Liberty or Death Between Missions

They say that the world is alive. That it has a soul, a pulse, a breathe that stirs and strives. Separate and divided from the residents who walk upon it by sheer scale and time frame, but so intimately connected and vulnerable.

In much the same way, on a long enough time scale, one could say Tulsa is alive as well. A small seedling of civilization that flurished in an untamed but bountiful land. Roads spread forth like creeping vines, thickening as more and more vital movement occured along them. Like a glorious metal flower it blossomed, unfurling modern roads, buildings curling towards the blue heavens like yearning fingers. Its blood was currency, its heart was the thumping rhythm of the business clacks, with the swirling eddies of people as its conductive fluids, sparkling nerves shivering along telephone wires and along sewer lines. But as the world has sickened, as the blood of civilization has turned to its poison, Tulsa has grown old and embittered. Unstable tresses of corpulent corruption settle themselves upon the ever weakening backs of the Damned who are forced to slave for its sake, a decaying underbelly ready to split and spill the fetid growth across the Oklahoma plains. Too much has been lost, that cannot be regained. Youth has been spent, leaving only faint memories and a harsh, destructive reality. Life is bought and sold for the price of a single bullet.

Tulsa has gone rabid, frothing at the mouth - smiling grimly around flecks of foam as it desperately pretends nothing is amiss. The wilderness, awakened and vicious, has begun to creep in on the edges of civility once again, just as mad as its original conquerer. There can be no status quo, not anymore.

It is shown in the nervous glances across the boardroom floors. It is evidenced in the shaking hands of a low ranking Knight Errant, shoulders hunched against an unknown enemy. It pours from the souls who, with heads down, hurry home before dark. It shines from the mad eyes of a ganger, for whom sixteen is three years too many, and the future is a concept to be destroyed, not grasped.

It would only take a flame. A flicker. A spark.

And somewhere in this city, people are playing with matches....

Really, Lou should have known better. Scrrritch-fffffft! Who knows where she even got the matchbook in the first place. More than likely it was something else she had dug out of a far corner of the old warehouse. That had been her hobby, her obsession even since she first arrived at the hideout. The 'hiding' part of hideout was something she still struggled to wrap her head around, as living inside buildings was new to her. It had a certain appeal, sure; how could she say 'no' to having cover above from the sun and rain, and shields on all sides to fend off the wind? The only problem was the darkness... the sparse dangling faded LED bulb hardly enough to provide the sort of even lighting she was used to seeing. Instead, she had to deal with a sea of of dimly lit interior with islands of illumination.

Perhaps that's why the ancient matchbook held so much interest for her. Or maybe it was just the puzzle aspect to it. The thing came with no instructions, curiously empty to Lou's mental prodding, no ARO in sight. She tried tapping it, double tapping it, even tapping with her right hand, but nothing elicited a help file or tutorial pop-up. It was very disappointing how poorly documented the uncovered artifacts usually were, but at the same time the fresh slate provided an opportunity to figure things out herself. First she dissected the matchbook, staring in awe at the tiny sticks inside with their red covered heads. They looked like little people, all with the same hairdo. Lou felt sorry for them, all conforming to some abstract ideal and unable to express themselves. Carefully at first, she removed one of the sticks, and began scratching it against the black line on the box, and sure enough the red started to come off! Encouraged by the progress, Lou scraped faster, intent on the cosmetic makeover... and that's when the little stick person exploded.

The first match she dropped, crying out in a startled and distraught yelp. The fire quickly died down, leaving Lou to wonder if she had imagined the whole thing. But the proof was there before her, a withered black match-head! Fingers shaking, she reached into the box and pulled out a second match and repeated the process, starting slow and speeding up until it too burst into flames. This time Lou managed to hold onto it, and only jumped back a few inches. Isaac looked up at her from the ground with a bemused look, her Welsh Corgi companion keeping an eye on her even as he tried to sleep.

Eventually it developed into a game for Lou, lighting the matches and watching them burn down (or up or whatever direction she held it). The most interesting part was determining what it took to ignite the flammable material. Certain substances seemed to work while others just slid by harmlessly. Once more, curiosity got the better of her, and Lou ran over to the stairs, arms out beside her as she weaved her way to the second floor. Isaac watched her go and even halfway stood up, but when she stepped onto the stairs he laid back down as if to announce that he was passing responsibility for her on to someone else. Into... Sparkler's lair!

