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RP Vance Bridge Road, EP1, Neighbourhood Watch

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Lamb

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@Gunsight1 @Foxtrot 813 @paladinrpg @Born-On-Board @ShotJon @Deathevn

The following is the first post of an invitation-only RP with intent to create a flagship Nepleslian plot that can be used to provide a stricter canon. It takes place in the city of Craggston on Planet Vandenberg. Everyone, you know what to do, I think. If not, we'll field questions in the plot's PM.


People who live in the big city like to toss around words like 'community' and 'neighbourhood' when they talk about the block, the borough, the street, the whatever-it-is they live on that they think defines their territory. Home isn't just your tiny apartment or your studio loft-- it's whatever of the immediate surroundings you and your neighbours have banded together and decided is yours. And whether or not somebody likes it, that's their community. For the people of Vance Bridge Road, the community is very neatly defined. The network of aqueducts built to keep the city of Craggston from flooding during Vandenberg's frequent rainfall was perhaps accidentally built in such a way that an entire block, the only block of that particular road, was entirely surrounded on four sides by aqueduct. This made the construction of a bridge neccesary. Nobody knows who Edward J. Vance is, but the bridge is named after him and so thus is the road which stems from it.

For the citizens of Vance Bridge Road, a tight-knit community was never really something anybody needed. Modern technology and fast Nepleslian lifestyles have made it more and more possible with each passing day to live a fulfilling life without ever looking at your neighbours or talking to them. In fact, some would argue that whether new or old, the residents of this particular side street island were never really a tight-knit community until something came up to shove them together. The item in question was a horde of young entrepreneurs with a fondness for music. While that may sound inoffensive in and of itself it was perhaps their decision to play this music at appalling volumes during the wee-est of morning hours that made them stand out as something more like interlopers. Combined with their chosen occupation (streetside pharmaceutical vendors), these youngsters were the most unwelcome thing on the block since Ralph's Twenty-Four Hour Cage Grocery had that huge stock of exotic Abwheran cheeses. And like the day that someone had finally had enough and bought every single wheel of high-gravity Gruierre and tossed them into the aqueduct, somebody decided to do something about this gang of youthful exhuberants.

It was around 6.23 AM on a Thursday when the iron gates to the massive, secretive mansion complex that'd always seemed quietly out-of-place in a middle-class urban neighbourhood opened to reveal a slender, well-dressed man with a stride that communicated a calm and efficient desire to remove the undesirables. They were gathered in the cul-de-sac at the end of the road. A cavalcade totalling no less than thirteen teenagers with baggy slacks and wifebeater shirts was engaged in what appeared to be a well-coordinated breakdance right in the middle of the wide open street. These youths were unimpressive by themselves, perhaps not even normally possessing the neccesary initiative to strike up such a disruptive hobby club were it not for the figurehead that stood at the head of the group comitting to popping and locking the likes of which were not typically seen even in staged performances. Masterful Jack seemed to be his legal name, and as such he wore the most colorful attire possible. Business on top, party on the bottom: A fine, neatly pressed violet blazer with matching silk tie and the cleanest crispest shirt to ever rest beneath a black felt bowler hat; paired with tight leather shorts, fishnets, a pair of mean-looking riding boots and a submachinegun the size of a large combo from Neppy's strapped into a thigh holster. One had to admit, for as ridiculous a get-up as it was, it was impressive the boy could dance so well in it.

All this dancing came to an abrupt end at the approach of the man from the mansion. He was a tall, middle-aged man with clothes that said something similar to Jack's. Business on top, business on bottom, business in the middle, money everywhere in between. A full three-peice suit with a waistcoat and pocket watch, red and black striped tie, smart wingtip shoes and even an elegant little eyepatch over one eye. Black hair was carefully parted to one side to reveal a rather intense if bored-looking blue eye which focused on the caramel-colored figurehead while the gentleman toyed with the slender black cane rested against his leg. He was saying something to the youth, something the gang as a whole didn't seem to like because they were steadily forming a circle around the pair of them. It seemed as if they were probably going to beat this overly-moneyed and overly presumptuous man to a pulp if somebody didn't step in soon.

