(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.”

“Good. We’ll have them quicker than you can put the squeeze on a squealer. We got much intelligence on the place?” He cracks his knuckles, flexing his fingers. “Been itching to get my hands on those finks ever since I learned about them.”

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!”

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.”

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.

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.

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.”

---

Fade Scene——

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.

Lambeth, London Metroplex
Tuesday 11th April, 2051
9.00 PM

Sharktooth Tony pushes back his plate, still laden with lean roast beef, potatoes and peas, all genuine rather than made of molded algae, and sips at a glass of dark red wine as he burps enthusiastically. Around the big table, which appears to have once been a map-table for the British air defense of the South East from Luftwaffe bombers, his lackeys and the Lazarus Group are also finishing meals that were entirely of real, expensive, ingredients.

Producing a long, thin dagger, Tony begins picking debris out of the sharp dental work that gave him his nickname, then looks towards his American guests. “So, Candy told me you need to get safe to Nottingham, and will need somewhere to do a bit of interrogatin’. That right?” he asks.

Pitbull inelegantly scarfs his meal with wild abandon, his only callback to table manners being chewing with his mouth closed and eating with silverware, as he murders his beef roast.

Pushing his seat away from the table, his meal finished, Able smiles up at Tony, his teeth back to their normal typical perfection. “That’s correct. Are you able to provide something suitable?” Mac politely stacks his seventh plate atop the others, looking sidelong at Pitbull. He rolls his eyes and looks towards Pacoy, then Able before resuming studying Tony.

Pitbull gulps down a cartoonish mouthful of food before throwing his two cents in the conversation. “Don’t worry about finding an interrogator. I got that shit down. We just need the guy an’ somewhere quiet, I reckon.”

Pacoy wipes his mouth, stifling a sigh at his comrades’ table manners while waiting for a response to Able’s question.

Tony nods, “That I can, fang-face. I’ve an associate who sends me real food from the countryside. E’s got a dairy farm and a pig yard up there in Notts, with a couple of outbuildings that’d be ideal – miles from anyfink, y’know? But…’ere’s the problem. What’s in it for me? I’m a businessman and your man Candy, while a good bloke, isn’t worth maybe havin’ that location over-run by rozzers to me, not on ’is own. So ’ere, as they say, is my quandary. What do you have that would make it worth my while?”

Mac smiles and looks around before leaning forward and gesturing casually. “You, friend, have asked the question that has stumped every dame on the arm of a rich bird. What do you get for the man who has everything? You have food, influence, a wonderful little establishment. What, I would wonder, are you lacking?”

Pitbull finishes his helping and lets off a loud raunchy belch before setting it with his other three palates of previous helpings. He lights himself his after-meal cigarette and leans back in his chair, cigarette in one hand, wine glass in the other.

Tony grins at Mac, “Well now, that’s a good way to put things, Yank. I like the way you think, I really do. What I lack would fill a bleedin’ book, but what I most find meself short of is the kind of expertise a team of professional Edgerunners could offer. I could think of three problems of the top of me ‘ead that such a team could solve for me, and I’d be willin’ to sweeten the pot my end too if you were inclined to put it all on a turn of the cards.” He pulls out a deck of pristine playing cards. “What do you say, yanks? I can provide a guide,” he nods at Marquis Deeds, “military firearms and even some intrusion tech, as well as transport. I’ll bet all of that against three small favors, three hands of poker to decide who gets what.”

Pacoy grins, “Oh, that sounds more than fair to me, provided my comrades have nothing against it?” Pacoy looks to the other Edgerunners.
“Of course, I’d want a little more detail on what I’m getting before we cut cards,” Pacoy adds, “Sweeten the deal, maybe?”

Pitbull H.U.D. texts Pacoy. “Don’t make any bets. Seriously, I don’t want to be indebted to this guy.”
Mac shakes his head in agreement with Pacoy. “A man of means such as yourself must know what we can accomplish, and that our services may require some additional…” He waves his hand in the air.

Able leans forwards, a frown on his face. “Before we agreed to anything, more details would need to be on the table. You are not our only option here.”
“But rest assured, even if business isn’t in the cards for us, cards could still be in business,” Pacoy smiles.

“Well, I’m always up for a friendly game for just money, but let me be clear here.” Tony leans back in his chair, thinking for a second. “OK, first hand: I can arrange a safe house and transport out of the country after your job is done, by boat from Peterborough. That’ll also let you meet an associate of mine, by the name of Finn, who might be willing to pay you very well for any additional information you pick up from your kidnapping, which I assume is either a corporate headhunt or a vengeance mission against some Republic bigwig. In return, I’d want a rival either removed or seriously inconvenienced with no track back to me”

He grins. “Second hand. I bet four British Army assault weapons and two Stealth Suits, along with a jammer drone and controller. You would bet having one of your number be a ringer in a prize fight, someone who could go down when told to and stay down.”

“Third hand. I want some more supplies. You blag a commercial pharmacy supply for me, I in turn provide Deeds here as a guide for your whole trip, along with a truck that I’ll guarantee can smuggle you and any equipment safe over regional boundaries.” He leans forward, “Wanna cut?”

Able leans forwards, interested now that the cards are on the table. “What kind of rival, and what security precautions does he take? I’ve done target elimination jobs before; their worth always depends upon the target." Pacoy thinks over the deal, “This does sound a lot better, and may friend here,” hooking a thumb towards Pitbull, “Is a beffy guym and I’ve heard he has no issues going down.”

Tony nods, “I thought maybe you had. He’s a gangster with maybe a dozen serious toughs and that again in wannabes, hangs out in an old factory in Stepney that’s been converted to a nightclub.”

Mac idly twirls his pocket watch, considering Tony’s offer, considering Pacoy’s talents at cards. His mind pulls back images of his last bout in the gym with Pitbull, not entirely relishing the concept of anyone intentionally losing a boxing match.

“How deniable do you want it? So much so that it’s unclear whether he was even taken out or it was just a tragedy, or just no direct connection the police can make to your operation?”

Tony considers a second. “All I want is to make it clear he can’t protect his own, without starting a war among the local bosses.”
Satisfied, Able leans back and nods his head. “We can do the elimination job.” He turns to the others, allowing them to take the lead on the other two ‘hands’.

Mac nods. “Second hand’s a go on my end. Both Pitbull and I have had some rounds of boxing between us. Could put up a decent show. I’m no roundheels, so there’s no worries there.”

Mac spins the dial on his pocketwatch, sending a message to his teammates as he does. “We could take the deal as it stands… a bit of work on our end, but it’s a gamble if we go with cards. I’ll back Pacoy if he’s game on playing, but we stand to walk away with nothing at all. Or we get his assistance for free.”

Pitbull shifts some dishes around as he listens in on the negotiation. He jets out a cloud of smoke from the cigarette clenched between his teeth, as he H.U.D. texts the team. “Thinking about it, I think I’d be a shitty dude to throw a fight. If he gets a good hit in on me, I don’t think I’d just lay down after that. I’d turn that asshat into a greesy smear. I think Mac’d be a better choice, dudes.”

Mac nods, idly knocking on the table, looking back and forth between Able and Pacoy, trying to gauge their desire to gamble certain help for the possibility of not having to put out any favors.

Mac silently sends out another message. “We could probably take a partial deal. We can take the fall of the boxing, leaving the choice of the other two.”

Pacoy nods to Mac, “We can take the fight for the first deal and play for the other two hands, if that’s okay with you? No sense in anyone risking going away empty handed.”

Mac nods. “Tony, pal. How’s this strike you. We’ll take the fall in your boxing match – you get your pick of fighter, depending on who we’re up against. We’ll play the other two hands. Maybe you get our help cheap as chips, maybe not. That’s the rumble, what do you say?”

Able flashes a note to his comrades. “Watch out for Tony; he’s notorious as a gambler, and that big playing card tattoo on his face isn’t there for nothing. He’s done this same type of deal before, and it’s quite possible we’ll lose everything. I’d vote that we only do the gambling for the option we’re least likely to need and do the other two jobs for him.”

Tony looks confused as he mentally deciphers Mac’s offer. “What did ’e say?”

“Don’t mind him. He’s just seen Sunset Boulevard a few times too many. I lose track of what he says too.” Pitbull growls, ashing his cigarette.
Mac simply smiles, sending to his comrades a silent message. “I’d tell him that we’ll do the first two jobs, and we’ll gamble on the last if that’s what you’re keen on, A. Someone tell this cutter.”

Finally Tony nods, “Yeah, OK yank, I’ll provide the good gear if one of you will fight my man and go down in the second.” He pauses and passes the pack across the table to Pacoy as he nods to his men to clear an area of table. “Cut the cards.”

Able leans forwards, putting his hand on the card table. “We’ll take care of your rival problem, too. Just the gamble on the last deal on the table.”
“7 Card Stud, I presume?” Pacoy asks, cutting the deck.

Mac looks at Pacoy, then intently at the cards. “Wish this were a game of rats and mice. Then I’d put ‘em all on the line. But hey, that’s what our Redhot here is for.”

“The only poker that matters, my old son.” Tony replies. “Y’know, I know a couple of Phillipinos, one lass in particular runs a sweathouse over in Brixton, works girls with no ID until they’re fit to die and pays them in porridge. You related to her, by any chance?” Mac’s eyebrows raise as the hair on the back of his neck bristle.

“Could be, Family in every port, like they say,” Pacoy answers with a shrug, “Anywhere there are porters, nurses, or sweatshops, I suppose.”

Tony’s lips thin as he deals the cards, “Yeah, life can be cheap here in Britain. Must be the same all over. Your family do alright though.”

As the game progresses, his face stays tight-lipped, not a flicker of emotion showing as he rattles on about how to feed a corpse to pigs.

Pacoy sighs as he sees his hand, Poker is a game of skill, but luck plays a major part – the fewer hands, the more luck is a factor.

The final turn of the cards shows three Kings for Pacoy, but a Flush for Tony. Finally his face moves, “Looks like no road-trip for you, Deeds…unless you want to go double or nothing on the gear, Mr Phillipino?”

Pacoy drums his fingers on the table for a beat, bite his lip, and finally shakes his head sighs, “I think I’m going to have to leave the call to my friend here,” Pacoy points to Mac, “I tend to get a little hot under the collar.”

Mac nods almost imperceptibly to Pacoy. He subvocalizes to the team, “I’ll take the hit in the face for you, but if we don’t win back that third ‘prize’, we’re taking a chance on getting buttoned by the law. Not keen to spend the rest of however long I’m designed to live rotting in an English jail.”

The silence stretches until Tony pushes the pack across the table to Pacoy. “Don’t be a fanny, son, deal the fuckin’ cards.” Pacoy shrugs his shoulders and starts dealing.

The game goes swiftly as Pacoy deals additional cards with adriot skill, and the room is totally silent as the last turn of cards is reached…
Pacoys three Tens is narrowly beaten by Tony’s four Queens, however, and Tony smiles as he collects the cards. “Sorry son, you win some and you lose some, eh? I’ll have my guys clear out a room for you all, so you’ve somewhere to lay your heads. The fight is in three days, and I expect the whole deal to be completed in ten, clear? Now, I have some things to do so I’ll bid you all a good night.” He stands and walks away from the table without a backward glance.

Pacoy hangs his head for a moment, then adjusts his collar, “Sorry, guys, looks like we are on the hook for all three. We’ll plan the pharmacy job extra careful, so we don’t have to install Limey Hoosegow Survival 2.0 in Mac.”

Pitbull purses his lips as he stubs out his cigarette on a dinner plate. “Son of a bitch…” He growls to himself.

Mac winces. “Thought I had figured one of his tells. Looks like I’m going to have a date with Karma in three days, get bruised up for this. Sorry.”

Able frowns at the table. “Pretty unlikely to wind up with those results on two hands. Too bad.” He shrugs. “Oh well. It’s not like we can’t do those jobs he wants, anyways. And I’ve got an idea on how to go about it nice and easy…”

Mac sits on the historic artifact. “Shoot, Able. Planning those sorts of jobs ain’t my specialty, unless we need to tail ’em or dig into ’em.”

Able shrugs. “Well, we have to get a nice set of pharmacy supplies – and that’s likely to attract police attention. And we have a gang we need to take down a peg or two, in a nice and deniable fashion. Well, how can we knock down one bird with another in our hand?”

Mac grins. “Hadn’t thought about that. So we pull an Up and Down on them? Quite clean, quite clean. Then all that’s left is for me to try not to break my nose, and the flimflam is complete.”

“Don’t worry, Mac, I’m sure I can fabricate a new nose for you in a day or two!” Pacoy jokes to hide his embarrassment for putting the crew on the hook for extra jobs.

Soon, the team are shown to a room which appears to have once been a gallery area. faded and grafittied paintings of ancient generals and admirals line the wooden walls, and two military-style green metal bunk beds have been dragged in to provide sleeping space. Each of the team is given a “night jar” and a cup of hot cocoa by a slim woman in shabby but authentic French maid’s uniform and an electronic collar, then they are left alone.
Mac sags a little when the cocoa is presented. “This country is dragging on my spirits. I’m less than thrilled with our host’s attitudes, to boot.”

“Well, not every host can afford to decorate with nude, semi-formed copies of your body, Mac,” Pacoy teases, “But yeah, A-1 creep vibe all around.”

Mac feels his face flushing with artificial color. “Just missing home a bit is all. Never been… homesick… quite like this. Well, ever since a month ago, I had never been homesick at all. I just miss our thugs and mooks… straightforward and honest to deal with. Nothing like cloak and dagger under surveillance from the entire country…”

Able sits down on his bunk, looking down at the shaking of his hands caused by his failing neurology. “I don’t think we can take the full ten days. Things are starting to get worse.”

Pitbull stomps over to a bunk and hurls himself onto it. “Aaaaah. So uncomfortably comfortable. It’s just like the Army days…”

The main museum lights go off with the thunk of a shut-down generator somewhere down below, leaving the team with just some LED lamps as lighting. It’s getting late, and they still haven’t adjusted to British time. For all other than Mac, it’s time to sleep after a busy day.

Brixton, London Metroplex
Tuesday 11th April, 2051
3.30 AM

The Lazarus team have spent useful hours with Pacoy’s cousins. Along with doctored ID badges that now proclaim them to be legal citizens of the British Republic with clearances for all of the South East and Midlands regions, they’ve managed to get the loan of a beaten up old Citroen van, which smells vaguely of curry, and a couple of pistols.