That's what she called it, at least. This part of the warehouse was off-limits, so Lou would have to be sneaky. And sneak she did... until she found Sparkler. Then she walked up to him, waving around two hands curled into fists, each with matches stuffed between every pair of fingers. "Lou has discovered firesticks! Make big fire now? Cook food and sing songs?" She glanced about, looking for anything that might be firewood or even remotely flammable, her destructive intent plainly evident in her impish grin and the playful gleam in her eyes.

Scrrritch-fffffft!
Hansel didn't smoke. It was unhealthy and really icky. But, that didn't mean he couldn't appreciate the usefulness of a fine cigar. For one thing, cigars stay hot for a long time.
Tossing the burnt out match on the concrete floor, Hansel turns to the bound figure in the chair, his small hand grasping the glowing tobacco.
"So, mister. How about we play a new game?"
A choked whimper sounds through the air. Hansel had, by now, learned a lot about the tied up man. He knew what he had been told: that the prisoner was a pawn of the establishment and had useful information about key corp personnel. He knew the man screamed very loudly if you tore off his fingernails with pliers. He knew that the man really didn't enjoy at all the game that involved breaking his kneecaps, though the fellow seemed to be okay with the game with the needles. Or, he didn't scream as loudly, anyways, though that may have to do with the fact that the first needle had damaged his voice box in such a way that he could no longer speak or scream above a hoarse whisper. Hansel knew that hot things made the man talkative, while sharp things just made him incoherent. Blunt things just made him quiet. Red hot nails worked very well, but Hansel had run out of those by now.
There was also much that Hansel did not know about the man. Hansel didn't know about the man's pregnant wife, or that his elderly mother was sick with Alzheimer's, or that he was basically a decent man who had never even once in his life ever meant to hurt anybody.

Even if he did know, Hansel wouldn't have cared.

A raw sizzling fills the air, followed by a hoarse, hollow scream. Hansel, lips curled in a sleepy grin, peers at the prisoner's face. On the cheek, a perfectly round black burn bloomed, still smoking. The little boy, dressed in white pajamas that were now splashed with red stains, leans in and inhales deeply. The smell of burning flesh was so lovely.

A voice crackles over a nearby speaker. "Mr. Marco, this would all go much easier for you if you simply told us what we want to know."

Scrrritch-fffffft!
Bishop held the lit match in front of him, concentrating intently. He let go of it, but he would not let it fall to the floor. The lit match passed through an obstacle course of strings, avoiding the slightest singe it floated towards the tip of a scented candle though the force of his will. The candle flared; releasing sweet smelling lavender and of setting the frigid room, which was colder than a witch’s teat due to the air conditioner stuck at a certain temperature. This elaborate candle lighting procedure was one of the many magic exercises he learned from the Vatican. All of these ranged in difficulty from ‘easy but time consuming’ to ‘like trying to thread a needle with your ass’.
These exercises helped him think about what to do next. Tulsa was a wretched hive of scum and villainy and even that doesn’t hold a candle to the corps that bled the place constantly. Bishop researched many solutions to this issue. Anarchy was the most prominent and effective answer he could find. Gandhi was an anarchist, to bishop’s surprise. However, being peaceful about the changes that needed to occur wasn’t going to work. Not on Tulsa.
“Good thing I’m not exactly a peaceful person.” Bishop remarked. He put on his coat, and headed outside. Off to save the world. One ruined capitalist organization at a time.

Sparkler had spent the afternoon preparing several improvised Bangalore Torpedos - sliding two sticks of dynamite down a length of pipe with the end stoppered shut, and making sure they would detonate simultaneously. When he spotted movement in his peripheral vision, he glanced over and almost dropped the torpedo he was working on in surprise as he saw Lou standing there - then did drop it the six inches to the top of the workbench when he saw what was in her hands. Jumping up from his stool, he turned and moved to intercept Lou, almost tripping over an open box still mostly full of sticks of dynamite. Calling out to the girl, his voice seemed rather higher-pitched than normal, whether out of surprise or fear, Lou couldn't tell. "Lou! How many times have I told you not to come up here without asking me? Ack... firesticks? You mean matches? Please... get them out of my lab - you don't want to bring the whole building down, do you?"

Reaching the girl, he took a loose grip on her wrist, and with his other hand, he attempted to remove the matches from her grip. After a moment, he realized that this probably wasn't going to work, and opted instead to get her out of the lab as quickly as possible. Taking her over to the door and stairs, he continues in a more normal tone of voice. "Now then... why don't you go back downstairs, and I'll come up with something for you to light on fire, without damaging anything."

