “And in the blue corner, the Champeen of SoCal, the zombie-maker himself, the Baron of Beatdowns, the Lord of The Underworld…SAMEDHI!!!!” At that, a large and muscled figure begins to stalk towards the ring, slapping his fist into his hand over and over, a predatory grin on his face. When he reaches it, he crouches then jumps straight up and over the top rope to land with a thump in a perfect landing in his corner. He turns to the audience, his hands raised high, and the beginning of Hells bells tones out.

“Heh! He looks like a crackhead. At least “Big Balls” isn’t playing." Pitbull growls, smiling as he lights another cigarette.

Mac forces his mouth to stay closed as he mutters into his embedded cellphone, “Oh. Oh this is just wonderful. Pitbull, can I count on you for some tactical support here?” “Aim for his head if the opening comes. Alternate between body and head shots. See what you can learn of his technique from there.” Pitbull growls, still smiling as he narrows his eyes. Mac smiles weakly. “Is that before or after I get blinded by a right cross? Pac, any insight onto his cyber that I should be aware of?” “He’s a killer. Don’t worry about holding back – he’s damn near bullet -proof, and his fists are going to be hammers. Avoid them!” Pacoy advises. “Dance around him if you gotta. If you know any neat kicks to throw in on him, do ‘em. You get caught in arms length and I get the feeling it’ll hurt a fuck-ton.” Pitbull growls.

The referee, in traditional black and white striped body armor, climbs into the ring and motions to the two fighters to approach. Mac looks down disparagingly at his feet, then up at the manmade killing machine in front of him. “Yeah, that’d help if I had studied kick boxing. Maybe. Maybe it’ll work. Golly, I really need to take Anita dancing when I get back…” He bounces towards the center of the ring.

The referee is miked up, so the whole hall hears him say, “O’right you boys, oi want a nice clean fight – and any eyes gouged must be handed back afterwords. Now, go to your corners and when the bell rings come out fighting.” Mac offers his fists to Samedhi in a traditional boxer’s salute, smiling politely at him, before he heads back to his corner.

The MC intones: “Here’s your main event. Fifteen rounds of 30 seconds each, with a knockout or judges decision to decide the winner. Let’s get ready to rrrruuuummmbbbllleeee!!!!” DING

Mac comes out of the corner, floating like a classical boxer, fists up. Unlike a classic boxer, while he’s working his feet, he finds himself slipping into an uncharacteristic level of calm as his internal processors begin spooling up, feeding extra energy to his joints and muscles, spurring on extremely rapid movement. He jukes to the right and strikes out with his off-hand, but the strike gets knocked away by Samedhi’s forearm. However, his right hook catches Samedhi unawares, but not so-much-so that he isn’t able to dodge out of the way.

Samedhi grins at the first flurry, then moves back a step, watching carefully. Pitbull’s eyebrows go up at the diplay of speed. “Well. That was impressive.”

Mac bounces on the balls of his feet, surprised to be enjoying himself. “Come on, buster, lets dance, yeah?” He steps forward in the same pattern, but instead of throwing a left punch, he aims a kick at his opponent, following up with a right uppercut. Both fail to make a meaningful connection, like most private detectives. Redoubling his efforts, Mac comes in with a right jab, followed by a quick left uppercut. Both connect with weak thuds, and Mac’s grin is cut short as he feels Samedhi make a connection.

Samedhi accepts both blows as his right fist lashes out at Mac’s right biceps with crushing power. With an audible crack, Mac’s shoulder is dislocated by the force of the blow and Mac is sent reeling back almost four feet.

All pretense of humor drains from Mac’s face as he refrains from howling out loud like a Victorian specter. He glances down at his useless arm, then back at his opponent. “Hey Pacoy… did you know that my arms could dislocate? Because I just found out that was a thing that can happen.” “I brought tools, buddy.” Pacoy assures Mac.

Oddly, instead of stepping in to finish Mac, Samedhi turns to play to the crowd, wasting precious time as he parades with his arms held high, and the crowd goes wild…except for some very sour-faced people in the VIP seats.

Mac spits and waits for a second, running the numbers, watching the man soak up his faux-glory before he dodges forward, wincing as his arm moves about. He brings his left arm back, swinging it forward with all the strength freight train with it’s brake lines cut loose, driving his reinforced knuckles into the back of Samedhi’s skull, ringing his bell and primally enjoying the trickle of blood that is visible from beneath his ear. Mac winces as he comms back to his team. “May not have been the best move, but this dunderhead has irked me something fierce.”

Samedhi staggers forward one foot, then shakes his head and swings around, growling. All trace of a smile is gone from his face as he stands stock still for a second, then bursts into motion towards Mac. Pacoy notices the signs immediately of course – a back-alley boosterware that gives him a rough version of Mac’s own altered sense of time. “He’s Juiced up, Mac!” Pacoy warns, “You just incited some roid-rage!” “He’s going to be even stronger and faster now,” Pacoy continues, “Keep dodging!”

A straight right slams towards Mac’s face, a potential killing blow, but Mac desperately moves aside just in time. Mac stammers out a swear in Russian as he backpedals, hands up defensively, as he tries to get away from the furious Californian. He shakes his head to clear it as he begins circling his predator, trying to keep him off guard.

Samedhi gathers himself visibly as his corner staff shout at him, then leaps into the air a full nine feet up and across the ring at Mac. Mac skips out of the way of the Samedhi-bomb. “Right, right. Guys, uh, what do I do? How badly did I mess this up? I don’t want to die!” He tries to keep his balance. “Mac, his armor has gaps check them out,” Pacoy comms excitedly, pointing out the various flaws in the cyber-thugs armor. Mac backpedals, bouncing on his feet as he does. He does his best to look for the gaps in the armor. “Oh, that’s good news. He’s not a perfect murder machine. I’ve never been able to hit a target that small!”

The referee steps between the two fighters briefly, and whispers something to Samedhi that his mike doesn’t pick up. The big pit fighter angrily pushes the ref away, but he stops and visibly gathers his wits again before advancing. “Pit’s woman made the same comment!” Pacoy’s grin can almost be heard over the comms, “Don’t worry about winning, just stay alive!” Pitbull grimaces. “Do I always have to be the ol’ butt-monkey? Seriously. Can we go back to making fun of Wormies’ creepiness?”

Mac dances back and forth a bit, looking for an opening, trying to evaluate the best chance to disable his opponent’s arm. “Heck, Worm is on another continent – where is the fun in that? Besides, Wormies sex life isn’t anything anyone wants to think about!” Pacoy answers. Mac sighs into the comms. “Not going to lie – when his fist was coming to my face, the only image I could see was of old busted-nose.” Pitbull laughs, despite his eyes not leaving the fight for fear of losing sight of all the action.

Samedhi moves fast, grabbing Mac behind the neck and hugging him close as he punches his left into Mac’s abdomen – but it looks far worse than it feels. As he holds Mac close he whispers, “I’m dead if we fuck this up, so let’s dance. Kick me in the knee, then punch me in the ear again.”

Mac struggles to break away from Samedhi, kicking at his knee which does little more than shift their positioning, allowing him to get a weak left hook to connect with his opponent’s ear. Surprisingly, to Mac at least, the big fighter throws himself sideways, tripping over Mac’s now outstretched leg to sprawl on the canvas. The crowd gasps and cheers as he stays down, seeming groggy, for three whole seconds before rising again — and giving Mac a sly wink as he does. Mac massages at where he was ‘hit’ with his good hand, chuckling under his breath into the comm-net. “Guys, this is… absurd… the numpty just winked at me…”

Now Samedhi begins to circle with Mac, occasionally closing to send out a fast blow that somehow doesn’t connect. The seconds tick by… Mac attempts to give as good as he gets, despite having only one good arm. Samedhi finally, in the 26th second, gives a nod and steps forward in earnest, his fists raised. He spins, crouches, and sends an elbow strike at mac’s midrift.

Mac steps back and swings downward at the offending arm, misjudging it’s location and missing horribly before recovering. Samedhi swiftly counters with a head-butt aimed right at Mac’s nose, which Mac narrowly sidesteps. Mac, apparently tiring, swings at Samedhi’s arm again and fails to connect. Samedhi replies with a blistering uppercut, which connects with Mac’s jaw just as he is rising back from his own punch, starting a trickle of blood but not doing any more than stunning the detective some.

Mac staggers back, head reeling as he extends his good arms to try and regain his combat posture. He ducks forward to feint and swings at his opponent’s leg, but the coordination seems to be fading from his left arm. Samedhi swings and brings a fist around into Mac’s left ribcage, but again Mac’s speed saves him. There are only two seconds of the first round left and the crowd are on their feet. Mac grins in spite of himself. “Pit, Pac, hows it looking from out there?” “You and Able are both still breathing, so beating the odds, I’d say,”Pacoy answers.

Mac arcs his arm out, then snakes it back in for a cock-eyed cockney uppercut, catching Samedhi with a glancing blow to the jaw, leaving his torso unguarded. Samedhi takes the blow and answers with a short right counter into Mac’s ribcage, punching the smaller man back a yard with the power of his blow. Mac groans, feeling his internal components straining, beginning to disrupt the power flow to the rest of his extremities. “I can’t take much more of this guys…” He blinks repeatedly to shake off his eyes from irising closed. He steadies himself with one hand on the ropes.

Just then, the bell rings, a crystal DING! signalling the end of the first round. Samedhi bows to his opponent and stalks back to his corner. Mac attempts to throw a weak salute as he stumbles back to his corner. “How’d I do, coach?” His speech is beginning to seem less crisp and elegant, compared to his normal verbocity. Pacoy frantically works to set Mac’s damaged alignment’ “Just a few more seconds, and it’s payday.” Pitbull stands next to Pacoy. “You’re doing good man. Take a punch next round and fall, but be convincing about it. He can hit you in the chest or the head, but if he gets you in the arm no one’ll believe it.” Mac winces out of reflex as Pacoy works on his arm. “What does candy have to do with this? I could use a seven course meal right about now. What was it we had at the Ottoman that one time…?” Mac groans. “He darmn near took my arm off last time. I’d believe it if he knocked me out with one of those.” Mac looks at Pacoy and Pitbull. “Right. Time to pull a Wormwood and go hit things with my face, yeah?” “I wonder what that loveable creep is doing right now…” Pitbull ventures off, as he lights another cigarette.

The high-quality artificial bones in Mac’s arm and ribs snap back into their proper place under Pacoy’s expert hands well before the next round begins. Two bikini-clad lovelies parade around the ring holding cards on high – “Round Two” is about to begin. “Ding!!!”

Samedhi bounces out of his corner on the balls of his feet, his face set in a determined look. Mac gawps at the girls for a moment, then slaps his face with both arms, rotating his right one slowly. “Thanks, pal. I owe you.” He grins at Samedhi as he starts his bounding way to him.

Mac bobs, weaves, and takes a few good shots at Samedhi. One shot to his jaw leaves him overextended, allowing Samedhi to shove him along. This gives Samedhi just enough time to use his cybernetic enhancements to get a small leap up in the air, bringing a harsh elbow into the back of Mac’s head, causing him to collapse forward into unconsciousness.

The referee rushes forward and counts mac out, as the detective groggily writhes on the canvas. The crowd rises to its feet and cheers as Samedhi does a victory parade. Unseen by any, Sharktooth Tony flashes Pacoy and Pitbull a toothy grin and a satisfied nod.

A46 Highway
South Of Nottingham
Wednesday 19th April, 2051
03.30 AM

It’s been three days since the big Fight Night at Sharktooth’s London base, and the Lazarus team have made good most of Mac’s injuries with the help of Sharktooth’s well-equipped workshops. Able too, has recovered from his grande mal seizure, although the shakes in his arms and legs are more noticeable – an almost constant minor tremor now.

True to his word, Sharktooth Tony has arranged smuggled transport to a safe house near Nottingham, there to meet with a contact of his named Tillie Jones. Thus the team find themselves and their gear crammed into a small compartment, half of what would be a large refrigeration unit in an 18-wheeler’s trailer. A smaller but more powerful unit takes up the other half of the space, almost screaming as it tries to keep a trailer full of fish chilled. Up front, the truck’s driver is none other than the team’s new-found friend Marquis Deeds, a general aide to Sharktooth.

Mac flips the collar up on his trenchcoat up. “We need to get better accommodation. Can we use some of the flight money to fly first class back home, you think?” Able sits with his back to the unit’s wall, his arms and legs shivering – and not from the cold. “I’ll be happy to be rid of this wretched country.” “We could always cash in your ticket and send you Parcel, upgrading our seats,” Pacoy smiles to Mac, “But as far as a return trip, I want something a little less stressful on Able.” Mac nods. “Say, I’ve heard great things about these classic cruises that take a while to move you from A to B, but there’s plenty of drinking, gambling and excess… that seems our style.”

Pitbull lights another cigarette from the stub of his last one and begins to field strip the PDW he got from Able…again. “I hate this box,” he says. “It reminds me of the back of an AV6 one cold night over Tijuana. That went bad fast.” Mac rolls his eyes. “Pitbull, did ANY of your missions go well?” “Not since I’ve known him!” Pacoy answers with a grin. Pitbull blows out a stream of scented smoke “Those are the ones I managed to forget, Mac.”

The truck slows gradually and Deed’s voice comes over the small intercom built into the wall – barely heard over the refrigerator hum. “We’re coming up on another check-point guys. Same as the last two, so keep it quiet and don’t worry.” Mac sighs and slinks down even lower. “You know, if it weren’t as cramped as a bear in a doublewide here, I’d have a bigger problem. As it stands, it’s just moderately uncomfortable watching you guys grow icicles under your noses.” Able taps on the wall twice, the noise reverberating through the walls of their little cell – and into the driver’s cabin. A simple, inarticulate ‘OK’ signal. Afterwards, Able leans back against the wall and closes his eyes – and tries his best to still his limbs.

Moments later, the team hear familiar sounds – voices with rough local accents asking Deeds where he’s going – shouting at him, as all the checkpoint soldiers so far have. Then the back of the truck is opened up and a couple of fish crates get inspected. After some more shouting the truck lurches into motion again.