Now, back on the streets, they’re hurrying to meet their rendezvous with a boat. As they turn a corner towards the main highway North however, they come across a most unusual – to them – scene.

Mac’s eyes dilate as he scans the scene. “Starting to like this town a little less.” He unconciously adjusts the revolver so it sits a little better in his pocket. “What do we wanna do, head around?” Pitbull stares with a palpable sense of anticipation, as he keeps his fingers tensed to reach for his PDW. “This doesn’t look like the neighborhood to play Ugly American,” Pacoy cautions, “_IF_ we’re stopped, we on all honest folk here.” Mac smiles. “Hey, I’ve got an honest face. I’ve always been honest! It’s my thing!” “I’m ugly, but I ain’ dishonestly ugly. We’ll be good.” Pitbull growls as he lights another cigarette.

Two of the border patrol police (Trashers, in urban slang) wave at the team’s van to stop. Overhead, a hover-drone swivels to watch the van. Able rolls his window down, popping his head out of the van. “Bright skies, constables! How’s the checkpoint manning tonight?” The shorter of the two Trashers slips off his rebreather, showing an unshaven face and crooked teeth as he smiles. “Evenin’ cit’zens! Just a routine sweep for undocumented dissidents. Can you show me your badges please?” he sounds like the phrases have been rehearsed.

Able sends a quick note to the others in the car, alerting them of the situation even as he raises his badge to the officer. “Transit Police. Convict labor; execute dissidents who lack ID.” Pitbull sweeps the gearshift into park before digging around gracelessly through his back pockets for his ID. Mac’s fights his eyebrow’s upward twitch as he fishes out his badge to offer. He sends a silent message through the team’s net. “Are there such things as ‘documented dissidents’?” Pacoy nods and readies his badge for inspection.

Trasher produces a scanner from a pouch on his belt and aims it at Able’s ID badge, then at the others in turn.

Pitbull growls to himself as he finally yanks it out, and passes it to the Trasher wordlessly as he sends a message to the rest of the team via H.U.D.. “I’m a mute. My accent is thicker than armadillo hide.” A smile creeps across Mac’s face. Silently, but not without humor, he sends back. “Ya know, I’m starting to like this place again…”

The Trasher scans each badge, then nods sharply. “Thanks, cit’zens. Where you going to and what’s the purpose of the trip?” He returns their badges, as his friend loses interest and turns around to watch the dissidents lined up against a building wall, each with a sign stapled to their clothes on which is written “enemy of the state”.

Pitbull H.U.D. messages Able. “Abe, you need to answer him. Once again, my accent will blow us out of the water. Tell him I have an injury to my tounge or something.” As Able begins answering, a message pops up in the team net. “To meet with enemies of the state. What about these?” “We’re heading for a nice time out on the water. A friend of ours has a fishing boat, and we’re planning on catching something nice to eat.” Mac idly glances over at the poor men spread against the wall, scanning each detail of their faces, committing them to memory.

The Trasher makes a face. “Ugh, eels. Never could stand the bloody things meself. Or are you going further out?” the question seems strangely stressed.

Mac’s eyes furrow as he sends back to the team. “I don’t know if we can do much to help them. Maybe they actively have done bad things, for worse reasons. It’s impossible to tell with what we can see.”

Able laughs. “Oh, no. We’ll be staying relatively close to shore – but those eels! He may not look it, but Barney here,” Able slaps Pitbull on the side, “is a maestro with a knife and some spices. Dumb as an ox, and nearly incapable of intelligible speech, but he can bake up some biscuits made out of just the different parts of the Eel that’d make you swear they were straight from the finest ingredients the chefs in London proper can find.”

Pitbull H.U.D. texts Able as he nods at the Trasher. "Abe, Imma kill you for the “dumb as an ox” part. lol"

The Trasher visibly relaxes, then spits to the side. “Fancy grub, eh? Well, just you be sure you don’t go further than the Canvey Island marker otherwise you’ll end up like these ere poor buggers. On you go, and safe fishin’.” He turns away, “Ok, ’Arry, do it.” A fusilade of shots rings out from three Trasher’s PDWs and the helpless undocumented men all slump bonelessly to the ground, their bodies riddled and bleeding.

Able shrugs as he turns back around, rolling up his window. “Well, looks like they won’t be helping us. Probably wouldn’t have been able to direct us to the Tighty Whities we’re looking for, anyways.” Pitbull stares grimly at the firing squad’s end result, a memory of his own actions in a firing squad on Mexican Insurgents out in Tiajuana superimposing over the present.

Mac winces as the images burn into his memories. “I hate feeling helpless. But this… this is not our fight. We can’t… do everything.” Pitbull hisses to himself as he shifts the gears back into drive, and the van begins rolling forward again. He says nothing as he aggressively inhales his cigarette. Pacoy watches the scene recede in the rear-view mirror as he wonders what’s going on past Canvey Island. He’ll have to ask the contact on the boat. Mac rolls his eyes, wishing his window actually rolled down all the way, the smells of stale ash blending with dried, spilled curry, spoiling what remained of his appetite.

Without warning, there is a searing flash of white light from behind the team’s van, followed a moment later by a massive reverberating boom and a wash of heat. In the van’s rear view-cam, Pitbull can see that the Trasher’s armored car has blown up and is now in flames. The Trashers stand, shocked into inaction, for an instant. Then the first shots ring out from somewhere above in the buildings surrounding the scene. Able turns in his seat, attempting to locate the source of the fire.

Pitbull gradually escalates the van’s speed, going from fifty to seventy over the course of half a minute. “Not our fight, dudes. We got shit to do, right?” Pitbull grates darkly.

Able’s augmented eyesight, in infra-red, can see a trail of glowing white-hot droplets leading from a deserted shop-front to the ruined APC. The bright lights of tracer rounds come from the windows above the shop front, which now has a smashed window.

Mac’s head ducks instinctively, as he fights momentary fears of near-permanent blindness. “I concur… we don’t want to get dragged into a dissident war, not when we have a boat to catch. Able’s on a timer that I started ticking, and we can’t turn back now.” With a quick bit of concentration, Pacoy engages the his Insta-Soldier Beta and tries to assess the situation, his field of vison swimming with augmented reality advice.

“What’dya see, Abe?” Pitbull growls, the sour tone still in his voice as he negotiates a bend in the road. AR picks up information on the blast and relays it to Pacoy: the glowing droplets are almost certainly molten copper, the tell-tale unique signature of a home-built explosively-forger-projectile armor-piercing bomb. “Home-made Armor Buster, guys! Head Up!” He warns the group. “Shit! I saw that back in Juarez, actually. These insurgents sure fight like insurgents.” Pitbull grates as he drags off of his cigarette again. Mac blinks as his head snakes towards Pacoy, a look of playful irritation crossing his face. “Do I look like a terrorist to you? How am I going to ID a home-made explosive?”

Able warns, “We’ll either have to get out of here fast or be prepared to get caught up, either by the rebels or the response. I wouldn’t put mortar fire out of the question here.” “By the info I’m getting from my Insta, I’d say these guys are pros,” Pacoy continues “The charge is just so, everything done right.”

Pitbull guns the engine again, bringing the van from seventy to ninety. “We’ve reached this bucket’s top gear dudes!” Pitbull growls as he attempts to keep it straight on the road. Mac groans. “I really could do without things falling out of the sky towards us, for once. Why cant we deal with things that tunnel up from below? …scratch that. Ignore EVERYTHING I just said. I don’t want that at all.” Pacoy sighs, realizing Mac’s karma might just summon some kind of British robo-mole to destroy them all.

As Pitbull guns the van at its best speed down the ghetto street, the massive volume of small-arms fire behind them is already slackening. Before he can even reach a decent corner, it has already tailed off to what sounds like a series of careful double shots, then falls silent. The deepening gloom of a cloudy London sky is lit behind them by the burning police APC as they flee. Pitbull starts taking the van down from the speed it was doing gradually. From ninety, to seventy, to fifty.

“Double taps. Might be execution shots.” He turns to the others. “Hope those rebels destroyed the ID reader; if our IDs were the last ones scanned, we might get on the evening news. Or worse.” Mac groans. “Well, it won’t have been the first time we’ve been on TV, right? We’re not going to be here long enough for that to even become an issue, right?” “Hopefully not. We just need to keep moving forward. We really don’t have all the time in the world, right?” Pitbull growls, as he jets cigarette smoke through his nostrils.

Soon, the van is well on its way to the Docklands area, arching over the sluggish and muddy floodlands of the Thames on a new, utilitarian concrete, bridge. Behind the team, the sky seems alight with flashing lights as drones and police AV’s hover over Brixton, shining searchlights down into every corner. There’s a tense moment when the team approach the checkpoint at the other end of the bridge, but their badges pass the automatic check and for a small toll the van is allowed through.

Mac shuts his eyes and sighs for a few minutes, running scenarios in his head. No, that’s the problem, Pits… we have all the time in the world. It’s just that Able… He opens his eyes again. “At least it’s somewhat nice looking in this part of things… Hope they haven’t keened on the boat, though.” “Mac, I really wish you’d stop trying to jinx us,” Pacoy teases. “Doubt that they have. These guys are pro’s, right?” Pitbull growls.

That question is soon answered. By 5pm, as the world begins to darken to twilight under what promises to be heavy rain soon, the team pull into a deserted dock area, surrounded by acres of derelict warehouses. Ahead, a single red light bobs up and down at the end of the warf. Mac’s spirits begin to pick up. “Say, you think we’ll actually catch some eels en-route? I’m getting hungry again.” Pitbull pulls up to the warf and sighs as he shuts the engine off. “Well, that’s convenient. We arrived right as this hunk of bolts was starting to overheat.”

Able steps out of the van, zooming in on the light with his optics, switching fully to infrared to see what he can see. The light comes from a small boat, a run-down ferry capable of taking perhaps two vehicles. It seems deserted, but as the team’s van approaches a flashlight pins them in its narrow glare. Able can see a single figure standing in the bow of the ferry, lowering the front gate with a hand crank while pointing the flashlight beam at the van. The figure is male, average height, and wearing a grey hoodie.

Mac rolls his eyes as he gets out and smooths out the new wrinkles in his jacket. “Maybe it wouldn’t overheat if you took some driving lessons? You should be more gentle on the car. Treat her like any other gentleman would treat a woman. This our ride, you wager?”

Able pulls back on the zoom, switching to true-color mode. “One figure on the ferry. Can’t make out any identifiable features at this distance, and that flashlight he’s shining isn’t going to help things until he gets closer.” Pacoy take s note of the ferryman, then responds to Mac, “I think that’s how Pit does handle his women: Ride them as fast as they can hadle for 2 minutes, then slowly lose speed until the engine dies.” A strangled giggle comes out of Mac’s mouth as he walks towards the ferry. “I suppose there’s one lady we can call and ask, but I’m nowhere near that brave.” “We didn’t crash, did we? If the van was taken better care of, we could have done that shit all day.” Pitbull drags off of his cigarette and throws it into the water as he steps out of the van. “Probably a coolant leak. That’s a bitch to deal with.” Pitbull H.U.D. texts Mac and Pacoy. “Feel free to ask Annebelle. The only complaint I’ve actually picked up on is the fact that I shouldn’t fire off my Fox in the air on her climax.”

The hoodie waves his flashlight up and down slightly, then shuts it off and steps forward, a shotgun nonchalantly propped on his shoulder. He walks towards the van, and the team can see more details: tac-shades and the glint of a gold tooth. “Wotcher, you the package? You took yer sweet fucking time getting ‘ere. I’m yer boatman, call me Marquis Deeds.” Able holds out his hand as he approaches. “That’s us.”

Mac studies every aspect of Monsieur Deeds’ face, down to the shotgun. “Nice birdhose. Cobble that together yourself, or is it an heirloom?” After Able is done, he offers his hand, in the middle of restraining his laughter, sending back at Pitbull and Pacoy. “That at least explains the noise complaint…” Deeds shakes Ables hand, fast and firm. “I figured you must be, guv. No other bugger ever comes down here no more.” he laughs, almost a donkey bray. “No worries, I’ll get you over the river safe. This old tubs still got a few crossings in her. C’mon, get yer wheels aboard and we’ll be off. Someone stirred up the Trashers and razors somethin’ chronic tonight and I want to be across before the river rozzers decide they should curfew traffic.” Deeds shakes everyone’s hand in turn then answers Mac. ’Heirloom, mate – at least, it was when I found it." he laughs again.

Mac looks back and forth at his companions, before sending a silent message: “None of you are ever able to mock the way I speak again.” “There is plenty of Mock to go around,” Pac shoots back.

Pitbull laughs. “Deeds, I think I’m gonna like you. Let’s get this sailboat a-rowin’.” Pitbull growls as he pats Marquis Deeds on the back and strides onto the boat, before turning back around to get the van onboard. Able steps onto the ferry, turning to make sure Pitbull can guide the van onto the boat safely. “Yes. We saw that; Trashers were executing some people lacking IDs when they were assaulted. Looked like a well-planned attack, but we got out without getting involved.”

Mac slides into their wheels and brings the van onboard, following Able’s instructions, taking care to set the parking brake when he shuts the engine off. Deeds cranks the front plate of the bow back into place, then heads into the small covered wheelhouse and a deisel engine belches smoke, coughs, then begins to gurgle. The ferry backs away from the warf, then turns to head South back across the river – heading somewhere close to where you’ve already been today.

Mac leans against the Van. “That’s another one to check off the list. We’ve done planes, busses, cars, and now boats.” “We should look into a minisub or hyrdofoil job,” Pacoy nods. Able sits upon the boat’s gunwale, balanced to stay in the boat rather than in the ocean. “Sounds like we’re just missing trains for the Terrestrial vehicles. And maybe an airship.”

Pitbull starts streaming the Lonely Island’s “I’m On a Boat”, through the team comm, his face split into a shit-eating grin as he does so. Mac nods. “A train job wouldn’t go amiss, if you ask me. Always been a sucker for rail transport.” “And no, Pacoy. I fucking hate submarines. They are… confining…” Pitbull growls, his face going from a grin to hard as diamond in a second. Hell, I nearly forgot we were in a sub when we first hooked up with Mac!" Pac realizes, “So blimps, trains and hydrofoils it is!”

