Jack Skellington Tried to Organleg Me

GM: Dorian
Players: Hollywood, Gretchen
Summary: Hollywood and Gretchen are hired by Dorian to demolish a cyber-chopshop in Lich Lords turf. Hollywood slapfights a nosferatu. Gretchen forgets how to count.
Date: Christmas, 2077


It was a comfortable winter night in Denver, the Mile High caked with a small layer of snow that continued to cascade down from the sky. With Christmas right around the corner, Mission Hills had a more festive look to it, at least as festive as a Neighborhood known for prostitution, drugs and kidnapping can go. Hoes with Santa hats on their heads, flashing bright red bosoms trimmed in white faux fur, and BTL dealers slinging the latest christmas fantasies of all shapes and sizes.

It was on this wonderful night, in this not so wonderful neighborhood, that Dorian trickled a little call out to some people he knew that liked to fill their pockets with cash and didn't have issues in Grinching someone else's goods. The meet was set for the Dungeon, a friendly turf for Scarface where he knew Mercy and her Girls wouldn't mind him talking biz and where he wouldn't get a knife burried to the back by some peeved off Blackheart.

Dorian was festive himself, a Santa's hat atop of his mop of black hair, while the rest of him screamed "Don't frag wit' me", what with the Thunderbolt sticking out of his secure jacket, and donning an armored vest with plates. He was busy enjoying himself a glass of synth whiskey, watching Artemis (wo)man the stage and do her age-old routine on the pole, but hey it worked, poor fantasy seeking sobs were always willing to spill the nu to play 10 minutes in heaven.

The Gretch who stole Christmas arrives in all her awkward glory, shuffling into the Dungeon with a so-bad-it's-great Christmas sweater visible beneath her army surplus parka. Due to the local "situation," what with all the tension literally surrounding the Warrens, she made it a point to call up Jem and Benny, an inseparable pair of Sinners to help see her through the hood to make the meet.

Fiona enters the Dungeon in a don't-frag-with-me outfit of her own. Normally she might have tried to simply blend in, but with the weather being what it is and the tension being thick enough to cut with a knife in and around the Warrens…

The elven redhead's hair is dyed with streaks of green to give her no-nonsense ponytail a festive flair. She takes a few moments to look around the club, (re-)acquainting herself with the interior before she heads toward the none too subtle Scarface. Passingly, she lets her green eyes study Gretchen before she looks over at Scarface and she settles down at a seat near him.

"Merry Christmas, eh?"

Gretchen licks her teeth behind pursed lips and presses a tattooed fist below her nose as she sniffs back some weather-induced congestion. She offers a nod to the elves and sinks into a seat, shrugging her loose coat around herself, hood still up.

"Hmm.. She got a new haircut.." The elf comments to himself, sipping his whiskey slowly, though as some figures begin approaching his table he switches his seating to face them a little more and offer little nods of greeting as the two come along. A gloved hand gestures out to the chairs so they can both get seated.

"We still have some time 'till the ball drops on that one, but we might be too smashed later to remember saying it, Merry Christmas indeed." He chuckles softly, finishing his current glass and laying it atop of the table. "Thank you for taking the time away from your friends and family to come here" He adds with an amused tone, and a matching smile.

"I have a little job if you're interested in making some money, a client of mine seems to be miscontent with a shadow clinic and would like to send a message. They want the place ransacked, busted up, and would like you to bring back their current cargo. The pay is 15 grand for the each of you."

The human's expression lightens somewhat as she resettles her glasses. The bulky sleeve of her parka slips down a touch in the process, revealing just a hint of a gun barrel to those with keen eyes. She sighs and murmurs, revealing a light German accent. She acknowledges to herself that, "It may just turn out to be a merry Christmas after all…"

"I'm always interested in making money," replies Fiona. She purses her lips thoughtfully as the client's needs are outlined. After a few moments of careful consideration, Fiona inquires, "Does the client mind if I take a little loot from their inventory? Or is this a strict "break it and blow" situation?"

"I doubt they'd mind too much, they'd likely deduct a bit out of your pay, but if you're cool with that, then go right ahead and indulge yourself. I don't think they're going to sell it to you full price." Dorian offers with a nod and a smile, reaching over to grip the bottle of whiskey and top his glass off. "So it's a pretty simple job, go in, rob it, piss on the counters, burn their garbage, you know, house party the crap outta the clinic." He pauses there, because D-bag be thirsty and he takes the moment to enjoy the horrible whiskey. "Ahh.. The location of the place is around the ol' Tinkertown, Lich Lord turf. Can't give you more specifics than that, I haven't scouted the place out myself."