Mac breathes out a sigh of relief, glad to be relatively immune to the cold. “I hope it’s not too much farther. You holding up alright there, Able?” Able takes a deep breath before answering. “For now, when my nerves don’t feel like their own fire.” He gives a silent laugh. “And those have mostly been replaced with electrical conduits. It’s strange having phantom-nerve pains.” Mac winces. “It’s hard to imagine, given that I’m pretty sure all of my nerves are electrical conduits. I wonder if it’s different from your actual nerve pains..” “I don’t think any of our crew has their original nerves left,” Pacoy nods in sympathy. Mac nods. “Not much we can do if we don’t know what you’re feeling. I’m no doctor, to be sure.”

The truck makes a wide, slow left turn and Deeds voice comes over the intercom again. “Nearly there, chaps. One more turn, about ten minutes from there, and we’ll be on the home straight.” Pitbull gives a sigh of relief and reassembles the PDW without looking at it. “Maybe we should be ready, just in case,” he growls.

As soon as he’s said it, the intercom buzzes alive again. “Heads up! We’ve two Trasher vans coming up behind us fast, lights and sirens going. It must be us, we’re the only thing on the road!” The big truck begins to accelerate.

Mac braces himself against the wall, fumbling in his pocket for his little snub-nosed revolver. “I was really hoping I wouldn’t have to use this thing.” Pacoy draws his pistol, augmented reality highlighting strategic options throughout his field of view as he tries to get in the best possible position in these cramped conditions. Able looks around their compartment, trying to visualize the situation. The refrigeration units – could they be pushed off the back of the truck? Opened up so they could fire to the rear? Where are the entrances and exits?

Deeds voice comes again “There’s no way we’re getting away from these bozos. We’ll have to ditch the truck and yomp it overland. In a minute I’ll make a hard turn right then stop. When I do, bail out and be ready to shoot if they’re fast enough.” As if to punctuate his words, a ripping burst of automatic fire slams into the rear of the trailer with metallic thunks.

Able braces himself the best he can, getting ready for the abrupt movement. Mac begins opening the secret compartment’s door, ready to clear a path for his friends to the exit. Pitbull gets up and stretches, then moves past Mac to the hatch into the cargo area and begins to crawl through. He motions for the rest of the team to follow him, then pushes on. “Better to be ready to unass quickly, guys,” he throws over his shoulder. Augmented Reality highlights a plan of action for Pacoy, and he edges his way into position to follow through. Mac follows behind Pitbull, ensuring Able is mobile behind them.

With a screech of brakes and a scream of tortured tyres, the big-rig throws itself into a hard right then stops hard in a hiss of air-brakes. “Now” shouts Deeds. Pitbull leads the way, kicking open the rear trailer doors then jumping down to crouch in what you can now see is a narrow country road, with high banks and hedges on either side. Outside, the night is warm and clear, although somewhere to the West a thunderstorm rumbles warning. A half moon lights the little lane as Deeds comes around the side, shotgun ready, and points to the North hedgerow urgently. Pit crouches by the rear right tire and motions for everyone to move as he levels his PDW at the end of the lane where it meets the main road. They can hear sirens and see flashing lights over the hedges there, as well as hear two racing engines.

As the trailer slams into the turn, Able steadies himself against the cargo crates – and then surges forwards when the vehicle stops jerking around, running full-bore out of the trailer before turning to keep the trailer between him and the gunfire. Mac puts his hand on Able’s shoulder, and then begins the move forward. He moves ahead, keeping pace with Able, making sure that he doesn’t stumble and fall.

Deeds has already clambered up the bank and located a gap in the hedgerow. He waves at them all – go faster, then drops through the hedge into the fields beyond. Pacoy brings up the rear, watching Able’s back while relying on the Augmented Reality to keep him one step ahead of the opposition. Mac pushes Able forward, moving as quickly as he can without pumping his system full of electronic adrenaline. Able keeps up a fast pace, turning quickly into an all-out sprint down the embankment and away from the road.

A “Pitbull” ATV in plain green, but with police-style lightbars, slams around the corner at speed, almost tipping over in its haste. Pitbull fires a rapid burst at one of its wheels, but misses. Still, the ATV brakes to a halt, as another pulls up behind it so the two completely block the road. On the team’s comm-net Pitbull says “Break contact. I’ll lead them into the fields on the other side and circle around to meet you all.”

Mac grumbles. “Oh, this is just wonderful. I don’t like running from the police, but now I’m doing it as an illegal in a foreign country. Pitbull, you be careful. This is not Tijuana!” Pitbull throws back, “No, its colder and greener. But just the same, really.” Thent hey see his shadowed form sprint up the opposite banking and throw himself over the hedge there. Seconds later, he fires again at the lead ATV, blowing out its left-front tire. A fusilade of fire is directed at his muzzle flash but he texts “Missed me.”

As Able runs, he slaps a button on his chest – and blurs into the background, his active camouflage clothing activating.

Deeds turns to the others as he runs West, parallel to the road. “We’re headed for a place called Bleasby, OK? Due west right by the river. There’s an old campsite there, hasn’t been used in years but we keep some caravans there as a safe place. Ask for Tilly and say Deeds sent you, if…well, you know.”

Mac sighs. “Don’t get yourself killed, you big lug.” He scans around, following Deeds as best he can now that Able has become much more difficult to see. “Yeah, you’ll be there, Deeds. We don’t leave people behind.”

Another burst of fire comes, further South now, and a flurry of return fire along with the bass growl of the second ATV in motion. Pacoy starts with a witty dig, but swallows it as he follows a tactically laid out path to the rendezvous point, throat tight. Able triggers the minimap program on his internal HUD, noting the position of the vehicle, the road, and their destination as he continues running flat-out for the rendevous point. Deeds points up the half-moonlit low valley of the historic Avon river at some roofs and a church steeple. “That’s Bleasby. Let’s get down near the river and we’ll get some cover. Can one of you send Pits the location so he can meet us?” Mac looks down at the jangling chain of his pocketwatch. “I’m a bit busy enjoying the jog and the view – you want to send it to him, Pac?” Able gets the message off, routing it through his brainset. “Done. Let’s get out of the open.”

Away to the South, the sounds of gunfire and pursuit are sporadic and fading, but still it means Pitbull must be alive out there. Deeds leads the team down to the river, which is about a hundred yards wide at this point, deep and slow moving. Along the banks, the bushes are thick and plentiful, wound around by angler’s paths. Mac whistles quietly, his breathing still calm and even as a cat’s purr. “Shame we aren’t here during the day – this place would be quite the looker in the sun.”

After running for half a minute, Deeds drops into a hollow behind a bush. “Let’s stop here for a few. I’m a London street boy, mates, not used to this cross-country shit.” He looks winded, gasping for breath. Mac comes to a dead stop, then crouches down, his breath even. “Couldn’t Sharktooth have sent someone a bit more fit? Besides, I’ve seen Oliver – you street rats are supposed to be able to run for days!”

Suddenly, a shadow passes across the party at speed on a whisper of supressed jet engines. A few hundred feet above, a sleek winged shape glints for a moment in the moonlight – some kind of AV gunship, at a guess. Following close on its wake comes the storm that was threatening, a cold winter rain mixed with booming thunder and flashes of lightning joins the far-off sound of gunfire.

Mac’s watch beeps.

Mac looks towards the sky, tilting his hat back. “Ah, see, I thought this jog could use a touch of rain. And a gunship attack. At least Pitbull is having a time of it…” He swings his watch out on it’s chain and flips it open. Able slides to a stop in the hollow. “With that gunship up there, we may have some trouble. They’ve got to have infrared sensors, and we’ll just be heat blooms to them through the foliage.” Mac clicks his tongue against his teeth. “I’ve always kind of wondered about that…” “…AAAAAND the fun starts!” Pacoy sighs through gritted teeth, keeping his pace while following the most strategic course his Augmented Reality can provide.

In Mac’s holo-display is Pits, obviously using the camera on his PDW. He’s wet and has a cut on his forehead that is bleeding profusely down his face. The signal keeps fuzzing up, perhaps a consequence of the storm. “Did you see that gunship? he almost got me – thank fuck for this storm. He can’t stay around in this, I’ll bet. But he means we were set up. That’s not normal internal border security, even in this bloody place. I may have bitten off more than I can chew, Mac. There were two more of those armored cars behind the first two, and they’re both out there looking for me along with ground troops. I’m going to lead them south-west. I’ll rejoin when I can. If I can. Give the guys a hug from me and I’ll see you all on the flipside.” The transmission ends.
Deeds curses. “Someone back at Tony’s must be a snitch! Shit, piss, fuck, damn.” Mac spits on the ground, recording a voice message to flip back to Pitbull, “Stay safe you big dumb lug. You get in touch when you shake them.” He looks at Able, Pacoy and Deeds. “Well, what do we do, do we lie low and hope their eagle beats it out of here? We can’t lead it to the camp, otherwise they can just come for us at their leisure.” Mac starts chuckling. "So someone working for the crime-boss didn’t have the ethics, and ratted us out? If I weren’t so darn hungry, the irony would be delicious. Did anyone grab a case of that fish on the way out?’ Deeds shakes his head. “No, he’s right, a Mozzie can’t fly in this weather for long. We should press on. Look, let’s get to the campsite, then I can borrow some wheels and go looking for news of Pitbull, ok? Maybe they’ll capture him, or he’ll make it back on his own.” Able stays down, looking up at the vertol. “This traitor’s bad news. Watch yourself when you get back to Sharky.”

Mac nods. “If you’re ever in what’s left of the States, I’ve been working on developing a bit of a contact network, and could always use someone capable.” He dusts off his pants. “We should get ready for another brisk jog, though.” The storm closes in, blotting out all light except from the lightning flashes. Deeds nods again, looking grim. “You bet, old son.” He hefts his shotgun. “I’ll stick this up the wanker’s jaxxi and pull the trigger, see if I don’t.”

With a nod, Deeds heaves himself up and begins to jog Northwest, along the riverbank. The storm intensifies, covering any sound and making it impossible for any light aircraft to stay in the air. Mac jogs along. “Next time I travel anywhere, I’m picking up a phrase book. But I think the context was sufficient here.” Able takes off in a sprint, his camo having trouble adapting to the flashes of lightning – one moment appearing as a shadow, the next as the brightest thing in the area – before he swiftly shuts it back down.

The team cover distance swiftly, although Deeds keeps insisting on stopping for a few minutes so he can get his breath back. It’s during one of these stops, almost blinded by rain and lightning, that Mac catches a glimpse of three figures walking in the opposite direction – all holding stubby weapons and wearing military-style helmets. They’re almost upon the team, but looking at the opposite bank of the river, oblivious to the team’s presence.

Mac silently gestures to the team, pressing his free hand to his lips. He then tightens his grip on the revolver as he tracks their movement.

A rough voice is barely heard above the rain. “What a cock-up, eh? These buggers are obviously way off thataway and what with this storm the comms are out anyway even if we found ’em. Shit.”

Able turns to Deeds, Mac, and Pac, making a slicing motion across his neck to them before shooting them a questioning look.

“Maybe we should investigate the village pub, see if they’re there,” another laughs.

Mac’s lips thin out as he looks at Able as he considers, before pointing to Pacoy, deferring the decision to him, obviously uneasy. Pac hesitates, sighs and then nods.

Deeds nods too, and a monoslicer knife appears in his hand as if by magic. Mac pats his pocket down, then gestures at his revolver with a shrug.

Able begins creeping up to the soldiers, pointing to himself before pointing to the center one. He moves silently and slowly, a knife appearing in his hands. Pacoy takes aim with his silenced pistol at the back of another soldier’s head. Mac braces his revolver, leveling at the one Pacoy is aiming at, on the off-chance it becomes necessary as a last resort.

The storm has reached its peak, and a pair of massive bolts strike the steeple of the village church, which is only a third of a mile away now. The night is lit brightly, and the thunder is both immediate and deafening. Deeds springs from a crouch, grabbing one of the transit police from behind and dragging the monoslicer across his chest then downwards. His blade slices through the man’s body armor as if it weren’t there, leaving a deep gash at it also slices through ribs and muscle. The man opens his mouth in a scream drowned by the thunder. Deeds grins like a fox eating shit through a wire brush, then saws his monoslicer across the throat of the soldier dying in his arms, opening it almost to the backbone, then dropping the dead weight into the wet grass.

The Augmented Reality dancing across his vision, Pacoy takes a steady aim with his C7 Stealth pistol, and fires off a round into the back of the soldier’s neck just as the lightning rips across the sky, the soldier falling limp and silent into the mud.

Able slides up to his man, reaching around and jabbing the knife straight into his jugular. Able moves with inhuman speed as he slices open his target’s neck – and with a single continuation of the movement, jabs the knife right into Deed’s target’s left eye. Able takes a moment to yank the small blade from the eye socket of his fallen victim before placing it upon the back of the torn-to-shreds neck of his first target. He slowly pushes upwards, forcing the blade deep into the brainstem. As the first two begin to expire, he approaches the third soldier – the one Pacoy shot in the back of the neck. Grabbing the poor fellow by the head, he sets himself – and shortly afterwards, there is a sharp crack as he falls to the ground, his neck snapped.

Deeds breathes a sigh. “OK, fast, we’ll strip them of their gear and dump them in the river. By the time anyone finds them they’ll be miles downstream. Oh, and smash their commsets! Pacoy, the guns will have IFF chips, is that a problem?” “Shouldn’t be,” Pacoy answers as he sets about the task.

Mac’s eyes widen at the sheer brutality of the carnage in front of him, illuminated by the optics in his sunglasses. He tumbles backwards as he slips on the grass, his memory forever associating Able’s unbridled carnage with the repeated peals and crashings of the thunder and lightning above. He forces himself to look away, trying to gather his wits about him as he wishes profusely that he was anywhere else.

