A Day in the Life: Drek Happens

GM: Patient
Players: Gretchen
Summary: A comedy of errors. Everything that can go wrong does. A hasty meet with a shady J turns into a club shootout at CHROME!. With the employer out of the picture due to a grudge-holding orkish luchador, Gretchen tries to wring some cred out of the situation but buys psychedelic drugs instead, and is turned away at the door when she tries to carry a small arsenal into Lyve Wyre. Frustrated, she cuts her losses and calls it a night.

There's a saying about money and blood; One's printed on the other. Of course, the saying never says which is which, and no one ever pays attention to that metaphorical bullshit anyways. What people DO pay attention too, however, is when they get that ring-a-ding. Through notes, through text, through trix or bird, through the sky or across the ground, they'll make sure you've heard - a job's available. Starting today, finishing tomorrow, quick and in a hurry. It's one of those jobs that most professionals avoid because - pfft - who wants to rush illegal things? But for someone who wants the nuyen, the thrill, or simply doesn't care anymore, the meetup is in the usual place; CHROME. Because everyone goes to CHROME, don't they? Might as well start posting officers on the inside in plain clothes to get propositioned for runs.

The usual back room has the usual bodyguard mook, scowling at the dancers and generally being a stick in the mud. And within? Well, obviously it'll have some jackass in a three piece suit and a cigar. Why the cigar? Because he can, and no one can stop him.

Gretchen tries to take advantage of times like these, evenings when there's no need to maintain the facade of a normal wageslave position, evenings when she's willing to throw caution to the wind and dare herself to get wild. Some destructive impulse drives her headlong into chaos tonight, when at other times she'd run fleeing.

Headphones around her neck, military surplus parka with leather jacket underneath, Gretchen works her way through the dance club…

Gretchen gets a look for her clothing, but - with a heaving sigh - she's pointed towards Conference 1. Where the big bald man with shades on waits. Less like a statue, and more like someone who read this is how Bodyguards are supposed to be. Big, still, and visible rather than proactively hunting out threats.

We'll call him Puddles.

Puddles frowns downwards at surplus parka, before speaking in a voice that's surprisingly high and fluffy. Damn near falsetta. Ever heard Mike Tyson? Probably why he prefers the 'strong and silent' stereotype. "Mr. Johnson's waiting for you inside. No wrong moves, or I'll twist you into a pretzel, capiche?"

Gretchen clears her throat into a balled fist rather than comment back to the guard. She may be attempting to conceal a look of surprise in doing so, or a smirk… She simply nods, face obscured by white hair that hangs from below a simple, black beanie. Over the rim of her glasses she sneaks a look at the guard just for acknowledgement, then moves for the J as she shrugs out of the parka. Without its urchin-ish appearance, what with it being a bit loose, she may appear a bit more 'runner-ish' in all black.

Puddles works his neck to the side with the sound of plank wood snapping, then goes back to watching people boogie or dance or seize on the dance floor. One supposes it all depends on precisely who's doing the dancing.

The J, meanwhile, sits up a bit when Gretchen finally enters the room. Catching his lit cigar between fore and middle finger, flashing a mouth with too much gold in it. "Well well. 'Bout time someone showed up for my generous offer; I was starting to think Denver's shadows had gotten a little too much light." The ashes off, giving Gretchen plenty of time to look over the 'conference room'. A small and white room, with enough spaces for 8 people to sit - or 3 trolls - and 4 more to stand. Black obsidian table with a white noise generator, which the J flips on; The usual echo of an eardrum pop while the generator fills the resounding space with static. In so far as Gretchen can see, the only security in this room are the thick walls, the door lock, and Puddles; Who closes the door and locks it after Gretchen makes her way in, keeping himself on the outside.

… Aren't bodyguards supposed to stay -with- the client…?

Come to think of it, that -is- weird. One bodyguard who doesn't know privacy comes second to security. Not to mention the guy is really visible; Usually you only want visible when there's a second or third team doing the proactive protection. The visible guy's a distraction. And there's only Puddles. Right?

Gretchen remains standing for the moment, parka now draped over her left arm and bag slung across her back on a single strap which happens to be a repurposed rifle sling. She scans the room and the adaptive lenses of her glasses dim ever so slightly at the change in lighting from entering this well-lit space after the main club.

