Purple Dino Bar. Redmond Barrens.

Nemus walks in to the club and sits at the bar.He looks at the troll behind it and says "Glass of ale mate?" as he thinks to himself "Bloody ripe stink in this place"As he takes a nice dip from his tin of tobacco.He looks around,nodding at the others inside,as he waits for his drink.

Settling a bit more comfortably on his stool as the fellow next to him orders an ale, Picks eyes the snuff tin and twitches once as he fights his cravings.
"Tell me how the ale is when you taste it, I figured it might be a bit warm in a joint like this," he says to the person who's just sat next to him in response to the nod.

After takeing a nice drink nemus looks at picks and gives an aproveing nod as he spits into a coffee cup next to his mug.He looks at picks and says "Great bike you rode in tosh.(spits)Used to have a scorpian a few years back.Now they got me drivein' a fragin' westwind."

Still waiting for his drink, Picks settles more on his stool and sets the small, scratched credstick on the bar for when payment is necessary.
"Thanks, it's pretty smooth. Scorpions'll do pretty well; a lot of nice stuff you can bolt onto them."

Picks looks over his shoulder and contemplates ordering some spiced soy-nuts.

"Who are you driving a Westwind for - not that there's anything wrong with that machine? Name's Picks, bee-tee-doubleyou."
Removing his gloves and pocketting them, Picks puts his hand out...

he picks his weary head up off the table realizing he must have fallen asleep . The voices of the new patrons in the bar waking him . he looks at the clock on the wall wondering why the bartender hadnt woken him uts up a cigarep he had had been snoozing for awhile . he lights a cigarette up as his senses begin to come to him . He looks over at the new chummers and gets up to approach them .

As the night staggers on towards its bleary conclusion, the Seattle weather becomes typically uglier. A steady pour of barely-survivable acid rain is working its way through the street outside the Purple Dino, just like it does nearly every night.

The hazy streetlights visible through the gaping maw of the Dino's front entrance disappear on the dot at 8 o'clock as a huge troll squeezes through the doorway, shaking drops of rain from his clothes. This troll is not huge in your typical troll-huge way, either. When he finally manages to squeeze his bulk through the door and straightens up, the tip of his foot-tall, stark white mohawk brushes the Dino's entryway ceiling, nearly 4 meters from the floor.

The troll looks around the bar, his 6-inch tusks only one part of a decidedly disconcerting grin. He cracks his knuckles repeatedly, the sound like gunshots in the gloom of the bar.

Any slag, drunk or chippie dumb enough to look directly at the monster gets an eyeful of something out of a child's fairytale. The troll is a study in metahuman musculature: every fiber looks chiseled from granite, rippling at every motion. The troll's skin is the dusky no-color common in his metatype. His body has the bony subdermal growths common among trogs, though this troll appears to have been graced with an almost attractive evenness of the natural armor. All in all, he looks like a monster conceived by the Grimm brothers, only given access to ultramodern weightlifting equipment and the latest bodysculpting techniques.

If any of the troll's admirers aren't smart enough to return to their drinks after the first glance, an onlooker might notice other aspects of the troll's image. He might identify the shoe-sized black weightlifting gloves with the fingers cut off, or the old but serviceable blue jeans tucked into size 30 motorcycle boots. Or he might scan the dirty-maroon shirt that says "I'm with Stupid" (with an arrow pointing up, of course), partially obscured by a gray armored jacket with the sleeves torn off. Or maybe he'll notice the troll's horns jutting from his temples, one curling around his ear and the other broken off in a jagged rent two inches from where it begins.

If said onlooker has A/R vision, though, his senses will certainly be drawn to the massive leather-wrapped, steel club swinging on a chain at the troll's side. The weapon looks fearsome with normal sight, but the augmented reality overlay makes it downright terrifying. The club has a soundtrack of bones crunching, walls being smashed, and the whimpering of victims. It smells of the sweat-stink of fear. A visual montage of the club performing its intended duty plays along its length, interspersed with the words "Ugly Stick" in a flashing, yellow stencil. It's painted blood-red, and dents and scratches adorn its unaugmented surface. Though four feet in length, the club is dwarfed by the monster wielding it.