Able looks down at the collected gear. “Excellent. We needed to restock. Now we just need an easy way to carry it all.” He looks around, glances at Mac, then back at the soldiers. “I suppose we could hollow one out and use them as a man-purse, but there are probably less obvious ways to go about it.” Deeds starts rolling his own victim towards the river, saying “I can’t be toting these guns if I’m going to be out in public. D’you want them, guys?” Mac finds himself wondering why his maker decided to design an artificial gag reflex. “If someone brings the kit over here, sure, yeah. If nothing else, we’ll have the kit when we need it.”

Deeds grins. “OK, I’ve a best idea. Leave the body armor on – heave ho and they’ll sink like stones, never to be seen again! Gimme a hand, Able.” Able grabs one body by each hand, dragging them down to the river. “Let’s get this over with; we should really get to that camp.”

the bodies are sunk in the silty brown depths and the team set off again. The storm lifts to a light drizzle as they skirt the village and make their way to a tiny, overgrown campsite on its far edge. The caravans there (trailers to the team, being American) look like relics of a past age and well past their best, but there are also a couple of wooden “lodge” buildings, and as Deeds leads the team towards these a voice says. “OK, that’s far enough.”

Mac tenses up, already in a terrible mood that has only been marginally improving since the storm began lifting. Able catches the infra-red glitter of a sighting dot as it slips up his chest, then Deeds blurts out “The Masked Man sent us!” and the dot blinks off. From the undergrowth nearby, a woman appears as her stealth suit deactivates, and she shoulders the long rifle she carries.

“Hi there, I’ve been expecting you,” The pretty brunette murmurs, in a voice with a noticeable soft accent. “I’m Tillie.”

(Back from our Summer break, the campaign continues.)

Bleasby Campsite
North-East Of Nottingham
Wednesday 19th April, 2051
06.30 AM

After dodging the attentions of the paramilitary British Transport Police, and very likely losing Pitbull in the process, the Lazarus team and their guide have reached their destination – a safe “house” which comprises a cluster of dilapidated trailer homes on a campsite which hasn’t been used in years.

As the team cautiously approach, a voice stops them in their tracks. “OK, that’s far enough.”

Able catches the infra-red glitter of a sighting dot as it slips up his chest, then Deeds blurts out “The Masked Man sent us!” and the dot blinks off. From the undergrowth nearby, a woman appears as her stealth suit deactivates, and she shoulders the long rifle she carries.

“Hi there, I’ve been expecting you,” The pretty brunette murmurs, in a voice with a noticeable soft accent. “I’m Tillie.”

She walks over, eyeing the team professionally – one Edgerunner sizing up others. “First, the rules. No radio communications while you are here, not even encrypted ones. Shut down your interfaces now, not even a handshake signal to weapons. You’ll keep total emissions silence here – as far as the authorities know, this place is deserted and we want it to stay that way. Second, no wandering into the village. We’ve a couple of loyalists who’ll bring us supplies – even bottles of beer if that’s what you want. Third, I’m in charge and I’ll make any new rules up as I see fit.”

She smiles, “Let’s get you inside and get you dry.” She leads the way to one old ‘caravan’, opens the door – and reveals an inside just as dingy as the outside, but with a gas fire and low lights, blocked from outside by thick curtains and thermal sheeting stapled to walls and roof.

With a click of his tongue against his teeth, Pacoy silences his comms and follows Tillie. Mac smiles and goes through the motions of disabling his transmitters. “Quaint little setup you’ve got out here. Feels almost like home, if I lived in the woods, miles away from everything. Say, I am a bit peckish, can we get some food brought in?” With a stray thought, Able disables his wireless communications – going fully off the grid for the first time in a long while. He follows behind Tillie into the old trailer, nodding at the sight of the makeshift thermal camouflage. “Good. You seem to be taking adequate precautions.”

In the low light of the caravan, the team get a better look at their hostess. She is exceptionally attractive, well formed and athletic – with tiny bright flowers growing from her hair (not in her hair, _from_her hair) and swept up, pointy ears. Mac cocks his head to the side. “Have things across the sea gone rabbits over roses? I swear, you look just like the lady nymph in one of my novels.” Tillie smiles, an even row of white teeth between ruby lips, all framed by soft brown curls. “That was my parent’s idea, I’m sure. I’m an Ishtar. A genetically modified person. My parents were neo-pagans, they wanted me to be more closely in touch with the Mother than they were. I was, and I couldn’t help them when the Trashers came anyway – and then Finn came and took me away and I learned better.” She sits on a bench seat and motions for them all to come sit too. “There are spare clothes in the closet there,” She points, “Nothing fancy but they’ll do, and towels.”

Able places his trenchcoat upon a hangar, the blood already slipped off the stain-repelling cloth. His gloves go in the coat pocket, and he pulls off his shirt and pants, replacing them with the provided clothing. “Thank you, Tillie.” Redressed, Able seats himself by the fire. As he moves, Able’s face betrays the acute pain he’s feeling – his nerves burning freely, like molten silver pouring through his veins. Pacoy finishes redressing, then hurries over to check on Able.

Tillie watches Able intently. “Have you been hurt? I’ve a small amount of medical training…” Mac hangs his jacket and his hat, grabbing a towel to dry off his hair before changing after Able. He frowns at the fact that the spare clothes seem to fit him better than his normal outfit. “Indeed. I imagine the cuisine out here will pale in comparison to your hospitality.” He slouches over to the fire, parking himself with little care. He holds his hands out to the flame in a mock-attempt to get warm. “How you holding up, pal? That overland hump can’t have been good on you.”

Able waves Tillie’s help away. “Thank you, but I don’t think you can help. It’s some kind of non-communicable degenerative disease Rossum infected me with to prevent me from surviving for long after leaving their employ.”

“Are those government issue?” Tillie nods at their guns, recently ‘liberated’ from TransPolice hands. “They have IFF chips, you know. Yank the chips and I’ll dispose of them.” Able nods to Pacoy. “We disabled the IFF chips when we acquired them.” “Yeah,” Pacoy nods, “We assumed as much, took care of it when we picked them up.”

Tillie nods and goes back to her earlier question. “I’m sorry to hear that, Able. Still, I have news that may brighten even your pain. We’ve heard from your colleague Candyman and done some digging of our own. The two scientists you’re seeking are both staying at the same location when they aren’t at their labs. Umbra has taken over Lord Milton’s ancient estate at Newstead Abbey as V.I.P residence and they’re both there. They’ve their personal security and a small guard force, but security is nowhere near as heavy as at the labs themselves.”

Tillie nods, “Newstead Abbey is huge, there is an old farm and extensive grounds. As best as we can tell there are a round dozen Umbra corporate police on guard there at any time, on foot with three cyberhounds. The grounds will have surveillance and the Abbey itself with have even more, but we don’t think they’ve replaced the locks, which are old 20th century models. There’s a helipad in the gardens, so a Rapid Response Team would have no trouble getting there from Nottingham, say maybe six to eight minutes after the alarms trip.”

Deeds hasn’t dried off at all, and now clears his throat. "Tillie, I need to get going – make my way into the city and report back home. I’ll also see if I can find out about Pitbull, gents. "He nods to the team. “Can I borrow a bike or something?”

Mac nods solemnly at Deeds. “Be obliged if you did, friend. The big lug is fine, I’m sure, but…” “He’ll be fine, Mac,” Pacoy says quietly, followed by a gentle slug to Mac’s shoulder, “A few months from now, we will be on a job and he’ll be filling us in on all of the stuff that went south when he got separated as an anecdotal learning experience.” The silence Mac drifts off to is uncomfortable at best, causing him to swallow sharply. Able gets up to shake Deeds’s hand, his step wavering. “Thank you.” Able’s grip is strong, but Deeds can feel the tremors. Mac looks at his attache case by the door. “I’ve got some kit we can get some more intel with, if we can get close enough. But it sounds like we have to be in and out in less than six once the alarms go. I don’t think we can last in a sustained firefight. Not with Able like this.”

Tillie tells Deeds there’s a train station at the other end of the village, with hourly comuter service to Nottingham. Deeds thanks her, wishes the team good luck, and slips back out into the early morning. Immediately Tillie turns to the team. “So how do you want to be about this? I’d suggest getting some sleep then we’ll slip into the village, grab my car and take a drive up to Newstead so you can scope out the place for yourselves.” “You are the home team,” Pacoy nods, “That sounds like a good plan to me – rest before recon.” Able agrees. “That’ll work. I’d like to get eyes on this place. I’m not keen on the cyberdogs – I don’t have any camouflage for sent-masking.” Tille pats the long sniper rifle by her side. “I have the perfect solution for those dogs.”

Mac starts into little fits of laughter. “Not like you smell that great, either, Able. Say, Tillie, if these lot are going to take a rest, have you got any physical intel I can take a look at? Having trouble sleeping, won’t be able to rest much, so might as well make myself useful.” Tillie looks thoughtful, then nods and motions Mac to follow her. “One of the caravans is set up with a Faraday cage. We can’t access the net but my Pad will have some touristy-historical stuff on Newstead in its encyclopedia.” Mac nods. “You chaps get some good sleep, okay? Especially you, Able.” As he heads out the door, he turns back. “Say, Tillie, any chance of getting some food for while I read…?” Tille opens a closet and grabs three MREs from a pile.

Able lays down by the fire, mechanically eating the MRE – his mind elsewhere, away from the body that’s continuously failing him. He comes back to his physical existence in short fits and starts as the pain lances up and down his side before his mind is able to shift once again to a nonmaterial existence. Pacoy munches on his MRE, thinking of how alien it is for him to be ‘off-the-grid’.

After a short while Tillie and Mac return, making enough noise to disturb any uncomfortable slumber in the narrow, hard caravan cots. She sets about making tea on the small gas stove, as she keeps glancing at Mac, then finally makes up her mind about something and turns to Mac. “What are you, exactly, if you don’t mind me asking? You look human on my Tac-shades HUD, the right I-R signature and everything. But you sound wrong and you smell wrong…more than anyone I’ve ever met. Are you a full-body conversion?”

Mac, having spent the entirety of the night pouring over all of the available documentation, has messed his hair up a bit and pulls off a fairly convincing yawn as he rattles his trap about this feature and that, painting a bleak tactical picture of the residence. “In short, there are a few ways we can cut in, but it’s going to take all the skills we’ve got to pull it off. I figure we can pull a Theodore’s Rose and go in through the grate, or find another way in. Depends on how wet we feel like getting, if we want to sort out some moral issues.”

He looks over at Tillie. “Something like that. You had some pretty out there parents, right? My mother is pretty out there too. Gave me some pretty looney ideas about myself. Still a hundred and ten percent original, though.” He grins to himself. Tillie nods thoughtfully. “Original, eh?” Then she’s all business. “Do you want to go take a look today? It’s only fifteen miles or so from here, we could be there in an hour. I think I know a place we can get a look at a lot of the grounds.”

Mac agrees. “We can map out their routes and plan the best way for insertion. We’ve got to sort this out sooner rather than later.” He looks at Able. Able, from where he’s lying in front of the fire, nods. “Sooner would be good. I’d rather get this Rossum shit out of me as fast as I can than linger until I’m a vegetable, stuck unmoving in my own skin.”

Tillie opens yet another of the caravan’s multiple closets and begins to pull out holdall bags. “Stuff your kit in these. They’re lined to defeat scanners. Then we’ll get going. We’ll walk into the village, I keep a car in a lock-up near the train station.”

-Fade Scene-

Newstead
North Of Nottingham
Wednesday 19th April, 2051
4.30 PM

Tilly pulls her rather nondescript smartcar over to the side of the narrow minor road beside a gate through a hedgerow. She gestures to the right. “Through there and up the hill a bit, we should get an overlook on the entire estate.” Mac sighs and heaves the bag over his shoulder as he pulls it out of the car, thinking about his methodically crumpled clothing in the bag, leaving his attache case and pistol near the top of the bag, in case he needs to get a hold of them. Better safe than always sorry. That’s what Pitbull would say… He looks at the team. “Looks like we’re going for a little hiking again, lads.” Able slings the bag over his shoulder, the submachine gun snuggled inside alongside a change of clothes and the pilfered medical supplies. The pistol lies strapped to his waist, hidden from sight behind his trenchcoat.

It’s only a short walk to the shelter of a low drystone wall on the crest of the hill and from there the view beyond opens up. Ahead to the East, about a mile away, is the Abbey itself surrounded by ornate gardens, outbuildings and a small lake. Nearer, at the bottom of the hill the team occupies, is a high wall with dense woodland beyond. The whole are is exactly as Mac described it. To the north slightly, where the abbey’s farm used to be, is an overgrown golf course, turned to thornbush and high grass, with its own entrance through the surrounding wall.

Mac scowls. “Beautiful old place like this… this is a tragedy.” He sets the bag down and retrieves his case and revolver. “So, you’re the infiltration expert, Able. What do you think our best approach is?”

Able grabs hold of a low-hanging branch as he looks down upon the estate. “I’m not sure. Normally, I’d wait until someone left the compound, then take them out and assume their position for their next shift. Recovering two whole people may be difficult; one I could do by assuming the role of a driver and simply drive off with him. Two… Unless we can get them both in the same car, that wouldn’t work as well.”

“And with my… handicap, that may not be something we should count upon. A full-on assault seems like a bad plan – unless we can make them believe we arrived to evacuate the VIPs.” Able turns to Tillie. “Do we have any information on any others in the estate? Are they housing any other ‘dignitaries’?”

Tille shakes her head no. “It doesn’t seem so. Our people have only seen the two targets – they each arrive and depart in their own AV, with their security teams. early every morning and middling late every evening, every day except Sunday.”

Mac shakes his head. “Security lite during the day, then? Could take our time doing an infiltration, bide our time waiting, then strike quickly and exfil fast?” He sighs. “Not usually my cup of tea. People generally aren’t supposed to even know I’ve keened to them.”

Able turns to Mac. “What do you think the protocol would be if there was a surface-to-air missile threat in the vicinity? Either someone shot down one of the AVs or there was good intelligence they had the capability to?”

