Soundtrack: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J0MYYQ0ymYo


Driving north increases the property value of the Night City combat zone.  The closer to the old University District the (slightly) less shitty the world gets.  The neighborhood The Molt sits in isn't far as the crow flies.  When navigating dead end streets, rubble piles, and ongoing gang fights, it takes a little longer than intuition would assume.

"The Molt," Viceroy intones in the collective ears of the edgerunners.  "The club shows up here and there in screamsheets.  Usually listing a band which goes by the clever moniker 'Fuck 'til Oblivion.'  Latest news was three weeks ago, posted by a reviewer who called the rotted autoshop decor 'the most splendid urban decay I've seen since the 2030s.'  And this is outside the combat zone."  A photo drops in the agent feed of a massive twelve bay industrial auto shop with rusted metal doors reinforced by crossed steel I-beams in an X fashion over ten of the doors.  One of the unobstructed doors sits open facing Janissary with crowd of the cybernetic aficionados milling about in front.  The other unobstructed door opens onto Stein and looks like a service entrance, a few specimens of muscle hanging out for security. Nothing has been done to shore up the outside appearance.  Rust ubiquitous.

"Looking through the city data, this fine establishment has a recorded body count of zero, which based on the clientele, strikes me as statistically unlikely," Viceroy continues.  "Last owner on file was one Erin Murray, but that was twenty years ago.  Squatters' rights now most likely.  If you want real time I'm going to have to reposition, might take a couple of hours."

While Viceroy talks, Cruz navigates and steers their rental west on Janissary.  Reconstruction is underway, the once hip area trying once again to become relevant.  The crew passes heavy equipment parked for the day, taking a break from renewal through annihilation.  Traffic starts to decrease as the car nears Stein, the packs of civilians on the street picking up a more furtive stance, shoulders hunched and refusing to make eye contact.  Then the Maelstrom crews start appearing, individual scouts, then crews of 3-4, easy to spot with their obvious modifications and gang graffiti.  One block from Stein, there's almost a gang cordon: a larger group of maybe five Maelstrom facing west, towards The Molt.   Then nothing.  Whatever is down there, the gang doesn't like it.

When the club itself comes into view, it matches the photo perfectly.  One obviously cybernetic individual that has to be teetering on the edge of psychosis works the door, not so much preventing people from going in as making sure they are cool enough, or warning them what to expect.  Civilians under various drugs lounge against the building.  Cyberware common on everyone.  Most of it raw and ugly.

Cruz steers north onto Steiner giving the crew a view of the service entrance.  A pair of vans matching the model of their target are parked in front of the roll up door, the door partly open but serviced by two more muscle and a few workers carrying crates of alcohol or other fine liquids into the club.  A block away and another crew of Maelstrom hangs, watching for movement from The Molt.

"Dafuq?" Martin queries semi-rhetorically.  "This feels like containment.  When did Maelstrom develop a schism?"

He pauses uncomfortably.  "And, I hate to even say this, but I wonder if it's something we can exploit."

Kenji frowns at the prospect, however unlikely, of working with Maelstrom, but perhaps that's not what Whisper's suggesting. He puts that aside for the moment, focuses instead on the building.

"I imagine a big garage's got to have a pretty open floor plan inside. Not a great place to hide a hostage," or chop her up, he doesn't say. "... especially if they're using it as a concert venue. Place like that got a basement or something?" Kenji asks, the question directed mainly at Cruz. Although he's uncomfortable falling back on stereotypes, Kenji figures any self-respecting nomad's probably got at least some first-hand garage experience*. While he waits/listens, Kenji starts texting Viceroy a request for blueprints for whatever business eventually devolved into The Molt. Hopefully the city has still has an old set on file.

*OOC: AFAIK, we haven't shared respective PC background info IC.

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This message was last edited by the player at 21:21, Fri 22 Jan 2021.