Still cracking his knuckles, the troll heads towards the human-sized bar. A plastic beer mug explodes under his foot as his full weight comes down on it. He shows his canines in a toothy grin as the chica and beau he's heading directly for scamper out of his way, leaving their drinks. He picks up the fancy glass with the umbrella in it in one massive paw, downs it like a shot, then drops the glass on the floor. He then grabs the beau's drink, something dark in a shot glass. He tosses it back as well and shakes his head sadly.

"Breeders' drinks all taste like old piss," he says, looking at the other slobs at the bar. His voice is deep and powerful, the kind of voice a poor slag might've heard from a torturer in some medieval dungeon. He slams his fist on the bar, causing the shot glass to explode in a burst of rainbow-hued synthglass. "'ey, bartender! Fomorian Usquebaugh, and make it a double!"

Trying not to look at this troll while he spits Nemus looks at picks and says"Eh not allowed to tell ya that but there is something wrong with a machine smaller than me,not enough room(He stands 6,4 220lbs.)"

Looking to the enormous troll that just grabbed the drink from the squares who hauled out of the way from the massive beast he eyeballs the troll head to toe reminding him of one of the biggest fraggin trolls he ever fought down in tehnochititlan's bloody fight pits he softly chuckles to himself and whispers " yeah that one gave me a run for my money " unconciously running his hand over the gigantic scar that stretches halfway from the back of his shaven head . He gives the trog a defensive " what's up " nod to the troll without hesitation .

Nemus looks around the bar again,checking the booths.He looks at picks and says"Know where I can get some work at?"

His ears perk up as that trigger word is mentioned somewhere in the bar. He spins his stool towards where he thinks it comes from and zeroes in on the patrons . He smoothly gathers picks himself up off the bar congratulating himself for not taking that first drink remembering where that could bring him....again he shudders at the thought as he moves to the others he thinks of the Z-zone he has on and off lived in , deep in the heart of these very barrens . If he didnt think about it before he would have dropped to his knees right there and prayed to make some nuyen to drag himself out of the drug riddled apartment in the same z-zone his bliss addicted mother raised him in with all this on his mind he unconciously glances subtlely at the deep track marks from shooting bliss in his arms . He curses his mother for getting him into that drug the bane of his existence. He comes out of the fog of memory just as he reaches the spot where the other chummers and opens his mouth " I'd like to say i wasnt eavesdropping but then i would be lying did someone mention work around here ?"

Nemus eyes this man up real quick then says in a voice thats almost a whisper"aye mate,you got a johnson 'round 'ere?

In response to the new customer's bellows, the bartender brings a pair of one-liter mugs filled with something brown, foamy and reeking of nutmeg. The bartender, a troll matching the newcomer's fearsomeness, looks the trog straight in the eye. "You know the rules, Johnny - no trouble inside."

Johnny bellows laughter. His yellow eyes shine with malevolent glee in the dim light of the bar. "I still owe you for the last time, Barney. But I'm not collecting tonight. Some other time..." The grin fades as his eyes harden. "Count on it."

Johnny dumps a wad of grimy corporate scrip on the fake-wood bar, sweeps one of the enormous tankards up in his massive paw. He downs the smelly brew in a series of gulps, belching his ringing endorsement. He scans the room casually. His natural thermographic vision picks out deep blues of condensation as Barney opens the refrigerator, then the warm oranges and reds of metahuman bodies as he leans against the bar.

The Dino is filled with its regular clientele of scum, lowlifes and poseurs. None are worth Johnny's time, except maybe for easy marks or even easier punching bags. His gaze lands on the two at the end of the bar, and the trog's eyes widen in surprise as one of them nods at him. It takes cojones to look a monster in the eye, let alone acknowledge him openly! He glares at the two, watching as they talk about looking for work.

Johnny trades his empty for the full mug on the bar and stands, stretching to his full inhuman height. He walks towards the duo, left hand caressing the Ugly Stick strapped to his side. The pair eyes him suspiciously, and his fearsome grin stops their conversation. "You must have some stones, looking at me like that," he says to the shaven-headed one. "I might have some work for you, assuming you're willing to get your hands dirty and you don't have strict.... morals..."