Tilie now opens her own carry-bag and extracts the sight from her rifle, a large and expensive block of electronics and lenses, then leans against the low farm wall as she sights in on the house. “Let’s see….three standard cars in the back, by the servant’s entrance I’ll bet. Nothing on the pad, they must still be at work…Oh look, there’s a two man team in that folly just as Mac predicted. Another team on patrol with a dog each, looks like. I bet there’s a team at the gate and the rest are in the house in a ready-room.”

She looks to Able and smiles, “They’d have to up the coverage if they had a tip like that. The luxury AVs they use have countermeasures, sure, but they’re relying on discretion here so as not to upset the boffins too much, I’d think. Give them an illusion of freedom and they’ll work better, eh?”

Mac taps his chin. “Bet we could isolate the ready-room with the laser mike. Not sure we want to risk the additional goons by pulling that ploy… unless…”

Able continues, “I’m mainly curious about evacuation plans in the case of a serious threat to their safety. Those vertols can’t handle a big sniper bullet in the lift fan very well; they’d probably survive the crash, but it wouldn’t be particularly controllable. If we shoot down an AV while it’s landing, what will their plan be?”

Mac looks at Pacoy and Able. “Exactly. Why not take a cue from the landed gentry? What can we do to flush them out and hunt them down on our terms?”

Able looks around. “I’m wondering if there’s any way to get them to come to us – to force a land evacuation, preferably in a single vehicle. Taking someone so heavily fortified during transportation is typically easier than while they’re holed up somewhere.”

Augmented Reality dancing across his vision, Pacoy’s Insta-Soldier starts compiling a plan. “Able already knows what various Rossum big-wigs look like! If one of them arrived, all the security folk would be headless-chickening in panic, but not the “call for back-up” kind of panic,” Pacoy informs the group, “The targets would already be on the ground, and security would be out of place and vulnerable. Heck, some of the folk Able could impersonate could order the two scientists to come with him – their security teams would want to check that, but maybe I can spoof up some facke ID given a minute. Or just take them out in the confusion.”

“It’ll be kind of like the play we pulled at Talking Rock Tower,” Pacoy reminds Able, the only other member of the current line up that was there.

Mac flips open his notepad and begins jotting down some notes. “Seems more plausible than a straightforward snatch-and-grab, that’s for sure.”

After a moment, Able nods. “Yes, that could work. We’d need to come up with a cover story for why my disguise is here, and what he needs with the targets.” After a moment, Able smiles. “Actually, I have just the one. And it should hold up to the closest of scrutiny.”

He turns to the others. “We tell them that RJ Able-001/ANL39 has gone rogue and is known to be in the area, with the assumption that he’s targeting them. The only difficulty will be in hiding my neural degeneration.”

Mac winces. “That is certainly one heck of a diversion. But is that enough to flush them out, or cause them to hunker down?”

Tillie puts her sight away. “We’ll need to steal a suitable vehicle – a limo of some kind, maybe. That old car of mine won’t do the trick. But if it works we need to hightail it for Peterborough – from there I can arrange transport to the very safest of places to stash the goods.”

Able waves his hand. “It should be enough to get them to agree to a change in venue – especially when the head of Rossum’s Special Projects division asks them kindly. We arrange for the security precautions, then quietly take out the guards during transport – and we disappear off their map.”

Mac smiles. “I like that. It’s simple, it’s elegant, and it’s crazy enough that it might just work.”

Able smiles. “And if we need extra confirmation – we can just tip off the real boys that I’m in town, and when the security gents call up they’ll have true information to work off of. A bit risky, if he’s able to arrive before we take our leave – but it should still work.”

Tillie raises her hand. “I can’t go in – I’m known to the authorities and I’ll be on visual-recognition databases. But I can help make the threat seem authentic from up here. A couple of rounds downrange out of the night should do that nicely. I can arrange my own egress and have some people help you get where you need to go.”

“I can send a sacrificial drone with you to make the assault seem more convincing,” Pacoy offered, “Lots of flashing and noise.”

Tillie gives Pacoy a thumbs up and turns to look back at her car. “I need to send some messages. Nothing unsubtle – we use encrypted packages imbedded in what looks like phishing emails, which our bot network pick up and pass along to those that need them. One of you drive.”

Able slips into the back seat, not quite convinced that it’s safe for him to drive. “With a little bit of luck, this might work out.”

Mac stows his kit. “I’m feeling better about this than when we were in that thunderstorm. I’ll take the wheel, in case Pacoy needs to see to Able. I’m all thumbs when it comes to medicine.” He slides into the drivers seat. “Say, Tillie… that’s quite the complicated protocol. You seem savvier than anyone we’ve worked with over here, to boot. Who signs your checks, anyway?”

Tillie grins at Mac from the passenger seat. “The Finn does, m’dear.” She rolls up her sleeve to show a subtle grey tattoo worked into her biceps. “Mutate and Survive!”

Newstead
North Of Nottingham
Saturday 22th April, 2051
8.30 AM

The big C-700 luxury sedan, with it’s single cycle outrider mounted on a Machinami Tourer, purrs up to the gates of the old Abbey on almost-silent electric motors. Inside the blacked-out windows conceal Able and Pacoy, suitably disguised as Rossum’s head of Special Projects, David Geitner, and one of his personal security team. Mac, like wise disguised as a PST member, is astride the bike. The gates stay stubbornly locked shut, however, as a door in the old stone gatehouse opens and a guard dressed in Umbra’s security uniform emerges.

Mac balances on the bike, looking at the doorguard from behind his dark tinted glasses. He refrains from nervously tapping on the side of the car, and instead wishes the cycle had a bit more presence than a whisper-quiet motor. Able rolls down the window, sticking his arm out casually as he peers down at the guard, a dark look on his face. Pacoy sits quietly, looking calm and unphased, trying to maintain the illusion of a collected security specialist and not give away his thought of things going south.

The Umbra man catches the Rossum pins and his attitude shows a subtle shift from authoritarian to defensively servile. He pushes his SMG back and reaches for an ID scanner. “Good morning, Sir. May I enquire as to your name and business? This is a closed residential facility.” Mac watches the man’s hands like a hawk sitting behind tinted glass, hands ready to fly from the throttle at the slightest provocation.

Able holds out his hand for the man’s biometric ID scanner. “Davis Geitner. Head of Special Projects. There’s a security situation for our friends inside; I’ll be briefing you boys once we’re in a secured environment.” The guard runs his scanner over “Geitner’s” hand, recording and comparing fingerprints and unique capillary patterns in the back of the well-manicured mitt. He studies the readout for a second then steps back and salutes. “Welcome to Newstead, Director Geitner. The main house will be expecting you.” The steel gates swing slowly open, revealing a long wooded driveway of white gravel.

It’s about half a mile to the main house, a large seventeenth century mansion set in manicured gardens and bordered by an ornamental lake. As the small motorcade approaches the front of the house, there’s a scurry of activity and five more Umbra guards line up with their SMGs at present. From the main door comes a reed-thin and tall man in black suit and trenchcoat, a fedora on his head and dark sunglasses over his eyes. He looks at the line-up once and nods, then approaches the team’s limosine. He halts by the side door and waits.

“….and it’s an industrial-sized fan…” Pacoy whispers to himself.

Mac mirror’s Pacoys feelings unknowingly, mentally sketching out lines of retreat with dark charcoal to contrast with the beautiful surroundings. His weaponry weighs heavy in his jacket and mind as he rests his heels on the ground, hoping for the best.

Able steps out of the vehicle the moment it halts its motion. He looks down at the behatted man, then over at the guards. “Good. You’ve heard the warning. I hope you’ve put the principles in the safe room, too – bring me to them immediately.” The man bows, revealing body armor under the coat. “Messieur Geitner, it is a pleasure. I am Anton Mirault, PST lead for Madame Professor Barton and head of Security here. I have been informed that a Rossum Jannissary has gone rogue and may be seeking his maker, Doctor Wahlen, ne c’est pas? Is this operative truly as good as to warrant this panic, Sir? We have two full PSTs and almost a dozen guards here on site. I am sure we can deal with one rogue, non?”

Mac draws on all of the pain and negative memories he’s ever felt as he supresses a smile that tries to creep up from within, thinking, No, I don’t think you can handle him. You may be dealing with him though..

Able gives a sad laugh. “I’m not so sure. He broke into Rossum HQ at least a few weeks ago – we only discovered the results of his incursion now. I can’t say any more until we’re in a more secure environment.”

The thin man nods curtly. “Mais oui, d’accord, alright. Let us get you inside and then you can brief us on this more secure environment.” He leads the way up the steps and into the mansion proper, as two of the parade of guards return to duty and the other three look like they are heading back to a barracks area in one of the outbuildings. The inside is, of course, sumptuous – as befits the one-time residence of Lord Byron himself. Dark wood, paintings by Masters, painted ornate ceilings and gold giltwork everywhere. The team’s feet sink deep into luxurious last-century carpeting or middle-Eastern rugs older than they would like to guess.

Mac sighs internally, hands jammed deep into his pockets, wishing they had time to stop and enjoy the view. “If the rogue broke in here, I can only imagine the damage to all of these artifacts…” Pacoy subtly gestures to Mac, rubbing his thumb to his fingers in the universal sign of money, then clicks his tongue against his teeth and winks.

Mirault leads the way up a curving staircase. “We cannot, by Briteesh law, change any of the fabric of the Abbey itself. It is too old, too valuable. ‘National Heritage’ they say. We have a panic room set up in the wine cellar, but eet is sparse, so for now the principals are in the banqueting room on the first floor with the rest of my PSTs.”

Able frowns at the man’s words. “Sparse is better than dead, Mirault. The rogue may already be within these walls – and you wouldn’t know about it until he’s been long gone. Infiltrating places like this, without ever being discovered – it’s what we designed him to do.”

Mirault leads the way into yet another amazingly decorated room – this one with a huge oak table running down the center, covered in silver cutlery and a snow-white damask tablecloth. At the opposite end sit the Professor and the Doctor. At intervals around the room, warily watching doors and windoes, are five more cut from the same professional cloth as Mirault – the main difference being three wear Rossum lapel pins. “Director Geitner, you already know Doctor Wahlen. It is my great pleasure to introduce my own principal, Professor Phillipa Barton.”

Wahlen drains a crystal glass of some amber liquid and stands, a little unsteadily. “Director, is it true? Able’s slipped his conditioning and is coming after me?” His eyes dart to the heavy diamond-paned windows as if expecting them to burst at any moment Mac glances sidelong at the guards in the room, knowing trouble when he smells it. He begins the long drawn out process of seeing how many different ways he could get himself tossed to the curb and finds the number not to his liking, hoping fervently that their ruse holds up.

Able nods and holds up his hand. It begins to tremble. “Not just you, Luther. He hit a board meeting.” Wahlen gasps and sits down again hard. “How many did he…who?”

Pacoy looks at the aged, wrinkled skin of Professor Barton, and wonders why the shining star of the biotech skin weave industry has the skin of a pink tortoise, and tries to bring his mind back to more pressing matters.

Geitner lowers his hand. “Nobody – yet. But over two dozen were exposed. I think he discovered your little loyalty bomb – and decided to share it with the rest of us.” He turns to the security team, and Barton. “We’re keeping a lid on it, but symptoms are beginning to show up. I looked over the file on the test subjects – that sort of degeneration won’t look good on the directors of one of the larger purveyors of health products on the market.”

Prof Barton sips from a glass of iced water and then clears her throat. Her voice is light, musical and educated – as well as obviously artificial. “Calm down, Walter old chap. There’s no certainty he knows where you are. This facility is as secret as Rossum has obviously been keeping this attempt on its Board.” She turns to “Geitner”. Mr Geitner, what do you propose as a course of action? It’s the weekend so of course we don’t need to be at the lab today, but I have several delicate experiments I must monitor for progress on Monday. Can we not remain here and use you and your people as additional safeguards?"

Mac tips his glasses down his nose and stares at the old bag of skin. “I’ve had to cover some reports of what this rogue operative is capable of. If you think adding a handful of people is going to keep him from getting what he wants? The security on this place is like so much tissue paper to him.” Geitner shrugs. “We honestly don’t know where he is right now, but we have reports of known associates being seen in Britain. And when he planted the bio-device that hit the board, he infiltrated the computer network. Destroyed the specifications on the drug he used on us, fritzed with our local pharmacological sorting mechanism, and more. We have reason to believe this facility’s location was also compromised.”

Geitner wipes his forehead, flicking the sweat to the floor. “It’s been a hectic twenty-four hours. We only just recovered enough from the hacked network to piece together that it was Able who did this, and we still don’t have a firm timeline. The labs have been going crazy trying to put together a treatment plan of some sort – but now that we know the perpetrator, we hope we know the disease, though the local network’s data on it has been lost. We were hoping you’d have the data on hand, or at least could point us in the right direction.”

“You’ve had a hand in his design, Dr. Wahlen,” Pacoy asks without looking up from his ‘files’, “Do you think this place is secure enough?”

Wahlen glumly shakes his head. Then, Barton glances at the head of her own PST, who nods just slightly. “Very well, I shall place myself in your hopefully-capable hands, Director Geitner. Although it worries me that Rossum could not prevent their own creature exposing their own Board to one of the good Doctor’s inventive fabrications. Be that as it may, it would do no good to stay here if this person came looking for Doctor Wahlen and found only myself. I assume you have made good perparation of suitable transport and of course my own team will follow us in their own car. How soon can we be off, then?”

At that very moment, a message from Tillie arrives in the corner of the team’s visual fields. “Now?” Mac looks at his watch, then towards Geitner. “We can be off now. Should make good time, too.” An instant after Mac speaks, the window at the furthest right in the bank of old frames illuminating the banquet room shatters three times, and Mirault jerks as if violently pushed. Three bursts of blood and meat explode from Mirault’s chest as Tillie’s heavy sniper bullets penetrate his body armor, his ribcage and his internal organs. With a wail, he falls to the ground!