This close, the river smells foetid – a mixture of rot, effluent, petrochemical pollution and sulphur. Odd bubbles rise at random from the brown water, and Deeds steers a winding course across the ever-changing underwater mudflats. The trip takes a scant half hour, however, and soon he’s steering between the sunken ruins of old brick building and brownstones of the same kind as you saw in Brixton. “Soon be home, muckers.” Deeds chirps happily. “The Palace awaits!”

Mac looks around, before turning to Deeds. “This Palace, she got grub? I’m starving. I’ll take anything at this point.” Pitbull covers his nose. “Now it smells like Tiajana, too. God, this mission is all sorts of nostal- nostalgi- nostaly- fuckit- full of memories.”

Deeds laughs again, and points. “Grub ahoy, matey.” he steers between tow brownstones into a sunken street where the upper floors of the buildings show signs of habitation – smoke rises from crumbling chimneys, lights burn behind part-boarded windows. Ahead, a massive building with a central dome rises on a low island from the murky marsh. “There ya go, used to be the Imperial War Museum or somesuch. Look!” On the stone steps of the big building stand the rusted barrels of two 16 inch naval guns, pointing across the river for all eternity. Within minutes, a handful of tough-looking men and women in hand-me-down clothes and unmatched body armor have tied up the small ferry at a wooden pier. “You’re van will be safe on board, mates. C’mon, doesn’t do any good to keep Tony waitin’”

Able says, calmly, “That is a stupidly large set of guns.” Mac nods. “It’s amazing how little weaponry has progressed. Still the same old ways of killing each other. At least fashion peaked quite some time ago.” Mac shoves one hand into his pocket and slinks along up towards the building, his attache case bumping against his other leg. Pitbull stomps off of the boat and surveys the area, wearing the look of a soldier as he gets a closer look at the giant cannons jutting from the building.

As Able steps ashore and gazes up at those big cannons, an idle thought worries its way out his brain. “Anyone here ever think of weaponizing those things? You could probably hit anything in the city with them – though with modern counterbattery software, they’d know your location right quick. Still, they’d do a good bit of damage before someone took them down…”

Deeds grins. “Surely, ‘cept they’ve had the breech blocks removed since 1945 or somesuch and are a third filled with concrete. But if you think they’re fun wait’ll you see what’s inside!” he strides ahead. “Guests to see Tony, they’re expected” he calls up to some unseen watcher in the windows of the massive marble facade. He hurries you up to the great double doors, and inside.

“They’re cannons, Abe, there started out weaponized. Wouldn’t have taken all that much to put one of those can-bombs we saw earlier into one before they were filled.” Pacoy says. Able sighs, his hand unconsciously moving up to his forehead. “They’re museum pieces now, Pacoy. Whatever they started out as, they’re not weapons now.”

Two armed toughs man the doors, but beyond them is a scene from a strange fantasy – possibly Pitbulls. Hanging from the vaulted ceiling and standing on display plinths around the massive room are instruments of war from the last century or more of history. Planes, tanks, artillery – all are there. Amongst them sit crates, small areas screened off with boards to make private rooms, dirt washing hanging from the wires that hold up a harrier jump jet. All the chaos of the ghetto in a setting of opulent warlike splendor.

Mac’s eyes open wide as he looks around. “I’ve always liked museums, but this…” Pitbull stops at a helicopter, and barks out a laugh. “Haha! The only thing stronger than love! The Apache Helicopter! It has machine guns and missiles!” Pitbull roars in glee. Mac muses “Pits, you think that tank still works?” “Nah. It’s probably been decommissioned. I bet the breech-blocks have been removed, but if there’s still an engine in there, it can still roll. You should see the D. Rumsfield Museum of War back in Texas. They got some nasty looking drones and tanks in there.” Pitbull grates back to Mac. Mac nods. “Maybe someday we’ll take a visit. I’d prefer if we could see a musuem of pre-modern art, but I’ll take whatever history I can get.”

The team notice that many of the people here are armed, with at least a pistol or a shotgun. A very few have assault weapons slung at their shoulders – including the two at the top of stairs leading up from the massive atrium to a gallery which has been closed off with boarding. Deeds leads you up the stairs then nods to the two men, one of whom pulls back a hanging curtain. Inside, there’s a long room of white marble, decorated with a rich red carpet and old-looking but fine wooden furniture. A score or more tough-looking individuals are lounging around or gathered around a billiards table at the far end, at which a poker game appears to be being played. One man detaches himself from the group there and walks towards you with out-stretched arms. He has shocking red hair, a pure white face tattooed with an ace of spades, and as he grins you can see sharktooth implants. "Hey hey, you must be Candy’s pals! he booms in an exuberant voice. “Welcome to London. I’m Tony.”

Pacoy eyes the poker table over Tony’s shoulder before smiling and offering his hand. Mac looks around, a smile spreading as wide as Tony’s arms. “Finally, someone with class! Candy may have been a bit of a busted flush, but you and your mob look century. Glad to see you’re the type helpin’ us shoot the works on this one.” Pitbull is unperturbed by Tony’s teeth, rather he is wrongfooted by his demeanor. “Ummm… Hello.” Pitbull growls, still reeling a bit. Able activates his skinchanger implants as his mouth slips open into a smile for the gangster, a display of rapidly-sharpening teeth to greet the shark’s own.

Tony hugs each of you in turn, simultaneously patting each of you down a little. “Nice gnashers, Yank!” he says to Able, then “You must all be fammed. Let’s get some grub into yer, then we’ll deal and maybe play a friendly game of cards, what do you say?”

Ashburn Hotel, London Metroplex
Tuesday 11th April, 2051
6.00 AM

A night’s sleep has sorted out some of the Lazarus team’s jetlag, but it’s a bleary-eyed crew that greets the new day. Outside, the metroplex of London is awakening, and they can hear the whine of aircars and rumble of electric delivery vans over archaic cobbles through the windows of their rooms. Just before the team arrived at their hotel, after evading British security at the railway station, a cold drizzle began to fall. It’s become a downpour now, with their windows showing streaks of grime and small trickles of fume arising from puddles in the window sills the acidic British rain has eaten into the granite over the years.

The team’s instructions for today are simple – get themselves to the South Warf of London’s Docklands, there to catch a boat called the “Long Tall Sally”.

Pacoy walks into the room, finishing a comm call, his bank account a few grand slimmer since last night, but his local resources a little more secure. Mac peers out into the street from behind the curtain before releasing it from his fingers and tightening the buckle on his raincoat. “I feel like I should have a second office here… this very much reminds me of home.” Pitbull downs a mug of coffee before dropping into a fast paced set of push ups, his huffing reminding the onlooking team of a pissed off horse. “Nah, Mac, a classic Gumshoe needs a gun,” Pacoy teases, “Plus, we’d have to get a special adapter to charge you.” Mac grins. “That’s true… I don’t think I could handle digesting the local cuisine here for very long. So much for my brief love affaire with London. I hope you chaps slept well enough. I know Pitbull kept grabbing for his gun when he was snoring…”

Able stands near the entrance to the room, looking out a window down at the street below. “We should get moving soon. This police state is going to make maneuvering without drawing suspicion difficult; we should probably acquire a vehicle not linked to out identities.” Pitbull stops mid pushup. “We should get a black, unmarked van. So suspicious, it’s too suspicious.” He growls before resuming his wake-up routine. “With a little luck, I should have no problem scrubbing our ‘tattler’ chips – a bit of time and equipment.” Pacoy informs. Mac nods as he pulls away from the window, heading towards the door. “We could grab a bus and ditch our tags into the pockets of some random mugs – keeps our ID’s on the moves and undiscovered for that much longer. Don’t mind humping it that much in the rain, even if the bus doesn’t let out near the docks. At least no cabbie will keen to our destination.”

Turning from his contemplation of the street, Able sets his attache case on a desk. Rather than popping it open, he touches a hidden bioprint latch – and the back of the case falls open. Inside are Able’s PD-9 PDW and stealth pistol, both complete with several magazines of extra ammunition. Taking them out of the case, he holds them by the barrel towards his companions. “Speaking of guns, I can provide arms for two of you. Keep them concealed until you need them.” Mac waves his hand at the weapons. “I’ll hold off – I’m not the best shot in the world. Just get lucky on occasion. I’ll distract them with my pretty face until one of you blokes plug them, yeah?” Mac shoulders the door open and shoves his hands into his pockets, keeping an eye out in the hallway. How many two-bit hotels does a private dick see in his career? I guess I have some catching up to do to meet my quota. This place may well count double, though. “It’s not what I’m used to shooting, but if Pit takes one, I wouldn’t turn down the other.” Pacoy answers.

Pitbull leaps up from his pushups into a crouch then a guard position in a quick succession of movements. “I call the PDW.” Pitbull growls as he falls into a relaxed stance, and strides over to the case. “Good, I’d prefer the pistol anyways.” Pacoy nods. Able releases the PDW into Pitbull’s hands, then hands Pacoy the pistol. “Be careful with that; one barrel contains nerve agent delivery capsules. Even if you shoot someone in the foot, they’ll probably have only a minute or two to live.” Mac winces. “That’s… unpleasant. I keep having these morbid thoughts of what would happen to me if I got shot by accident with that thing. Ugh, this brain of mine…” Pitbull sizes up the PDW with the squinting eyes of someone who spent way too much time in the sun. “Sturdy, reliable, low recoil, sufficient if a little lacking in power… Any spare clips?”

“Okay, I got in touch with some friends, a local fixer should be able to get us what we need to kick things off: we can make a bid for a clean ride and some basic equipment.” Pacoy informs the group. Mac hums to himself as he taps his foot, fiddling with his pocketwatch as he pulls up bus timetables. “I figure we can take four buses until we hit the fringe of the Docklands – it’s gone into ruins since the Thames flooded when Master Gore’s predictions came to light. They stopped servicing there after the busses couldnt cross – it’s a rough neighborhood. If we’re making a detour to pick things up, I can adjust our itenerary – there’s a bus that leaves nearby every twenty or so. Don’t want us to get pinched. Not sure if we’ll need a clean ride if we double back a few times on the public hounds.”

Able points to the attache case; it clearly shows signs of being intended to carry this weapon and its ammunition in the secret compartment. “Two hundred extra rounds, for two-fifty total in five magazines.” He turns to Pacoy. “Sorry, but there are only twenty-four rounds total for the pistol in two magazines. Try not to miss.” As Able points, it is obvious that his hand is shaking – a nervous tremor. After maybe ten seconds, it passes. “That’s usually the plan,” Pacoy answers, “But doubly so since I’m toting insta-death rounds” Mac files the motion away mentally. “Hey, Pacoy, you think your contact has any stabilizers? I wouldn’t mind getting my hands on a piece, but it’s a secondary concern.” Able stares at his hand as it shakes, then clamps his other hand down on his forearm. After the tremor passes, he releases some pent-up breath and speaks to Pacoy, still staring at his hand with a frown on his face. “It’s not quite instant-death. More likely paralysis within a minute or two, death quickly following. But I gather your meaning. Remember that it’s packing knock-out and hollowpoint rounds as well, not just nerve rounds – and you’ve only got six nerve rounds total.”

Pitbull ransacks the case, and stashes the clips in the coat pocket of his nano-weave blastcoat. “I’m sure we can ask,” Pacoy nods to the door, “Everyone ready?” Mac nods, eyes and ears already working overtime as he checks the hallway intently, as though the paint itself were made of eyes. “Almost.” Pitbull growls as he continues to get himself situated, stuffing the PDW in the pocket on the other side of his blastcoat. Mac clicks his computer open and closed idly. “Pacoy, you want me to sort us a bus route to get to your contact? We should likely ditch the tags before we get there, just in case.” Able nods to Mac. “Yes. I’m ready.” As he speaks, his clothing – still appearing to be a suit from last night – almost instantaneously shifts into the appearance of a set of normal, casual clothes – the sort of thing anyone on the street might wear. The sort of thing that’s not very memorable at all. Mac nods to Able as he makes motions to leave the hotel, smiling with the silent irony that Able’s outfit will be forever burned into whatever biocircuitry passes for his brain.

As the team head towards the bus stop, Able broadcasts to the team ‘net. “We may need to switch our tourist tags our for citizen tags. The bus may be a good place to make the switch.” Mac spins and walks backwards for a brief moment, studying Able idly. “A lift and drop could work. You got the hands to pull off the switch, buckaroo? You seem about as steady as I like my martinis.” Pitbull tugs and pulls at his clothing, getting everything situated, before straightening into a tough militant pose. He looked every inch a warrior until he took a whiff of the collar on his blastcoat. "Ugh. The stink of the Omaha mission will never come out of this. But I’m ready all the same, dudes." Mac grins at Pitbull. “After spending a week with you in that damned oven, I can’t get your stink out of my nose. I don’t think the coat is the problem, pal.” “Hey, I wash every now and again. You kinda don’t get much opportunity to bathe on the field of duty, y’know?” Pitbull growls, smiling back at Mac.

The first bus is the Number 22 to Brixton. It is a traditional red London “double-decker” whining along on its electric motors. The bus is half full with glum-looking, drably dressed people, all heading to start their days somewhere. Able frowns as he looks down at his hands – which are already shaking slightly. “Normally, yes. But I’m not at my normal level of control. I think the poison is starting to take effect.” “Should we be loud and ass-ish like they think all American tourists are?” Pitbull H.U.D. texts the team with a semi-colon close-parenthesis as a smiley face. Mac curses silently inwards at his ineptitude as he boards the bus. “Don’t overdo it – we don’t want to be memorable.” He sends back. “Who’s got the steadiest hands for a set of dips?”

The bus drives silently for a while, people ignoring each other in the way of all commuters – and even ignoring the scenery as the team pass along the edge of the swollen Thames. From the upper deck, they can see the Houses of Parliament – now the Kriegs Kapital London offices – and other famous landmarks surrounded by muddy brown water.

Mac sends another silent communique as he continues idly sightseeing.. “We’ll run a Bob and Sue – Pitbull, can you sit next to a few marks and talk ’em up a bit? Just run a distraction so Able can lift and drop some tags?”