The German tilts her head and raises the palm of her right hand in a slight shrug. She isn't entirely comfortable with the strangeness of the situation, but she's seen worse. She bears with it. "I… heard you might have work," she replies to the golden-grilled man, slowly, cautiously. "…let's talk."

"You heard right, sugar lips," states Mr. GoldTooth, flashing that rich, tacky smile again. Who still does gold on the teeth? He lays out a datachip on the table, near the 2078 version of a powerpoint display. But he doesn't plug it in just yet. Rather, he sits back again, fingers steepled in front of him like some cheap trid mafioso. "I'll get you the basic details, but I'm gonna need some -commitment- before we go any further. Unless we're not talking work ethic."

Laaaazy wink.

"My boss's boss has a couple of -friends- visiting Denver. Your task is real easy; Keep one of them from catching their flight back out. That's it. No killing, no maiming, just get him to miss his flight in the morning. Simple, innit? You hit this little problem for me, and I'll see you … -fifteen thousand- richer." There's a momentary hesitation over the word 'fifteen'.

Meanwhile, the thick, nearly sound proof walls are inundated with the thump of music. Thumpa thumpa thumpa.

"Well, that's a generous offer, Mister J…" Gretchen nudges her glasses up with a knuckle of her gloved right hand. "If someone were interested in the job, what other details might they learn?" She glances at the chip, mainly just trying to keep communication happening without a firm commitment quiiiiite yet.

The J's gold smile disappears for a moment of flustering, as he shifts in his seat. ".. Uh… " He begins, lifting a finger. "Wait, what? No, I .. looks, it's good money, what.. hold on." He clears his throat, standing up from the table and moving around it. He unlocks the door, and pokes his head outside while the music thumpa-thumpa-thumpas in. One can hear the quiet murmur of Puddles and him talking, their voices garbled by the loud music. At last the door is firmly closed by Puddles, and the J walks back to his seat. Shaken, but doing his (worst) to hide it.

"Right, so. Babe. What is it you're wanting to know, huh?"

"..nts to.. info. I don't-..!"
"What? Just.. can an.. get it done."
"-I don't .. anyways, what..-"
"-Get-. -It-. -Done-."

Gretchen's face hardens into a grim mask, eyes narrowed and lips drawn into a tight black line. She still hasn't seated herself. "I want to know why you're deferring to your "bodyguard," first of all…"

She then begins to press her free hand to the coat draped over the other forearm. "How about I grab my pocsec to check out that chip before I make any firm decisions, hm?"

Goldtooth seems to have found his balance again, tugging his air through that cigar again as he settles back. "Because he's got my pocsec and that's his job. To keep me on schedule. Listen, do you want the job or not? Because, lady, I'm not here to make friendly or soothe your bedtime. Unless you really want that."

Laaaaazy wink.

"I'm here to get a professional to get a job -done-. Fifteen kay on the barrel for the first person who steps up. That's either you, or it isn't, capiche?" He holds up his hand, showing he's not armed, then reaches into his jacket to display the credstick. Before shaking his head.

"Uh uh. Client privilege, chummer. Job details are on there; You're not on the job, you don't get the details."

And meanwhile, the music is -still- thumpa thumpa thumpa. There's a few voices raised in celebration as some DJ comes on, probably, and the music gets a bit louder. Loud enough to actually shudder the door, in fact. Yeesh. Neighbors.

Gretchen keeps at it, trying to press for more information, or at the very least, more pay before diving into something blind…

The J puts a hand to his forehead dramatically, massaging his temple. "What, you want -more- money? Just like a woman. Alright, listen, I could.. -could-.. see this up to twenty five K. Alright? You've squeezed me and I didn't even get to enjoy it. Now, you-"

A pause.

".. you hear that?"

The accent is dropped quite suddenly, the J moving back around the table again to pound at the door. "Hey! Frankie! What's going on out there?"

While Gretchen's busy worrying about what's going on in CHROME, she gets that -feeling-. The crawl up the spine, the buzz in the ears. The low level static of the world had just ratcheted up a little in the immediate area.

"Frankie? Hey, what's going on out there?"