Mac moves towards Geitner, aiming to get between him and the window. “Get down, sir! We need to get you and the Doctors out of here as soon as possible! The Agent must be here!” Able ducks, reaching for the doctors. “We need to get you two out of here! If someone out there’s shooting, then he’s probably in here already. A sniper’s perch isn’t his style, but feeding on confusion is.”

In bursts of cyber-enhanced speed, two PST team members bowl the two scientists out of their chairs and onto the ground. One other grabs the still-screaming Mirault and tries to apply pressure to his wounds while two flank the windows looking outward, their SMG’s now out and ready, as they scream into voice comms about the attack and demand a medic. With a quick bit of concentration, Pacoy engages the his Insta-Soldier Beta and also kicks into an action-ready stance.

The head of Wahlen’s PST looks up from where he’s grabbed his own principal. “You heard the Director – move, move!” There follows a scurry of movement as three Rossum and one Umbra security hussle their principals out of the chamber and towards the big stairs. The last Umbra man stays with his badly wounded boss. Able follows the PST men. “You boys take point – you’ve practiced for this occasion already. I’ll keep a lookout for our chameleon.”

As everyone runs down the stairs, there’s a rattle of automatic fire outside, almost covering the drone of rotors. One of the uniformed guards is by the front door. “They’ve a drone pinning down the guardhouse, Sir” he rattles off at the lead Rossum man.

“Take the kitchen door” the Rossum man yells, and changes direction towards the side of the Mansion. “Yvette, you go on ahead and get the Amur running”. The last of the Umbra PST sprints forward, disappearing through a door.

Immediately, the Rossum man turns to Geitner and whispers in his ear. “If this is a hostile extraction, Sir, we now have the Prof isolated from her team. Your instructions?”

Able claps the man on the shoulder. “Excellent work. Take us to the skies.” “Yes Sir.” The man responds. He takes a moment to send a message to his team, then the two step up to the Umbra guard at the front door and one hits him in the base of the neck with an electro-zap. The guard crumples. “Roderick, Martin, change of plan – keep the Professor under control, we’re going for the AV. Doctor, come with me.” He opens the door and charges out.

Professor Barton turns on Able/Geitner. “You snake! I’ll see you dead for this!” Able places his hand on Barton’s back. “You’ll thank me. Rossum has some extremely attractive incentive programs – and this attack isn’t a feint, so I’ll be saving your life while I’m at it.” Barton begins to move forward, a look of sheer hate on her face, but one of the Rossum men at her arm grabs her and moves in front of her. That’s when she spits in his face – and his face begins to melt! Screaming, he falls to the floor as the other zaps the Professor just like he did the Umbra guard, then slings her over his shoulder as if she weighs nothing.

Mac’s jaw drops. “Did she… what…” It’s never just an ordinary day at the races, is it. Take your bets, there’s always something new… Able pats the fallen guard on the chest as he passes. “We’ll take care of you. Just keep yourself alive for the next few minutes, and we’ll all be through this.”

Outside, its only a short distance to two luxury AVs sitting on a grassy landing area. Each, one an Audi Sphinx and the other a Caddy Technogene, can carry four people. Another message arrives from Tillie: My guy says 2 outbound AV4s from Notts, ETA 6 mins. I’m outa here.

“Dr. Wahlen, come with us! You three, grab the professor and follow,” Pacoy Orders, “Be on the lookout for decoy ‘backup’, that’s the Rogues M.O.”

As they reach the AV’s, Able turns to the PST. “I’m officially assigning you to be Barton’s new personal security team. My men will provide security for Luther. Bring her to the secondary rendevous point; we’ll meet you there, but we’ll be splitting up in the sky to keep the dogs from finding us. Good luck.” “You heard the Director, Let’s Move!” Pacoy shouts, heading for the AV.

The Rossum men throw salutes. “Yes Sir. You take our caddy – it’s faster and you’ll have the codes. We have the codes for Umbra’s Sphinx anyway.” They turn towards the European flyer. Mac ushers his group towards the caddy, hoping Able does have the codes, and that they can lift off in time to escape the incoming reinforcements. Able moves to the Caddy, using the vehicle’s bulk and his jacket to hide the fact that he’s manipulating an electronic lockpick to pry her open.

A last message from Tillie: Forget the camp, meet my pals 35 miles E of Great Yarmouth, keep low. See you soon.

As the sleek luxury flyer lifts off into an overcast sky that promises rain later, the team see the other AV streak off Southward at speed. Then , a blue Amur van comes around the corner of the main house – and a Kestrel UAV flies straight into it head on, detonating both in a bright fireball. With that, Able turns the Caddy in the required direction – low and South East over England, towards the sea.

Pacoy recognizes the drone before it’s engulfed in flames and gives a short sigh before turning his attention on to looking for enemy aircraft.

Able calmly pilots the AV off into the night, keeping her low and fast. “Good work out there, men.” He turns to the rear of the vehicle. “You too, Dr. Wahlen. I think we can make use of you yet.” He turns back to the front, a genuine smile on his face for perhaps the first time in his available memory.

The North Sea
Sunday 23rd April, 2051
03.30 AM

It’s a dark and stormy night, but as a certain yellow submarine emerges from the depths robotic arms unerringly pluck it from the water and transfer it to the forward deck of the MV Blue Shimmer. In the dark, crew members direct other mechanical appendages to secure the sub and attack it to various umbilicals, before the top hatch pops. The sub’s pilot, Angelo, directs his passengers to the glowing light of an open doorway, then times his shout between wave crashes. “Over there, be careful but run!”

Mac steadies himself, then clamps a secure hand around the doctor’s arm as he drags him at speed towards the open door, feeling uncomfortable in his new clothing, his old bundled under his arm. Pacoy swiftly but carefully runs the directed course. Able takes up the rear, his legs a little shakey – but more from the virus than from the waves.

As Mac and Doctor Wahlen run towards the door, Wahlen slips despite Mac’s guiding arm. He lands with a woof atop a stanchion, knocking the wind out of him, and Mac feels the transmitted cracks of several broken ribs travel up through his arm. Mac winces out of momentary sympathy. “Feel like gettin’ trampled by a horse, did that? We’ll get you rosy enough when we get inside.” He tugs on the doctor’s arm. “Come on, move. You got work to do.” As Mac drags the Doctor around, he sees that the man is white as a sheet, still unable to breathe, and that there’s a trickle of bright red blood at the corner of his mouth. Amazingly, considering he probably has a punctured lung, Wahlen stays conscious. He grabs Mac’s arms like it is a lifeline and staggers into the ship’s superstructure away from the raging elements.

Mac groans inwardly as he stops yanking as hardly on the doctor. “Oh, this is better than getting drunk in a barrel… Guys, herr doctor is in a bad way here!” “I’ll be alright” Walhen manages to wheeze. The blood trickle is already slowing. “I need somewhere to lie down, is all.” Able grimaces at the blood upon the doctor’s lips, his thoughts more upon their chances of success if he’s seriously injured than any true concern over his well-being. “While that may be true, we’ll get you checked out just in case.” Pacoy ponders the image of Mac getting drunk in a barrel before yelling to the doctor. “In good time Doc, lets get moving, then we’ll patch you up!”

Angelo is right on Able’s heels. “There are cabins through here, second on the left. I’ll fetch the Captain, he knows some first aid.” He turns and climbs a ladder swiftly, heading up to the wheelhouse. The indicated turn takes the team into a short corridor with four sets of cabins opening off it, each holding two bunks. The other two small rooms seem to be a store and a small galley. Mac carefully guides his charge towards the nearest possible bunk. “We’ve not come all this far to be stopped by a raindrop.”

Wahlen’s breathing is already easier as Mac lays him down on the narrow bed. He looks up at Able, “I’ll not escape so easily, I’m afraid. I’ve Umbra nanites working in my system, constantly repairing damage. Rossum insisted when my drinking became too much for my liver. As long as I get sufficient calorific intake, my body will repair itself over a few days.” Mac snorts to himself. “This group wouldn’t know proper caloric intake if it got slapped with a wet fish.”

Just then, Angelo returns with an older man. The new arrival does a double-take at Pacoy as he hears the Doctor’s words, then throws a small medical kit at him. “Cousin, if the man is right then tape him up and feed him soup. I have ship to steer and it’s not exactly a Summer breeze out there!” He turns back to leave. “Oh, I’m Captain Navarro, by the way. Settle in, we’ll have you to your destination sometime tomorrow, God wiling.” Then he departs. Angelo hovers, watching.

Able seats himself on the bed opposite Wahlen. “We’ll check you out still in any case – we need to check for any locator beacons or other traps, anyways. May as well do a full medical checkup in the process – especially if you’re going to be suffering from a condition similar to my own.” Wahlen nods. “Logical. And if you have any painkillers in the interim…”

The Blue Shimmer is not a tiny boat – it’s designed to haul a 30 foot minisub around – but even so the heavy North Sea swells are making it roll and shimmy. Wahlen seems unaffected, but…

Mac suddenly keens to the harsh rocking of the boat, a rarely felt queasiness creeping up his neck, causing him to snatch a container of some sort from off the secured shelf and retch into it, for once glad that his stomach wasn’t more full. Pacoy looks a little green, and clutches his belly as adjusts to the motion. When everyone was getting a quick bit to eat and a change of clothes, Angelo gave Pacoy some advice about seasickness, which he followed – :shotgunning” a carbonated beverage then burping up all of the gas makes it impossible to vomit. Unfortunately, it does nothing for the nausea, and the rapid release of gas felt like a jab to the gut.

Able watches as a strange look comes upon Mac’s face; it looks almost like a mixture of gas and confusion, mixed with maybe a little bit of pain. He glances back to Pacoy, who is showing more typical symptoms of nausea, then back to Mac. “Huh. Your creators really thought your simulation through, didn’t they?” Mac groans. “It’s handy when you have to fake a hangover, but what I don’t understand is why it’s still so unpleasant.” He spits, then steps into the galley briefly and comes back with a mug of imitation coffee, nursing it as he clutches to the wall for support.

Angelo laughs at Mac and Pacoy’s antics, then grabs the medical bag from Able and rumages in it, coming up with common dramamine tablets. “These will help,” he grins. “These, or I could fry you up some eggs and a couple of slices of pork belly!” He positively cackles at the last bit. Able glances down at the tablets. “The pork might be best for Mac.” Despite the nausea the thought of trying a few Filipino dishes to test out just how thorough Mac’s systems are brings a smile to Pacoy’s face. Science!

Mac nods. “Not big on meds – they don’t do too much for me. Could I get four helpings of the eggs and pork? That’ll put me right as rain in a thunderstorm.” He smiles at the mere promise of food, straightening up and feeling more chipper, though still sore at his Mother for her odd trait choices. “So, now that we’re in a bit of a safer spot, what does the doctor think we’ll need to set his mind poison right?”

Wahlen grabs the medical bag, opens some painkillers and dry-swallows three. Then he takes out a roll of bandage. “Would someone mind wrapping my ribs up for now? I can’t easily do it myself.” Pacoy nods and begins helping the doctor wrap his ribs.

Mac watches on, and casually remarks to Pacoy, “Yaknow, it feels like it must be nice, having family of sorts all over that you run into. Is it?”

Wahlen continues as he is wrapped. “I have the formulae I require on my internal computer, of course. I wouldn’t travel without them. I’ll need a supply of peptides and some basic non-organic elements – phosphorus, arsenic and zinc, in oxide powders. I’ll also need a gene sequencer, a nano-level 3D biochemical printer and a biochemical replicator. After that, about 17 hours from start to finish, I’d estimate.”

Pacoy smiles and answers Mac without looking up from his task, “Well, not traditional family family, but I image it isa hell of a lot less creepy than when you run into a brother.”

Wahlen looks curiously at Pacoy and Mac. “Why is that, young man?”

Able steps out of the cabin for a moment to get some privacy while he accesses the ‘net, putting Wahlen’s requirements together to see if there are any locations that rent access to that sort of equipment out within a reasonable distance.

Pacoy takes mental notes on Wahlen’s list – it’s back to school time. “Mac has an odd family, kinda New Age Mormon, but not quite. It’s okay for us to rib him, but you’re not there, we aren’t friends, helping hands aside.” “Understood,” Wahlen nods and shuts up, as Able’s Net search reveals that the nearest place he could hire such equipment without jumping through innumerable bureaucratic hoops and security checks would be in Oslo, Norway.

With a destination in mind, Able steps into the room, looking to Mac. “Mac, do you think you could look into something for me? I don’t have much experience with the financial side of these things – but I’ve located a place that rents the equipment we need. See if you can find out what their price is – and, if it’s in the tens of thousands, whether they’d be willing to consider alternative payment methods.” Mac nods. “Yeah, slice of apple pie that’s been just pulled out of the downtown diner by a smokin’ hot pair of legs. Used to listening to people procuring services, should be simple enough. Not the first time I’ve had to deal with paying to get one of you fixed up.” Mac steps towards Able, looking at him intently. “What do you need?”

“Hold on a sec, guys,” Pacoy gets an idea as he finishes wrapping Wahlen’s ribs, “I’ll talk with the crew – keep it subtle, but I’m sure these guys will have a line on where we can find quality ‘off the books’ medical supplies.” Angelo, who’s been listening intently, speaks up. “Could you write all those down for me, please?” Able is about to send Angelo the list he cooked up, complete with links to places to procure them, when he realizes what he said – ‘write them down’ indeed. Like he had a pen. Mac digs through his rolled up jacket and comes out with a mildly soggy notebook and his pen, which he then meticulously unscrews, dries, and scratches out a perfectly legible list, handing it to Able, before nodding towards Angelo.