Glancing back and forth for the ginormous troll and the other man speaking to both he opens his mouth his broken teeth showing a couple of well placed punches to the mouth he states calmly " well i fought in the death pits of tehnochititlan for the azzie scumbags for 5 long years my moras are " he stops and thinks long and hard and begins again " my morals dwell in the darker spectrum of those shades of grey if you get my point to be a little more blunt my fists were made for wetwork" he clenches his fist and three mean looking hand spurs protrude from the back of his hand he grins " you get the picture omae ? "

Looking at the troll Nemus says"Depends on the job.I'm trying to put somethin' together right now.Might need someone like you,I assume you can fight ya'?"

"I don't give a frag what you're lining up, breeder," the troll huffs at the human. "I've got biz of my own. I need two toughs to rough up a talismonger who's not paying off his loan." The troll smiles, his massive canines dimpling his upper lip.

"You keep half of what you get him to pay. Interested?"

Nemus spits a large amount of tobacco juice into his cup and say"Yeah sure.I need the work."

Hearing the troll mention a need for toughs brought Hondo out of his normal deepweed related trance. Although his last few runs left him uneasy, he knew how badly he needed the nuyen. The ork was as solid as an oak tree (albeit a short one), bearing both the athletic physique of a well-trained soldier, and the scars of a tattered veteran. He cautiously stood up from his corner table and headed in the direction of the bar. His overcoat hung loosely over his evening attire, only his pistols could be seen strapped, one to each thigh, but much more rested underneath, hidden from view. As he sat on barstool and lit up the last deepweed cigarette of the night, he carefully addressed the Troll.

You need more muscle, I need more credits. I want in.

A grin grows ear to ear from kik longing for the feel of crunching bones beneath his trained fists " to tell ya the truth trog not to sound cliche but i was born for this fraggin drek "

Nemus drains the remanider of the mug and stands,barely.He nods to his fellow runners and heads for the door."Time to go to work."he thinks

Johnny Stomp eyes the three toughs as the scent of cred catches their attention. No matter what gutter a punk stumbles out of, money talks and bulldrek walks.

"In a hurry, huh?" the troll snickers as one of the breeders stands up, eager to leave. "Fine." The trog turns to leave, slamming a massive hip into the weedhead who's drifted up. [color="yellow"] "Sorry," he says, not looking the least bit. "You might have to have to move a little faster than that if you want to collect your reward."

Johnny flips a handful of corp scrip onto the bar and nods to Barney. [color="yellow"]"Keep my seat warm for me, browncone," he yells over his shoulder as he leads the toughs out of the Dino. His size relative to the others reminds any onlookers of a very guly pied piper leading children from their parents.

Leaving the bar, the toughs see a 2050-model Mercury Comet, painted an outrageous shade of purple with gold details. The ride is heavily custom - from the tail fins to the massive Cadillac grille to the dropped and pushed-back driver seat to give a troll enough room to drive. "Get in - don't want to waste your time standing around...", Johnny growls as he climbs in. The car settles heavily as it takes his full weight, but the shocks show no sign of impending failure.

The drive to the talismonger is quick and Johnny discourages conversation, verbally and visually. He drives the Comet to Little China and stops across the street from a small storefront with Chinese characters on the window (anyone have Chinese language?). There are posters of ginger and ginseng, and a smiling Buddha in the window. Johnny turns to the toughs. "There you go. The owner owes 2000 nuyen. Go get it and half is yours."

Johnny gets out of the car and leans on it as the toughs enter the store, watching the scene unfold.

The inside of the store is filled with unnameable animal parts in glass jars and plants in small pots. There is a card table in one corner of the store on which stands a half-finished game of dominos. There's a frosted-over glass case freezer against one wall. Against the opposite stands the cash register, in front of a display case of silver, gold and jade knick-knacks. One customer, a very old man, peers at the labels on a variety of jars on a shelf on the back wall.

The bell over the front door jingles as the toughs enter and spread out. A rotund, gray-haired Asian woman waddles through a curtain separating the back room from the front in response. Looking suspiciously at the "customers," she says, "Whatchoo want?"