In the midst of the energetic struggle for the contents of her fist, Lou stared in wonder at the newly named phenomenon. "A match?" Sparkler shook loose all the little sticks from one hand, but that snapped Lou out of her reverie, and she suddenly laughed at the game. The grip on her arm backfired on Sparkler as she used it to hoist herself up onto his shoulders, hanging on his back like a lazy bull rider. All the while she called out in an exaggerated contralto, "Lou found a shiny match, Sparkler's jealous, gonna snatch!" Eventually he maneuvered them over to the lab door, and Lou knew what that meant. Her stringy body relaxed and she leaned all the way back, holding onto Sparkler with just her legs around his stomach. She held that awkward pose until she could plant her hands on the ground and keep her balance once she let go.

Obediently she hand-walked out of the lab and to the stairs where she finally collapsed, lying down on the steps belly up staring at the ceiling. Then, with all the grace and speed of a glacier, Lou began sliding down the stairway, one tier at a time. At the top of the stairs, Sparkler was left to discover at his own convenience the crown of matches deftly hidden in his hair.

It was a several hours and a few changes of clothing before the interview was complete and Hansel and Gretel were finally able to go home. Gretel didn't those men very much. They paid her, but money meant little to her. More toys, yes, but there was a limit to how much she needed, really. Mostly, they were rude, and they kept interrupting her playtime with questions.

She closes the door behind her.

The condo is a strange looking place. At first glance, it is large and tastefully decorated, filled with chandeliers and red and gold carpets and lush curtains. The entire home is lit with soft orange light, which gently illuminates the paintings and scrolls on the walls. Here and there are vases, many sitting on a pedestal or a table. Yet, the refined veneer is broken by the dolls and stuffed animals that are shrewn about: soft rabbits, little rag dolls, all manner of soft toys litter the corners and tables. Many of the toys are missing a button or have stuffing leaking out, a testament to a child's incautious hand. Odder still, many of the tables have boxes of bullets or a few knives laying on them. On the dining room table a disassembled laser sight, an empty clip, and a grenade lay on a white cloth, which is checkered with black stains. On the kitchen counter, next to a small doll lies a long fineblade knife, glinting wickedly in the light.
The little girl pads into the bedroom, where she takes off the cello case she had slung on her back, setting it down on the bed. She moves to open it, when her commlink bleeps. The young, careworn face of a Japanese man pops up.
Gretel's drowsy smile suddenly lights up, her eyes shining. "Rock!"

The sky weeps upon Tulsa this day, thick and greasy droplets of rain that leave grey streaks of ash along the less-than-pristine walls around the Industrial section. Rain that does not trickle so much as thud, low hanging thunderclouds brushing the tops of the largest megascrappers - as if the very air were bruised by the invading towers. Liquid slinks across the city, eventually a distant drumming across a far more expansive condo, filled with toys - for killer and child.

It sluices downwards in another part of the rotting city, as if affronted a member of the Ripoff Church would dare set foot out under the waning light of day. Each individual drop pushing against his shoulders with every hit, causing a slightly caustic buildup certain to cause rashes on flesh that remains exposed too long.

It rattles and bangs on tin roofing and cardboard boxing that is the home of the less fortunate, thick black puddles and streams that weave their way around the detritus of society - whether candy wrapper or long forgotten body, hidden in a back alley. And, not more than a half-mile away the offical zone of the Industrial District, sits a particular forgotten warehouse - shadowed by the overhang of I-40. The rain announces its arrival with a muted growl of thunder, the water impatiently stuttering across the warehouse roof, as if following Lou's sliding descent down the stairs.

It soaks into the vivid green hair of Loco Nails, two blocks away, whose blood shot eyes tale stories of crazed addiction that can not be hid with long sleeves and adhesive strips. Lightning flashes, lighting up a vision filled with greed, envy, and rage. That gaze is joined by another. Two more. Three more. And, the pack gathered, the hustled bodies scurry onward into another's 'territory', the sound of metal chains and pipes clinking gently amongst this unruley gathering.

Thunder always was a great time for murder.