Gretchen folds her arms before her in thought, her right landing on the tabletop with a bit of weight, enough to make a bit of a thump through the padding of her coat. She picks at her black nail polish for a moment before reaching out toward the whiskey bottle with an inquisitive expression for Scarface from the depths of her faux fur-ringed hood. "…mind?" She seems eager to clasp that hand around the neck of that bottle and wring the life from it.

"I suppose that's fair enough," muses Fiona at the cost of business. She rolls her shoulders thoughtfully and smiles to herself as she counts the cash she's saving. After a few moments, Fiona glances at Gretchen, Gretchen's hand, and Scarface's whiskey. Quietly, Fiona crosses one leg over the other as she turns to look over toward Artemis on the stage. After all, she can't be held liable if her partner for the job is killed by the fixer when she didn't see what happened, can she?

There's a clear narrow in the eyes, and the window to notice it is short. The next second? Two things can happen.. Either he starts twitching, draws, and blasts everything in sight, or he suppresses the evil thoughts away with a wiggle of his nose, and a very slow nod of his head to accept the taking of his precious booze. But it's christmas, so Dorian is in the spirit of giving it seems, as the latter occurs. He takes a moment to sip his own, making sure to add some of that rasp to his voice in the long run. "So, what say the two of you? Good to go? Need anything?" (Repost)

Gretchen seems oblivious, or recklessly willing to accept wrath, but she grips the bottle and rises to her feet, upending it to take multiple gulps before setting it back down with a slam and a full-body shiver. In response to the question: "Just that… and the address…" She shifts her shoulders, rolling them uncomfortably in her coat as the liquor-warmth spreads throughout her whole body.

"I don't suppose you have a line on detonators?" inquires Fiona, not yet looking back to the others. She sing-songs the question, making it almost sound insincere and playful, though the question remains about whether she could be serious. Fiona eventually turns back around, smiling thinly as she bobs her head at Gretchen and adds, "The address would be pretty nice too."

Dorian seems amused at the word address, chuckling to himself like someone withholding a ground breaking secret, which is… "Well.. That kind of place doesn't really have an address. See, Tinker Town is as much active on the surface as it is..below." He points downwards. "The old sewage system is probably even more lively than the surface, actually. Don't worry, it smells just as bad as the rest of the Warrens, and hasn't been used in ages. You're gonna have to hit the streets, or rather the sewers, to see if you can find this place. I doubt a gang can afford upkeeping more than one clinic for their deeds."

Dorian says "As for detonators… Not so much. I can poke Mercy about it, but I don't think she has anything on hand."

"Every little bit counts," replies Fiona. She smiles and winks as she leans back in her seat. Glancing over at Gretchen, Fiona quirks a red eyebrow for a moment before she shrugs and looks back at Dorian. The elf seems to be waiting for her partner in crime to suggest they leave. Why leave the warmth and booze sooner than necessary? While she waits, though, Fiona starts to rack her brain on where to look for this disgusting gang's haunts. Her pocsec also comes out so that Fiona can text a few people she knows.

The German remains standing, even going so far as to excuse herself in order to sidestep a few paces from the elves. She keeps her gaze directed near them, -ish, within earshot if need be, but far enough to allow the discussion about detonators and such to be handled in relative privacy. She detaches a text/pager from its clip on the strap of her everpresent messenger bag and shoots off a few quick messages.

Gretchen returns to the table after rapid-fire tapping out a number of messages. She doesn't seem particularly enthused about her results as she scoots back into her seat and begins slipping on a pair of synthleather gloves. "What do you say we head out?" She addresses Fiona but keeps her head hung low, flexing her hands to snug the fit. The palm of the right glove has a unique texture, and she uses this same hand to remove her glasses and throw her hood back. A quick rummage in her bag produces a pair of riding goggles which she slips over her head to hang around her throat before sharing the minimal details she was able to come up with.

Fiona takes a little while to chat with someone by text. She eventually, however, flips her pocsec shut and stands up. The redhead gives Dorian's shoulder a firm squeeze before she turns to look over at Gretchen, smiling politely at the question the other woman asks.