Able looks to Pacoy. “We don’t need just medical supplies, Pacoy. We need an entire state-of-the-art laboratory. Those machines aren’t cheap.” He sighs as he slumps against the wall. “Not too long ago, I’d have just walked into a laboratory like I owned the place. Maybe taken the owner or manager, stole his mind and face, and stashed him somewhere while I did the work needed. But I’m tired, Pacoy. I don’t want to steal anyone’s memories any more. I don’t want to wear another man’s face. I want my own life, my own identity – and the more of my mind that’s dedicated to replicating others, the less it’s able to hold on to my own self. So, yes, I want to do this as simply as possible – and if that means paying a few million for access to the laboratory equipment required, then I’m willing to part with the slave master within my own mind to accrue the funds.”

Mac looks at Able, eyes full of some construct of sadness. “You’re still in there, and as long as that’s the case, we’ve got hope. The only thing against us right now is time. You get me the information to contact the lab, I’ll get us in there. You have my word.”

Angelo speaks up. “I’m pretty sure they’ll have all this where we’re going. I need to send an encrypted short-burst though, so we won’t know for maybe an hour.” Mac looks over. “And where are we going, Captain?”

“I get that Able, we are all willing to do what it takes for you, I was just suggesting that guys who run port to port know how to get there hands on stuff. I’m not unwilling to pay – I just want all of our options in the open before we commit.” Pacoy answers, mildly upset at the insinuations he perceived, whether they were there or not. Able takes a deep breath, his voice as shaky as his hands as his eyes bore a hole into the bulkhead. “Thank you.” He sends a beam of the places he found to Mac, then slowly sinks down the wall to the floor.

Just then there is an almighty crack, like the world’s largest whip, followed by a grinding that transmits through the very fabric of the hull. As he turns away in panic, Angelo shrugs, “I’m not the Captain, just the pilot – and you’re going to meet The Finn.”

Seconds later, a small speaker in the corner of the cabin comes to life. “All hands, all hands, Baby Yellow has slipped a tie-down and is shifting in the storm. All hands on deck!”

Mac takes one look at Able, then at Wahlen as he rushes out towards the deck, stuffing his gear in a locker on the way out. As he runs down the corridor towards the external door, Mac is intercepted by a wizened old sailor in waterproofs. “Can you use a remote waldo, or can any of your friends? That cable must’ve hit Enrique, we can’t find him! If not, follow me – we need to rig new cables and try to tie her down before she capsizes us!” He opens the door to the storm and pushes out. Mac turns and shouts back, “Hey Pacoy? They need someone to operate a something or other, you know, the guy in the red and white who always is getting lost? Able, if you’re not feeling up to it, don’t worry about the cables, I got those!” Mac rushes after the sailor. “I can!” Pacoy shouts as he follows, “Point in the right direction!”

For a few minutes, Able just sits there, staring down at the floor. His mind stays mostly blank, and as the action and noise around him continues unabated, he could almost swear that he could feel just the barest hint of a soul peeking out from deep down in the depths of his brainwashed mind. For just a moment, it feels familiar, comforting – natural; and then it washes away with the next wave, and Able blinks – coming to see the world around him once more. Able stands up, holding out a hand to Doctor Wahlen. “Stay here. We don’t want you to get any more hurt.” He steps out into the hallway, then begins heading down to the submarine bay – back to the only other part of the ship he knows.

As Pacoy heads for the door, Angelo slides down the ladder from the wheelhouse. “You can operate remotes? Great! Follow me, the waldo station is midships by the sub mooring.” “Waldos aren’t my specialty, but I can handle one, no problem,” Pacoy answers as he scurries behind Angleo.

Outside, the storm has calmed a little, but only a little – and while there’s not as much wind or rain the sea is lifting in long, rolling swells which make footing difficult on the soaked deck. Ahead, the team can see that the submarine is sitting at an angle across the deck, unmoored at the stern – and as a new wave hits, the sub lurches further and the whole carrying ship tilts alarmingly to starboard. Angelo loses his footing and slides across the deck, slamming into the gunwhale hard enough to bruise but at least not going over the side. “Geez!” Pacoy shouts as he rushes over to offer a hand. Mac curses his new shoes, but fights to keep his balance as he struggles to get into a useful position.

Ahead, the old sailor stands as if rooted to the deck. He grabs the loose end of a cable from a massive winch, then slams over a release and begins to pay out new cable. Over the wind he points to a small cabin, like the cabin for a mechanical digger mounted amidships. “That’s the waldo command. You others, help me pay out this cable! If your pal can grab the sub and drag it back straight, we’ll tie it down and tighten this winch!” Able moves forwards, helping Mac towards the cable. Mac grabs onto the winch like an old yardboy, blinking the water from his eyes. “You be careful out here pal, I don’t want to have to go swimming after you if this gets bad.”

Pacoy nods to the old sailor and rushes into the cabin, giving the waldo controls a quick test-feel before reaching for the sub. The neural controls of the waldo are clunky and clumsy, nothing as elegant as Pacoy is used to, but other than some uncomfortable metallic grinding noises, the task goes basically as planned.

With Mac and Able’s help, the old man pays out the cable and makes it fast to a sturdy cleat on the sub’s skin, then he kicks over the handle on the winch again and it engages, pulling the cable tight until the sub is safely secured. Only then does he wave to Pacoy to disengage his robotic grab-arms.

The old man gathers you all up and shepherds you to safety, along with Angelo, who is nursing a sprained wrist. He offers his hand to each of you. “Danny Matapang. Thanks. I’ll be happy to sail with any of you again – especially you, cousin.” He grins at Pacoy. “Glad to be of use!” Pacoy gins back, honestly proud to be of service to the crew.

Able shakes the man’s hand. “I’m not sure how much help me and Mac truly were – you seemed to have those cables well under control. Pacoy, though…” He turns to his compatriot. “Good work.” Mac nods. “That’s what he gets, fiddling with his geegaws and gizmos all day long. Gets to be good with his hands, not as much so with the ladies.” “There’s a learning curve for sure, Mac, but trust me – the skill translates,” Pacoy smiles as he makes tight circles rolling his right wrist, “Master Level.”

: Mac groans as he retrieves his gear from his locker, fishing out his pocketwatch as he reviews the data Able sent to him. “Say, Danno, we got any good way of placing an outgoing call on this tub?” “C’mon, the Captain will want a report,” Danny says, and leads the way up the ladder to the wheelhouse. “That’s where the comms are anyway”. There, Captain Navarro is sitting in his chair, cables leading from the base of his skull to the ship’s computerized control interfaces. He smiles, rather sadly, as you all appear. “Good work, Danny, and you people too. You are my welcome guests, and I owe you one. It’s a pity about Enrique, but he couldn’t have felt a thing when that cable hit him, and he’s buried in the sea as he would have wished.” Danny explains in short sentences the status of the ship and sub – safe, but both in need of minor cosmetic repairs – then relays Mac’s question about outgoing calls.

The Captain makes an apologetic wide wave of his hands. “We’re under tight comms discipline here. We wouldn’t want the Brit authorities to find us, eh? They still have quite a zealous Navy. We’re under orders to communicate with our destination only, and then only by encrypted burst transmissions.”

Mac looks oddly at the captain. “And where is our destination? We are, you see, under a bit of a tight deadline.” “I’ve been instructed to deliver you to the Piper Theta. We’ll be there by this evening, by God’s grace. Our radar says the edge of the storm isn’t far off now.” The Captain looks puzzled. “I thought you’d know who was our Charter. I was told you had a human package that The Finn needed to interrogate. Was I wrong?” Able sighs. “No, you’re not wrong – though we hadn’t been given many details on what was to come after our rendezvous off the coast.”

Navarro sighs in sudden understanding. “Ah, right – a rush job, was it? Well, I can tell you this much – we aboard the Shimmer are primarily smugglers for hire. We can use the sub to get goods where they ought not to go. Right now we’re under contract to collect you and deliver you to an old oil rig North East of here. It’s the base of the group known as Mutate and Survive. I believe your captive has information that the Finn very much wants to know, about what exactly he’s been doing at a very secretive and well fortified lab complex.” He smiles. “Don’t worry – I’ve been dealing with The Finn for many years. He’s tough as an old boot but a good man, an honorable man, rare though those be nowadays. He’ll make it right for you, whatever you need from him, in return for your cargo.”

Able frowns. “So long as he understands that the man is our charge – and that we need his cooperation, not just his knowledge. He can have his interrogation – but the man is ours.” Mac nods. “Until Able is fixed. Then, you can take him to the horses for all I care.” “I think if he can share his toys, we can all play nice, it should work out better for us in the long run.” Pacoy agrees.

Navarro smiles again, “That’ll be between you and Finn, but as I said, he’s an honorable man. Now, get below and get cleaned up, have some food and rest. We’ll be there by tonight and you can find out for yourselves.”

The North Sea
Tuesday 25th April, 2051
8.00 AM

It’s been two days, time to relax, recuperate, plan and worry – but finally the call comes to report to the sixth floor lab where Dr. Wahlen has been laboring for a day and a half without sleep. Despite the early hour, the oil rig base is humming with activity, and as the Lazarus team arrives at the sixth floor they are met by a grinning Tillie Jones.

“A big day, eh Able? I got here late last night, so I hadn’t had a chance to check in with you, but the Finn says Wahlen has your antidote ready. This way…” Tillie points to a door daubed with a large biohazard symbol. “Let’s get you strapped down and then I’ve got some other news for you that you’ll want to hear.”

Able’s hands shake as he grabs the door handle. “Thank you, Tillie. You and the Finn’s people have been much too generous to me.” He pulls the door open and steps into the room. Tillie follows into the lab, where Wahlen is already strapped to an old dentist’s chair – and another awaits Able. Wahlen looks up as the team enters. “I’ve suggested these restraints because this process may be very painful. I’d rather not hurt myself while it takes effect – Able, the other chair is so that you don’t hurt other people.” Two ‘nurses’ in gothique clothes hold two pressure hypodermics loaded with an amber fluid. Wahlen nods at the syringes from his recumbent position. “Two doses of tailored enzymes, each specific to our own particular ummm…ailments.”

Mac follows along behind Able, mind reeling faster than an eight millimeter coming off the end of a long film. His eyes burn into Wahlen with uncharacteristic venom, wishing there were another way to care for his friend.

Able steps up to the second chair. “Thank you, Wahlen. Even if this doesn’t work, so long as you’ve been honest with us – thank you.” He seats himself, ready to be strapped in.

Pacoy watches the scene with interest and worry, the full weight of their situation on his mind.

A nurse hands Able a boxer’s biteguard, then begins to fasten strong webbing restraints around him, holding him immobile. She says “Even the Doctor doesn’t know how fast the flush will work, but he does think it’ll be very fast. We’ve a crash kit on hand, just in case, and we’re both trained paramedics. Nod when you’re ready.” The other nurse stands poised beside Wahlen.

Mac leans over to Pacoy, his voice only a cat’s hair over a whisper. “If this does anything untoward to Able, I’m going to work Wahlen over to within an inch of his life. I’m gettin’ sore tired of people pulling one over on us. Startin’ to feel like a filly whose been shod a few too many times.”
Pacoy nods in return, “Thinking the same thing.”

Able looks up at the remaining two Lazarus Men, the ones who’ve been with him for so long, through thick and thin. With his eyes locked onto Mac’s own, he sends out a final broadcast onto the team net. “Thank you, and if Wahlen has been lying to us you have my blessing to turn him inside-out.” Able shifts his gaze to Pacoy, then gives the slight nod the nurse has been waiting for.

Mac chuckles to himself before sending a very Pitbullian image of a thumbs up and a smile to Able as he tries to steady his nerves against the wall.

The twin injectors hiss, discharging their contents into veins, then for a few long minutes there is expectant silence. Slowly, Able begins to feel a building burning sensation throughout his body, like every nerve ending is being heated. Flashes of color begin to strobe across his vision and there’s a ringing noise in his ears. The burning sensation builds swiftly to pain, then higher, and is joined by more audio-visual hallucinations and a feeling of extreme, gut-churning nausea. Vaguely, he hears Wahlen scream through his own biteguard, a scream cut off as the Doctor faints.

The nurse by Wahlen’s side checks his pulse, sighs in relief, then takes out the Doctors biteguard to clear his airway. Just in time, as Wahlen convulses, then every sphincter in his body opens and he fouls himself from three orifices.

Mac wrinkles his nose and turns away. “You people are singularly disgusting, you know that Pacoy?”

“Holy sh—-uh, yeah!” the nurse exclaims, jumping back from projectile vomit but giving Able’s nurse enough of a warning to yank his biteguard out and position a bedpan under his chin.

Pacoy arches an eyebrow. “You People?”

Able’s body shakes and seizes through the pain, but his mind holds on to the moment – but only for so long before the burning in his skin brings a flash of thought, long buried deep. It feels almost like a dream; he’s falling, falling so far, and his clothing feels so constricting. He knows he can’t breathe, but it doesn’t seem important – the tears on his face tell a story of deep loss, but not one he can recall. He falls, down into the blue beneath him, but that blue soon turns to an agonizing red – and then blackness, with nothing to remember but the pain of his skin melting solid to the inside of his vacuum suit…

Mac shrugs and waves his hand at the scene unfolding in front of him. “You know, people. In general.” He sighs. “I’ve had bad days, but nothing that approaches this. I don’t even think I’ve ever really caught a cold. That’s odd, with all these memories, I feel like I should have. I feel wrong, seeing Able go through all this pain and realizing I can’t really empathize. I know it must be bodybreaking and mindnumbingly painful, but…”

The team watch for another fifteen minutes as both patient’s shiver, spasm and twitch under the effects of the poison in their system being flushes out, then the spasms slowly subside and both begin to look normal again – pale, exhausted and in Wahlen’s case filthy, but no longer afflicted by their gene-tailored personal poisons.

The nurses check both patients and one gives a firm nod to Tillie, who says “OK, get the Doctor cleaned up then straight into Processing. Hook him up and he’ll either tell us everything or can tell us from a digital afterlife.” Wahlen is summarily whisked away, still strapped to his chair.

The second nurse unbinds Able and Tillie herself offers him a glass of water. “Welcome back from Death Row, Able!” she smiles. Mac grins and heads over to his comrade. “Thank the stars you’re alright. Prettier than you were before too. Think Wahlen must have put some anti-aging serum in that brew. Haven’t seen you looking this good in ever.” Pacoy sighs in relief, at least one of the problems seems to be solved.