Annoyed and utterly forgetting he's supposed to be the one in charge, 'Goldtooth' unlocks the door - just in time to be shoved back as a heavy body collapses inwards. 'Puddles', aka Frankie, bubbling blood and generally breathing his last. "Oh god! Frankie! Hold on, sweetie!" 'Puddles' looks up, gripping Goldie's hand. He doesn't look scared, just… surprised.

Meanwhile, one can quite easily hear a voice booming over the thumpa thumpa of the music. "A'right, chummers! You know the drill. Everyone -not- on the floor is getting a fucking slug -right through the brain pan-. Now - where the hell's Gerald?"

"Sixty seconds, Pard!" Comes a second voice.

Goldie is looking - well, white as a sheet.

Gretchen mentally curses herself for getting into this mess, and rapidly tries to come up with a plan to get the hell out of it!

"Oh god, oh god, that's -me-. They're looking for -me-" hisses Goldie, all the fancy smancy right out the window when the drek hits the fan. Fingers claw out for Gretchen's shoe, desperation coloring his voice. "You gotta get me out of here! You gotta! They're gonna -kill- me!" He hisses. Meanwhile, a few more booming shotgun explosions ring out, causing several people to scream in alarm out on the dance floor. Luckily, the way the Conference room is placed, the two are - momentarily - hidden from direct line of sight.

"What did I say? What did I -just- fucking say? Don't. MOVE."

Goldie yanks his hands back, keeping them up even as the blood of Frankie rolls down them to soak and ruin his clothes. He's actually -crying-. "Please, please! You gotta get me out of here. I can pay! I .. I can! I can activate the chip! I'm not even supposed to be here, I don't belong here, please, it was just a job.."

He rambles.

Gretchen steps back out of line of sight of the shooters through the doorway and whips a handgun out with a flick of her wrist. She hisses back at Goldie, prepared to lash out due to being very cornered. This is very much not a good spot to be in. "Explain! NOW!" Gretchen's nostrils flare as she contemplates taking a peek out into the main floor…

"I don't know! I don't know anything! It's just a job! I was told to be here, hire a runner, give them the datachip and collect. Anything left over was bonus! I swear!"

States Goldie, before his eyes drift back down to Frankie - currently joining the rest of the room in terms of temperature. "Oh, Frankie. Oh, you poor idiot." He wipes the heel of his hand across his eyes, sniffling. "It's Dolt. Oh god, oh god.. I slept with his sister. She told me he had problems, I just thought he was retarded. Listen; Listen." Here, back to begging.

"The credstick. The credstick! I can pay. You can have it. Just -help me-."

"Forty seconds, Pard!"

Calls the second voice, while the first growls out. "Alright, we'll do this the hard way. You! You know Gerald? Sniveling little drekker with gold teeth? No?"


"Someone better figure out where the hell Gerald is, and figure it out -now-."

Gretchen keeps her weapon trained on Goldie and keeps her shoulder pressed against the wall inside the door, whether to take cover, or to sprint out, that would remain to be seen. After a moment she kneels, lowering her jacket and bag to the floor in order to shrug into the coat as fast as humanly possible, then sling the strap of her bag over her head and cinch the strap tight.

Rubbing her free hand on the back of her neck, worried about how to manage this shitshow without getting fragged, Gretchen feels a shiver like a bucket of ice water being poured over her head but forces the sensation out of her mind — she doesn't want to deal with that welling up of mana, so some part of her intuitively channels it elsewhere, into one of her necklaces in order to allow her to force it out of her mind.

It's panic and bolt time, apparently, and Gretchen scoops up the stick and chip, shoving them into a pocket. "Move! I'm not fucking involved in your domestic bullshit." Her accent is thicker than normal as she rapid-fires the syllables. Clutching at the collar of Goldie's jacket she begins to force him upright and forward, over and past the fallen Puddles with the barrel of her weapon at his head.

The lights still flash and strobe in the partial darkness, flicking on and off to give a stylized half-blink movement to non-existent dancers. The glitter of spilled drinks - or blood? Bodies along the walls, hunkered in seats, crawling across the floor. Or simply not moving. Honestly, it's hard to tell the difference between someone dead, someone dying, and someone just being still. It's a confusing mass, even without the rat suddenly twisting and pushing against the slick floor, whimpering his 'no.. wait.. wait, no..'.