"I was just going to suggest that myself. Just need to grab a quick change of wardrobe, I think, and then we can head for the entrance to Tinker Town, yeah?"

The redhead reaches up to re-scrunchie her ponytail while she helpfully adds her own information to the pile on the Lich Lords' base of operations. She smiles thoughtfully and looks over at Dorian for a moment, noting, "This is going to be a fun one, you know."

With a wink, Fiona moves to offer a hand to Gretchen. She's apparently the helpful sort.

The scarred Elf gives the hand at his shoulder a pat, while he retorts with a wink. "I certainly hope it is, though don't party yourself out too much, we got the after-party remember?" With a chuckle, he tops off his glass once more. "I'll keep the bottles company in the mean time."

The glasses are slid back into place, then the German zips her coat up tight and tugs a black beanie on. She tucks strands of her dyed hair up under the edge of the hat, then whips the hood back up with both hands. She's got a bit of a buzz, she's got her bag, and she's got enough info to at least lead her in the rough direction of the clinic in question. "Let's get our hands dirty." This comment is distributed equally between both of the elves with a grim look from her sunken, yesterday's-makeup raccoon eyes and another subconscious flexing of her hands, an expression of nerves. Nervous or not though, Gretchen's jaw is set in a decidedly un-merry way.

"We're going to have to get you more in the holiday spirit," comments Fiona to Gretchen with a smile and a shake of her head. The redhead winks at Dorian before she starts toward the door, cheerfully humming something that sounds vaguely like Jingle Bells. She will, of course, try to arrange a meeting place with Gretchen for once Fiona has gotten that change of wardrobe. And presumably picked up some "party favors" for the little holiday blowout the ladies will be attending.

Nothing like Christmas time in the Warrens to see just how depressing a holiday can get, bums squatting hovels and keeping warm with trashcan fires, the distant growlings of ghouls echoing in the night followed by the terrorized screams of their victims, and the drunken hardy-har of gangers telling their war stories. The path through the Warrens isn't a complicated one, able to stick to the main streets for the most parts, it's only when average of tusked metahumans begins to rise that squatting the alleys becomes more of a priority. A bit of navigating through, and the duo reaches a gratted entrance to the old sewage network.

While the outside was still, silent and cold, the inside seems much more lively. A puff of smoke from the hovel fires below is what greets the path down the metallic ladder, stopping short atop a concrete footing with a metallic railing to keep people from falling the high distance. And high it was, perhaps a 100 meters below the favela can be seen stretching out across the opening. Houses made of cardboard, tin plates, hub caps, you name it. Each relying on the stability of their neighbor's to remain standing. Clothes lines stretched out in intricate ways, there's even the more leading down the tunnels into the various sections of the drainage network.

Gretchen has little prep to manage of her own, so she passes the time at the Souk eating what could very well be her last meal at an udon cart with a lopsided roof. She downs a couple bowls of heat-n-eat noodles before making her way to the destination to link up with Fiona. With a bit of extra effort taken to conceal her Triumph (tucking it into a hidden corner, setting the shock system and locking up the tires, then covering it with loose trash), she finds the orkslum overlook…

Fiona rides off into the Christmas Eve gloom on her own motorcycle. She reappears some time later at their rendezvous point in radically different clothing.

Ratty sneakers, beat up and ill-fitting jeans, a few layers of shirts, and a Crimson Sky bomber jacket that appears to have seen better days - it's all smudged and dusty, the leather looking beaten in places - all adorn the festively haired elf. She moves along with Gretchen toward the depths of Tinker Town with rather less stealth than she looks like she should be capable of, but that could just be that she's too hot to hide easily. Maybe if they were trying to skulk through a club or something…

Gretchen is a bit more slummin' than the elf, clearly, in her loose-fitting parka with its bulging pockets, messenger bag slung over one shoulder. She wears a minirespirator now, and a matte black biker half-helmet over her beanie. Her goggles complete the trash-Vader style, and she rasps a simple greeting to her partner in crime through the mask covering her nose and mouth. She crouches a short distance from the edge of the overlook, one hand buried deep into a pocket of her coat. The sound of a jackknife can be heard as she occupies her anxious hands with snapping it open and shut repeatedly.

Hollywood isn't sure when the last time was that she tried to blend into this low a level of society. Usually it's so easy to hide in plain sight, but these poor people aren't even the dregs of society - they're who the dregs donate their left-overs to. She represses a shiver as she shoves her hands into her pockets and scans their surroundings. Nodding her head, Hollywood starts to shuffle along toward the Lich Lords' marked tunnel. Absently, Hollywood regrets not taking the time to put on a proper disguise instead of putting on some streetwear to not stand out quite as much.