Pitbull plops down next to a portly gentleman in a jacket, and looks at him with wide deliberate eyes. “Hello! Do! You! Speak! American! Here?!” Pitbull grates slowly and deliberately like he is speaking to a particularly dull small child. The man goggles at Pitbull in utter flabbergasted surprise and sputters “Well…really…I…I…”

Pacoy opens his mouth, shuts it and rolls his eyes.

Able gets up from his seat, looking into his jacket pockets and then all around his area as if he’s lost something before heading towards the mark Pitbull’s settled upon. Everyone’s eyes turn to Pitbull, mostly in shock or a tightly-held disdain.

“Is! There! Any! Good! Places! To Get! A! Bud-! Wise-! Er! Here?!” Pitbull continues in even more deliberate and slow barks, still staring at him like a pissed off nutjob. Able stumbles as the bus rocks, timing the event to allow his hand to drift into the mark’s pocket just as he’s moving. He quietly mutters an apology as his hand retracts and Able continues towards the front of the bus.

The portly man turned purple at first, then took a good look at Pitbull and went pale. “I have no cash…please…leave me alone!” he begs. Able slides his hand into his jacket, releasing the gecko gloves adhesives in order to drop his ill-gotten gains into his pocket. As he approaches the next mark, Able leans downwards as if to look under a seat, his hand resting next to a man’s leg. He slowly, and deftly, slides his fingers into the man’s pocket – after the tasty, tasty loot that it no doubt holds.

“Oh! You speak American! Thank God! What about food?! Or good sights?! Like the Eiffel Tower?! That’s here, right?!” Pitbull grates, his eyes unrelenting in their intensity, but his speech in a relatively normal pace. Mac monitor’s Able’s progress through a reflection in the grimy glass windows, muttering under his breath to the person that he’s sitting next to, “Can you believe the nerve of some people?” He does his best to sound from nowhere in particular, playing off on Pitbull’s distraction to help further distract the next target.

The man looks puzzled. “No, this isn’t Paris…” He visibly gathers himself and a sense of class superiority. “Go away or I shall summon the police, you smelly oik!” Up the back of the bus, two teens with shaved heads and light tattoos down one side of their faces begin to chant “Fight, fight, fight!”, their faces lit with meddling glee. Able finally reaches Mac’s seat, his fingers letting slip his new badges into his jacket pocket. Leaning over the man Mac is sitting next to, Able speaks to Mac. “I can’t find my wallet. I think I may have left it in your suite in the hotel.” He sounds utterly distressed, and when the bus makes a turn he bumps into Mac’s neighbor – and as he does so, Able’s hand slips into the man’s jacket pocket.

“That’s no way to speak to a tourist! I come from Texas, and I tell you right now, we speak to our tourists with respect! You ever hear of “Southern Hospitality”?! We invented that shit! In fact, if this were the Ol’ Lone Star Nation, I’d teach you a thing or two about it, boy-I-tell-you-hwhat!" Pitbull roars, like a combination of a drill sergeant and a drunken hick.

One of the youths takes a circular object out of a satchel and tosses it into the air. It buzzes as it flies – something akin to one of Pacoy’s buzzbots – then unleashes precise sprays of multi-color paint at the white ceiling of the bus. In seconds, a mural take shape.

Mac taps out a message in morse on his pocketwatch, timing his taps with the rhythm of the chant as he broadcasts a message to his team. “Always wondered if all the bits about the hooligans were true…” He looks up at Able and nods. “Don’t worry, I’ll cover our lunch. We’re almost off anyway, aren’t we?” Able relaxes as the wallet falls into his pocket. “Thanks, man. I don’t think I could take another day without a lunch break.”

The portly man by now is looking into the middle distance as he speaks. “Yes, I’d like to report an assault in progress. I’m on the Number 22 bus in Hammersmith.” Mac seizes the image into his memory, standing as the bus approaches the next stop. “Just don’t do it again, okay? You owe me a week of lunch at this rate.” He stares back at the portly man, wincing as he broadcasts a silent text. “Didn’t I mention it would be best not to overdo it? I feel I may have forgotten..” Pacoy admires the mural-bots work as he readies himself for Fight-or-Flight options

One of the youths yells, “Shite, he called the Razors! Scarper!” Both jump up and run to the back of the bus, then throw themselves out the open door onto a street corner. “Whoa-whoa-whoa, pardner! No need to get the cops on it! I just lost my temper is all!” Pitbull grates, his eyes now wide in his best rendition of shock, his meaty hands over his head. “Too late, you hooligan! I shall press charges, you can be assured of that!” the man yells back, looking around out the windows as the bus comes to a halt at a bus stop. “If I were you, I’d make myself scarce.”

Mac scarpers off the bus. “If that fool realizes Able just Bobbed him, his tag is going to be useless. We may have to get a new one. Lets get going to your contact, Pacoy.” Able casually steps onto the street, deciding that this is an excellent stop – especially if Pitbull’s antics were going to bring the police in.

“Fine! Fuck you, you limey bastard! I hope you choke on your ‘trickle’ tart on tea time!” Pitbull roars as he rushes his massive frame out of the bus in high-gear, knocking some in his his relentless stride. Mac winces, muttering under his breath, “I swear, I don’t know him. Can you get that man’s tag, Able? I fear we may need to ditch it. It may become a liability.” Able sighs. “Unfortunately, all these tags are probably going to be worthless shortly. Once the police arrive, everyone will realize their tag is missing and then they’ll just cancel them.” He pulls out the wallet. “At least I lifted some cash for the experience.”

Looking around on the pavement, you realize you’re in a busy shopping area just as the stores open. An early crowd of workers and shoppers throng the streets, masking your progress from any onlookers on the bus swiftly. Able starts walking to one of the stores, looking for something – almost anything – expensive to buy. ANd where there’s a nice set of cameras. As he walks, his clothing, face, and hair begin to change as they pass an area with no direct cameras – replacing the old Able with the spitting image of one of those youths that graffiti’d the bus earlier. Mac sighs. “We need a better Sue. Good to see you didn’t go all motel-love-bed on the marks… Pacoy, which way gets us to your contact?” He tails behind Able, counting time silently in his head. “Guys, lets get to someplace private: I can re-code the badges!” Pacoy points out.

Mac’s face splits into a grin as he keens to Able’s plan. “Pure class. I don’t know where’s private – would it take long? We need to get to the boat today, so we can’t afford too many detours.” Able tosses his jacket to Mac and, mimicking the chav that ran away after yelling about the Razors earlier, tells him to “Keep that fer me a moment. Gotta pick up a bosh a’ gems.” Leaving the others for a moment, Able steps into a high-end jewelry store, waving his newfound credit card. “Oy! Shopkeep! Gotta black card and dyin’ to spend it!”

“We need to get to Brixton. it’s on the other side of the river from both South warf and where we are, then back to the warf, so – like five buses away.” Pacoy answers Mac. “Better hit the boat first, I guess: it would be a good place to hide from ‘bobbies’, or what ever the hell they have here.”

A well-groomed and sporty looking young woman looks askance at Able but smiles a fake smile. “How can I help you…sir?” Mac fades into the nearby crowd, hat covering his face as he keeps it tilted down to avoid the cameras as he silently sends out to Pacoy and the team, “Jackbooted flatfoots, I think the term is. Next bus will be around in fifteen. Able should be clear by then. We’ll clear out to Brixton.”

Able gives her his biggest ‘stupid fucking chav’ smile and points to his ear. “Been eyein’ somethin’ special fer me missus. A nice special rock, ya see? Then she up and drops me ass like chowder thrown in the sea. So, I says to meself, I need to spend that money on my own damn self. Got just the idea, too. I’m buyin’ that rock I was gonna give her and wear it meself right on me ear here for all the world to see.”

The girl swallows. “We have several nice pieces sir, in both synthetic and natural gems. Have any caught your eye?” Able gives a grand grin. “Yep! That natural perty right there, middle of the shelf. Nice and big, don’t ya think?” He doesn’t actually think much about it, just notices that the price of the stone has several zeroes behind it and it’s got about the right sort of glitter for the ignorant chav he’s pretending to be. “Gimme the whole thing, ring an’ all. I got a boy to do me the conversion to earing just waitin’ for the rock.” “Certainly, Sir! Can I have your credit card and ID badge to swipe please?” The girl is still smiling, not quite believing her ears. She pulls out a data stylus from the top pocket of her uniform blouse. Able drops the looted credit card and the (proper) ID badge on her counter, a big smile on his doofus face.

Mac sidles up to Pacoy. “I figure we hit your contact first – I doubt when we hit the boat we’ll be able to head back ashore for some shopping. We make a quick buying run, nothing we can’t carry, then we take a detour bus, then hit the boat fast and hard.”

The girl runs her stylus over the card, then the badge, and a little LED light on the side flashes red. She scans both again, then smiles weakly. “Excuse me a moment, please sir, I’ll just arrange a box for the ring.” She turns away and takes both badge and card towards a flatscreen terminal behind the counter. An older woman walks over to her and the two whisper together. then the older woman shrugs and the girl returns to Able with a small box. “Here you go Sir.” She returns both badge and card, along with the box. “We’ve had to add a special fee for handling but the card was good for it. Please let your father know he should make his own purchases in future, though? have a nice day!” There’s a peculiar stress on the word ‘father’.

Able gives a good grin as he winks to the two women in an exaggerated manner. “Right that, miss. Right that.” He tips an imaginary hat to the two women as he walks out, deliberately in clear view of any cameras in the area.

“Hey Abe! Nice to see that your ole man appreciates yer ass. Maybe you won’t get backhanded for coming up short” Pitbull H.U.D. texts Able. As Able meets with the group at the bus stop again, he tosses the package to Pacoy as he looks at the receipt, checking to see just how much they got out of their likely one and only use of the credit card. The receipt inside says five thousand HUB credits, some 8,000 British pounds.

Mac sighs and shakes his head. “I should feel bad about that, but that’ll put them off our trail for long enough, I expect.” He offers the coat back to Able. “So, two busses to Brixton, spend some more money, then we get on a lovely dinner cruise. How’s that sound?” “Provided Abe’s Pimp don’t get pissed. Eh? Deuce Bigalow?” Pitbull guffaws as he walks with them. Able nods comfortably at the figure on the receipt as he accepts his jacket back. “Excellent. And at least if the ID chips fail us, we can bargain with some hard currency.” Pacoy checks the box before palming the package, “Should but a big dent on our shopping list.” Mac smiles as he leans against the bus stop, barely out of the rain. “Can’t be buying that much, can we?” Pacoy grins at his android friend “You know, for a guy with a bootable, perfect memory, you seem to have forgotten our last few shopping trips pretty quick!” Mac sighs. “Last time we bought a car! We can only carry so much! I know I’m just looking for a roscoe and some slugs at best, in case things get Sally’d. Then again, on the black market, that may be on the expensive side of things.”

---

FADE—-

Brixton, London Metroplex
Tuesday 11th April, 2051
10.30 AM

Two more bus journeys later, the Lazarus team are well South of the swollen river, looking at a much poorer district. Here the roads are cracked, the buildings sometimes derelict and various unsavory-looking characters loiter on street corners. It’s not The Gray of Night City, but it isn’t a nice area. Pacoy’s contact is located in a building that might have been anything once but is now a textile sweatshop making cheap knock-offs of street boutique clothes.

Mac takes a brief look around before feeling a twinge of grief at not having seen his tailor in some time. To no one in particular, he says aloud, “It’s hard to find a good tailor, these days. A dying, but noble profession.” “Yeesh. It’s like a block from my childhood out here.” Pitbull growls as he watches a pair of half naked children playing swords with grimy looking strips of wood.

As you approach the building, two burly figures step out of the shadow of the doorway. One, a man with a mohawk hairdo and several chrome plugs in his face, growls, “Yeah?” The other has his hand clenched around one end of a long silvery tube – perhaps a stun wand. Able steps to the side, flanking the two men as Pacoy takes center stage. Able’s eyes immediately go outwards to the rest of the zone, looking for any sign of surveillance or police. Mac stands back, hands shoved in his pockets, leaning against a conveniently nearby broken lamp-post. He studies the men coldly, keeping one eye checking on Able occasionally.

“I’m here to see Niki, her tito sent me.” Pacoy says, smiling politely to the thug. The man’s eyes flick across the street for a second, then he turns back to Pacoy. “Who are you again, guv? You didn’t say.” Able tilts his head slightly, catching Mac’s attention. He sends him a quick message, pointing out a man watching them. “What do you make of him?” Mac’s eyes idly slide over towards the man running the curry-cart, scrutinizing him across the distance, his ear filtering the sound in from Pacoy’s conversation.

“I’m Mark Pacquiao, Pac. She should be expecting me.” Pac answers.

Mac casts a quick glance at the bouncers as he sends a message back to Able, “He’s a smooth operator. Has the kind of dosh that gets a quality haircut updown.. don’t think he’s ever sold curry before a day in his life. Either he’s got a clicker in his pocket, or he’s looking to put a hole in someone.” Able messages Mac back. “That’s how I make it, too. Probably a police officer or corporate security, and the bouncers know or suspect he’s there. May be their boss. Keep loose – this may get ugly.” Mac grins, sharing the conversation with the group, tacking onto the end, “It’s already ugly. The Texan’s here, ain’t he?” A smile creeps onto his face as he looks over at Pitbull

The big man with the face shrapnel nods slowly, “Yeah, she said you might be around. Listen now, don’t look behind you but see that guy with the food cart behind to your left?” A slight smile appears on Able’s face. “The guy with the fancy hair? We noticed.” “Yes,” Pac says without looking “We’ve noticed. Not one of yours, I take it?”

The burly man continues, “He’s a known snitch, gets paid well for information and for dobbing in dissidents. So I’m gonna shout at you to bugger orf and Bert here will wave his nightstick. Then you’ll head down the street, around the corner and go up the first alleyway there. There’s a metal door there. Someone will open it.” The doorman takes a deep breath then yells “Hell no! This isn’t a whorehouse you stupid berk! Bugger off before my mate knocks seven bells outa ya! G’orn now, beat it!” He takes a step forward and raises a hand clad in a Zap-fist as his friend steps forward with his stun-wand raised.