"Yeah, it probably has several service bays, which means a dark, oily basement.  Usually stairs down somewhere to a large open area, with man-sized trenches above that the vehicle drives over.  Those are probably covered up now.  In the original config they'll have drums to hold used oil, extra filters, giant compressor tank, and extra parts, probably some porn poster... shit like that down in the basement*.  Could easily hold a hostage down there in most that I've seen."

wow, I'm getting to leverage weekends working at Jiffy Lube during EMT school at FTCC for this one... <checks Honda scar - yep, faded but still there>

"Let's walk it back," Martin muses, as much to organize his own thoughts as for any benefit his partners might derive.  "Daphne's out clubbing with her input.  Our assholes have a two-person surveillance team on the club.  They mark her for the snatch team and stay on her when she and the input leave.  The snatch team is two heavies and a driver, staged nearby with a van, but they're relying on surveillance chick's less-lethal implant to quiet Daphne down.  The input is collateral damage, they didn't pause to give him a message."

He thinks for a moment. "Assume they're all fitted with implant weapons.  We've seen three of five and, well, it's Maelstrom.  The heavies are wired for speed too.  Also, they're running internal comms."  He taps his own temple for emphasis.  "No dialogue.

"The vans are used for deliveries.  So they go other places too.  The dock back there?  They're carrying liquor in.  So they don't take deliveries from a distributor, they go get the booze from a shop or warehouse on their own.  Probably no one wants to be seen delivering to them, but point being, they might have another property where those vans go on the regular, too.  So our girl might not be on site here.  Do we have a good way to tag and track those vans?"

Maybe Cruz has some sort of tracker on him, Kenji hopes. If not, the team can tail one of the vans in the rental, see where it goes.

"Once we find out where she is- whether it's here or somewhere else- we can maybe use one of those vans to get in close, and/or for evac."

Looking at the rusty girders welded over the majority of the closed bay doors, Kenji wonders out loud, "Could all that rusty iron act as a faraday cage, block electronic signals?"

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This message was last edited by the player at 18:07, Sat 23 Jan 2021.

"Track those vans..." Cruz thought about it for a sec, then said, "I'll pull over, someone else can take the wheel."  He didn't care who.

He moved to the backseat, where he'd ditched his gear bag.  Inside, he pulled out a disposable cellphone.  As he held it in his left hand, the fingers of his cybernetic right hand erupted into a plethora of specialized tools.  Within a minute, the phone case was opened and various chips and circuit board pathways were re-soldered.  30 seconds later, the phone was mostly reassembled.

Next a roll of duct taped was produced and Alex pulled off a large strip and folded back on itself.

"Ok, place this on the inside of the bumper.  Phone will send a carrier signal that will be triangulated by tower, which Viceroy should be able to pull for us with this IMEI code," Cruz said, sending a long string of numbers for his regular mobile device.

"Outstanding," Kenji exclaims, turning Cruz Control's first improvised tracking device over in his hands. "Now we just got to install 'em without being noticed. A diversion would be good, but something that won't inspire our marks to beef up security, case this still ends up being the place they're keeping her."

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This message was last edited by the player at 22:46, Sat 23 Jan 2021.

"Working on it," Viceroy responds to the inquiry on the building's blueprints.  "Nothing in that neighborhood is current, but it's possible I can locate some legacy plans."

Choosing a spot a hundred meters or so north of the The Molt on Steiner, Kenji steers their rental to stop in the parking lot of a burned out Circle-11.  Whisper and Kentucky slide out, each with one of Cruz's improvised tracking devices in their jacket pockets.  The duo spends a few minutes roughing their appearance up a bit to fit into the clientele the neighborhood attracts before starting their walk back south to implant the devices.  Left alone for the second time this evening, Cruz spends a few seconds digging through the vehicle's emergency kit to produce a pair of red magnesium road flares, the discriminating gentleman's choice for distraction enhancement.

At the opening of the emergency kit, the car's central computer pings once.  "You have opened the roadside emergency equipment container," the prerecorded message says.  "Do you require assistance?  State 'yes' or 'no' and roadside or medical assistance will be dispatched to your location as you require."

Kenji and Whisper enter the trickle of residents walking down the sidewalk down towards The Molt.  It's not busy here, but the pass of people is steady.  Steady enough to give them a bit of cover.  Approaching the club, the pair can make out a steady bass beat, almost subsonic, hard enough to reverberate through the ground and bounce through their chests, but no other sound comes through the walls or open door.  No music.  No crowd noises.