"Hi, Gretel. How have you been?" Rock's gentle voice drifted out of the commlink. Gretel smiles. Rock was a good man. He was always so kind.
"Gooood," She says, drawing out the word, her voice sing-song. "I helped some people ask questionz, and fey paid me afterward. I didn't like fem very much, fough. fey were very rude." As she spoke, a slight Germanic accent creeps into her speech. She pouts, expressing her disapproval of the rude men.
Rock frowns. He didn't know what this job involved, but knowing her it was nothing good. He wished he could do more for her, but violence and death have been Gretel's life for some time. It would take time to heal that kind of damage. One step at a time.
"Gretel, are you lonely?"
Gretel puts one finger on her cheek and frowns, as if pondering some deep philosophical question. "Mmmm...I don't know. What doez lonely feel like?"
"Lonely is what you feel when you don't want to be alone, Gretel. Don't you want to meet other children your age?" Rock gave a silent prayer. He wasn't much of a believer, but he figured he would need all the help he could get to make sure this didn't end in disaster.
Gretel looks slightly confused, as if not fully comprehending, but she nods anyways.
Rock smiles. "Well, here's an address. I know you've had a lot of involvement with Anarchists lately, and I can't always be there to look out for you. If you go, you can make some more friends. Wouldn't that be fun?" On the word "fun", his smile falters a little bit. He knew all too well Gretel's idea of "fun". Still, this might help her. An address pops up on her commlink, showing the location of an out-of-the-way two-story warehouse owned by someone named "Sparkler".
Gretel giggles and claps her hands together. "Sparkler!" she exclaims, her laughter like tinkling glass. "Okay, Rock! Brother and I will go now. Byyyyeeee...." The commlink shuts off, cutting off Rock before he could say any more.

A few minutes later, the condo contained no knives, no grenades, and fewer bullets. A little helmeted figure in a black dress speeds away on a motorcycle, a cello case on her back.

“Rain drops, falling on my head” Bishop sang as he strolled down the darkened street. He pulled his hood further over his head to keep the polluted rain from getting in his pale blue eyes. Being legally blind in sunlight is one thing, having an eye infection and then blindness is another. He would be riding his bike, but where he was going was only 4 blocks from where he lived, and his lay about sister decided that she needed transportation to her next most likely doomed job interview uptown.

When you’re an anarchist priest off to save the world from tyranny and adopt a small state theological idealistic rein, you come to realize that one person can’t do that. So you get a few remotely like minded individuals to help you. That’s how he was introduced to Sparkler, whose place of residence was his next destination. Bishop placed him as a tad odd, but you’re welcome to your quirks in this day and age; especially given the raw bounding energy that bunked with him.

The warehouse came into view. Bishop couldn’t shake the feeling that stuff was about to hit the fan. He however dismissed it, under the grounds of that sort of thing happens more than twice a day and that he might be the one to cause it today. He approached and knocked on the door; waiting to be let in.

Sparkler was halfway back across to his workbench when the security system gave the beep code that said somebody was at the front door. Turning on the spot, he went back to the stairs and started down, calling to his energetic roommate "Hey Lou, could you check to see who's at the door?" Halfway down the stairs, he realized that his hair felt weird, and reached up to see what was wrong. Encountering the circle of matches Lou had left there, he sighed in amused exasperation, and pulled them out, dropping them in his shirt pocket for later. Reaching the bottom of the stairs, he grabs the belt with his pistol and holster, and buckles it around his waist as he starts across the floor, towards the front door.

Bump, bump, bump, bump, bump, thud, bumpety-bump. "Wa-ah-ah-ah-ah," Lou let the jolt of sliding down the stairs make her voice go choppy, and laughed as she reached the bottom. "Door has a person, somebody for us!" Lou leaned back and planted her feet on either side of her head, and stood up like a flower blooming. She did a slight flourish, arms gesturing outwards above her. Only the dog was in a place to spot her, and he merely gave her the lazy sideways look of a dog unamused. Lou shook her head disapprovingly, waving a finger in Isaac's direction. "Lazy doggie sleeps all day, misses out on all the play." Once more it delivered a piercing glance, this time with eyes narrowed grudgingly. Then it stood up and plodded heavily over to the warehouse door, Lou following along after at a skipping pace.

In front of Bishop, the door produced an odd scratching, scrambling sound. It happened once, and stopped. Then again... then a third time and a click. The door unlatched and drifted inward, giving him an opening although the door remained only a few inches ajar. After a few seconds it became apparent nothing else was going to happen.

As the door creaked open, a flapping sound rolls out from one corner of the warehouse floor. It was soon followed by a deep guttural growl. The lightless corner was illuminated by a 22' by 52' rectangle of flickering screen. The image of a clear rectangle with a wide black outline that repeated itself was produced by a 20th century reeled movie projector. The soft flapping came from the tip of the last reel licking against the edge of the projector.

A massive black paw collided clumsily against the side of the projector, until it managed to depress the off button. The paw was connected to the streamlined form of a large black panther. The cat's mouth opened to reveal a gaping maw of teeth, as a lazy yawn echoed from it's throat. It turned it's large green eyes towards the door. Jinx hadn't heard anything about any visitors. Of course Jinx never really bothered with such details. He preferred to let the fleshies deal with fleshy business, while he enjoyed the leisure of his home theater system.