Pitbull lights a cigarette while the guy’s talking, exhaling a jet of smoke as he continues to watch his surroundings, until the guy starts yelling. “Aye, man! Aight! We just wanted to see! Sorry, bruh!” “_SO Sorry_, Sir!” Pacoy feigns embarrassment as he backs away and heads down the street.

Mac shrinks back from the doormen, suitably cowed. “Shame about that guy being a snitch and all… I could go for something to eat right about now. Even if it is… local food.” He begins walking off down the street after Pacoy. Able steps backwards, spitting at the ground in front of the bouncer. “Well cross me an’ fly to ‘ell! Just ’cause we wan’ some bird’s fine feathers don’ mean you gotta yell! Shite!” He heads down the street with a swagger appropriate for a stupid chav, looking out for the corner and the door.

Dodging into the first alleyway around the corner, the team come across an elderly Indian woman standing in an open doorway. “Quick now, Gorah-Sahib, This way!” Swiftly, the team are taken up a stairwell and through a door into what might have been an office – but now has a hole cut in the masonry connecting this building to the next. From there, it’s up two more flights of stairs in that building to a room on the top-most floor.

Mac idly thinks about all of the meals he’s ever eaten to distract himself of the circuitous route they find themselves taking, hoping to not hear sirens, or the local equivalent, while they are here.

The top floor is set up as a rather fine living area, with old but well-maintained wooden furniture and leather sofas. By the walls stand four obvious goons, all with bulges in their suit jackets. In a leather armchair sits a middle aged woman, who gets up as you approach and holds her hands out to Pacoy. “Cousin, so good to meet you! You come highly recommended by our mutual Uncle. How can my humble operation help you?”

Mac looks around at the decor, thinking to himself. Humble? Hardly… and they’re cousins? … come to think of it, why have I not heard much about Pacoy’s family? Pacoy grins and offers a hand, “Hello, cousin – friends of the family said you were the one to see around here.” Pitbull tips his head to the side like a confused mutt. Related? Don’t really look it.

The woman shrugs her shoulders, clad in an expensive vat-grown sharkskin armored jacket of the kind a Glitterati might wear. “I try my best, Cousin. What do you need? Oh, but you must be hungry! Sit, all of you.” She claps her hands and one of the goons heads downstairs, presumably to arrange food.

“I was thinking we could do each other a bit of magtulungan – my friends and I could use some gear, maybe a few minutes in a workshop? Kabigin and see what we can do for each other?” Pacoy smiles “And, yes – food would be very welcomed.”

Mac’s stomach growls aloud at the mention of food, causing him to look slightly embarassed as his sinks into a seat. Pitbull chooses a sofa and sits rigid, constantly alert, but not attempting to look threatening or apprehensive. Able seats himself on one of the wooden chairs, waiting to see what happens as Pacoy does his business with his ‘cousin’.

“Of course, Cousin. Nicki Matalang knows how to ’get along to get along.” She smiles. “Let us see how we can enrich each other by trading, shall we?” As she speaks, three young girls of obvious Filipino extraction arrive bearing trays. “These are my daughters. Come, eat” The trays are uncovered to reveal a chicken and sweet-potato dish in what smells like a spicy sauce alongside a big bowl of prawns and noodles.

“MMMM, Delicious, cousin!” Pacoy licks his lips and grabs a plate. Pitbull is anything other than neat or civilized in his consumption, as he devours his first plate in short order. Mac wastes no time tucking in, eating what would likely be considered ‘more than his share’ in any company other than a devout Italian grandmother. Mac looks up at the young girls who bore the food in, then at Pacoy, thinking to himself, They don’t look anything alike… there’s no way that they’re related. Something fishy is going on here, but I’m not one to look a gift prawn in the mouth. Able’s silverware makes the loudest noise in the room as the tremors in his hand vibrate his fork repeatedly against his plate. Slowly, and careful not to spill anything, he eats his meal, determined not to let his failing body distract him from his goal.

Casefile #4a

I just need to board a train with this lot and I’ve covered all the three foodgroups of transportation – planes, trains and automobiles. Not quite as much fun as it was in the old days, getting questioned going through security. They don’t even have the decency to strip search you anymore. The flight certainly was uneventful, despite my first trip off-planet. If uneventful includes your friend with a bad case of MPD related PTSD having a mental break the moment we hit zero-g, which compared to what else has happened, it probably does. I feel like I’m trapped in a terrible detective novel, and I don’t mind one bit – international capers, codewords… Our destination? The South Warf in Docklands, after ditching our badges. Travel by bus or cab doesn’t sound too bad, though, but who knows how much a cab would cost us. Certainly less than getting jailed for making a phonecall.

Edgerunner Notes:

Pitbull – Private Marcus Dean – Poor guy – they don’t make safety equipment for people built like bears. He was a bit harsh on poor Pacoy, though. If he hadn’t pulled us around into that coffeeshop when he did, we would have been pinched for sure.

Pacoy – As comforting personalities go, he’s not the ideal one to go to for reassurance. Particularly not when we’re sitting on a suborbital bomb with no way to escape. Wonder if he will ever expand his business out of Night City. Certainly could make him a lot of money doing that…

Able – Anton Roderick Davis – He looks well for someone whose brain is slowly melting, although he seems quite anxious about flying, though. I can’t imagine why, he used to be a…pilot…. ah. I can’t imagine all this Ad Astra talk is helping. And then the mental break… Still, he’s got it together enough to feed me information when I needed it most.

Casefile #4b

I think I may have fallen in love with London – the dismal atmosphere, the sullen people, the incessant rain… The constant surveillance is certainly a point against it, to be sure. And the cuisine isn’t much better. It’s nice to be up to some urban capers with my friends, though – pulling a Bob and Sue on some unsuspecting Londonites is just the thing we needed to feel some cohesiveness after the insanity of the past month. Although we seem to be out of practice. A brand new set of IDs, only for them to fall apart when Pitbull got the fuzz called. Certainly less than ideal. We then got to meet some of Pacoy’s ‘extended family’. At least we got some nice chow from the deal… hopefully they can fit me for a roscoe, in case we need one going into this.

Edgerunner Notes:

Pitbull – Private Marcus Dean – I feel a bit more at ease with Pitbull armed, as uncomfortable as the idea of combat in a police state makes me. Although with him lumbering around in that massive coat looking as shifty as he does, we’re pinched for sure if they do a sweep for suspicious looking individuals. Although we’re even worse off if they’re looking for bullheaded American tourists, but they should be used to them over here.

Pacoy – I think he is the keenest business man I’ve ever met – a day in a foreign land and he’s already able to set us up with a man who can acquire certain ‘goods’. Not seen anything quite like it. His contact seems to be located in the shady end of nowhere, unfortunately. And as part of his family?

Able – Anton Roderick Davis – I should have known Able would be the one to sneak some armaments into one of the strictest police states. I thought smuggling myself in would have been risky enough! The early affect of the neurotoxins is worrying me. I hate that I’ve done this indirectly to my friend. He’s still got his faculties, though… And bought himself a hot rock. Strange to think we’ve been travelling with a… what are they called? Natural chav? All this time… wonder if that’s who Anton used to be… nah, probably not.

Casefile #4c

After seeing these ‘trasher’ squads, my brief love affair with this police-state is more or less shot. She invited me in, sang me pretty songs, and I found myself handcuffed to the bed when I awoke. I found my breath catch in my throat as we stopped, which was more of a minor irritation for me than anything. Witnessing state-sponsored murder isn’t my cup of tea, to borrow from their lexicon. It’s a dirty city with a dirtier secret, and I don’t have time to bring things to light. Not with my friend’s clock ticking down.

Edgerunner Notes:

Pitbull – Private Marcus Dean – Now, more than ever, I find myself relying on and trusting Pitbull’s judgement. He’s gotten us out of tighter spots, and he’s focused. Always a reminder that the mission comes first.

Pacoy – The weight of the new revolver sits heavy in my pocket, an emblem of the ties Pacoy’s ‘family’ has, and a constant reminder of the one I have both gained and lost.

Able – Anton Roderick Davis – I guess I’m just beginning to realize how phenomenal Able would be as an infiltration agent. He seems to get along well with everyone.

Casefile #4d

If being a crimelord let me eat this well every day, I must say that I would be sorely tempted. I don’t go in for the teeth, though. Prefer mine to be in excellent shape. I feel like we may be entering into a Faustian deal, and I’ve never walked away from one of those clean. Maybe with Pacoy fielding a hand of cards against this Tony we’ll walk away scot free, only paying out two favors. One of which is going to hurt a lot more than the other – taking a dive in a prize fight is never easy. As it stands, we’re doing most of the work for free, which has to hurt the pride at least.

Edgerunner Notes:

Pitbull – Private Marcus Dean – Good to know he’s got a healthy appetite, though he can’t hold a candle to what I can pack down. This deal would have been good for him – if we had won a single hand of cards.

Pacoy – I’m not sure I’m entirely sure that Pacoy playing cards for favors with a crimelord, particularly pertaining to our futures. I trust his ability, but I worry about his self control. Hopefully he doesn’t go in too hard and we lose out on a slick deal. If I hadn’t prodded him on, we would have walked away with at least a bit of kit to use. As it stands, looks like Karma is going to plug me good in the button to make up for my gaff.

Able – Anton Roderick Davis – Never knew Able was such a shrewd negotiator – suppose he knows what’s involved in bumping someone off. That’s knowledge I’ve thankfully not had to acquire. Still, his plan to frame the gangsters we’re supposed to deal with, and get the heat off of us for one of the other jobs, impeccable.

Casefile #4e

The plan for the Up and Down – asking the local thugs nicely to do the dirty work for us. A simple plan to solve a complex problem. Though it’ll be far from easy. The hardest part of the plan is to get the leader of the toughs by himself. Ambushing him at a fine dining establishment has to be one of the better plans we’ve come up with, even if it does involve squeezing Pitbull into a suit. I could certainly do with eating better food more frequently.

Edgerunner Notes:

Pitbull – Private Marcus Dean – I’m starting to suspect there’s a lot more behind Pitbull’s gruff exterior than he lets on. He’s been showing some giddy enthusiasm of late, and it’s more than a little infectious. I wonder what his girl would think of him in this suit…

Pacoy – I’m liking Pacoy’s plan thus far. Men have a few weaknesses – the heart, pride, lust, the physical… but every man’s got to spring a leak at some point, and they tend to do that alone.

Able – Anton Roderick Davis – I wonder what it would be like to change your appearance at a whim. Must be fun at parties… be easy to cozy up to a moll, or at least give you a few first impressions. Just thinking about it makes me miss Anita.

Casefile #4f

The concept couldn’t have been simpler – steal the mob boss and impersonate him. Of course, Able was in the frying pan, but we were nearby for when we had to pull him out of the fire. The plan seemed simple enough, but was fraught with points it could and would go wrong. Criminals rarely leave without a bit of the take, and we needed them to scoot with all of it. Of course, it all went southbound and down the moment Pacoy’s bot cut all of our feeds, rendering us deaf, blind and dumb, but we were some of those already. But it seems that the frame-up went well enough, with Pacoy ending up with a new toy that stinks to high heaven.

The sooner we’re finished with this Tony here, the better. My stomach doesn’t sit well with folks who step far outside the law and call it ‘justice’. I know I’m at odds with what’s right and proper sometimes, but I ain’t ever put someone down that wasn’t gunning on me first, and more often than not I put ‘em in a state where the cops can find him. A vigilante I am certainly not. All that’s left for us now is for me to let some bruiser punch me in the face a bunch and hope he doesn’t ruin my ruggedly handsome good looks. They might not be genetic, but they’re still mine.

Edgerunner Notes:

Pitbull – Private Marcus Dean – First thing I’m going to do when I get back stateside is try and get this ruffian cleaned up a bit. Now that he’s no longer wanted by the military, I wonder if I can convince Anita and his girl to pull a “My Fair Lady” on him.

Pacoy – With him in the van, I’ve suddenly got an idea to pitch to Eris for a vid-special – a buddy cop drama with three cops instead of the traditional two. One straight laced, one the wild gun, and then one with the kind of wit you’d find yourself quoting for days after you watched it. I’m a bit nervous about his new pet, though.

Able – Anton Roderick Davis – He did come up with a pretty slick plan – at my uneducated guess, that mean’s his brain isn’t quite dribbling out his ears, which does make me feel a mite bit better about the whole scenario. And while I know he’s got enough spring chicken in him to scarper if things get rough, when they got dogged in the warehouse, my heart leapt into my throat, as it were.

Casefile #4g

Never thought I’d live to see my name up in lights, even if it is for an illegal fight. I feel mighty exposed, on display in front of everyone and their bookies. It’d be one thing if this were more than just a show. And quite the show it is – less of a boxing match and more of a money laundering circuit. If the stakes were any lower than Able’s brain melting, I’d walk. The fight itself was nothing short of surreal – I’ve never felt my processors reel up quite like this before. The first real blow was horrifying, when he almost tore my arm out of it’s socket with one punch. For some reason, perhaps the shock of it all, caused me to cock back and slug him in the back of his head while he was grand-standing. I think that has to be the single-most suicidal decision I’ve ever made. The next while was spent in abject terror, until the ref reminded Samedhi of something – that he was in on the fix all along. The rest of the match was mostly a show, until the final few seconds…

Edgerunner Notes:

Pitbull – Private Marcus Dean – Never thought of Pitbull of an afficianado of anything other than guns and ammo, but apparently he has a discerning taste, even though it’s mostly tasting types of ash. When it comes to people in my corner, coaching me on in a fight, I can think of noone better.

Pacoy – I would have expected him to put up a bigger fuss about not being able to put a lot of cash on a thrown fight. Shame he decided to stick back with Able – admirable, appreciated, but it’d be nice knowing he was physically in my corner.

Able – Anton Roderick Davis – With his neural seizure right before the fight, now I really have no choice. It’s all or nothing. These are getting worse and more frequent, which means we just need to press forward faster. Hopefully we can see far enough ahead.

Casefile #4h

It’s one thing to brush yourself off after a real brawl, but… when one is thrown, it’s harder to mend your pride. Harder still when you’re packed into an icetruck, being shuttled as an illegal alien through checkpoint after checkpoint, watching your mates struggle with the cold. Worst, with the police following us, we’ve got to take the hard overland route to get to a campsite in the middle of nowhere. The jog was beautiful, until the rain started, and brought with it an armed AV, cutting us off from reuniting with Pitbull. Then, as we were taking a break, a patrol from nowhere comes along. In the cover of thunderstorm, Able, Pacoy and Deeds were able to dispatch our hunters, but not without turning my stomach inside out.