The German slouches low, shoulders drawn in, and her head is dipped low as she begins to trail the elf keeping a short distance. While they walk, she murmurs through her mask while looking away from the other woman, "Too much time in the FTZ… You…" She tries to cough into a hand, but just knuckles her breather. "…stand out like a sore thumb, but I don't need to tell you that. I'll just be… over here…" She makes her way a few meters distant but taps the right side of her head with a be-goggled glance.

"Too much time out of the sprawl," mutters Hollywood as she walks toward the tunnel. Along the way she tap-taps her tactical comm's button to make sure it's transmitting to Gretchen. The redhead grumbles to herself, but keeps moving along at steady pace. Maybe she'll get lucky and bump into something or someone useful.

Hollywood pauses in the entrance of the tunnel and takes a look around for a few moments. She frowns slightly before she starts to move toward the nearest hobo, looking for someone that can point her on their way to Destructionville.

Gretchen holds up before entering the grand entrance to the gothic wonderland, staking out a little post with a decent view into the passageway. She makes it a point to start memorizing specific tags in order to create a mental map like a trail of flashy breadcrumbs that can be followed back out to the hub area in the even of shit hitting fans.

There seems to be a taker for conversation with the elf that seems to stand out a little in the slumming crowd, a young girl who seems to be indulging herself in perhaps one too many sins, a raggy and messy wedding dress likely found in the trash, and the burned out stare of a BTL addict.

"Hoi, chica," intones Hollywood. She moves over to the beetle addict, keeping close while she examines the burned out young girl. Offering a small smile, Hollywood inquires, "You know how to get to the Lords' clinic?"

It takes a moment for the question to register, a gaze lost in a reality she tries hard to escape, with a few blinks, she then looks up to the taller elf. "The clinic..?" Another pause, another blink. "Uhm.. Well.. I know there's place they make people vanish.. They use the uh… the uh.." Oh boy. "..the old mechanical room.."

Meanwhile, the German orbits the exchange, slowly weaving through passersby at a few meters, still flicking that blade in her pocket and keeping her head down. Her headgear blocks a decent view of her face, but her goggles allow her to assess the most sinister individuals in detail.

…She honestly just wants to see how good the Lich Lords are with their cosplay and facial reconstruction. She's a sucker for old horror flicks, what can she say?

"Thank you, babe," intones Hollywood. She bobs her head toward the Lich Lords' tunnel and inquires, "Any specific direction to go? Or just 'down that tunnel'?"

Commlink-Alptraum> Gretchen sends, « I'll scout ahead… »

Look hard enough, and you won't miss the Lich Lords. Some are indeed roaming the main area, getting something to eat at a food stall, or indulging in a bit of flesh with one joytoy before dissapearing inside a hovel. The first that trully stands out to Gretchen comes into her field of view as he steps right infront of her, intercepting her path and walking off into the crowd. A massive troll with his horns modded to spread out with several points, his maw decked with razor sharp teeth and a snarling forked tongue, while the rest of his body is covered with fur as he hulks on through. A true wendigo fanatic.

The BTLhead with Fiona nods her head to the question, "Down that way yes.." She nods her head again. "Keep left…? or…" She trails off there and shrugs. "I have to wake up now.. Bye bye.." And she wanders off towards her little hovel, likely to slot some chips.

"Sweet dreams," mumbles Hollywood to the chiphead. She shakes her head and sighs, one hand coming up to her temple to rub her thumb absently at the skin there. How close did she come to a fate like that, wonders the elf? Moving slowly, Hollywood heads toward the Lich Lords' tunnel again, still rubbing at her temple while she muses over the strangeness of Fate.

Gretchen murmurs that she's going to advance toward the girl's directions before stopping in her tracks to look up… and up… and up… at the wendigo-job. After getting momentarily caught up in her ogling, she resettles her goggles and begins trekking on ahead, zigging through the crowd while making sure to keep Hollywood in sight with periodic glances over her shoulders. "Was she lucid enough to enough know what the fuck she's talking about?"