As for the Gerald-Hater - well, it's probably the guy with the submachine gun. Or, at least, he's one of them. Broad but short, twisted sideways by some bad bone structure, his scar-pocketed face painted with claw marks. He glances at his wrist, and hollers out:

"Ten seconds!"

Someone's been paying attention to average response times in this area.

"Geraaald, come out to plaaaay~" Comes a darker voice, from the center of the dance floor. Some decrepit freak of nature, large -everything-, wearing a mishmash of old combat gear and slapped on metal, a huge hiker's backpack hanging from massive shoulders. Something like a cobbled auto-shotgun gripped in a ham like fist. But the worse part? The worse part is the face. He's got no nose! .. Well, he might, but it's hidden beneath a tight white sack he's pulled over his face like some bizarre luchador mask. Red circles around the eyes, blue circle around the mouth. The brief roll of the lights across his form flickers in speckles of red as the music continues to thumpa-thumpa-thump. They're making their way back towards the conference rooms, the two that Gretchen can see - but by the yells and occasional explosive detonation from the other side of the room, there's more than these two. CHROME allowed pistols and small weapons, but who brings armor to a dance club?

There's only one real exit - past these guys. Fire code spec, it isn't. The only question is, wait until they notice, draw their attention, or shoot the rat bastard and leave him to squeal while hiding behind a table. OR some fourth option. Really, at this moment, Gretchen's got a plethora of options, and none of them's great.

"Who are your friends, Gerald?!" Gretchen continues trying to urge the man along, sneaking glances onto the strobe-flashing dance floor at the hulk in the mask.

Urging Gerald forward by holding his collar and shoving him with the barrel of her gun to the small of his back, Gretchen calls into his ear to be heard over the chaos. "Panic room or wolves!"


The begging becomes a slowly rising hysteric as it becomes more and more obvious that Goldtooth is getting shoved to the edge of the metaphoric shark tank. His breathing is faster, nostrils flaring, chest pumping like a bellows - and with a rat-like squeal he finally breaks, kicking and jerking, trying to get loose in a blind panic. While Gretchen's still got a grip on his jacket, he's making way too much noise and motion.

This, inevitably, draws the wrong sort of attention. In the darkness behind her eyes, somewhere in the back of her skull, a dread certainty forms; One person means her harm, off to her left where the hobbled man with the twisted bones walked with his submachine gun, calling out time.

And then two more, one on the other side of the room, and 'Dolt' in the center.

And then another, somewhere near the 'front' of the club as shouting is passed back. A final, fifth, near the exit..

Gretchen just… let's Goldie free… Free to roam, free to be Goldie, or Gerald, or whoever the hell he claims to be. He made his disco slaughterhouse bed, and it's probably time for him to sleep in it for all time. With a turn, Gretchen does what she can to take cover from all of the sources of hostile intent that seem to bore into her mind, insistently enough that she might even be able to point them out with her eyes closed. She does a quick pocket check, crammed up against a wall as she takes a deep breath and ensures that her smart-system is active, from goggles to glove to Alta.

Gretchen hustles to the run-down neighborhood cinema where Kellen often lurks, slinging stims to the teenagers in the adjacent video arcade, keeping the machines flashing and the cred flowing 24/7… She needs another 'Warrens wall access hot tip of the day'…

The glare of flickering lights illuminated a slick parking lot, bits of trash and debris tumbling about in the freezing wind. Still, the place is busy - riding that fine line between 'seedy' and 'exciting' that tends to draw youth. Kellen's there, the heavy elf leaning against a heavier chopper, one arm resting across the back of Tela as they share companionable warmth and suck in some fresh air while waiting for the next stim sell. Kicking a heel out, letting the suspension of his hog take his weight, Kellen tilts his head back and grins up at the mud-colored night sky when the question comes down.

"Yep. But it depends on how fast you want to get in. You want it slow and gentle? It'll take a day or so, but won't cost more than a few hundred. You want it bad, and -right now-, that's going to run you 600 nuyen. And that's for someone to talk to someone and go to break early during a certain shift."