Observing this from down the street was a set of binoculars poking out from between a rack of faded blinds. One of the ring-encrusted hands wrapped around the binoculars scratched at the thick mound of body hair emerging from the velour tracksuit within the distant office before reaching idly for a phone to call the police; only to come up instead with a stale cannoli-- which was promptly devoured without a second thought.
 
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Tabernacle swam in the vast cyberspace representation of his mind's network, a glowing red ball adrift in a sea of information, flitting from notification to notification, Oremongers in system X uncovered a new asteroid field full of boron, proceed to flood the market with it without checking the Polysentience for the best prices, military exercise in system Y endangers a Mindtwister, proxy body in Funky City is receiving accolades for their work on the...

Where was that racket coming from? Tabernacle's cyberspace avatar, an orb resembling a red giant, vibrated visibly in frustration. How was a SI supposed to work under these conditions? It filtered through the rest of its sensory inputs, checking them off one by one until his mind settled back into his own body, feeling the familiar weight of its 1200 pound armored chassis, servomotors humming as they came to life, the CPU cores of its Think Tank whining as they were brought to full working order, the bulk of Tabernacle's consciousness now settled upon them.

Outside was where the racket emanated from, loud enough to penetrate his networked consciousness from several star systems away. Its speaker output let out a long, staticky sigh. This was the price it paid for forgetting to disable its audio inputs before it went network diving. Its monoeye flicked sideways, looking at its trio of Militant-class automatas, the Baba Yagas. It activated B.Y. 01, dumping a small segment of its consciousness into the 'dumb' android, and moving it to the roof where it could peer out into the racket at the cul-de-sac.

What it saw was the usual gang of malcontents, but instead of reveling in their loud music like they had been the last couple night, this time they were forming a loose circle around a man who... Tabernacle vaguely remembered as the resident of that mansion. It surmised that the man had requested them to stop, and, well.

Masterful Jack, it seemed, did not play that... 'homie'. Despite the dire circumstances, Tabernacle chuckled to itself at its use of the curious trade-slang it had encountered on this planet. Humor aside, this man apparently did not run a risk/reward check before engaging in his current action - he stood a great risk of being forcibly removed from his life in that dingy street.

To get involved, or not? Tabernacle instantaneously ran a staggering breadth of scenarios through a probability generator of its own devising, encompassing almost all probable reactions he could take with his current resources, most notably himself, and his Baba Yagas. A show of force could certainly deter Masterful Jack and his compatriots... but would Tabernacle and its three militants be able to do it without undue loss of life? A loud party - disturbing though it was to organic sleep schedules, was no reason to start a shooting war, and the five 'Rude Gesture' autocannons it possessed amongst itself and its Baba Yagas could shred a small squad of power armor, let alone block hoodlums...

But they wouldn't listen to reason. Those kinds of people spoke through force, violence, it was the only thing they understood besides.... money? Tabernacle quickly nixed that, it did not have enough funds to pay them off and ensure he had enough to maintain its current level of comfort. No, no, it would have to be force. He activated B.Y. 02 and B.Y. 03, and got B.Y. 01 down from the roof. If they were to intimidate, they needed all the presence they could get. Tabernacle rose to its feet, and the small group left the apartment complex.

Tabernacle stomped up the street, its Baba Yagas arrayed around itself. It reached out with his Mindware, looking for technology to network, and settled on the streetlights - all up and down the lane they began to flicker, exactly the way they might in a gory slasher film, precisely calculated to cause unease. Tabernacle reached a little further, and found Masterful Jack's speaker system, a simple thing, purpose built to be as loud and flashy as possible. Tabernacle easily hijacked it, replacing the club pound beat with something tailor made to inspire dread in organic hearts.

With this, it and its entourage looked like a squad of death robots stepped straight out of the latest science fiction horror film as it approached the confrontation. In a final bit of technological prowess, it looked for anything that could broadcast its voice, phone speakers, aircar stereos, even alarm speakers on watches, everything nearby besides Masterful Jack's Stereo and using the incredible networking capability of its type Four body, subverted it to its use.

As they stomped into view, five autocannon bolts cycled, loading a round into each chamber, their cavernous barrels pointed at the crowd. Their was no doubt the death and destruction they could cause would be horrific.