After a nice long stretch, followed by another deep yawn, the cat padded towards the door. Maybe it was another job opportunity. Jinx only had twelve movies left in his collection that he hadn't yet watched. With his lack of a need to sleep, eat, defecate, or rest in any other mundane form, it would not take long for him to exhaust hi current supply.

Gretel stopped at a light, eyes glancing around. Many people take Gretel's childish nature as simple-mindedness, which to be fair is often true. But beneath her simple nature was the instinctive cunning of the truly unfettered. And right now, it was singing to her.
She slowed her bike to a stop at a traffic light. The people on the walks moved like a roiling river. A single droplet could go any which way at a given moment, but look at the whole and you see the current. Right now, she saw, she was going downstream, and an awful lot of the droplets were wearing red armbands. She gunned the engine.

Two blocks down, she stopped at another light. A glance around. There were more red armbands than before. No, wait, there were fewer without armbands. She gunned the engine, instinctively knowing the meaning of what she saw. It meant trouble was going her way.

Gretel grinned behind the visor of her motorcycle helmet. Today was shaping out to be a very fun day.

“Heyo hiyo! Bishop is here with invisible sandwiches!” Bishop said pushing the door open. He didnt see Lou, who was probably off acting like the goober she always was, and the panther spirit thing Jinx fiddling with a movie projector. He had only been to the warehouse twice. He met Jinx once; it would have ended violently if he had not received prior warning. He was always taught to be wary of spirits you didn’t summon yourself, even then not so much. Not the place he would have chosen to live but it did its job for a place to meet up. He took off his oily rain jacket and hung it up on an impromptu coat rack/crate.
“Jinx remember we are going to watch Boondock Saints together later, you had best not have watched it already. You wouldnt do that to a friend riiiigght?” Bishop's eyes furrowed, as if egging Jinx to try to retaliate.

Lou reminded Bishop of a more eccentric younger him, despite being a girl (which it took half a day to figure out.) Bishop sat down on a sturdy crate and pulled out his Cavalier Guardian out of his armpit holster and set it down (safety on, for Lou’s sake). The thing was damn uncomfortable.

“So, anyone got plans for today?”

It was hard for Jinx's face to register a look of disgust. A panther's facial structure just didn't properly facilitate the emotion. Jinx had to settle for a heavy rolling of the eyes, as he turned away from the door and padded back towards his projector. He was not particularly fond of mages, thanks to his previous experiences with his summoner. He was especially not too keen on those from traditions dissimilar from his. Tradition played a big part in the way one channeled magic, and Jinx viewed some traditions as an affront to the very institution of magic.

As he walked, his body began to dissipate into a fine mist as he dematerialized. Expressing disgust was not the only thing that was difficult in his current form. It also was not well equipped for changing out the reel on a projector. The deep black mist seen coalesced into a new form. It was that of a man in his late 20s to early 30s, wearing a tan business suit. His gruff face was topped off with slicked back brown hair. This was a form that could most definitely show disgust, and the scowl etched across his face would lead one to believe he was filled with that emotion currently. That is of course if they weren't a 20th century movie buff who could recognize the visage of one Clint Eastwood.

Jinx decided to stretch out his waning collection by playing some of his favorites between new movies. He shuffled through a stack of flattened metal cylinders that sat near the projector, until he found what he was looking for. After some fiddling with the machine to get the reel in, Jinx flopped down in his faded blue bean bag chair as Dirty Harry began to stream across the wall.

Sparkler relaxes a bit when he sees that their unexpected guest is Bishop, and not a mob or a policeman or something. "Plans? No, nothing in particular. I was putting together some bombs, and Lou has discovered the joy of portable fire, in the form of matches. Beyond that, nothing much." He glances through the door behind Bishop, and grimaces at the rain. "Great, just what we needed, more rain." Turning back to the mage, he says "So what brings you here today?"

taptaptaptap Gretel listened to the soft sound of rain on concrete as she stood concealed within the dry entranceway of one of the abandoned, ramshackle houses near the warehouse. She had gotten here far ahead of the mob and hidden herself here, the wide-bridged 4/4 cello case lying on the ground beside her, the clasps unbuckled. Watching the street, she pouts as if pondering something, then turns around and reaches down to the the case, lifting open the lid to reveal its contents: a minigun, a folded-up gyro stabilization vest, a combat axe, three grenades, and four clips of ammunition. Exactly what every child wants for Christmas. The case was a special one, with the bridge widened and the padding stripped away for more space.