Edgerunner Notes:

Pitbull – Private Marcus Dean – Just once, I’d like for one of these missions to go well enough for Pitbull to be proud of it. At least he’s gotten to show us what he’s best at – diversionary military actions. I hope the dumb lug made it out of there okay. I’m certain he did, but I’d like to know for sure.

Pacoy – I think this trip has taken its toll on all of us, and Pacoy is starting to show some increased wear here and there. I’d like to think that a nice run through the British countryside did some to cheer him up, but it’s hard to tell.

Able – Anton Roderick Davis – I can’t begin to imagine what he’s going through, steadily losing control of himself. Is that what growing old is like? Just faster? I’m glad I won’t have to deal with that. But this can’t be good for him, this method of travel. I’ve never seen Able at his worst, and I don’t know if I could handle it. I just saw him dance death between two uniforms, and now I’ll never be able to enjoy a thunderstorm the same way again.

Casefile #4i

A quaint little setup in the middle of the wilderness. If there was one thing I would call this journey,
aside from heartbreaking, is quaint. Tillie is… interesting, both as a concept and as a person. As someone who was engineered by their own parents, there’s a lot I can relate to. At least we get to have a look around before we break into a historic landmark. A well guarded historical landmark. Not sure how far we can trust Tillie, but we don’t have much choice at this point. Working with radical political elements has never rated highly on my internal barometer of sane choices. At least we’ll be able to root them out of their den with Able’s plan.

Edgerunner Notes:

Pacoy – I love his positivity – seems we can be so opposite at times. I have to believe him that we’ll run across Pitbull someday, and he’ll just laugh it off like it was nothing. He’s changed so much since he designed that tactical implant. In so many ways, I envy his capability to adapt and change.

Able – Anton Roderick Davis – I can’t see Able being able to stand this much longer, and I don’t want to watch this disease get any worse. We need to end it, and fast. Normally, I’m all about taking things slow, but the time for that has come to an end.

Casefile #4j

This little plan has elements of Pitbull written all over it. Rolling up to the gates in something pulled

straight out of Tears in Rain – pretty sure some of the Gem families have these wheels. I almost panicked when the bullets started flying, even though I knew they were ours – it’s never a situation I have been comfortable with. When the group started splitting, it felt an awful lot like things were going our way for once, and that made me more uncomfortable than anything. Of course, when Professor Barton revealed she had spliced herself with a venomous snake by melting someone’s face, that certainly set things back to normal.

Edgerunner Notes:

Pacoy – It’s days like these that make me wonder why we all got into this business to begin with. For me, I was made, literally, for it. But Pacoy… he seems like he would be happier elbows deep in some machinery than pretending to be a suit’s bodyguard.

Able – Anton Roderick Davis – I don’t know how he can stay as cool as a cucumber like he does – I guess part of him is wired for it, but this stuff is pretty deep, and I’m as nervous as a lamb in a camp full of cowboys.

Casefile #4k

It had all been going… too smoothly. Odd, what with us just breaking into and out of a highly secured facility with just one melted face, but our introduction to the heinously strict British air travel restrictions made me wish we could waltz into the nearest prison. At least things aren’t as bad as they could be. We just need to steal more pharmaceuticals to allow Wahlen to flush the toxins from Able’s system. Of course, the only way we could get away clean is to get into a submersible, which I’m not overly fond of. I haven’t had a whole lot of self agency this trip, which has been… novel.

Edgerunner Notes:

Pacoy – Unfortunately, I feel like Pacoy is a bit too right – we seem to be flying by the seat of our pants more and more often, and it feels like we’re spiraling out of control.

Able – Anton Roderick Davis – Not sure how we would have gotten away from that trailing gunship if he hadn’t been with us, but it’s a mixed bag, I suppose, as we wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for trying to fix him as quickly as possible. And even then, that’s partially my fault, at best…

Casefile #4l

Sneaking about at night, fearful for eyes in the sky, this puts me more at ease, more like what I normally am up to. When Wahlen slipped and broke his ribs, I felt something strange, a bartender’s cocktail of guilt and terror, blended with a fine crushed hatred. If he were to die before we can fix Able, on my watch, I’d never forgive myself. It’s a shame we didn’t have the foreknowledge to pinch the bio-ingredients Wahlen needs back when we were pulling apart the medical lab. At least this Angelo guy has a bit of love for the written word. It’s too rare, these days. I wasn’t prepared for when the sub started slipping overboard.

Edgerunner Notes:

Pacoy – Even though it pains me to see it, Pacoy certainly was able to help set the doctor right. And I am in no uncertain terms quite jealous that he gets to see friendly faces, that he shares something in common with so many people.

Able – Anton Roderick Davis – Every time I look at Able, I see his symptoms getting worse and worse.. And I feel horrible, because this is not a life he chose. It’s not a life either of us chose, but at least this was my original purpose.

Casefile #4m

When we’re faced with what looks to be the last leg of our arduous journey, I can’t help but wonder what else will go wrong.. Of course, our numbskull friend had to get captured, so there’s that, but it doesn’t match the sinking feeling that was developing deep inside. When we finally got the news that they keened to our kidnapping, it hit me. Never before had I really understood the words ‘international incident’. Or the implications of what we might have done. I’m pretty sure I still don’t understand it. Nor why they would target my poor innocent sister. That alone dwarfs all of the pain I have ever felt, ever remembered feeling, and I will see them brought to ruin for it.

Edgerunner Notes:

Pacoy – Must be rough on him, lacking all the decadence of the big cities, bumming around like this. It’s rough on me too, but he seems hard hit for all the little creature comforts. And then he comes out like he’s the most devious man I’ve ever met. If we could figure out a way to spin this around and make it look like a Rossum ploy, that could help clear our names.

Able – Anton Roderick Davis – I’ve heard it said by small men in funny clothing that the journey is the easiest the closest to the summit, but it is looking to me that the closer we get to Able’s cure, the worse he starts looking. Interesting to hear how he’s used Rossum’s stocks to profit on what we’ve done. Surprised I hadn’t thought of doing the same.

Casefile #4n

It’s almost too much, this web of deceit, violence and revenge we’ve cocooned ourselves in. But you can’t stop the wheel once it’s been spun until everything slots into place, and the House always has the odds. If you can find the right sequence, you might get lucky, and we need to be lucky now. We’ve got Able’s health, but our bankable assets are as thin as the smile on a loan-sharks face when the doped horse loses. When I heard that Siri was okay… well, that made me happier than I ever have imagined I could be, since I found her. It’s a bit of a red letter day – with the exception of the imprisoned Pitbull, my family is all safe, for now. I’m not sure how I feel about E23 treating me like some sort of messiah – my history tells me it doesn’t tend to end up very well for the figure that’s thought of that way. There’s all sorts of history that’s being dug up, and none of it ever ends well.

Edgerunner Notes:

Pacoy – It’s nice to know Pacoy’s of the same mind as I am – we’ve both tired of being shoved around by bullies in the playground.

Able – Anton Roderick Davis – This is perhaps one of the biggest days since I’ve known Able. If this works, he’s a free man. Free from his horrid past, free from his slave driving masters, free from the horror I unknowingly unleashed on his brain. Watching him fighting the toxins inside was painful in ways I can’t quite articulate.

Casefile #4o

I could have dealt without being buried in a pile of fish, but our life is not a glamorous one. But at least there’s been food on this mission, which I’ve sorely been missing. But sharing a drink with a reeky hobo by way of a passphrase is certainly new. Particularly when that hobo happens to be a Colonel in the Scottish Liberation Army. But now we get to be smuggled through another checkpoint. I’m starting to feel more like cargo and less like a private eye.

Edgerunner Notes:

Pacoy – After our meeting with Malky, I have had visions of Pacoy in another life as a daring
spy, making dead drops and arranging accidents. With his love of gambling, he could make a fantastic secret agent.

Able – Anton Roderick Davis – Now that he’s running with his brain at full tilt, he certainly seems quieter. Focused, intense. This is a pretty dense mission that we’ve put ourselves on. Or rather, have had forced upon us.

Casefile #4p

For some reason, despite the risk, I’m enjoying myself now that the band is back together. Not enough to do a proper big band song, but the sound is solid. As it is, I feel like I’m in a mixed up fairytale, driving through the woods with the Bluebonnets. Complete with a big bad wolf – an army between us and the house of our proverbial grandmother’s house. A nice, scenic drive, complete with old tumbled down stone walls and abandoned cottages, sporadic sniper fire. A standard Edgerunners vacation.

Edgerunner Notes:

Pacoy – I’d say I wonder if Pacoy ever takes anything seriously, but I’ve seen him dead serious before. It’s comforting having him mouth off now and again – keeps us all sane and together, more or less. Although he’s become fearsomely competent with that new rifle of his, and he’s a bit frightening in combat.

Able – Anton Roderick Davis – I’m looking forward to seeing how quickly Able is able to help throw together a plan – we have no idea what we’re walking into, and it’s only a little terrifying.

Pitbull – Private Marcus Dean – It’s hard to believe that after all we went through that I’m actually staring at his ugly mug again. Not entirely sure how he managed to extract himself from this – seems like the fabled Garrion was involved. I feel like that bears some investigation when I get back to my office, whenever that might be.

Casefile #4q

In spite of our idyll surroundings, my insides are squirming like a rabbit clutched to a child’s breast. I wish there was more time to plan this job out. I wish we had more information, more money, more friends. I find I’ve been doing a lot of wishing lately, and it hasn’t amounted to much of anything. I can’t see anything going wrong with us scaling the compound to land in the garden, and that worries me. Seems fitting we pull a Rapunzel, so close to the fabled Sherwood forest. It always astounds me at the sheer amount of mysticism this country has. I’m a bit unnerved by Tillie’s devotion to this Morrigan. It relieves me that I never will meet such a creature, if she even exists.

Edgerunner Notes:

Pacoy – As good as it is to have Pitbull back among the free, he seems to have rubbed off quite a bit on Pacoy – I don’t remember him being as flashy as a giant Semi driving in through the front gate. Fairly positive he’s got a bit of an introvert streak in him, and more than his share of undeserved self doubt.

Able – Anton Roderick Davis – I hope Able doesn’t mind me hijacking his intelligence for our break-in. In my experience as a Private Detective, the worst I’ve had to deal with is a locked door, maybe a mark with a gun behind it. I’ve gotten used to batting out of my league, but it still leaves me feeling like a kid compared to his expertise.

Pitbull – Private Marcus Dean – Absolutely unbelievable – he storms into our lives, then promptly cuts out again! It’s typical – he heard there was going to be a distraction, so it was only natural for him to volunteer.

Casefile #4r

The closer we get to zero-hour, the more tense I’m feeling. It’s bound to be purely mental, but the stress is getting to me. Everything is as planned as we can make it without getting hired on as a janitor, which would be difficult even for the best of us. I’m not used to this sort of catburgling, and this has some pretty hefty consequences if we get caught out early. When we stumbled onto the Crab bot, I thought we had bought it, until I remembered Omaha. Unfortunately, the camera watching the bot caught us out.

Edgerunner Notes:

Pacoy – Even though he doesn’t have his usual compliment of gizmos, I’m glad he’s got my back going into this. There are few people I know who are as slick with technology as he is. Between him and Able getting to all the security features, we should be as ghosts.

Able – Anton Roderick Davis – I sometimes wish I had half his dexterity, but then I realize the cost it must have come with. Still, he is putting these hard won skills to good use, putting an end to a program that would see many more enslaved as he was.

Pitbull – Private Marcus Dean – It’s comforting to know that he’ll be breaking in with us, and even moreso if we need his help in breaking out. It’s easy to forget he was a soldier once, but even I don’t believe he’s so callous as to hamstring some poor janitors.

Casefile #4s

In most of the novels I’ve read, the heroes are always faced with a choice. Get the bad guy, save the girl. They have to live with the consequences of that. Us? We’re a bit more flexible. Sometimes we’re given a choice, and we get to take a third option. Something the enemy won’t expect.. Until we found ourselves face to face with one of Umbra’s goon squads. That seemed to be more of an accident than anything, as we got the drop on them handily. Although the fact that they were looking for us specifically is worrying. But… knowing who might have been behind it, has been behind everything, is moreso. After what he did to my family, I can only hope to burn him so badly he’ll not recover.

Edgerunner Notes:

Pacoy – I knew Pacoy was always thinking ahead, but I wasn’t expecting him to pull a plasma torch out of his kit when we needed one most. Nor was I really particularly shocked to see him volunteering to take care of patching up Tillie’s breasts.

Able – Anton Roderick Davis – After we’re all said and done, it’s comforting to know he can pull off a convincing looking janitor. It’s proven highly effective as a disguise, in addition to being quite amusing.

Pitbull – Private Marcus Dean – I think that finally Pitbull is happier than he has been this entire trip overseas. Nevermind the ancient architecture, the beautiful vistas, the new food. This is him purely doing what he does best.

Casefile #4t

I’m starting to feel like a dehyrated dinner in these vents. Being stuck behind Pitbull is even worse. Still, we managed to get a good ways into the complex without so much as a how do you do from our opposition. When we stumbled across their covert super soldier project, I felt like I had slipped into one of my trashy pulp-fiction novels. Suddenly, I found myself facing the ugly reality of what we do – I had to put lead into two people. One of them a woman, no less. Although that didn’t make me nearly as sick as when my father’s face showed up again.

Edgerunner Notes:

Pacoy – It’s hard to imagine Pacoy being happy without sending one of his little rollerbots up ahead of us, scouting the way cheerfully. Although he did get his share of fiddling with strange tech, so I suppose it’s all the little pleasures.

Able – Anton Roderick Davis – I thought seeing him shift his form was disturbing, but not quite as bad as watching his janitor-form writhe through the tight vents. It was a big relief when he ditched his outfit, because as we keep delving down the rabbit hole, the presence of the familiar is warming, even if the familiar is a face-changing assassin.

Pitbull – Private Marcus Dean – The very idea that Pitbull would light up a cigarette during an infiltration mission, in the middle of a crowded air vent is just… incredibly him. Fortunately, the stealth charade for him would soon be over, and he could be his normal loudmouth self again.