Two bouncers lean on the wall on either side of the roll up door, each sporting various mods to make them more physically imposing.  A few thinner, but still modded, "helpers" are still hustling crates of alcohol out of the vans and into the club.  Kenji's practiced eye can see that flesh around much of the the cyberware the helpers are packing is inflamed, signs of gear newly installed.

Whatever is going on inside the entrance remains out of sight.

Coming up on the vans, they're ready for Cruz's distraction.

"No," Cruz firmly responded to the vehicle as a plan started to come to mind.

He moved to the front of the vehicle and popped the hood.  He rippled off a small piece of fabric from a bandana, then pulled the dip stick and smeared oil (or battery gel if this an electrical vehicle) across it.  Next he scoped out a suitable place to place it under the vehicle, where it was unlikely to start a real fire, but would send smoke up through the engine compartment.

The first flare started up with a satisfying 'PRRRZZZHHHTTT' sound. Cruz left it in contact with the small oily rag until it caught fire and started to produce a flame.  He then tossed the flare forward and deployed the second flare to the rear after igniting it as well.

With the hood open, black smoke now rising from the engine compartment, and two road flares out, now came the mix of loud vulgarity as Cruz started to make knife hand motions toward the engine compartment.  Cruz could curse like a sailor, because he was a sailor.

An epic stream of profanity, in both Spanish and English echoed forth, as Alex publicly cast doubt on the martial status of everyone involved in the assembly of this vehicle.

As the black smoke continued, Cruz continued as well.  More yelling at the engine.  More gesticulation.  It culminated in a most profane and pornographic crescendo.

Alexander Cruz leapt onto the bumper, pulled out his manhood, then began to urinate into the engine compartment, yelling and cursing the whole time.
This message was last edited by the player at 06:32, Tue 26 Jan 2021.

Kenji waits until Cruz starts fuming before moving, casually but purposefully, towards the vans. It's hard not to watch the performance. The former combat medic keeps one eye on the objective, the other on the Maelstrom security by the garage entrance. As soon as the gangoons' attention is elsewhere, Kenji takes a knee as though he's going to tie his shoes (a pair of throwback Air Jordans), keeping the bulk of the van between himself and the Maelstromers, and then attempts to fasten the ersatz tracker to the inside of the vehicle's plastic bumper (or other available nook offering a secure purchase and some concealment)...

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This message was last edited by the player at 19:50, Tue 26 Jan 2021.

Martin moves in on Cruz's signal, too, matching Kenji's casual pace.  He reaches into his jacket for a pack of cigarettes, fumbles the first one out of the pack, crouches to retrieve it with a hand on the van's front bumper to steady himself -

- tucks the disarticulated burner phone under the front edge of the van's skidplate with a firm press to adhere the tape -

- stands up, lights up, and falls back into formation with Kenji.  Unless an observer actually has eyes on them and is timing them, human perception will elide the brief pause in their movement.  At least, that's the theory.

"... that may be the most unexpected tactical use of a Mr. Studd that I've ever witnessed..." he sends on the team channel.

Kenji has to stifle a laugh. "Hold up. You mean that wasn't the first and only time?" he asks, ribbing his partner.

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This message was last edited by the player at 05:06, Wed 27 Jan 2021.

Cruz continues to emit a stream of both urine and profanity, drawing eyeballs and attention from up and down the street.  The two Maelstrom goons move away from the door a little, heads turning to focus on the show being put on for their benefit.    As Cruz whips out his technological tool (in what might as well be an add for An Evening with Mr. Studd at this point), Kenji and Martin whip our theirs.  The duo drop down as casually as they can, attach the cellphones, and rise before starting to move away.  Stress drops away, humor returning at the thought of Cruz's show.

At a distance of maybe ten feet from the van, a voice yells out at them:  "Hey, the fuck you think you're doing?  Think you can just fuck with our shit and walk away?"

Turning at the sound of the voice, Kenji gets an eye full of pissed of Boosterganger standing at the front of the van pointing at a dent in the hood Kenji is positive was there before he knelt down to attach the phone.