"Fuck off with six hundred 'yen, man!" Gretchen protests Kellen's pricing as usual, shifting her boots in the slush that reflects the light from the cinema's marquee and the neon signs of the arcade that shares the building's main entrance. A midnight horror double feature is posted up above, Thrash-Hounds from Equinox VII followed by SINesthesia, a classic identity theft thriller from the early '60s. The German folds her arms and tries to bring the price for instant access down to something more manageable on a budget…

"Fuck off with my six hundred? Fuck off with your problems, then," states Kellen, casually, as he keeps leaning back to watch the slimy clouds roll. "In fact, you hear that? That's the sound of time ticking away. That special time in every Warrens border jockey's life when a couple of assholes sneak off to grab cheap soykaf and jack it. And that time just went up to seven hundred."

Gretchen shakes her head, knowing the elf well enough to not get overly upset at his price hiking, but that doesn't mean she has to like it. "Just let me get the 'slow and gentle' crossing, come on. I can't be paying near a thousand 'yen each time I have to get in or out." She lights up a cigarette and paces a short route beside her bike on the sidewalk beneath the marquee where the kids who haunt the place slip out of the building to smoke joints and share forties.

"Seller's market with the border's squeeze, friend," grins Kellen, actually managing a half decence mockery of a popular trid-series business elf while providing a sarcastic return. Honestly, that takes a little skill. 'Slow and Gentle' run will take a few days to align - so at least she'll have a way back in afterwards, and it'll only run her two hundred. Normally a fiver to fifty, but - well - Warrens is closed for business, and those with holes are selling high.

Either way, while she considers, the chip-slot of the pocsec lights up as it takes the new data. And begins spilling out - target details? A hezless tusker - an ork that's had his tusks run down to make him more appealing, in a business suit. A name, a location, and the details of the morning flight he's supposed to miss. The only caveat being the 'no kill' warning. So at least the job -seemed- legit, despite the double blind that went horribly wrong when someone hired an amateur to play a Johnson. Or whatever the hell that was with Goldtooth, Puddles, and Dolt.

Gretchen had backed her small Triumph RK30 into the parking space beside Kellen's own sidecar-having roadhog when she arrived, and she now seats up while she looks over the chip, but lets the kickstand hold the bike's weight while her right boot on the pavement maintains her balance.

While Gretchen fiddles with her pocsec - doing the 80's equivalent of file explorer to get the juicy meta data tucked on the datachip - something in her head crosses. Her knowledge of dancing is far superior to her love of street rumors, yet there is one junction where both of these points hit. She's spotted that face on a trideo shot of Lyve Wyre only a few weeks ago; It stood out because, well… Lyve Wyre. Fancy dance club. Lots of pretty people. Orks tend to stand out, even those that are hezless, culture dumping sellouts. She can't quite put a name to the face (although the datachip supplies one - Julian Lowe. Who names their ork critter 'Julian'?), but her memory's definite when it comes to the Lyve Wyre. Because apparently Gretchen's mind is so twisted it focuses on dancing first.

At last the datachip cracks open, and that delicious meta data spills out. What type of burner was used to make it, including a date and timestamp. It was made only a few hours ago, so definitely a rush job, which matches the timeframe given for the flight leaving. Tomorrow evening. There are other pictures in there as well, although none nearly as helpful. Too far up, too close, out of focus. But in every photo besides the ones highlighted for the 'Running Team', there is one constant. That ork - is always with an elvish male. Wearing sleeks and shades. Another bodyguard type? This one doesn't stand out - not like Puddles did - he's never hanging on the target. But he's always visible somewhere in the background, with only one photo showing the two actually talking to one another while looking in opposite directions.

The credstick is attached to a locked account; Gretchen can review it, but she can't access the funds without the authorizer. Who was either Goldtooth, in which case, damn; Or it's being controlled by whoever's monitoring the sitch, waiting for Julian to miss his flight. So either she's damned out of luck or she's gotten a lucky streak none the less.

Gretchen shifts slightly, turning on the bike saddle while keeping her left leg slung over, braced on a foot peg. "Hey," she speaks up after her data-reviewing lull in the conversation which basically ended at an impasse over exorbitant prices… "You heard of an amateur named Goldtooth? AKA Goldie, or Gerald? Had some beef with a freaky luchador, might be named Dolt..?" After taking a drag of her cig, she lifts that hand high over her head to imply the masked meta's considerable size.