Able slowly opens his eyes to look out into the room around him, coming back to this time and space. Sweat is pouring down his body – odorless, synthetic sweat streaming out of the pours from his synthetic skin. His clammy hands grab onto the arm rests of the chair he had been strapped into and, slowly – so slowly – he pulls himself to his feet.
Able looks up at Mac. “You’re not much of a liar, Mac.” He puts a hand onto Mac’s shoulder – a solid hand with a firm grip, no hint of the tremors that had so plagued him the past weeks.

Mac grins. “Good to feel you’re back in the land of the living. You think you’re good for a snifter of hard liquor? I’ve heard tell there might be a stash somewhere on board.”

Tillie laughs, “I can do better than that – come on, you’re invited to breakfast with the Finn himself.” She turns towards the door. “Oh, I said I had news – there’s no sign of Mac’s sister in the rubble of your headquarters, according to our friends in E23. They believe she must have been warned, somehow. They’ve instigated a search for her; if she’s findable then they’ll find her before Umbra does.”

Mac stops abruptly, putting his hand over where he imagines his heart to be. “Thanks, Tillie. First drink’s on me for that. She’s clever, but I wasn’t expecting that.”

“Wait,” Pacoy says confused, “So, there is indications that Siri was warned about the attack and survived, and you are sure your people can find her before Umbra, why is that Bad News?”

Tillie pats Pacoy on the back. “I said Ii had news, not bad news. You’ve been in the field too long, Pac.”
Able follows the rambunctious trio to wherever Tillie was taking them, his steps slow at first then beginning to gain traction as, more and more, the effects of the serum begin to make themselves apparent by their absence.

“Wow, must have heard wrong! I guess it’s all this stuff going on at once!” Pac answered.

Tillie leads the team to an elevator, which deposits them on an observation deck in the upper levels of the old rig. A long table set with silverware and a white tablecloth fills the center of the room, and the Finn sits at one end of the table. He raises an eyebrow at Tillie, who nods and then gestures you all to be seated. Breakfast is smoked fish in a spicy, creamy sauce which you are told is called “kedgeree”.

Pacoy digs in, famished. “Now that we have Able on the mend, we need to start gathering resources and intel for a plan.”

Mac sets about efficiently cleaning his plate before looking to the Finn. “Let it never be said that you’ve not got talented chefs in your employ. Shame the quantities are a bit meagre, but that can’t be helped.” He pushes his plate away as he looks to Pacoy. “That’s the truth. This is going to be a big job, and I fear we’re going to collect more than our share of scars, even if this goes as well as a hot car in a chop shop.”

After Able seats himself, he wipes some of the sweat off his brow and hands with a napkin. He almost-mechanically begins to eat the fish – his utterly neutral movements are in stark contrast to the true robot at the table’s eager partaking of the meal.

After eating several mouthfuls in silence, Finn dabs his lips with a napkin and puts down his fork. “Care to tell me what your intentions are? It occurs to me that we are natural allies, in many ways, and our cousins in E23 across the pond think highly of you all. It may well make sense to make common cause.”

Mac looks to Able, then Pacoy, then finally to the head of the table. “Personally? I want to bring Rossum and Umbra to their knees for what they’ve done to me and mine.” He sighs. “They almost took my sister from me, have managed to get one brother locked up and almost killed another. I had no love for either corporation before, but now…” The silence at the end of Mac’s sentence is punctuated by the quiet hairline fractures that appear in his fork.

Pacoy nods, “Yeah, we have a score to settle, and we could use any help we can get.”
Able sets his fork down as Mac finishes speaking. “A war has begun, and we’ve been set in the crosshairs of giants. We need to either find a way out of the giants’ sights, perhaps by distracting them towards their fellow giants, or we need to bring those giants to their knees. And with their resources, I’m afraid we don’t have much time before they make life very, very difficult for us.”

Finn smiles thinly. “I understand all too well. We at Mutate and Survive have been in the same place you now find yourselves for some time now – pitted against foes too large to defeat head on. But we are not without resources. We have some of the best young hackers and scientists as well as a cadre of capable fighters like Tillie here. We keep contact with E23 in North America, and with other resistance groups here in Britain. You are in a position of needing a safe haven, and perhaps new identities too. We can provide both, or recommend you to others who can provide them. Our friends in E23 were quite adamant that we aid Mac here” – he nods down the table – “in any way we can. They seem to think of him as some kind of messianic figure.”

Able gives a soft smile at that last line. “Him and his sister, yes. For good reasons, though reasons of their own.”

Finn grins, “I’ve been known to play the living avatar of a God trick myself, on a few occasions. Despite everything, many Brits are still very conservative, and so very superstitious. A little pagan imagery goes a long way in instilling fear and dread when we need it.”

Mac chuckles sadly to himself. “I can’t help but remember that history is rarely kind to figures who hold that mantle, but I’ll be glad to leverage any good will they have towards me to our advantage.”

“Mac, my friend,” Pacoy grins, “If someone asks you if you are a god, you say yes!”
Mac cocks an eyebrow before fiddling with his pocket watch and sending an odd voice clip to the ears of Able and Pacoy, grinning as watches both of them receive an old movie quote; ‘I beg your pardon, but that wouldn’t be proper. It’s against my programming to impersonate a deity.’

Finn laughs, “That’s right! Use every advantage, especially in asymmetric warfare.” He pauses, staring into space. “Dr Wahlen’s interrogation has begun. We’ll know more soon, he’s talking freely while there’s a neuron analyzer aimed at his head ready to ghost him. Let’s take this up again this evening, when we’ll know more of what we’re talking about. That facility in Nottingham is important to your enemies and mine, so we’ll need to see if we can put a spanner in its works somehow, eh?”

The Finn rises and leaves the room, leaving Mac to grab seconds of kedgeree.
Tillie pours herself some tea and kicks her long legs up onto the table. “You guys are certainly interesting to be around. A messiah, a super-spy and a technical whizz – wanted by every major government and corporation. I feel like I’ve been paddling in the shallow end while you’ve been out hunting sharks in the deep.”

“And hunted in return.” Able puts the last bite of fish in his mouth, chews for a moment, and swallows. “Not everything is glamour on this side of the table.”

Mac speaks around a mouth of fish with an air of practice. “Sharks bite, doll. Pray you don’t get in too deep. Since I started running with this crew I went from a simple gumshoe to almost having my chest crushed in three times in as many months.”

“Sounds like interesting times,” Tillie quips, “I may have to tag along and see for myself.”

“I think you got your ribs busted by a bat on day one,” Pacoy recalls with a smile, “It took a bit longer to smash your principles!”

-Fade Scene-

That evening, the team meets Finn again, over a dinner of cod in hollandaise sauce. The old Royal marine looks grim throughout dinner, talking little. As the dishes are cleared by M&S people, he flicks a switch and a big flatscreen lights up at one end of the room. It bears the words “Project Emet”. Finn clears his throat.

“Wahlen’s been very helpful, he’s explained exactly what he was involved in at that Nottingham plant. It’s called, as you can see, Project Emet.”

The screen changes, showing Wahlen still strapped to his dentist’s chair, a complex helmet-like scanner on his head. “Emet is the Hebrew for Truth,” he says. "It was the word inscribed on a slip of paper and put in the mouth of a Golem to make it come alive. In legend, if you erased the E in Emet you got Met, the Hebrew for ‘dead’. Its very apt. Barton and I developed software to run in Umbra biocomps that would allow any subject to be remotely controlled by an A.I. And if you then removed the “e” – the electronic linkage – the software would shut the host down permanently, killing them. We also began work on several subjects that could properly be described as Golems. Bio-enhanced and gene-tailored super-soldiers, the next generation of janissaries. The British government was going to be the first to conduct field trials."

The screen changes again, to show an overhead of a large facility, almost as big as an arcology. Finn says “This is a satellite feed we stole. That’s the Emet plant. We can’t let this project continue, obviously. Questions?”

Mac sighs. “Why in all that is good under the sun and stars do people come up with these ideas? Subjugating the free will of humanity.. it turns my stomach, so it does…”

Able frowns at the screen. “This isn’t the first I’ve heard of the project – though, in my accessible memory, not in this much detail. Rossum had been using me as a testbed and potential replacement to Wahlen; I have a version of their software and the requisite hardware stored in my cyberwear. I don’t use it, as it’s brainlocked to a shadow of Wahlen they stuck in there and I don’t exactly relish letting him free to ride me.”

“We’ll need some resources, most of my gear is gone over the last few days… but we are more than capable of stopping production, particularly if it means a black eye for our enemies.” Pacoy says, looking at the feed.

Tillie puts her hand up. “I’m in. I’ve no internal cyberware or computer implants, so they can’t touch me with their hoodoo.”

Finn nods at Pacoy. “I think we can provide replacements for whatever you lost, or the workshops to make them good and some able hands to help. We can also probably provide a bit of a distraction and some muscle on-site too.”

He continues, “Here’s my idea. The Lazarus and Tillie are point, we can back them with some electronic recon, in real time, and a massive set of hacks to stave off reinforcements, as well as some White Mice to make a diversionary attack on or near the plant. A quick in-and-out, blow the main labs to hell – we’ll make sure we get exactly where they are from Wahlen – then back out via the Blue Shimmer’s sub. Let’s say we go in one week to ten days, depending on the speed of preparations.” he turns to Able, “And afterwards, new faces and IDs for all of you if you need them, plus a haven here or we’ll smuggle you wherever you want to go.”
He looks at Able in question. “How does that sound to an ex-janissary?”

Able leans forwards, the dinner forgotten. His movements are sure and smooth, without the hesitancy or sheer exhaustion of this morning, and when he speaks his voice is loud and clear. “It sounds dangerous. You say they’re building a new generation of super-soldiers there – we’ll probably run into one or two once we start invading, though if we’re fast enough they may not be fully operational yet. Still, couple that with the normal security of a place like this and we’re going to have problems. We may want to disturb the quiet little alliance between Umbra and Rossum before we move in – leaking information about Umbra’s little stolen researcher could help. But yes, with the right support – it’s doable.”

One of Finn’s aides, a young man with old-time transistors woven into his dreadlocks, grins, ’Aye, mon – we can handle a leak like that just fine. Just tell me what you want out there and twenty news corps will get an anonymous tip off at opening time tomorrow!"

Able tosses the man a datachip. “I uploaded the full sensie of our little adventure into the house of Rossum and Umbra onto that chip. I’m not sure exactly what we want out there – Wormwood is the sensie editor of our group – but I’m sure you can use some of it.”

“I’m going to head back to the bunks,” Pacoy says as he stands and starts walking, “I’ll make a shopping list and see what I can do with the workshop here. There is a lot of promising stuff, but time is not on our side.”

Mac sits back in his chair, staring at the display as he mulls over the future. Despite wishing for more time, he thinks to Pitbull, and a wicked grin crosses his face as he lifts a tumbler of hijacked whiskey idly in his hands. “Gentlemen, as the locals might put it, it’ll be a pleasure causing bloody mayhem with you lads. These monsters deserve everything we can throw at them.”

Damn, here I am, trying to make a shopping list for a job where I am not 100% of the plan. Hell, I’m not even 70% sure we have a plan on this one, other than ‘vengeance must be had’. I need to start with the basics. Opening an internal Notepad on the head computer, I start jotting figures. Electronic Lockpicks: $1,500, 0.2 lbs.; Biometric Cracker Tools: $4,000, 10 lbs; Razortape: $40, 0.5 lb. per 100-foot spool; A Pocket Pack for each of us: $25, 0.75 lbs each (How many of on the ground this time? 3 Lazarus and Tilly?) a CrashKit: $200, 10 lbs; Any kind of Guns, Ammo, and explosives we can get; Possibly a special smuggling in of some Aquino Automation bots: preferably a few Kestrel and a Marmalade if possible. Can the smugglers pull that off on short notice? What kind of skills does Tilly have? She doesn’t have any cyber, so there is no way she is coming close to covering Pit’s role as the Heavy. I supposed to be coming up with answers, but all I keep getting is more questions, it’s frustrating!

Dealing with frustration the best way I know how, I headed to the ships workshop to see what kind of facilities I could play with. I was impressed – the Blue Shimmer has quite a the collection of spare parts, all organized in case of an emergency swap-out situation. The Machinist Mates station was small and crammped, but is was a quality fabrication workshop set up with professional efficiency.

The crew was happy to give me a tour, even happier when they found I could take a tour in Tagalog. I absentmindedly grabbed a few stray parts from various stations as we passed, pocketing some, inattentively fidgeting with others. While the Machinist Mates station was what I was most interested in, it seems the engine room was the preferred place for the crew to congregate in a situation like this. It was hot, crammped, damp, and smelled like a combination of hot oil and shrimp paste, but I could strangely see the appeal – it had a sense of being impenetrable, no-one that wasn’t supposed to be here would find their way down here.

It must have been close to an hour of listening to the sailors telling me stories between swapping out to fulfill their duties while I fidgeted that it happened, one of the sailors stopped mid-sentence and asked “Hey, would that actually fly?” I must have looked surprised and confused until he quickly used his lips to point out the pile of parts laid out in front of me, using a pipe as a desk, complete with notes jotted down in grease pencil. I briefly glanced at the pencil in my hand before checking the array of parts and the scrawl of notes – the rough basics for a crude microbot out of the parts I was tinkering with, it was basically a junk bot, and I admitted it. “What could you come up with if you actually tried?” was a question that turned into a challenge. The crew scrambled to gather various junk and lay it out in categories as they set me up in the Chief Engineers office – I was a little worried that he might find the mess an intrusion, until it was pointed out that the “CHENG” was making it into a game among his boys: they were in 3 teams, bringing parts and tools and shouted ideas, it was chaos, but it seemed to bring everyone together as well as free the weight off of my mind.