Putting on the vest takes five minutes of fiddling with the buckles and settings on the rather complex piece of machinery. As she stood there manipulating the straps while keeping her cybernetic left eye on the street, Gretel reflected that she needed a sidearm. She had her M202, of course, but she couldn't really carry that and the Ingram without being conspicuous, and as much as she loved her knives, axe, and whip, they had limited range. A sidearm, a Savalette Guardian for instance, would be a good backup.
Click. The last buckle falls into place. She reaches down and effortlessly lifts the minigun and clips it to the vest's rotating arm. She returned to watching the street, hoping the gangers would arrive soon. This is going to be so much fun!

Their guest wandered inside the warehouse without any sort of interruption, including one in the form of a welcoming committee. The closest he had came in the form of the small Welsh Corgi by the door, which watched him enter without a sound. The dog glanced once at the door as it slowly closed behind Bishop, revealing the form of Lou hanging from the back by her hands. She dropped off the door before it pinched her fingers, but stood still, her gaze distant and a vaguely confused look on her face. "Everybody yelling..." she wondered out loud, meandering over to sit down next to Bishop, which ended in her sliding off the crate to sit sloppily on the floor. "Why was everybody yelling?"

She shut her eyes, shaking her head from side to side at first, but eventually fell still, dead to the outside world. But for Lou there was more than just the outside world; she fell into the other half of reality, diving into a sea of information and data transfers and very pretty lights. Lou floated along a stream of numbers and words, paddling slowly along until she arrived at a larger pool. The pool was empty (always empty!) but someone had been here, something. She knew it, she could hear them splashing. She dived deeper, wanting to know more.


OOC: hacking into one of the nearby traffic nodes on the fly for security account. Running Stealth 4 complex form. 7 hits on first IP, 9 hits by second IP. http://invisiblecastle.com/roller/view/2508353/

The thunder continued to rumble above, the rain turning into a real flash storm; There's a reason that Oklahoma was always considered the training ground of meteorologists everywhere. It's utterly unpredictable, in terms of weather. Forks of lightning crack down through the heavy, polluted sky, the black and oily water giving away to true rain as the majority of the particles are finally washed out. Gutters quickly begin to overflow, forming tiny rivers that run their course for a few hundred feet alongside of broken pavement before tumbling into swelling sewer lines. In the crackling illumination of lightning, Gretel can see them; Their slow drift becoming a far more purposeful jog, hear the clink of metal chains and pipes as they rush. Numbers are difficult to tell, but in this little band there's at least twenty. Other shapes can be seen moving in the back alleys, not nearly so bold as to walk out in the open.

With Gretel's sharp eyes, even in the brief flash of light, the red arm bands are striking - the only unifying feature of this motley crew beyond the various blunt and pokey implements they carry.

In another reality entirely, Lou swims through the small ocean of data like a fish; Born to it. The node she finds is technically a public one, little more than a repeater to pass data on to the few operational business that still exist. Far too easy to break into, and she materializes in the midst of what is ideally described as a 'utilitarian' node, registered as a 'security' account. An old sim of a subway, only with hundreds of tracks. Occasionally, a subway train goes ripping through the space, switching tracks in a blinding flash and moving onward. But this is the usual useage that she had learned to expect; Nothing like the cacophony she 'heard' earlier...

Southwest of the Warehouse, another group is forming. Smaller than the red-banded mob heading from the east, but fiercer in appearance. Rain trickles across scarred and ripped faces, smearing cheap cosmetic masks and wilting once upstanding hair. Almost every single eye is bloodshot, for those that still have two in their face. They stand, bold as day, in the middle of the street, unified only by the crazed amount of accessories they have strapped, glued, or nailed into their clothes - and bodies...

A big navy blue jacket with a golden badge on the left shoulder. A humorously large blue cotton police hat. The changes to Lou's icon inside the node made her stop and blink furiously. She looked around to make sure no one was watching and then threw off the ridiculous clothes in a hurried frenzy, changing into something much more comfortable. If, that is, a suit of plate armor could be considered 'more comfortable.' In fact, the entire node shimmered violently, the old concrete walls melting into rivers of wax. At the same Matrix address where there once stood a subway station, a fantastical medieval castle rose above a serene little village, horse-drawn carts clomping and creaking through the town as traders came and went. Lou looked out over her digital kingdom and smiled; it was good.