Commlink-Fantasia> Hollywood sends, « Copy. »

Fiona seems like she belongs now, maybe she was just rusty earlier, and was now finally able to stretch out her wings. No one seems to give her much gripe about walking along discretely, a trio of Victorian era dressed vampire wannabes with too much white makeup, cybered eyes with vivid colors, and implanted fangs are chit chatting in one squat, random citizenship occupy some others, and once beyond the curve, the tunnel seems to head off towards a bigger section. About halfway in the stretch, an opening seems visible and up high the metallic door to the maintenance room is in view. ….With a ladder straight from the outside leading down to it. But that's … that's just how things go. There is however a way to get up there, seems the piles of debris and the vestiges of an old rusted ladder can be used to climb up the ledge. Might be somewhat tricky.

Commlink-Alptraum> Gretchen sends, « What do you think? »

Hollywood follows the beetle-stringer's directions to navigate the tunnel. She pauses and looks up - way up! - at the door to the mechanical room. Frowning thoughtfully, Hollywood gives a thoughtful look around at the denizens while she shoves her hands into her pockets. Distantly, Hollywood wishes she had tons of gear like that old flatvid heroine, Batgirl. Batgirl would have an awesome stealth grapple gun to get her up there unnoticed. And, like, a ruthenium cloak made out of her cowl and cape.

Quietly, the redheaded elf stands there and muses over her predicament with her hands shoved into the pockets of her bomber jacket. Hollywood ponders while she studies the situation. She could probably make the climb, but could Gretchen? Is there a better way?

Commlink-Fantasia> Hollywood sends, « You any good at climbing? »

The German assesses the piles of debris, attempting to gauge an approach. « I can give it a shot… » She turns to assess the potential onlookers now…

Commlink-Fantasia> Hollywood sends, « Hold on. Let me take care of a spotter. »

Gretchen tries to slink back into shadow at the elf's cease and desist. « Which one..? » She scans the area herself, while rummaging through her utility bag for a hybrid fishing-reel-slash-crossbow…

Commlink-Fantasia> Hollywood sends, « The nosferatu wannabe. »

Commlink-Alptraum> Gretchen sends, « Disgusting things… »

Hollywood takes a moment to rearrange herself before she starts walking toward the human with the nosferatu mods. The redhead palms a packet from her pocket while she meanders toward the nosferatu, sizing him up as she gets close. "Hey, babe," purrs Hollywood as she puts on her best joygirl act, "Got some needs you need attending?"

The Nosferatu looks at the approaching Elf over, rolling his eyes at her offer. "Oh pppllleassee.. As if I'd taint the bloodline with impurity. Maybe if I sired you first… " He believes his stuff, even throws some fake british accent to the mix.

Hollywood resists the urge to roll her eyes. The fake British accent is only one of many things that she finds appalling about his response. She instead offers a warm, throaty giggle and sways her hips as she looks the nosferatu over.

"Sired me first? Like, I don't know… You really think you have the cred for somethin' like that, honey?"

"The honor of being one of us is all the payment you need, madame. After that we can talk about more … carnal desires." His pause was intentional, trying to build suspense before unleashing his awful accent.

Still lurking, Gretchen preps her gear without removing anything from the bag, and she keeps her body angled in such a way as to only have a peripheral view of the vamposter. A quick whisper over comms. « See if you can get him to start turning his back this way. If he turns, that's a good sign. If not… »

"Oh… Oh! And here I thought you were tryin' to, like, make me your baby mama," replies Hollywood. She giggles again, bobbing her weight from one leg to the other as she regards the nosferatu wannabe. Hollywood flicks her tongue across her lips as she sizes him up. "Like, what would I have to do to be one of you?"

"Well first we're going to get some blood out of you.. We can't sire you until we feast on your essence first..And then we'll make you drink our blood, and you will rise as one of us… " He seems to kind of cough in his hand'and get teeth installed'cough. "..To walk the night as an immortal!"

Gretchen plays eenie-meenie-miney-moe with a dozen different tools, ranging from a dartgun and tranq patches to a suppressed handgun to just a collection of zip ties and a roll of duct tape…

"You have enough cred for implants?"

Hollywood does her very best to sound impressed. It is, in fact, weirdly impressive to her. Though she's not nearly as surprised as she's acting. After all, they have a whole shadow clinic up there. Shifting her weight, Hollywood presses against the nosferatu and inquires, "Can you show me?"

"Do you really think I'd show you all my savings? Please." The Nosferatu does a very dramatic roll of his eyes with that last word, though he is considering some alternatives himself, sizing up the elf slowly. "Say.. Have you had any modifications yourself..?" He keeps looking. " … any …. health issues perhaps..?"