Tabernacle's voice, deep, mechanical, resonant, echoed from a hundred speakers, one voice made into many.

"Disperse." It echoed from anything electronic that could produce sound. "Now."
 
Auto Garage - Outside

Having been up the whole night -and keeping to herself for most of the week since she got there and started working on the auto Garage it didn't help the case in making what she was doing not look shady. It also didn't further help that she looked somewhat out of place wearing the hooded jacket over a sweater, with the usual utilitarian cargo pants tucked into the very worn-out boots. Amelia mused on that several times as she cleaned up the mess left in by the previous owner and the several squatters that had occupied the building before it was bought, and when, on that particular day, a music worse than Synthtrash started playing right outside on the cul-de-sac she had simply brought up a large headset against her ears, plugged it to her Datajockey and started listening to some music of her own. At least up until she saw that the group was slowly making a circle around someone that had come to confront them.

'Oh, man, here comes trouble.'

That was the first thought that crossed Amelia's head when she saw what looked like an aspiring millionaire from one of those Noire movies that she liked to watch. She put up the cardboard box she was carrying on top of the dumpster's rim at the back of the auto garage and stared at the scene a little bit more. She didn't need to have watched one too many of those movies to draw the parallel that it also seemed like the prologue from one of those movies where someone becomes the victim of a murder.

After unceremoniously dropping the cardboard box into the dumpster and pulling down the down the hood of her jacket with a gloved hand, Amelia removed the headset from her ears and let it rest around her neck, finally hearing music in its full, loud glory. She listened to that awful sound for a few seconds and suddenly understood and sympathized as to why someone would come and confront the small-time troublemakers that were the source of it. The Nepleslian girl mused at the amount of trash that she had to gather and throw out from a building that had been abandoned for years had taken the most part of the week as she walked back inside the building at a brisque pace. She hadn't gotten around to installing the good stuff to the place yet, like the bar stools, big holoscreens, cleverly hidden weapons and explosives and, most importantly, the bar, so it wasn't like she could just lock up the doors and board down the windows and wait for that ruckus to end. Instead, Amelia went to retrieve the 12 gauge trench shotgun that she kept next to an air mattress on one corner of the building, as well as the Everyday vest that was under it.

Her mind went into some sort of partial auto-pilot after putting on the personal body armor by slipping it over her shoulder and securing the straps to her sides. Amelia racked the shotgun's pump back to see if it didn't happen to have anything inside the breech, so if things got really out of hand she could just load the right ammo into it. With all that done, the raven-haired Nepleslian walked towards one of the windows and leaned against the wall beside it to see how the altercation outside would end up, at least until she noticed that the sound coming from the headphones around her neck wasn't the music it had been playing before, but instead, some droning, robotic voice ordering people to disperse. That was good, in her book, since it meant that someone else was handling the situation, and it was only further confirmed when she spotted the military grade robots. 'Neat,' the girl thought, deciding that she could just stay comfortably and safely inside the building.
 
Fresh Start Foods Grocery Store

Not long after Ralph's 24 Hour Cage Grocery was literally rolled out of town by the locals, a newcomer sensing a golden business opportunity had appeared to step in to fill the gap of neighborhood market proprietor. The young Kuznyetski woman was at first received very cooly to the isolated hamlet, but in time those of Vance Bridge Road had realized that the quiet entrepreneur who went by the name of Anatevka (or, Ana to the locals) was very capable as a grocer -- and moreover her quality deli meats were just damn delicious. And best of all there was almost no dairy to speak of in the place, soothing the nerves of those still traumatized by wheels of Gruierre floating by their houses.

The simple and not overly flashy sign overhead that proclaimed Fresh Start Foods swayed once or twice as the iron gate that protected the glassy storefront facing the strip was rolled up by the modestly dressed proprietor, clad in simple and rugged brown shirt and long dress and boots. A kerchief with a checked pattern was also tied over her short black hair, as she unlocked the door and set her steaming mug of strong tea on the countertop once safely inside. Anatevka yawned slightly, as she prepared the pastries and coffee machine for the morning rush, and made sure her stock of alcoholic beverages was up to par. Then it would be time to start a pot of her traditional red borscht soup going, made with beets and other vegetables she grew on the roof of her establishment, which she offered complimentary to all her customers to help warm them up when they came inside from the rainy weather that was a commonplace in the city.