The Maelstromer starts to advance, cracking his knuckles and flexing cybernetic muscles.  His partner in security postures up, but doesn't advance. "Need me to teach you some manners, Gonk?"

Kenji backpedals, raises his hands in gesture of surrender,  protests, "I didn't touch it! I swear! I wouldn't mess with you guys!" He's playing up the hapless gonk angle. If the pissed-off gangoon's attention is on him, it's not on Whisper or Cruz Control.  And, so far, there's no iron in play.

Kenji's main goal at the moment is to avoid conflict. A fight now is only going to make the main job harder. He's not above turning and running away, if that's what it takes.

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This message was last edited by the player at 23:23, Wed 27 Jan 2021.

Martin is about to deploy an anecdote from one interesting night at the Disposable Hero when the Maelstromer makes it clear that egress isn't going to go smoothly.  He delays his halt and pivot just enough to look a little slow on the uptake - normal people need processing time, whispers the voice of his cyberintegration therapist - and takes a couple of steps away from the incipient beatdown while watching.  He's a bystander, one torn between self-preservation and wanting to see what happens next.

"Kentucky's got soft contact.  Stand by to pick us up a few blocks away," he sends silently.

With one hand filled, Cruz checked his vibrating agent with the other.  'Roger,' Alexander replied.  He put his phone back in his pocket and his dick back in his pants.  He gave a few mumbled curses, then stepped down, closed the hood, then returned to the driver's seat.  He cranked the vehicle then drove off, jamming to brakes a few times, to give the illusion that the car was stuttering.

Once clear of the scene, he flipped a bitch then pulled down a side street and texted the location back to Lowell.

A hundred kilos of cybernetically enhanced muscle laughs at the cringing display that Kenji puts on.  Whatever the future candidate for psychosis gets out of his alpha-male signaling seems to scratch the itch for violence.  As Kenji scampers and Whisper hustles away, the security man laughs loud and forced.

"You see this Micky?  You see this?  Fear.  I see fear.  You better run!"  The ganger laughs again, the sound taking on the quality of a braying donkey getting fucked by a pinball machine.  He doesn't pursue the medic down the street, allowing the trio of edgerunners to reunite in the planning of their next moves.

With a few minutes to work, Viceroy drops another data squirt into their agents. "Data for this neighborhood is out of date.  The corps engaging in construction aren't filing permits in the public domain, but as luck would have it the original permit for the garage The Molt occupies was filed in the way-back.  There isn't a sewer, per se, but there is an underground electrical vault located underneath Janissary that provides the main power feed to the garage.  Most access is through reinforced steel plating at ground level, but you may be able to gain access to the vault through the basement in the building across the street.  They share the same power requirements."

Three sets of eyes flick up the street to the building Viceroy mentions:  A partially collapsed machinist shop looking like it's been taken over as a squat for a population of...someone.

"Break through door A," Viceroy intones, "move through the utility space.  Break through door B.  I give it a 70/30 that the access point is still there."
This message was last edited by the GM at 16:46, Mon 01 Feb 2021.

"Fucking with the power is also a pretty good distraction," Martin muses.  "Problem is, a bunch of dudes with cyberoptics, odds are pretty good that at least some of 'em are running themoptics.  So we can use it for a diversion but can't count on it to help with stealth."

"Could we overload it to make kinda like a mini-EMP, maybe fry their optics?" It's probably wishful thinking, but maybe Cruz or Viceroy know how to make something like that happen. "Anyway, I hope she's in there," Kenji says, referring to the The Molt currently shrinking in the rental's rear view mirrors, "Or we're gonna have to run another area recon from scratch. Any movement on the vans yet?"

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This message was last edited by the player at 19:31, Sun 31 Jan 2021.

"Like a Techtronica Microwaver?" Cruz said, referring to the only weapon system made by the defunct but famous microwave oven manufacturer.  "You see them every now and then at midnight markets.  You can find EMP ammo too, but these are all reactive solutions and they definitely will alert these guys."

"Gibson IR combat cloak.  Or something like it.  That's what we need," Cruz said has he turned over some ideas in his head.