"Not the cred, babe. The implants!"

Hollywood pauses a moment, her eyes studying the nosferatu as he sizes her up. She shifts her weight slowly, hips swaying as she tips her head to one side.

"I've gotten a few mods. I used to be going places," intones Hollywood, her eyes lidding as she glances down toward the ground. Her fingers tighten slightly in her pockets as she slowly looks up into his eyes again.

"Wh-Why?"

"Ooohh… No reason.." He nods his head slowly, putting two and two together in his head. "I can show you my implants certainly… Give me a moment." He turns around reaching into his little hovel and trying his best to conceal the fact he's picking up a few of 2077's equivilant to chloroform and a rag… tranq patches. "Yes.. Let's go somewhere a bit more private.. Yes?" He says as he turns around.

Gretchen sounds slightly puzzled over the comms, perhaps a little grossed out at the prospect of pressing up against the ghastly poser, perhaps with a bit of begrudging respect for being able to put oneself through what would be a pretty surefire panic-fest for herself. « You two seem to be getting along… »

Commlink-Alptraum> Gretchen sends, « He's reaching for… »

Hollywood steps back as the nosferatu turns to reach into his hovel. She smiles slightly at the opportunity and warmly intones, "I think right here seems plenty private, honey."

The redhead produces her own tranq patch from her pocket and reaches out to press the patch to the nearest patch of exposed skin. Presumably the back or side of his neck?

Gretchen sounds surprised, and with more than a little urgency. She grips her dart pistol and nearly has it out of her bag when Hollywood seems to take action. It's a three-way Mexican tranq-off, and Halloween for Christmas. What the hell is going on?

Commlink-Fantasia> Hollywood sends, « And that's the end of that. »

Commlink-Alptraum> Gretchen sends, « What the fuck was that about?! »

Hollywood just barely manages to get the upper hand on her would be organlegger. She half-steps backward before torquing her body around and bitch-slapping the taste out of nosferatu's mouth. The tranq patch gets laid on his face in the process, the harsh impact seemingly extra activating the patch as he spins around uselessly. As he hits the ground, Hollywood shoves him inside of his hovel and out of immediate sight.

Commlink-Fantasia> Hollywood sends, « I was trying to get a free ride up there, but he tried to get fresh and organleg me. »

Commlink-Alptraum> Gretchen sends, « Jesus… »

Gretchen cuts off her comm and mutters to herself in German as she scans around, swapping out the dart pistol for a grapple launcher. She holds it low, blocked by her bag, and makes sure the coast is clear for a shot.

The grapple fires off into the air, striking the guard rail and winding around it until the hook locks in against the metallic bar with a clink, securing the line for people to climb up.

As the hook takes hold, the German gives it a solid tug by wrapping the line around her forearm and leaning back with a fierce pull to set it. « I'm heading up. »

Hollywood finishes tucking her would be kidnapper away before she makes her way back toward Gretchen. She eyeballs the grapple line for a few moments, shoving her hands into her pockets as she ponders. Maybe she should invest in some of that gecko tape crap. The Spider-Man theme music starts to play in her head as she visualizes it.

Commlink-Fantasia> Hollywood sends, « On your six. »

Hollywood waits until Gretchen has finished climbing. She promptly grabs the stealth line and starts climbing upward after her. The redhead may - or may not - make climbing a rope look sexy.

Gretchen aces the obstacle course like she's never done before. She might even appear slightly capable, which is good, considering that her cohort just dropped a nosferatu with a single bitchslap… Best to just maintain the air of knowing what's up. And up she is, nosing around at the door as soon and as efficiently as possible before anyone decides to look up…

Hollywood is having a very off day. She is also starting to feel even more incompetent than ever before as she struggles to climb her way up the line in a way that she can't remember ever struggling before. Along the way, Hollywood lets out a disgusted sigh and shakes her head. Clearly she needs to start being a gym rat again.

Once up there, the only obstacle that remained in their way was the door.. And if someone was in there. Or someones.. ….somethings. But, first things first right? A hunking chunk of metal, likely blast proof to contain possible explosions from the machinery inside. The problem? This dates back to a time where mag keys were a figment of imagination, and contains a good ol' fashion lock that requires a good ol' fashion key… No windows, just concrete.