"Hold on, I left my 'I work for a fucking library please ask me questions' name tag on the other hog," begins Kellen, with the same snark but no bite attitude as usual. He's in a good mood; Mostly because he's already got a few people over barrels. Sellers market. Despite the comment, he purses his lips as he considers before shaking his head and finally looking down from the polluted sky.

"Gerald? No. But I -have- heard Dolt. Big fucker who thinks he's hilarious. Him and his whole screwed up, inbred clan from the bad edge of the Ute. They don't really run with any gang besides each other."

Gretchen considers things and decides that the longer term 'Rens access is the better of her options, and she wouldn't want to have to come back in a rush the next day and get the cold shoulder for snubbing the deal today. "Look. Here. For the non-emergency entry." She offers some certified cred on a cheap stick, leaning over to the shaggy-headed keebler who looks remarkably like Norman Reedus from that old, old zombie show from the 20-teens…

300=Y= is displayed on the little readout; a bit extra for the elf's time. Another stick is produced after, and she gestures with it, asking, "Before I head out, you don't have any psyche, do you?" She turns her head, peering over her shoulders, camo hoodie pulled up from the high collar of her black suede peacoat, with goggles pushed up to her forehead.


Kellen gives Gretchen a strange look, the keebler crossing one thick arm over another as they finally get to his business of the night; Stims to Chims. A sideways crook slides over his features while he scratches at Tela, his massive pitbull's head. "Yeaaah, I can get my hands on that. Real question is - how fast you want it? We're back to 'slow and gentle' or 'hard and rough'."

Gretchen levels a dark look and a displeased grimace at the biker, presenting the credstick in her hand with a turn of a wrist. "Slow and gentle, elf," is drawled out in her German accent.

The German pulls her goggles down after forking over so much money she… Argh. She just grumbles to herself as she starts up her bike and considers whether it's fucking worth it to try to play the other side and get some money out of the ork named Julian.

Elves smile all the time. So does Kellen. Except, when Kellen smiles, it looks more like he's showing his teeth so you'll know who's about to take a chunk out of you.

"You'll get used to me soon enough." He quips, even as he runs a thumb along the credstick. "I've got it incoming. It'll take a few days, but I've got enough to cover what you want. Since we're not having it 'drop off the back of the van' this time, I'll even give you a discount; 4400 nuyen." Lord knows what he was going to charge!

She exhales through flared nostrils as she leans the bike up from its kickstand, which snaps up along the the bottom of the engine. "Scumbag!" She waves and calls back to the elf as she slow-creeps out of the dive cinema's lot into the night after botching everything to end up /spending/ cred when her whole intent for this evening's events was to be in pursuit of it.

Gretchen returns, having first turned right out onto the street, and is now passing the lot heading left with a parting message for Kellen, "Maybe stay away from Chrome for a few days!" She calls this to the biker with a hand cupped over her mouth before actually riding out of sight this time, putting her vintage-looking-but-high-tech wheels to the test. She may be more dressed for a hipster metal dive bar, but she sets her sights on the Wyre in the hopes that she may cross paths with this Julian character she's now banking her whole evening on…

The Lyve Wyre, in CAS, is all about peacocking. Wearing something bright, and loud, and colorful to grab as much attention as you can. As the logo says, 'chrome is in'. The parking lot is almost always overflowing, as is the case tonight, and the multi-level joint is stacked to the point that one would have to practically fire a shotgun in morse code in order to talk to someone just a few feet away. That or hope they're watching their pocsec. But it seems tonight - for the first time - luck finally smiles on Gretchen. Not long after she starts prowling nearby, a suburban goes whipping by her in the other lane. A certain hezless cultural sellout sucking lips with some pretty boy in the back, while a smirking elf pilots the thing, all heading for the same place; LYVE WYRE.

Gretchen pulls her bike up across the street and tries to keep it a little ways down from the club's overpacked lot. As it turns out, it doesn't seem like there's much chance of skulking here, so she casually just… parks down the block. Nothing strange about that.