"Some canvas or another thick cloth draped could spread your thermal signature out in a blob.  Make the human figure less distinct.  And just before you go in, I could pop one of those old transformers out there with an overload when we shut down the power.  Would do two things - one, make the power outage look less suspicious.  Two, create a searing white hot thermal image.  For the next few minutes, they'd likely have an after image in their optics, especially if they are lower end tech.  Like when you look directly at the sun and then try to look at anything else.  Two slow moving thermal blobs might just be dismissed as after image effects."

"Might..." Alex repeated.

With Viceroy looped into the comms, there isn't much of a delay on requests for intel.  At least for intel that is readily available.

"Negative movement on the vans.  I have strong signal quality and let you know if they start to move."

As long as dirty deeds are being committed in the world, the world will have a place for seedy motels.  Especially popular are the establishments that charge their would be customers by the hour for whatever nefarious (or just debauched) activity that needs planned or executed.  Three blocks from The Molt, our three Edgerunners check into an hourly flop house, exchanging extremely false credentials for a room key with an extremely not interested teenager who would rather be staring at his Agent than looking at his customers.  Maybe he just doesn't care.  Maybe at the tender age of seventeen, Jordan has learned that honest denial is a potent form a self defense.

The room itself is about fifteen feet square with a closet that serves as a bathroom.  On top of the bare, if heavily stained, mattress sits a vacuum packed bag of sterilized (if the label can be believed) sheets and pillows.  A locked steel cylinder waits in the corner of the room next to a pair of folding metal chairs, ready to receive "used" linens so that no human hands actually have to touch soiled laundry.  If the people staying here can be bothered to follow instructions.  If they can't, the sign above the can points to the ten eddie fee for clean up.

The vidscreen on the wall turns itself on when the door opens, immediately filling the room with sounds of hardcore pornography, a blond on the screen receiving the enthusiastic attention of a Mr. Studd eerily similar to the one Cruz has been putting on display all evening.  The video dispels all doubt as to the commonly used purpose of the room.

With the vidscreen silenced, the three men in the sordid motel room slide into various states of dozing and/or sleep.  Years of experience allow their caffeinated minds to slip into a half-aware fugue state where time passes but they remain cognizant of emerging threats.

At 0512, Viceroy clicks through on their agents.

"Good morning gents," the Netrunner says, her own voice twitchy with caffeine or some other substance. "Your targets are now in motion, tracking east/south east."  Viceroy dumps a copy of her feed to the agents, sharing what she's seeing on her screen.  A basic satellite map of Night City emerges, two superimposed blinking dots (obviously traveling together) start tracking eat, before turning to avoid the Old Corporate Center.  They pass through the Glen, studiously doing the speed limit, before entering Old Japan Town.  Their ultimate destination is a large almost modern day steel pagoda structure right at the border of the Old Japantown Combat Zone and the Hot Zone of the Old Corporate Center.

"Stand by a sec."  The sounds of a keyboard receiving instructions leak through the feed.  "Okay, here's the most up to date scan of that area.  We're looking at about three weeks ago." The picture blinks, replaced with a day time top down satellite pic of the pagoda.  It's seen better days, but it's also been given over to a fortress like façade.  Not unusual that close to the Hot Zone.  A concrete wall as been erected around the parking lot, blurring images on top of the wall suggesting razor wire.  Five or six vans sit in the lot.  "I've already started a search on the address.  I'll update as I gather."

Kenji rubs his eyes, stretches. Stifling a second yawn, he observes, "Maelstrom's suppliers are early risers,"The vans' departure time strikes him as being odd.

He studies the satellite images of the pagoda-like structure Viceroy's beamed over. If I was holding someone hostage, I think I'd pick this place over a after hours club in a former garage. It's practically an urban castle."

Conversely, that means he'd rather break into the former than the latter.

"Fancy going on another site-seeing expedition?" Kenji asks. He's glad for a reason to leave the sordid squalor of the hourly-rate motel- until he remembers the smell clinging to the interior of the rental car.

This gig' not getting any easier.

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This message was last edited by the player at 22:27, Fri 05 Feb 2021.