Casefile #4u

The longer I’m with the Edgerunners, the wierder my family seems to become. First, I get acquainted with my lovely, damaged sister, then the former shells of my brothers, and my Mother, who may or may not be completely gone. Now I have to compete with my ‘Father’ and his stepchildren. It’s bad enough that it’s a mindless creature attempting to kill me, controlled by my erstwhile father figure. He claims he gave me a ‘soul’, that he made me from the best of Amon Zero’s vaults – but I’m not sure how much I can trust anything that comes out of his mouth. I feel like it was only a matter of time before I became Goethe and directed my rage towards the heavens.

Edgerunner Notes:

Pacoy – After today, I find myself envying the kinship that Pacoy has with people moreso than ever. It’s hard not to feel alone when you’re in a situation like mine, but having friends like him go a long way to making it bearable. Knowing that he’s on my back when we go after the HUB makes me want to believe that everything will be okay.

Able – Anton Roderick Davis – When Able picked up that liquid nitrogen container, I was a bit surprised, but we need every advantage we can get down here. And when he offered to help overpower the remaining soldiers over the found modem, I was touched. Not sure I’ve ever felt that way in particular, before.

Pitbull – Private Marcus Dean – Seeing him put down the monster made me quite glad we have a monster of our own. He hardly seemed out of his element at all when we dragged him into some sort of neural nightmare that was constructed by one of my makers.

Casefile #4v

It feels nice to sit down with my brothers in arms, even with the threat of Hightower looming overhead. It’s even nicer to know that all those that I hold dear are nearby. I never had it in my mind that I might get married someday, especially after finding out who and what I am. To think that I’ll be married… this to me just sounds like as good a time as any, particularly once we go to war with Hightower. The idea of it being just like an old bank heist, well, that’s even sweeter.

I think that the HUB believes it knows what is best for humanity. But what it has failed to take into account, in all of it’s permutations, is that humanity is many things, but most of all it is petty, and it is vengeful. And it will not stand shackled.

Edgerunner Notes:

Sam Henyo – Not too far off from the Pacoy of old, although he does look like he has less attitude. It’s hard to imagine him even remotely considering marriage, even a sham one. Although, if the batchelor party were large enough, I could see him going for it…

Grant Stenover – I’m not sure what unnerves me more, that our old Able actually has a proper name, for once, or that he hadn’t had one for quite some time. The fact that he’ll be my brother-in-law, even if just on paper, makes me proud.

Devon Wongraven – I thought that Merlin gave me a doozy of a name. At least Devon’s short and sweet. And a damn sight more presentable than ‘Marcus’. The idea of him settling down, though, that melts my heart.

Clark Morrisey – It’s such a relief to see our resident creep has decreepified and uncrippled himself. While he’s still far from normal, it’s good to see he’s still around, although I’m a bit miffed he didn’t invite us to the wedding.

Night City
Monday 10th April, 2051
4.00 AM

It’s been four weeks of worrying and frantic planning since Able’s flashback episode and subsequent collapse in the Lazarus Group’s offices. Once the roots of his problems were identified by Candyman’s medical team and a possible solution found by Mac’s digital detective work, the team had to arrange a way to get to Britain. Candyman offered two options, both of which would take a couple of weeks to arrange through his network of contacts. The first was to fly into Britain on tourist visas under false identities, but the team wouldn’t be able to take any openly carried weapons, armor or much of their gear as such items are strictly controlled for tourist entry. The second was a covert insertion by smugglers onto the British coats, which would let the team take a lot more equipment but leave them as illegal aliens in a police state.

Electing for the first, this morning the team flew by commercial jet to the Night City International Airport on the edge of the sprawling metroplex, there to board a hyper-jet bound for London. As the team approach the gate for British Virgin Air, Flight 007 to London, they catch sight of a large scanner-gate and two imposing looking men in black combat leatherene armor with black armored trenchcoats worn over them – British DI5 police. A voice comes over the airport sound system, coupled with glowing green arrows suoerimposed by the airport A.I. on HUD systems. “Now conducting security checks for Flight 007 to London by sub-orbital hyper-jet. Departing 05.30 local time with an estimated arrival of 1.30PM GMT.”

Mac sighs. “So… you guys fly alot? I’ve never been out of the country. I’m more nervous than a fly on a horses ass. Did I bring enough books for the flight?” Pitbull, after hearing of Customs and their strict “No Weapons” policy, left his Reaper and his Urban Fox back at the Lazarus Office. He can’t seem to shake the hard feeling of paranoia and vulnerability from his ugly mug, so he stands looking both sullen and wide eyed. And chain-smoking, but that’s normal. “Just keep don’t bogart the armrests, and everything should be cool.” Pacoy answers.

“I hate flying. I hate going on submarines. After our trip to Omaha, I now hate driving. But most of all, I hate being unarmed. This flight is the least irritating thing on my list.” Pitbull growls, taking another hard drag off of his cigarette. Mac looks sidelong at Pitbull. “Is there anything you don’t hate, pal? That girly you were sweet on, or do you hate her too?”

Able steps up to the security line, his trenchcoat opened up to show a fancy-looking suit and tie that blends in well with that of some of the glitterati-type passengers. A pair of gloves hang from an open pocket, while his attache case is held tightly in his left hand. He looks, and feels, a little nervous, though he’s not sure why – he’s passed through dozens of security checks with even more to hide before, and it’s not like there’s much danger here in a simple airport. Must be the start of the enzymes breaking his brain down.

" I like Annebelle. I guess I’m more pissed that I made no prep for this. I spent the entirety of my time drinking that mission away. I was either drinking with you or I was wining and dining with her. Either way, I made no actual prep. I guess I’m gonna wing it." Pitbull growls to Mac in an exhale of gray smoke. Mac grins. “Do they allow you to smoke on these flights? I know they used to… those must have been the days. Since when do you prepare for anything?”

As Mac attempts to step through the portal, a buzzer sounds and one of the policemen gestures him to step aside. “Sir, are you carrying any explosives, firearms or drugs?” Mac doesn’t even hesitate. “No officer, not at all. Is something amiss?” The policeman looks grim as he continues from what is obviously a memorized script: “Are you carrying any cyberware or electronics illegal in the Republic of Britain? Are you now or have you ever been a member of a prescribed organisation under Section12 of the Public Safety Emergency Act of 2025?” Mac raises an eyebrow. “Not familiar with Section 12, I’m afraid, but I doubt it. I’m a registered Private Investigator in Night City. Not carrying or transporting anything illegal.” Mac clicks his teeth. “Oh, right, sorry – it’s probably set off because of one of my tools. Forgot I had it in my pocket.” He digs out his electronic lockpick. “Sorry pal. Been with me so long I could hardly remember I put it in my pocket this morning.”
While Mac is being questioned, Able steps through with only a cursory nod from the other guard. Able smiles at the guard, then turns back to watch Mac’s interaction with the guard.

The first guard takes the lockpick. “Thank you, sir. That would be the item, right enough.” He waves Mac past the portal. “This bloke checks out, Wilf!” he calls to his companion. Mac grins to himself as he picks up his attache case, filled with enough surveillance equipment to make Nixon roll over in his grave. He nods to Able as he pops it open and retrieves an old paperback, ‘The Knights of England’ and watches his companions.

“Just some tools and electronics going into checked baggage, Sir” Pacoy says pulling a small Samsonite Traveler, then taps the base of his skull, “and a few occupational upgrades, of course.” Pacoy too walks through the T-portal scanner without incident. The guard only glances at his datapad and lets out a gruff “Clear.” Mac barely suppresses a grin at Pacoy, mentioning as he approaches, “So, you excited? I’ve never been out of the country before.”

Pitbull smiles as he goes through the gate, his all clear only feasible through the jammer bracelet worn almost under his shoulder. Damn milspec cyberware. Ain’t nothing harder to explain away in an airport… “As long as the inflight movie isn’t that trashy Ad Astra biopic, Huh? Man, would that be Ironic!” Pacoy smiles back. Mac winces. “They show that on planes? Isn’t that really… insensitve? Scare-mongering?”

The team are urged by visual cues down a corrider to the boarding ramp, where a pretty young woman in a skintight blue and red uniform jumpsuit is ready to show them to their seats in Tourist Class. They’re among the first to board but the aircraft soon fills up. The team have adjacent seats on both sides of the narrow aisle in the needle-like fuselage. As everyone buckles in, screens on the seat backs in front of them start the pre-flight safety briefing.

“Or “Black Night: the Ad Astra Incident”. Y’know? The movie that didn’t deserve the award for it’s “based on a true story” bullshit?" Pitbull growls back to Pacoy, smiling as he grinds his cigarette out with his boot. Mac looks back and forth between Pitbull, Pacoy and Able, his mind cycling through footage at an increasingly alarming rate. Able twists in his seat, his sweaty palms making simple things like putting on his seatbelt a bit of an annoying challenge. “Hector Dahl looks nothing like any of the faces I’ve ever seen on Able, though!” Pacoy adds.

“Welcome to British Virgin Air,” says an anodyne artificial voice. “Your aircraft today is a Lift-Tech HP36 sub-orbital hyperjet, the vary latest in inter-continental speed and comfort. We will be ascending to a height of 120 miles, travelling at a speed of Mach 7.2, then tipping over in the outer atmosphere for a hyper-fast glide to London International Airport. Estimated flight time is one hour fifty-four minutes. In the event of cabin depressurisation…” The voice continues on with its spiel, although the team might notice there is nothing at all mentioned about emergency exits or emergency crash procedures.

Mac nervously flips through the digital copy of the saftey instructions, having memorized them on the first time through. He keeps scanning the pages as if there’s something he’s missed. “Guys… if something happens, aren’t there supposed to be life rafts, and exit rows with lots of leg room?” Pitbull snorts. “No emergency exits? That’s encouraging…” He growls as he fiddles with his carry-on bag. Able’s face betrays a deep frown. “These planes fly at hypersonic velocity through locations with minimal atmosphere, and they’re so fast they can’t land on normal runways. If something goes wrong, emergency exits won’t be much help.” Mac winces. “I figured it was something like that… but you didn’t have to phrase it that way! You could have been all, ‘Nothing to worry about! These things have a perfect safety record!’” “HA! What kinda wishful thinking made you think a raft or safety-window would save you from a sub-orbital crash?” Pacoy snorts.

After everyone is aboard the plane – including yet another of the unsmiling goons in black leather who takes his seat at the very back of the cabin – the anodyne voice announces. “Please ensure your seat harness is secured” and seats hum as they extent and erect to almost vertical. Mac slumps even further into his seat. “I’m kind of getting used to being around, and I don’t want to trust in dumb luck that I’d survive a crash on my own. Because I don’t expect you squishy meatbags would have much luck, and you’re all I’ve got going for me right now.” “From the people who sold you on “Duck and Cover” comes the latest in flimsy reassurance: Inflatable Reentry Rafts, conveniently located under the seats you’ve just soiled!” Pacoy continues.

There’s a rising roar, and a subliminally felt vibration through the chairs – which have become acceleration couched aligned with the direction of thrust…then a massive force pushes everyone back into your couches as the main engines accelerate the aircraft at almost 3 times the force of gravity. Mac’s face continues draining of color as his speech slurs before he switches to subvocal communication. “Didn’t they land a rover on mars going much faster? I read about that, a while ago, too. They haven’t got something much better by now?” Pitbull pulls and yanks at his harness as he stretches it around his barrel-chested frame. “I don’t think they made this with the thought of bigger dudes. Either that or I’m fuckin’ it up-” He grates as he is interrupted by the rush of gravity. “Fuuuuuck!” He roars as the aircraft rushes into the sky, completely unsympathetic to his protests.

The incredible force presses down for several minutes – then eases abruptly to be replaced by a nauseous feeling of floating. Everyone’s chairs rotate back to being normal seats and the screens on the seat-backs light again. “In case of 0-G nausea, there are vacumm tubes installed in your left armrests.” Mac looks around. “0-G Nausea? What’s that? Is that like motion sickness?” Pacoy take immediate advantage of the nearest vacuum tube.

Pitbull’s stomach does a very obnoxious back-flip, though he doesn’t lose the contents of it. Unlike Pacoy. “He Pac! Did you have an omelette and whiskey this morning too? I think I can smell it, bruh!” Mac rolls his eyes. “Breakfast of champions… at least he got to enjoy it for a little while. Twice, even.” “Hey! I wonder if they serve catering here! I could sure go for a BLT, minus the lettuce and tomato, and four times the bacon. Extra greesy. Yeeeeah…” Pitbull says loudly enough to where Pacoy can hear him.

At first, Able seems to be pretty unfazed by the flip-flopping gravitational pressure – no puking, no rumbling of his stomach, and he even looks to be oddly comfortable in the absence of gravity, with a strange smile on his face and a look of remembrance in his eyes. Mac starts laughing. “Damn, Pitbull, you’re crueler than a sorority girl at her high school reunion.” Mac glances over. “Say, what’s going on with Able? He seems to be taking this really well.”

And then everything just falls apart. A quiet ‘squeaking’ noise that’s pervaded this section of the aircraft for the past few moments is suddenly localized when Mac looks down at Able – the end of the seatrest Able set his hand on has completely crumpled under the pressure of his grip, his veins throbbing. As Mac looks closer, it becomes clear that Able’s eyes are just slightly twitching, the smile on his face a simple mask of the shear terror that he’s fealing in his heart.

Pacoy cleans his mouth and shrugs his shoulders “My stomach isn’t the problem, it’s all those other organs.” He begins a new quip, before noticing Able and stopping short. Mac’s book begins floating around as he releases it to go and tap Able’s shoulder. “Hey pal? You don’t look so good… is there a medic on this bird?” “Hahah! Yeah, just let it all out Pac- wait. Is Abe okay?” Pitbull yells, as he twists his head to look at Able.

Able’s heartbeat continues to skyrocket as his head begins to twitch one way and then another, all taking the space of a few seconds – and then it all stops as Able shouts, in a rasping voice, “Danny!” His breathing remains hard, but his grip on his armrests lessens, his eyes stop twitching – and he looks around the plane, a look of embarrassment on his face. Pacoy stretches in as far as his harness will allow him, trying to get a read on Able’s condition. Mac’s eyebrow cocks as he examines his friend, his finger hovering a milimetre above the ‘Call for assistance’ button on the touchscreen. “Pal, you look like you could stand for a stiff drink… you got a bad case of anxiety or something?” He sends a message to Able as he silently reviews his files on his friend. Dream about your son?