A whirl of fabric, the sound of wool sliding across metal plates, and Lou disappeared from sight, obscured by a Magic Cloak of +4 Hiding over her +4 AC Plate Mail. A set of foot-shaped indents marked her travel across the town until she arrived in front of the castle, sneaking over the draw bridge between the armed guards. Her target was the Royal Clerk's office, at the top of one of the many towers in the stone structure. In the blink of an eye that it takes to move across digital realms, Lou pushed open the door and stepped into a dingy room lit only by the flickering light of candles. An old man stooped over a giant book turned to look at her, and she lifted her visor clumsily to grin at him. He nodded, and slid the book around so she could see it. With curious eyes, she glanced over the pristine calligraphy, searching for the commotion that had caught her mind's eye... or ear, as the case may be.

From her doorway, Gretel peeks out into the thundering rain. The passing group were a gang, she knew that much. As to which one, however....
She calls Rock. He always knew this stuff when she didn't. He was so smart. She closed the door and went to a window so she could watch and talk unheard. Halfway there, she stopped, looking at her minigun. "Oops! It fell off!" she said, her voice tinted with mild dismay. She pads over to the case again and reaches in, determinedly rummaging around until she fishes out a little doll on a keychain, which she attaches to the gun just below the rotational assembly. "There!" She smiles gently. "That's better."
Gretel skips her way to the boarded up window, leaning over and peering through the gaps as she called Rock on her commlink.

The call connects. Rock's face came into view with a worried expression. "Gretel! What happened? And did anyone see you do it?"
Gretel pouted, an expression of wronged innocence. "I didn't do nuffin'!" She protested, "I was going where you told me to and zere were all fese people wif pretty red armbands." She giggles. "They look like so much fun! I might play with them."

Rock's expression is one of intense worry, though it's hard to tell if he's more concerned for Gretel or for the people who have captured her attention. "Ah, a gang with red armbands? I believe those are the Johnnies. They're not too dangerous, though they're numerous and hard to find. As long as they're not the Warriors, you should be okay. Gretel, you're not going to get yourself involved in a gang war, are you?" He pauses for a moment. "...Again."
Gretel smiles serenely. "Oh, a war would be so lovely to see...." Her voice grows smooth and distant, and her sleepy smile becomes almost trance-like. "All that blood...the sound of them screaming in pain...oh I am so excited." Despite the professed emotional intensity of her words, her tone of voice remains unnervingly distant, like she were speaking in a trance.
Rock's face is now a mask of terror. "Gretel, please don't do anything rash...you remember that I don't like it when you kill people for fun, right?"
Gretel smile widens into a sweet grin that radiated innocent joy. "Don't worry Rock. The angels will come down and take the bad people away." And with that, she switches off the call, leaning down and giving the little doll on her gun a kiss. She shut the cello case and slung it over her back, straightening her motorcycle and walking it out the hole in the building's back wall. She went off, walking her bike with her, keeping pace with the Johnnies from a street away.

And neatly stenciled into that book, with its list of transactions for the area, was the whole of the traffic count for the day. Even on this relatively slow repeater node, the log listed into the millions; Every single transaction that passed through was noted, coallated, and organized by unique ID touches. While chaotic, and usually dumped within fourty eight hours - since the earliest record dates from that time - instinctively organizing them by time stamp allows Lou to find the time frame she wants.

'Hear Ye, By Order Of Sovereign TULOK_IIT_ADMIN the Third, These Are The Ledgers Forwith Concerning The Trade And Duties Of The Royal Kingdom Of NODE4939B01F. Be Ye Forwarned That Only Eyes Of Sanctioned Knights Of The TULOK_IIT_ADMIN And The Holy Order Of EKSURV Are Allowed Upon These Parchements Upon Punishment of Death.'

Be It Known That On The Sixth Of May, Waning Moon, Did Trader From Kingdom TL1.122.70.AL-AR.NOX, Transpiring of Delivery of Items Of Good Standing Along Highway BOB.FISH.344.2.3345.RTL Upon 6 May: 20:22:34:32

Be It Known That On The Sixth Of May, Waning Moon, Did Trader From Kingdom BOB.FISH.344.2.3345.RTL, Transpiring of Delivery of Items Of Good Standing Along Highway TL1.122.70.AL-AR.NOX Upon 6 May: 20:22:47:21

Be It Known That On The Sixth Of May, Waning Moon, Did Unknown Agent From Unknown Kingdom, Transpiring of Delivery of Items Of Unknown Parcel Along the Hidden Highway Upon 6 May: 20:22:48:21, 20:22:48:22, 20:22:48:22, 20:22:48:22, 20:22:48:23, 20:22:48:23, 20:22:48:23, 20:22:48:23, 20:22:48:24, 20:22:48:24, 20:22:48:24, 20:22:48:25, 20:22:48:25, 20:22:48:25, 20:22:48:26, 20:22:48:27, 20:22:48:27, 20:22:48:27, 20:22:48:28, 20:22:48:28, 20:22:48:28, 20:22:48:28, 20:22:48:28, 20:22:48:29, 20:22:48:29, 20:22:48:29, 20:22:48:30, 20:22:48:30, 20:22:48:30, 20:22:48:30, 20:22:48:30, 20:22:48:30, 20:22:48:30, 20:22:48:30, 20:22:48:30, 20:22:48:30, 20:22:48:31, 20:22:48:31, 20:22:48:31, 20:22:48:31, 20:22:48:31, 20:22:48:31, 20:22:48:31, 20:22:48:31.