Cold, rain-damp wind swirled through the entrance, whipping the coattails of the new arrival - a tall human cloaked in a dark gray lined coat with the collar turned up against the elements and an equally dark gray fedora pulled low over the man's face. Lightning flashed outside, silhouetting the figure for an instant before the door swung shut. The stranger stood for a moment, letting his eyes adjust to the gloomy interior, (one of these days he was going to have to fork out the nuyen for a low-light mod for his mirrored shades) before taking a slow scan of the room. The 'music' blaring from the goblin-rock band onstage could best be described as loud. A few dancers moved about on the dance floor as though hypnotized - some jittering to an entirely different beat. Two or three of the booths and tables were inhabited by morose patrons either engaged in subdued conversation or engaged in getting drunk, getting propositioned, or both.
Subscribing his PAN to the bar's node, he checked through the drink specials du jour - via his shades' image link - and ordered a mug of synthehol, authorized the transfer of the nuyen, and tipped the bartender a couple extra nuyen - all before casually making his way over to take up a stool at one end of the highly polished bar. He was impressed. The Purple Dino might be located in the Redmond Barrens - a rundown, lawless slum - but the proprietor kept his establishment well tended.
The proprietor, the stranger assumed, was the fellow pulling the mug behind the bar - 'the biggiest, meaniest-looking troll you ever did see.' The big guy stepped over to set the mug in front of the new arrival and the stranger nodded thanks and held out a hand in greeting.

"Hoy chummer, name's Dicer."

The white Thundercloud Contrail circled into the parking lot. Ghost got off the saddle, put her helmet into the containment box and activated the anti theft system. With smooth, elegant paces she entered the bar. After a quick glance through the room Ghost made her way to one of the tables, sitting down without taking off her white coat first. There she waited for a little while until a waitress showed up. “What can I getcha?”
Ghost looked up at her with a smirk. “Got milk?” Before the waitress could do more than giving her a weird look, she added. “Whiskey please.” While she waited for her drink to arrive, she gave the room and its inhabitants a more thorough examination. The icy blue eyes darted through smoke and darkness.

Dicer watched the white elf cross the bar. She had the exotic, sensual allure common to elven women, but her pale, seemingly bloodless skin, white hair and clothing, and frosty-blue eyes took her 'common' elven looks to the realm of stunning. She flowed across the room, her movements almost fluid, and settled into a chair. The waitress, an attractive human to be sure, but dimmed to the point of appearing plain and awkward by comparison, took the elf's drink order then returned to the bar. As she waited, the white elf peered about with those piercing blue eyes.
Faced with an interesting, if unusual, element in an otherwise dull evening, Dicer set his 'link to scan for her's. His curiosity piqued - who was she and why was she here in the middle of the rundown, lawless cesspool that was the Redmond Barrens - he quickly eliminated all the chatter from what he called the 'flat-liners' and zeroed in on the one he thought must belong to his target. Scanning through her public profile, he noted a couple of interesting details, but saw there was not much other than the norm to be found there.
Movement caught his eye and he looked from his AR overlay back to the room. The waitress had simply brought her drink and then gone. Knowing he would find little about her - beyond call history and financial status, neither of which he was interested in now - he decided to take the plunge. Leaving his empty mug on the bar, he walked over and spoke, "Hoy, miss. I believe our reasons for coming here may...'run'...along the same lines. May I join you?"

Ghost looked up when the human approached. She looked him up from head to toe. And then she looked him up again from head to toe, checking his overall state, the rough amount of modifications in his body and if he was out for trouble. It took her only two seconds. When she was relatively sure that he was not going to shoot her immediately, Ghost replied with a shrug: “It’s a free city.”
With a hand, she gestured him to take a seat. Her demeanor wasn’t unfriendly, just a little bit distanced. “You can call me Ghost. Who’re you?”

"Call me Dicer," he replied, taking a seat. "You're obviously not here to soak up the ambience," his wry glance around suggesting the absurdity of the notion, "so you're either meeting a Johnson, or trolling for other runners in the hope of finding work." His slight grin was intended to dispel any concerns she might harbor about the nature of his intentions. "Don't go for your gun just yet, I'm in the same line of work myself. You could say I'm a Matrix 'acquisitions specialist.' That's a fancy way of saying I'm a hacker." He paused for a moment, looking her over, then added, "You're not a techie, not with that stock 'link. So, Ghost, what's your speciality, if I may ask?"