One of the skinsuited stewardesses rushes up, a cup in one hand and her other fist clenched around something. Behind her, the black-clad goon from Internal Security hovers, his right hand inside his leather trenchcoat. “Would Sir like a mild sedative?” the stewardess asks unctuously. “It’s not uncommon for a first weightless experience to trigger atavistic phobias, you shouldn’t be ashamed of any such weakness.” She smiles a plastic smile right out of a commercial, not reaching her eyes at all. Able holds up his hand, already showing a bit more control. “No, no. I think I’m good.” His voice, starting shaky, calms down as he continues talking. “I’m fine. Thank you, though.”

“Oooh. Bimbo knows big words.” Pitbull growls just loudly enough for her to hear, catching the insult that she pot-shot at Able. A grin slips across Mac’s face as he snatches his book from the air before it gets up to any mischief. He looks at the security thug. “My man is quite alright, thank you. Your services won’t be needed here, flattie.” The stewardess flashes an icy blue-eyed glare at Pittbul and Mac, delivers a curt “very well Sir, have a good flight,” to Able and bounced away in weightless flight down the aisle. the DI5 air marshall also retreats back to his seat, although he keeps a careful eye on Able for another minute or two.

“I’m pretty sure Able just had a neurotic break – probably an Ad Astra flashback,” Pacoy comms silently to Mac, “We need to keep an eye on him.”

All this time, gravity has been slowly re-asserting itself. Now its grip begins to rush back as the hyper-jet makes its re-entry plunge, then evens as the big aircraft begins its high velocity glide to London.

Mac smiles up at the ceiling as he holds onto his seat, sending back to Pacoy. “Of course. You guys mentioning Ad Astra right before we took off probably didn’t help much. I’m always keeping an eye on all of you guys.” He struggles to stow his book before the forces get to be too much. He sends back to Pacoy. “I figured this might happen – I’ve studied every aspect of the Ad Astra incident, and I imagined that Able wouldn’t have dealt with this well. There was as much chance that he made it through this flight without incident as a girl with a sweet tooth passing on a lolly… the odds just weren’t in our favor today.”

The rest of the flight is uneventful, and soon the team feel a hard jar through their backsides as the hyper-jet’s landing skis touch down on a long strip of Thames Estuary kept unnaturally smooth and wave-less by sonic emitters placed on buoys placed every ten yards along its two mile length. Within minutes, the plane is docked at London International, a vast floating airport hub in the middle of the flooded breadth of London’s great river. The passengers disembark in an orderly file into a departure lounge that looks like it could be anywhere in America except for the massive screen on one wall displaying a welcoming sign.

Mac points the sign out to his comrades. “My kind of place! They love cameras as much as I do!” Able’s first steps off the flight are a little shaky, and he leaves his armrest behind in a state of massive disrepair, but a few moments after getting something solid under him his gait steadies. Holding on to a banister while looking out a window at the city ahead of them, he slowly steadies his breathing. “A place like this looks like a killer market for bots. Set up a franchise, cushy government contracts, a little on the side to the freedom fighters…” PAcoy muses half to himself, only half joking.

Pitbull looks at the sign and grimaces. “I didn’t even see that shit back in Texas. And they cut all funding for public schooling, if that gives you any real idea on how terrible that place is.” Able dryly remarks to Pitbull, “Not that public schooling would have been of any help to you.” Mac laughs. “Looks like he’s feeling better, everyone!”

“Considering I got my education in their Marine Corp. I think you’re right, Abe.” Pitbull growls as the joke flies over his head like the blades of a ceiling fan. “Didn’t Texas schools teach that the Earth is only 6000 years old and Jesus invented guns to fight off the dinosaurs and Mexicans? Should have de-funded those loons AGES ago!” Pacoy nudges Pitt in the ribs as they walk. “Nah. A lot of the parents did though, after churches tried and failed to hold their own schools after public school funding was slashed out. So we have a fuck ton of holy rollers, doom-sayers, and snake oil healers in the towns. It’s crazy shit.” Pitbull laughs, as he lights himself the first cigarette he’s ever had in Britain.
Able, not engaging further in the banter, continues on towards baggage claim – it wouldn’t do to leave Pacoy’s robots to the tender mercies of the British police if they abandoned them there for too long.

Ahead is the immigration entrypoint. No gate this time, but a checkpoint with three goons, this time in blue coveralls and body armor, with holstered pistols. One hands out his hand as the team get near. “Papers, please.” He cursorily examines each of your fake ID cards then issues each of you with a small bar-shaped badge. “These are your tourist badges. Please wear them at all times. They entitle you to buy goods in a variety of fine shopping establishments and give you entry to all Tourist Zones in the City Of London, Cornwall, Devon and the Home Counties.The light railway connection to London Euston Station is down the hallway to your left.” He scans each badge with an rfid reader, makes a note on his pad, then waves the team through into the public areas of the airport to reclaim their bags.

Pitbull’s grimace turns to a look of consternation. “Wait, we can’t buy from just anywhere?” Mac walks towards baggage claim while staring at his badge, another image filed away for consideration. “This will make things interesting… I doubt that this will get us where we need to go… Any idea what makes it tick, Pac?” “Without looking, I’d gues a rfid chip,” Pacoy answers “Nothing a group of _ bright young lads_ need to worry too much about.”

Able walks side-by-side with Mac as they continue on. “They’re probably similar to what they have in Canada. Passive RFID chips that can be read by a surveillance swarm covering most of the public areas of the city, probably built into the roadway or something similar. Allows them to track our individual movements, and cheaper than facial recognition. I’m not sure if Britain has similar chips in all citizens or not; Canada includes them in the standard chaperone implant put into every child on their third birthday.” “Yeah, makes sense,” Pacoy nods “Three is when the trouble starts!”

Able’s question is quickly answered as the team approach the light rail terminal, by another big-screen poster.

Mac shudders. “Kind of glad my Mother wasn’t that controlling. We’ll have to sort that eventually. I hope they didn’t lose your bags between here and there, Pacoy.”

Able looks over the poster with a visage of mild surprise. “Huh. They don’t seem to use implants for that here, or at least not universally. Too bad – it’s worked pretty well for Canada, though they’ve got more money for universal implants than Britain does. Fewer do-nothing immigrants, too.” “Sounds like fascist bullshit. Libertarian for life, bitch.” Pitbull growls, as he drags off his cigarette.

Within thirty minutes the team have collected their baggage and have taken the rail link to Euston Station, vast and busy Victorian-era chamber filled with the noise of humanity, the smell of a dozen varieties of ethnic cooking from small franchises, and the ever-present eyes of TRANSPOLICE in their blue jumpsuits, this time toting sub-machine guns. Able retrieves a phone number from his memory, one given to him by Candyman before he left – a one-call secure redirected number that will introduce them to someone who can help, and looks for a public phone rather than using his own comms implant.

Able settles his eyes on a phone box. It’s a bit of a brighter blue than he prefers and is certainly conspicuous, but it’s about the only public phone in line of site. Approaching it, he opens the phone receptacle and comes face-to-face with a complete relic – a phone that actually utilizes a rotary dial! Mac goggles at the phone. “Guys, can we move to Britain? This is definitely my speed over here!” Able heaves a heavy sigh as he dials in the number he was given; when he hears the click on the other end, he speaks. “The sun sets to the west, and yet we stand here dry as bones.” His eyes unconsciously roll at the silly code-phrase Candyman gave him. Mac rolls his eyes too and turns to Pitbull. “THAT is the phrase? Ridiculous. A child could crack that!” “Hell, I would have said ‘The rats run from cats, but no fucks were given.’” Pitbull sniggers back to Mac.

A computer-disguised voice replies instantly, almost overwhelmed by the background whine of jamming technology. “Ditch your badges tomorrow, and go to the South Warf in Docklands, by bus or cab not train. There’ll be a boat there, name of ‘Long Tall Sally’” The phone goes dead.

Mac chuckles. “They probably would have taken that, too. What’s the scoop, Able? Are we getting shoe-phones now? I’ve always wanted a shoe-phone. Or is the phone going to self destruct in ten minutes?” Able hangs up the phone as he relays the message to the others by secure-comm. Pitbull tugs the jammer bracelet off of his arm and stuffs it into the inner pocket of his ballistic trenchcoat. “Damn, that thing chaffed…”

Perhaps its the paranoia engendered by the rigorous regime the team have seen already, or perhaps its just their battle-hones sixth senses, but everyone immediately looks around. Mac sees a man and a woman in the black leather of DI5 at a balcony over by the station administration offices, talking into their sleeves. Pitbull sees a van draw up by one of the station entrances and a squad of blue-clad transport police disembark, the others see the police already on duty stiffen as if listening to a voice in their ear then begin to look around suspiciously. None seem to have spotted the team or zeroed in on that particular phone box, but all are obviously more alert than they had been.

Mac whistles to himself idly. “So, we’ve got to get ourselves a place where you guys can catch some shut-eye. I think we have bigger concerns at the moment, though…” Pitbull growls and curses to himself. Before I can find a fucking firearm even…

Able sighs as the signs of heightened security begin to show themselves before he could even slip his PDW to Pitbull. “Let’s head to the hotel. I’m feeling a little beat from the flight.” “Abe, you know I hate beets. Nasty ass vegetables.” Pitbull grins, making his idea of a joke.

Mac punches Pitbull playfully in the shoulder, a slightly fake smile on his face. “We can’t split, guys. Someone point at a shop and we’ll all go in there and pretend to buy something. They’ve keened something off just happened, but can’t pinpoint it. If we cheese it now, they’ll know it’s us. Best hope is that some poor sucker gets tagged instead of us.” Pitbull shrugs and starts on his way to the Donny’s Diner in the corner of the station atrium. “I do every day!” Pacoy nods. Able shrugs. “Alright. Let’s see what British shopping is like, though I don’t hold out high hopes.” “Hopefully it’s better than their cuisine used to be!”

“Well I’m starving. We should go to Donny’s first. Wonder if they also use Gnox meat.” Pitbull growls, still stomping over to the restaurant. As he walks, an odd look comes over Mac’s face, and his eyes can be seen making microscopic darting movements in his field of view. He casually begins slowly orbiting as he walks, his mouth moving almost imperceptibly as he turns his head slowly, taking in his entire environment, paying special attention to the security in the area. Pitbull turns around and walks over to grab Mac by the arm, leading him to the restaurant as though Mac were his drunken date. This feels a little gay, but it ain’t so suspicious. Pacoy sullenly joins the walk to Donny’s, remembering his last visit. Able follows behind Pacoy, taking up the rear of the group, as he casually observes the security officers actions.

Pitbull stops short of the door, before a thought crosses his mind. “Let’s find a food stall. Ordering and waitin’ for the food will take forever.” He growls as he turns around, Mac’s arm still locked in his in a vice grip. Mac’s head swivels away from the restaurant as Pitbull yanks him away, not seeming to notice the redirection as calculations fly are made and remade in his head to adjust for thousands of variables at once.

Pitbull notices the path of the police’s movement, and proceeds to steer Mac instead to a NovaCaffe truck parked around the corner. As Pitbull calmly orders eight doughnuts and four coffees, he knows that they will have been thrown off the trail, straight into the Donny’s around the corner. “Got us doughnuts and coffee, hombres. We should be safe here for a few minutes. Just browse as inconspicuously as you can.” Pitbull H.U.D texts the team. As the message flashes across Mac’s H.U.D., he instantaneously sends a message back to the team. “Someone order me a double. Almost done – the smell is helping my concentration.” Pitbull turns around and orders another coffee for Mac, his fist still attached to Mac’s upper arm.

Around the team, security moves around purposefully scanning rfid badges but they don’t come closer than 30 feet from the stall just yet. Pitbull’s change of direction has found a gap in their sweep giving a few minutes grace.

As Able follows Pitbull’s advice and begins to mindlessly browse, a part of him pings on to his wireless receiver and attempts to access the broadcast frequency associate with the security radios. Able feeds the data he’s receiving to Mac as he begins recording it for future exploitation by a cryptography program. The data includes positioning codes from the searching police’s own ID badges, and that’s the last bit of the puzzle Mac needs!

Mac’s face immediately clears of it’s impassivity as he fits the missing pieces fed from Able into his puzzle, gaining an almost painful look of extreme focus. “Ears, now. They’re searching and sweeping this place. We’re pinched if they read our badges and connect us to that call. The flower girl from the shop next door is leaving in six seconds. Exit now, get behind the van – it’ll be caught up in the foot traffic, so it’ll move slow. Stay in the shadow, use it to eclipse our movement from security – fifty feet, no more, no less. Sharp right, behind the baggage carts. Sixteen seconds we hold and stay silent. Then, east by foot into the station exit, and nobody will even know we were here. Don’t argue, go.”

(Pitbull swiftly passes out the coffees and donuts as he himself is hamfistedly shoving a Bavarian Cream Bismark in his own mouth.)

Following Mac’s instructions, the team walks, turns and halts exactly as he says, as he ticks out seconds in their HUD displays. Swiftly, they find themselves exiting the station by a large gated portal that leads directly to a taxi rank – and a minute afterwards are free and clear, on their way to the Ashburn Hotel in Central London.

Able smiles at Mac as they ride away from the little net the police threw up. “Excellent work out there today. That was impressively done.” Pacoy nods, imprressed by the newly unlocked Mac. Pitbull considers all that he could have done in preparation almost considers swearing off boozing. Or at least boozing in the shitty dives that serve their whiskeys and beers with 70% water. Feeling naked without his weapons, he lets out a sigh of relief when it sinks into his thick skull that they really may have gotten away.
Like having a horseshoe up your ass, you may be lucky, but it hurts like hell and you never forget it’s there…

Mac cracks his head. “I didn’t look too odd when I did that, right? Sis said it made me look funny when I started figuring things out. So I’ll do you guys a favor and I’ll room with Pitbull. Not like I’m going to sleep anyway.” He thinks gladly on the book he will relish reading as Pitbull sleeps through the night, having nightmares about where to find weapons in Britain.