Upon seeing the ancient, obsolete lock, Gretchen pulls a slim hardcase from her bag, about the size of a glasses case and solemnly bestows it upon Hollywood with the following comment, "I hope you can use these things… I never really got the hang of it…"

Gretchen curses their luck at having to deal with a god damn tumbler lock at a time like this. Even the most hardened maglock would be a godsend right now, for how obscure these primitive locks seem to have become in the past decades.

Hollywood climbs over the railing and onto the platform. She pulls the rope up after her, leaving it in a coil by her feet for Gretchen. The elf pauses and collects the toolkit from Gretchen, blinking owlishly for a few moments before turning to look at the door. With a sigh, Hollywood comments, "Maybe I could trade you something for this later?"

Quietly Hollywood turns and kneels in front of the door. She quickly pulls out one of the straight bars and a rake. Hollywood inserts the angle bar before inserting the rake so she can pick the lock.

With the only ganger who could have seen suspicious action going on up there now being knocked out in his hovel, the lock takes a minute to crack but finally caves in with a very welcomed final *click*, and an ease to turn the handle open.

"I swear, I'm not normally this… Awful," mutters Hollywood to Gretchen. She takes a minute to pick the lock and get it to click loose. Carefully, Hollywood turns the handle to make sure the lock doesn't reset on her while she returns the picks to the kit. She looks to Gretchen with an arched eyebrow to silently inquire, 'You ready for this?' before she actually moves to open the door proper.

Gretchen's breathing is heavy, to the point that she legitimately seems to be relying on her mask after the exertion of the climb following the rush of near-combat. She moves to re-spool the grapple line back into her launcher, turning away from the lockpicking so as not to be seen out of breath. As she clicks the hook mechanism back into place in the launcher's barrel, she turns back and makes an effort to stifle her breathing once more to a normal level. "You just… hold onto that…" She gestures to the little heavy duty case of picks, wires and tiny ratchety, poke-y implements. One more dip into the bag of tricks, and out comes an ugly, burly-looking machine pistol with a suppression cylinder mounted on the barrel, a flashlight/laser combo mounted on top, and she seems to have removed her right-hand glove at some point. She keeps the weapon concealed from view by any below by pressing her body close to the door, and she eases the hinge of a folding stock back until it snaps into place with a firm but quiet click.

She nods slowly to the elf, ready for some crazy shit to happen, the instant this door pops open.

Wait!

She actually sprays a bit of WD-40 all around the seam of the door, including the knob and any visible hinges beforehand. THEN she nods.

The door /begins/ to creak as it opens, but instantly dies down as the movement allows the WD-40 to coat the metal with some lubricant and silence it for the rest of the way. There's a small win in there for Gretchen. Inside however is much less festive, a floor stained with streaks of red, going brown, going black.. THat's how old some of those are. The pipes and pumps that use to belong here are long gone, replaced by a single stained stainless operating table, with the necessary gagets required to pull off some third-hand surgery, all of it very rinky dink. To the side is the back-up generator to what was once the mechanical room, now it's currently used to power up the equipment, and also keep the large cooler off to the side working. One could open it to confirm what's in there, though the finger stains of blood are a good hint. There's also a shelf with a few wares on it, a cyberhand with some nerve endings still attached to it, a jar with what looks like few brain-wares, some new, some covered in greymatter, a smart link package, some induction pads, etc, etc.

Hollywood finishes putting the picks away in the case and sets the whole kit away in her bomber jacket's interior pocket. She promptly reaches around behind her back and under her jacket to pull an Ares Predator III from its holster, followed by a silencer that just screws right onto the end of the giant pistol's barrel. The redhead lets her jumpy partner lead the way, the elf remaining crouched as she keeps those green eyes of hers peeled.

Gretchen crouch-runs in to the nearest cover, checking left, checking right. She obviously ends up right in the middle of the room by the operating table. She keeps low though, encircling the table as she darts her eyes and her weapon along with, relying on the lowlight contacts at the moment.

Hollywood follows Gretchen into the room, sweeping to the opposite corner with her silenced heavy pistol in hand. The elf relies on her natural low-light vision and the fact that her augmented grace carry her almost as silently as a snowfall. She sweeps her gaze and gun around the machine room several times while she waits for the other boot to fall.