Be It Known That On The Sixth Of May, Waning Moon, Did Trader From Kingdom JENPHO.3320.30405.2.KEL, Transpiring of Delivery of Items Of Good Standing Along Highway BLUE.403E.33.ALF Upon 6 May: 20:22:54:17

Be It Known That Sir Louis The Valiant Arrived In The Kingdom Of NODE4939B01F, Upon 6 Maeoz00222.. 33../**#^[a-z]*FAILFAILFAILICONOGRAPHYRE3222--ICONOGRAFAIL
Fail
Fail
Fail
Iconography Reload. *ALERT8coRRUPTIONINICONFILE_LOAD

The record continues on for some time after this, but it's easy to spot where the 'noise' Lou heard happened - as well as her own arrival.

Meanwhile, in a world of blood and rain, the little killer girl manages to maintain her distance from the Johnnies - while simultaneously keeping track of them through thermalgraphic imaging enough to follow without getting spotted. So it would seem. Either way, the gang quickly passes by the warehouse, but stops only half a block down from it. Sending Sparkler's security system haywire with all the unknown contacts slipping behind he warehouse and around other buildings to get a better 'position'..

Lines of code, scanned in an instant. Lou found what she wanted, and she also found the the information about the traffic burst from before. But that paled in comparison to the discovery of her own arrival entry. "Sir Louis the Valiant!" She jumped up and down giddily, clapping her hands and making quite the commotion as her armor banged about. The Royal Clerk looked unfazed, staring at her with the practiced disinterest of a venerable public servant.

"Sir Louis slays the dragon, saves the princess, becomes a princess, marries the princess, big party, everyone's invited!" She stopped and glanced back down at the weighty tome, before adding quietly. "Maybe not everyone..." The large, mysterious entry still stared at her, and she glared right back, making a face inside her helmet. The book refused to yield, but the clerk seemed to recognize her frustration, and filled her in. The data transfer had been carried out under royal decree, by an unnamed member of the ruling family! Although he refused to say who had ordered such a shipment, the aged man was kind enough to point her in the right direction. Following his instructions, Lou wandered through the castle until she came upon the wall the clerk had indicated. At first, nothing seemed different about it, but when Lou gave it a testing push, she noticed a hidden button disguised as a stone block.

With wonder and excitement building, she shoved against the wall, opening up the trap door. The entrance inside was bright, most certainly magical in nature. Lou shielded her eyes with a gauntleted hand, and stepped into the white haze, the outline of her armor forming a piercing shadow as the next node engulfed her.

Back in the Kingdom of NODE4939B01F, the Scribe pauses a moment as he blotts out an error on the Log Book. The entire iconography fritzes as Sir Louis the Valiant departs, the system once again attempting to scan the bizaare behavior. The Scribe's hands stutter, sloshing ink across the page, before he suddenly gasps. "Oh dear! Another error!"

He quietly marks out 'Sir'. And writes in 'Duke Louis the Valiant'...





The bright white light of Lou's arrival dims quite rapidly, until it actually divides itself in three pieces. Three vertical lines of light, angled downwards, in the midst of darkness. When pressed upon, this bizaar apparition swings aside to reveal: a security office. Barely wider than a janitor's closet, but tall enough that it's ceiling receedes into the darkness above, giving the room an extremely claustrophobic feel. Lou has just stepped out of the uniform locker of this Node, facing a rather old fashioned woodened door set on the opposite wall; Bearing the logo of Errant Knights. On the third wall is a video monitor; Hundreds of video monitors. This entire sector of the city, in the area of Kellyville, was once covered by such cameras. They have since fallen into disuse, most of the screens showing static as the cameras are physically broken apart, shot down or flat out stolen. The final wall is taken up by a small file drawer, with yellowing paper sticking out.

Whoever is assigned to this dump must have had a sense of humor, because the chair's 'lift' lever can be used to crank it all the way up to the ceiling, some miles above. The surreal nature necessary to fit in the hundreds of stacked screens, all a-lit with static and grainy images.