Anatevka's usual morning routine was interrupted when she heard the sound of the loud music and a commotion brewing down the road. She didn't even need to see them to have a good idea who it was making trouble.... the teenagers who hung around masterful Jack had already earned her ire a few days ago when she had to scare them off from soliciting their drug sales in front of her store, and playing their 'tunes offensively loud and ruining her business. To a hard working Kuznyetski like her, there was nothing more offensive than a ne'er-do-well. Sighing once as she took a long sip of her harsh tea, Ana reached below the counter to purloin an old GP-1 Assault Rifle from underneath. The somewhat mismatched looking weapon -- parts of it having modified metal compositions from spec -- was dear to her heart though, the one she put together by hand at her coming of age ceremony in her old community she had left behind to start anew in this place.

Ana made sure the rifle was loaded and slung it over her shoulder as she walked past the deli counter and the fridges stocked with beers, through the hatch to the stock room downstairs and out the back door of the local market. She was greeted by the sight of Rosa's, which she made a slight turn at and appeared at the other end of the large road leading to the cul de sac and the mansion beyond. The short woman could see the circle tightening around the well-dressed man she recognized seeing once before come out of the impressive house. She didn't want to see unnecessary violence unfold, and yet another part of her secretly wanted to be seen helping the outnumbered gentleman... perhaps he would reward her with some more business in thanks? She always wanted to see the inside of the mansion as well, having long dreamed of becoming successful enough to live in a place like that.

Remembering what she did before to intimidate his drugging and dancing associates, the relatively non-descript woman stayed a safe distance away from the crowd and leveled her GP-1 at the center of the grouping. With a flick of a lever the laser sight went to full power as Masterful Jack became aware of a lovely burning red dot that was now sitting directly in the dead center of his silken tie. "'Oy, arumloifer!," Anatevka declared in her accented Trade, "I doubt your mothers would approve of that dancing, ya?"
 
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MacKinnon Ballistic Solutions


The sounds of rowdy youths outside roused her, slowly, groggily, from her sleep. Elissa MacKinnon, owner, founder, chief designer, engineer and inventor for the small arms manufacturing company opened an eye, her long red hair blocked her vision save for a little of the worktable she had fallen asleep on. She slowly sat up, brushing her hair out of her eyes and bumping a few bits and pieces of what she had been working on late into the night.

She vaguely heard the voices outside, she could not understand what they were saying, just that they were being loud and interrupting her sleep. She looked about her shop, everyone else had gone home and it was still too early for her small staff of employees to have come back yet.

Getting to her feet she shuffled to the front door of the workshop that served as the headquarters, factory and sales office for her small company, as well as her home, and peered out the door at the trouble brewing outside.

"Jeeze" she muttered and closed the door and went back to her office and opened the safe behind her paperwork strewn desk. She withdrew a large, bulky and mean looking pistol, a revolver married to a high power laser weapon. It was her current personal weapon, the fifth iteration of her monster pistol she had slapped together years ago and the final proof of concept prototype for the MBS MK-I Monster pistol that her company was soon to release for sale, once they had enough of them built.

She looked at the heavy blued steel weapon in her hands and took a breath as she opened the top break revolver, loaded it, snapped it shut, then slapped a power cell into the weapons underside for the laser. There had been some attempts to break into her workshop before, she had no intention of letting anyone cause trouble now that she was so close to getting her product on the market.

Elissa returned to the front door, slipping the pistol into one of the pockets in her old worn down leather bomber jacket that wasn't full of tools and parts. She looked out again, waiting to see what happened between the wealthy man and the hooligans.
 