Gretchen gets bold once the room turns out to be dead quiet, and pokes around the shelves… Did we close the door? She hastily moves over to double check the door they entered through, sliding it shut with a solid thunk. She lowers her weapon and pulls out a can of spray paint and proceeds to do a camera check, ready to black out lenses if need be.

Not finding any cameras, Gretchen hastily puts her weapon away and starts trying to MacGyver anything in the chopshop that might contribute to the destruction. She starts piling things on the operating table, including a handful of miniature flares, duct tape, and various containers found throughout the 'clinic'.

"Unless you managed to get ahold of some better fireworks, I think I can manage something here…" She maybe happened to overhear a little bit about some detonators…

Hollywood gathers up all of the cyberware, bagging all of the unused stuff in one bag. The used stuff all goes in another bag. Dorian never did tell them exactly what sort of stuff their client was dealing in for these gangers.

At Gretchen's voice, Hollywood blinks and looks over at her and the pile of improvised explosives. The redhead blinks once or twice before she smiles and shakes her head. Off comes the silencer before Hollywood holsters both parts of the weapon. She quietly produces a pair of radio detonators and rummages around in her pockets until she produces two blocks of C4. Looking around the room, Hollywood can't seem to decide if that's overkill for what they're looking at. With a shrug, Hollywood intones, "Shall we get this party started?"

Gretchen has a freakout moment, turning from one side to the other as though looking for a quick escape when the blocks of c4 are presented. "You…" She seemed about to yell, but then approaches very gently, very cautiously, "You got into a slapfight with a fucking goblin organlegger freak with those in your poooooccckkeeeetttsss, givethemtomeholyshit — SLOW! Slowly, please…"

Hollywood squints at Gretchen. She looks puzzled by Gretchen's terror.

"It's C4. That's a very stable explosive unless we apply an appropriate electrical current or explosive impact. It's not dynamite or nitroglycerine."

Gretchen finds that the blocks are unarmed, but her initial reaction was simply out of fear that they may have been set to blow the entire time. She grips her breather tightly in one hand and sucks air through it like an asthmatic and her inhaler, but calms down (relatively) once they set about rigging the clinic to blow sky high. "I just wanted to be sure that they weren't armed…"

"I'm not a bimbo. I just play one on trid," replies Hollywood. She sighs and shakes her head, hauling their cyberware load to the door. The curse of being a beautiful elf in the modern day and age.

"And I'm not an arsonist. Unless the money's good." Gretchen puts the finishing touches on one of the blocks of plastique and Vader-exhales a deep breath of concentration as she slowly withdraws her faintly trembling hands. She'd kill for a drink right about now. How can people deal with all this shit and just play it cool..? She wipes the sleeve of her coat across her forehead and rises from her position, crouched near the diesel gennie and gives the elf a quick nod as she tightens the clasp of her messenger bag, prepping for a hasty getaway. "I'm ready if you are," she hisses through the vents in her mask.

Somewhere else in the Warrens, Dorian is kicking back a shot of whiskey.

"Definitely time to go," agrees Hollywood. She opens the door back out onto the platform and hauls the sacks of loot with her. The redhead takes a quick look around to make sure they're not about to get shot and then starts making her way up the ladder toward the overhead hatch. Hopefully that's exactly the kind of escape route it appears to be.

The German snaps her wrist, producing a smaller pistol than the Scorpion she entered with, which whips into her palm, ready to react. It's not a silenced weapon, but with the place rigged to blow, remaining covert is basically a non-option in her mind, should force be needed to make an escape. She takes a good look out after H-Dubs makes her way out, then slips the door closed and proceeds to make haste, mentally trying to track how much time is passing on the detonators, but is unable to keep proper count.

Hollywood scales the ladder at as healthy a clip as she can manage, burdened as she is with great and terrible purpose. When she finally reaches the top, Hollywood presses her shoulders against the sewer grate and, hopefully, pries open the final impediment to their escape. Once she's on solid ground again, Hollywood can get out the remote for the radio detonators they left behind.

For Gretchen's part, she's fixated on counting in reverse to distract herself from the matter at hand, but in the heat of the moment, she finds it extremely difficult to maintain a proper count. She loses a few digits, rolls back from 322 to 340 and resumes, but keeps losing her mark. Regardless of her confusion in trying to keep track of a supposed timer that is actually a manual radio detonator, she manages to follow to street level, and out of morbid curiosity, invites herself along to be present when Hollywood pulls the trigger…

Gretchen perks her ears in the hopes of hearing the blast in the distance…

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