She locks the bike down with her S-K brand "Elektroschock" sensors and decides to take the plunge, shoving her hands deep into her pockets as she tries to make her way past the majority of the crowd with a minimum of hassle.

One would expect the amount of trouble one could get into would be limited in a single night; Especially after having just avoided a club-scene massacre. One would be mightily mistaken. While there's no gun pointed her way, it's obvious Gretchen does indeed stand out - no neon bodypaint, no flaming pink mohawk, no cool side to side electric visor. Her forward progress in is blocked almost instantly by a bouncer, the glowering cyborg shifting his jaw for a moment before pointing up wordlessly at the list of club laws. Namely, there's a cover charge.

And no weapons allowed.


The Bouncer waits a moment, that false eyed gaze going down, widening slightly, and coming back up. Rather than surprised, or pissed off, or even about to - for example - call the cops, he just sounds bored and a bit annoyed from their position in the sideline.

"You think you're the first slit to try that tonight? I don't get why you drekkin' idiots can't read. No. Weapons. I don't care if daddy bought you a brand new bang bang. Drop it at the locker, get your number, pay your overhead and get out of my line."

Gretchen's maneuvered out of the line and into the locker area to drop off her precious, precious weapons. And really, she's not the only one; People are being told to shove in swords, axes, chainsaws. Laser guns. … A grenade?

What the hell is wrong with Denver? Some of them are obviously fake (the grenade's foam is flaking paint), and hopefully a lot of them are, but the bouncers are taking no chances. With this many people picking up numbers and the locker making beau-coup nuyen off rental, it's no wonder that the borg wasn't all that concerned with Gretch coming in 'trying to look tough'. Who the hell brings a shotgun to a dance club anyways?

Don't answer that.

Either way, the back end of the locker is guarded by more severe looking bouncers, although they're occasionally overlooking a 'donation' to their salary to allow a few people to skip re-entering the line and pass directly through. When the door opens and closes, Gretchen's getting an eyeful; And we do mean an eyeful. People grinding, people bumping, people dancing and jiving. The Lyve Wyre is packed, as any good dance club should be. And - wouldn't you know it? - her target's not too far inside. Even in a crowd of pink mohawks, an ork's going to stand out above chrome and smooth skins, being head and shoulders taller and just generally more built. Work hard, play hard, as the person currently riding his thigh is.. the elf he's always seen with. Gretchen catches the parting kiss before the elf slips off to the side, leaving the ork boss to play with some other pretty young thing.

And then the door swings closed again.

Gretchen approaches her locker, but it only makes her cinch the strap of her bag tighter to her chest as she approaches the next layer of security with a spur of the moment excuse. "…I'll be in and out, five minutes…"

"Uh huh. Listen, omae, I don't know who 'Julian Lowe' is," begins the Bouncer, while his compatriot nonchalantly shifts aside to keep an eye on the rest of the 'locker room'. "… But no hardware on the floor. You want to get in and see DJ Banger tonight? Cool. Pay the overhead and get in line. But the toys stay out here," comes the bouncer's firm denial, arms crossed. He doesn't sound upset, just - bored, frankly. The Lyve Wyre's a busy place, and he probably gets name drops all the time. Eventually one might catch his attention, but for now he's got a job to do. Besides, whose ass is on the line if one of those bang bang toys turns out to be real?

It's been a long fucking night with no easy money to be had. What a disaster. Gretchen turns on her heel, fuming at the doormen for doing their jobs so reliably, but she's over this whole mess. Goldie's dead or dying, Chrome! is surely crawling with cops, and Julian Lowe has no reason to pay for any info she may have. She pulls the datachip from a pocket and crushes it under the heel of a boot once she hits the parking lot, then throws the credstick in the gutter with an angry fling that makes one shoulder of her overcoat slip down. As she frustratedly rights her coat, zips, double-checks gloves and hood, goggles and breather, she straddles her bike and fires it up.

A long night with nothing to show for it but a bit of blood and some spent nuyen. That, and four doses of psyche coming in a few days. But the whole thing's been, overall, a bit of a loss. Datachip is ground, the locked account tossed aside for someone stupider, and no one stops the German from firing up her bike and getting on with life.

Time to ride into a smog laden future!

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