With a piping-hot mug of black mud-like coffee, I looked at the three groups of piles organized on the desk before me: the first was labeled ‘Skeeto’, it was a cheap, ugly bot that could have been the Pinbot’s scrapyard cousin, it’s batteries were 90% of the weight, – balanced like landing gear under the “brains”, but it had a 3 gauge hypodermic needle mounted on it like a lance – it we could get some sort of drug or poison onto it, the thing just might be useful – maybe we should enlist Wahlen on that. Up next was another Scrapbot, this one labeled ‘Imp’, it was a shoddy little flier rigged up with a tiny charge that turn it into a small burst of shrapnel as is temporarily disrupted any electronics in a very small area – obviously this one was untested, but the math was all sound. The third bot was the one that was the most durable, a small, hinged cage of flexible framing ringed with cheap sensors and pistons – the darn thing opened up to so a grenade could be nested inside, turning a grenade into a temporary sentry device able to ‘re-throw’ itself a short distance. The first two bots could handle the Pinbot program with very little change, the last could make use of areani AI with a few tweaks.

Between the Machinist Mate and myself, we cranked out 3 bots of each bot by breakfast. The whole thing was productive: I came out with nine bots, I my mind was clear, and wile making the bots, I got ideas on how each could be used – the beginnings of a plan. Able’s footage of Rossum snatching up Professor Barton might be interesting to Umbra even without editing; all three new bots had their use in an assault or infiltration job, though they wouldn’t replace Pit or Worm for those roles; and the Matapang’s assured me that they could get some gear to us, even on short notice. The Matapang family was not blessed in the genetics department, but they were sure useful!

Glasgow, Scotland
Saturday 29th April, 2051
7.00 PM

Four days ago, the Lazarus team agreed to enter and destroy the Rossum/Umbra laboratory complex being used to produce super-soldiers for the British Government, in a pilot program which if successful could see AI-controlled human-derived drones in service by despotic governments and corporations the world over.

Three days ago, “Radio Clash” released edited footage of the team’s assault on a manor house in Central England, designed to give the impression Rossum used their operation as an excuse to kidnap the top Umbra scientist working on that program. Shares in both corps fell abruptly at first, but then the Solar System’s largest corporation, HUB Bank, stepped in to guarantee both’s stability in return for a 51% slice of each and shares are slowly recovering.

Two days ago, the team and their ally from the radical resistance group Mutate & Survive, a bio-enhanced woman called Tillie Jones, boarded a trawler and hunkered down for a sea journey, surrounded by ‘borrowed’ gear and the smell of fish.

Today, they landed in Salcoats, Scotland, and boarded the evening train to Glasgow, there to meet a contact known only by the name “Malky” and a passphrase – “Here’s to the gentleman in the velvet coat”, to be answered with “Even though he’s below the heather now.”

Now, they are exiting Glasgow Central Station, beneath the massive Victorian porch known locally as “The Umbrella”. The street is busy with pedestrians, many of whom are queuing outside a shop called “Umberto’s Fish & Chip Emporium” from which the smell of freshly fried fish wafts.

Tillie hefts her “kit bag” and smiles, pointing, “There’s a sight, that place must be good! Anyone hungry?”
Mac grins, feeling the weight of his instruments of persuasion as he hefts his kit bag and his attaché case. "Always. It better be good, though. " He reconsiders his weaponry and sends a wry message to his teammates, “I feel a bit like Pitbull with all this kit…”

“Mac, with the way you eat I’m surprised you can afford ‘good’.” Able flexes his hands, still getting used to the feeling of control slipping back into his grasp.

As Tillie joins the end of the queue, the team notices two ragamuffin boys, no more than 12 years old, dart across the “Umbrella”. One climbs up a stanchion and the other tosses him a silvery tube – then the first sprays black paint all over a small device lodged in the junction of stanchion and bridge. A couple of people in the queue laugh, and applaud, as the second boy executes a swift bow, both give cheeky grins, and then they run off into the evening crowd.

“We need to sit down and compare Macs meal budget and Pits ammo expenses when this is all over,” Pacoy teases.

Able watches the crowd’s reaction with interest. “These people don’t care much for the nannycams, do they? I wonder if this place’s attraction is the food – or the privacy.”

Mac grins. “You’d be surprised. There’s always an extra bill in the old fold for mealtime.” He looks around at the clientele. “Wouldn’t be surprised if it’s a bit of both.”

As the team edge closer to the wonderful smell of food, a shifty looking man in a blue rain-poncho approaches them. He has a clown’s smile painted on his face and a tray of packaged items hangs from shoulder straps. He speaks around a lit toke-stik. “White sports socks, guvner? Three pairs for a buck!”

Mac frowns. “Clash with my shoes, sorry. You got a name? Awfully enterprising business you have here. Socks in a chip shop?”

“Me? Naw, I dinnae hae the shop, pal.” The man responds, with a definite slur in his voice – his breath reeks of booze. “Auld Armando’s a guid guy though, ne’er gies me the boot when I’m workin’, ken?”

Instinctively, Mac’s nose wrinkles. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

The man pulls out a bottle – a half pint of brown liquid – and upends it into his mouth without taking the toke-stik from between his lips. Then he offers the bottle to Mac. “Hae a drink, pal?”

Pacoy raises an eyebrow at the offer, but then realizes Mac probably has very little chance of catching anything from it.

Mac looks at the bottle, shrugs and then takes a swig from the bottle, gritting his teeth before passing it back. “Stuff’s not half bad.”
As Mac upends the bottle, the hawker grins and says “There’s a traditional toast hereabouts, from the old Jacobite Rebellion: ’Here’s tae the man in the velvet coat’! It could refer to a mole or tae Bonny Prince Charlie, y’see.”

“That’s be right enough, puir soul that he was. The damnt English did for him.” The man says. “Weil, a better get goin’ – the fuzz wil be along soon, nae doobt. If ye a’ want tae, I’ll stand ye a drink. Meet me o’er there on the corner in a couple o’
minutes and we’ll hae a wee belter for the old Jacobites.”

The man wanders off, in no hurry, around the corner and steps into a waiting car – a beaten up old thing with mirrored windows.

A smile finds its way to Mac’s face as he sees the car. “Lets grab something to-go and go eh, stand a drink with our friend, yes?”

Tillie has already stepped back out of the shop, with a plastic bag full of packages wrapped in plain white paper. “Here’s the food – what?”

Mac frowns at the bag. “A bit light on the food, don’t you think?” He nods at the car. “Our friend’s in there. Figure we should eat on the tarmac.”

“Eat and run, Mac, Eat and run,” Pac mutters as he casually heads to the corner.
Able quirks an eyebrow at Pacoy. “He said he’d meet us over there. You interested in speeding things along a bit?”

Mac smiles. “Lots of running keeps you fit, boyo.”

As the team approach, Malky pops the trunk on the old sedan – something called a Ford Prius Plus – and calls out to ‘put yer bags in the boot’.

Able shrugs. “Or maybe he was referring to the car as the corner. Eh.” He puts his gear in the trunk of the car.

Mac slings his case and his holdall into the trunk, deftly snatching a package from Tillie with a wink.

Pacoy hesitates, sighs and then tosses his gear in the trunk. That’s a major gamble right there, he thinks to himself, but I guess I’m nothing if not a gambling man…

As soon as the team is inside – a tight fit, it’s a small car – Malky pulls away and heads for the freeway entrance just down the street. As he turns he neatly snags a handful of fries from Mac’s package of fries and battered fried fish. “Brilliant, I’m famished” he says, in a far more cultured voice than the one he’d used earlier. “Sit tight, it’s not far to a safe place. The police and even the Army would never come into Easterhouse without so much force that we’d have plenty of warning. I’m Colonel Malcolm Bruce, late of the Royal Marines and now of the Scottish Liberation Army. I’ve been told I’ve to offer you any assistance and get you to Nottingham PDQ. That right?”

Able nods. “Quite so. Do you foresee any problems?”

Mac frowns at the blatant theft and disregard for propriety, ensuring that there is hardly anything left to steal before securing his own seatbelt.

Malky nods. “One pretty big one, I’m afraid – the border. I’m informed that none of you will be able to pass muster at any official crossing, either by train or road. The current plan is for me and my boys to get you down there tomorrow early, then hand you off to a bunch of Bluebonnets for a yomp across the hills to somewhere I don’t need to know about for further transport South, but I’m informed also that you can change the plan as and when you see fit. You boys are in charge, we’re just the hired help!”

Mac laughs to himself. “Not too often I’m put in those shoes. This place has tighter security than most mob rings, you know that? See, this one time, I just flirted with an underbosses secretary, walked into his office, made a copy of his books, then poof. Here? It’s border crossings this, nannycams that, traced IDs everywhere…”

Malcolm nods ruefully, “I know. To think I served with the bastards who did that to Britain once…I tell you if I could get my hands on them and half an hour of left-alone time…”

Able leans back. “It’s much easier than back in Canada. At least Britain hasn’t pushed out chaperone implants to every single person convicted or born for the past eight years. It’s almost impossible to find a place that’s not monitored there, and some of the children act more like robots than I do.”

Malcolm snorts, “That’ll be next, at least down south, Here, they’d have a difficult time imposing it.” He pulls off at an exit marked “Easterhouse” with the word “Free” daubed in white paint above the name. Next to it, a poster is stuck.

Mac looks back to Able at the ‘robot’ comment and fails to stifle his laughter. He sobers on seeing the sign. “I never thought I’d miss Night City until I left..”

Malcolm points, “They try, but they can’t break Easterhouse. Here we are, home sweet home.”

The area of the city Malcolm has pulled into is a slum, of sorts. More like a slum crossed with a war zone. Graffiti telling the “Redcoats” to “keep out or die” is everywhere, as are what appear to be blown up buildings, rubble spilling into the streets. The street lighting doesn’t work, but there are dim lights behind many windows in towering apartment blocks.

Pacoy looks to Mac, “Between London, Canada and Omaha, who knew we lived in such a utopia, huh, Mac?”

Mac sniggers. “Hey, you think it’s this bad up in space? I bet that’s where it’s at. Lots of freedom, being encased in the stars.” He smiles. “At least this place seems a bit like my hometown, such as it is.”

The car rolls past two burned out APCs, then turns into a parking garage beneath one of the blocks.

Able looks around. “I thought there were more craters in your home town, Mac.”

Mac scrounges through the leftovers in Tillie’s bag. “Well, yeah. I had meant Tears. This place isn’t nearly beat up enough to compare to Omaha. Ugh, does that mean I’m a country boy? I can’t stand that idea.”

Malcolm pulls the car between two pillars and flashes the car lights three times. Immediately, a false section of wall pulls to the side and he drives into a sectioned-off area made up of a variety of scavenged huts, buildings, repurposed vehicles and so forth. There are about twenty or so people milling around, all armed to the teeth. They all wave to Malky, and one or two sort of salute instead of waving. “Here we are, let’s get you put up for the night and then tomorrow we’ll get you headed south.”

Mac looks about. “You’ve got a mess hall in this hideout? Going to get hungry in a bit, I feel.”

Malky laughs and gestures to a thin woman with green hair. “Mess hall, stat, Maggie! Our guests have come a long way.” She leads you all to an old bus conversion that holds a field kitchen, with a generator and gas tanks behind it and a set of chairs and tables out front. Soon, Mac is tucking into beef stew and bread – the real deal. Maggie explains the beef was “liberated” from a rich Junta sympathizer last week.

Malcolm brings out a sleek datapad and calls up a map. “Here’s the border area we’ve been looking at. The hills are heavily forested, still, even if half the trees are dead or dying, so there’s cover from the air and patrols have a tough time with it. The Bluebonnets are biker nomads, they’ll get you across and probably hand you off to some other cell for further transport.”

Mac compliments the chef before turning to his crew, “At least it’ll be bikes. I’m getting a bit tired of all these cars and boats.”

“Don’t jinx us, Mac, we were one step away from resorting to goats in Omaha,” Pac teases.

Malcolm nods, “Watch those Bluebonnets though – they’re no friends of the Junta but some are a bit rough. Now, anything you need or would like to know?”
Able looks over the map. “What problems are we likely to come across on this border crossing? Are the approaches patrolled often, or is this just a known sieve point?”
Pacoy makes a mental note that apparently ‘bluebonnets’ aren’t bonnet-wearing blue-hairs.

Malcolm muses for a second then answers crisply, "There’s just too much territory for patrols to cover, although they try. The Bluebonnets use electric off-road bikes, so they’re agile and quiet, and they run the border pretty much at will. They live by theft, smuggling, assault, and ambushing small Trasher units. Until now, they have survived by melting into the decaying forests on the border when larger military units go looking for them. There’s always a chance you’ll get unlucky and hit a patrol – just a platoon or two with light armored vehicles, although regular Army more than likely – but the likelihood is that the ‘bonnets will get you through or past anything that’s so big and noisy.

Mac frowns. “Not the most fantastic recommendation of a taxi route, but our options are limited.”

“Hey, Mac, it isn’t a car or boat, right?” Pacoy grins.

Able nods at Malcolm. “Sounds good.” He turns to Mac. “What do you think? This a sound plan?”

Mac grins. “Fair enough.” He gestures to Able with his last scrap of bread. “Based on what I’ve heard, it’s good enough. If we had a map and access to their normal routes, we could make it air tight. But it’s good enough in a pinch.”

Malcolm winces, “We might be able to get you that data, but it’d take a week or so. I understood you people were on a tight timeline.”

Mac sighs. “That’s the problem. We are. I think we have to play it fast and loose.”

Malcolm turns, “Maggie, please find places for our guests to bunk for the night. We’ll be off early.” He turns to Mac, “Shock and awe, laddie – and if that don’t work run like Hell!”
Able puts a hand on Mac’s shoulder. “Hey, it’s better that we stick with what we do best. I don’t know what would happen if we ever took the time to make a plan air-tight, do you?”

“Standard Operating Procedure: Seat of our Pants,” Pacoy nods.

Mac looks at Able, an unknown glint in his eye. “Able, if we had enough time to plan something properly… the world would never be the same.”