Initially, the arrival of Tabernacle had not the desired effect. The youths were stalled in place, confused more than anything. Some hadn't even registered the instructions from the machine that stood before them and merely gaped in awe at the device, as if its intentions were to be divined by some tribal ritual (perhaps more dancing?) moreso than simply listening. For a man who was facing his potential death, Alex Foster seemed entirely too calm. He watched with utter disinterest as the gang encircling him slowly fell apart with the gathering 'army', or rather what was perceived as something of a posse corralled into forcing these self-described law-abiding music lovers into something of a compulsory production break. Aside from Anatevka and Elissa, bodies appeared in windows on the second floor of Rosa's bar to complement the small girl appearing in the window of empty auto garage across the street. The barrel of a massive anti-material rifle extended from what appeared to be a pile of rags on the roof of the empty restaurant space on the opposite corner of the culdesac. A blue dot joined Anatevka's red, staining Masterful Jack's tie even further as the dealer erked and stammered in a raspy, high-pitched growl, "M-My momma? My... How did you?"

Jack turned to Alex with a tight-lipped scowl, one hand twitching over the holster on his thigh and threatening to sign his own death warrant. Instead of pulling the weapon, he buckled at the knees and shuffled back in reaction to a sudden movement: The cane that Alex had carried rising from the ground and stabbing out at the far-too-powerful-for-private-use music player. A precise blow on the pause button seemed to be the starting gun for their retreat, the entire gang wailing in combined terror as they peeled away. Some dashed between militants, others glanced against Tabernacle so hard that they twisted in mid-run and fell into a mad scramble to get to their feet. One even ran head first into Ana's rifle, then flopped over backwards and began to crawl on his back away from her before being grabbed by one of his comrades and helped on a mad dash away.

Jack himself had the worst time escaping. He was one of the unfortunates to bump into Tabernacle and feel the rough metal chassis right up against his ribs before with a groan he jogged limply around the mechanical abomination and right into another sort of abomination. At nearly nine-feet tall, the mountain sized chocolate bar of an ID-Sol that had come out to see the spectacle knocked Jack flat on his feet without even trying. Looking down at what was the equivalent of a housecat rubbing against his ankles, the lumbering behemoth spoke to him in deep tones that vibrated Jack's very soul. "Ey'yo." He called, "Gimme dat hat."

Jack screamed like a wounded gazelle and bounded on with one hand clamping the bowler down tight on his scalp, only to have to dive onto his stomach as a police hovercar with blaring lights and sirens screamed around the corner and zipped right over his head on its way into the cul-de-sac. Soon, he and his gang were nothing more than colored shaped beating their way across the bridge.

In the center of the cul-de-sac, Alex Foster settled his cane against the ground once more with a soft sigh. He looked first at Tabernacle, then to Ana, and finally (perhaps even judgingly) over his shoulder to Amelia. Then, he looked down at a produced notepad in one hand and muttered, "Phase One completed mostly according to the model... The Freespacer is larger than anticipated, make sure to account for that in future models. Let's see..."

Alex looked up at his surrounding neighbours once more, this time as if he were counting them. His gaze swept over Elissa this time, who he'd ignored the first time. She was not apparently part of the model for 'Phase One' of whatever scheme he had in his mind. "Good morning." He greeted them, stowing the notepad once more and resting his cane in the crook of an elbow. "How many of you are free this evening to assist in repelling their counter-attack?"

Before they could get out answers, the squad car that had moments ago nearly obliterated Masterful Jack finally pulled up in the cul-de-sac. The signature green-and-blue lights of a Nepleslian police officer shut off and a human stereotype emerged from the vehicle. He was handsome, tall, and dressed in clothes that if nobody else Amelia would notice from her noir movies. A dingy khaki trenchcoat and a loosened canvas tie over wrinkled slacks. In case that weren't enough, the NSP settled at a jaunty angle in the jackass rig peering out from beneath the detective's coat brought it all home. That is to say, it brought home all the supporting evidence for the wide-brimmed fedora pulled low over the detective's eyes and the bouncing cigarette in his mouth.

"Alright, what's this ruckus? Who called the cops out here?" Asked the stereotype, briefly waving around an open billfold with a badge and ID card. He looked downright peturbed. He seemed to have been drawn from his coffee break for what appeared to him to be a combination mecha-show-track-and-field-event. Pointing a finger at Tabernacle, he added, "Also, I'm pretty sure you can't park that here."

-----

An observer who'd watched all this unfold from the window of his apartment retired from the display at the arrival of the police officer and sat down on his couch with a stiff look on his face. He was an ID-Sol, measuring the typical eight feet of pure muscle and sporting close-cropped blonde hair and cutting blue eyes which presently cut into the headlines of a newspaper. He had a look as if he were doing everything in his power to ignore the scene outside as he called to somebody else in the apartment.

"It's Lexi, baby." He told the invisible partner, "He dragged some more folks into some of his schemes, looks like to me."
 
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Auto Garage - Inside

From inside the auto garage that was right next to the cul-de-sac, Amelia had a prime view over the way the situation unfolded, and patted herself on the back mentally once she saw that the altercation was taken care. Although she did feel somewhat worried when the man that seemed about to be mobbed looked her way, which made her sink a few inches more behind the wall next to the window. After a while, though, it didn't seem matter as much to her, since at least she would have the chance to meet a real Noir-esque detective. The girl quickly set the shotgun by the window and started to undo the straps on the sides of the bulky bulletproof vest she was wearing, and after a while, the heavy Durandium plates inside the personal armor came down with a thud against the floor, and just a few seconds after that the Nepleslian was out of the auto-garage at a brisk pace.

Stepping out of the decrepit garage, her pacing became slower after each step as she approached the assembled group. Amelia stuffed her hands inside the front pockets of her jacket like usual and narrowed her eyes a little as she got a closer look at the detective. Something was not right about the man. It was only when she barely stood at the edge of the group that she finally noticed what it was, and it utterly shattered her expectations of that man being a true, honest-to-the-bones Noir Detective; he was carrying an NSP instead of the classic HHG, which could only mean to her that he wasn't hard-boiled enough to live up to the fame.

The realization made Amelia's expression shift back to the usual look of indifference as she struggled to keep the disappointment from showing. Such was the disappointment that at first she didn't even notice the giant, magic eight ball of death on legs and its three military-grade Freespacer robots next to it, nor the same ID-SOL that a few days before had managed to get a sweater to clog a toilet seat somehow. Instead, the raven-haired girl blew a lock of hair over her eyes and assumed a more relaxed posture as she waited to see if the police procedures from real life were actually close to what they were in the movies. If the movies were right, he might start getting the statements from the witnesses.
 
Apartment

The invisible partner returned to the ID-Sol from the kitchen, holding two cups of smoking beverage. Coffee with generous portion of brandy. She handed one of the cups to her lover and sat in a armchair next to the couch. She sighed and set her cup on the table, leaning forward and petting the ID-Sol on the leg.

"Him and his plans," she finally spoke up. "Can't be up to anything good. Say... you want me to check it out? I know you cannot look him into his eye."
 
Tabernacle's efforts didn't have the desired effect, but it seemed they were constituent parts of a greater whole. The Freespacer briefly raised the lower shutter of its primary monoeye unit and... shook? It was machine like, and weird, but it was almost as if the Type 4 was laughing smugly at the success of its plan, however unexpected. The Baba Yagas followed in suit, in mindware-networked sympathy, began to shake and rattle, an odd mechanical symphony of mirth and amusement.

Eventually, the mirth subsided. There were more developments to be considered. A police officer had arrived on scene, and things were getting very busy indeed. Tabernacle quickly ceased networking of the technology around it, all the streetlights in the neighborhood suddenly coming on bright white instead of the flickering it had assumed previously. Masterful Jack's speaker was also released from network bondage, and the electronic speakers that had so effectively amplified his voice before. Tabernacle was fairly sure what it had done was a minor offense, and didn't want to lose its primary chassis to a jail sentence, or worse, deportation, despite this very organic police officer having very little probability of detecting the Freespacer's networking.

"I apologize officer." Tabernacle said, "I will endeavor to put my chassis somewhere more convenient."

Tabernacle took a few steps onto the sidewalk, completely unaware that the police officer may not know it was a sentient being, taking its Baba Yagas with it. It turned to the man that had originally sparked its rescue efforts in the first place.

"Counter-attack?" The notion was, despite Tabernacle's powerful mental capabilities, completely new. That the gangsters would be dumb enough to come back didn't even occur to it. "You think they will come back? Surely not, what could they gain..."
 
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"I'm not getting involved in any gang war" Elissa grumbled in reply tothe question. Not that she was any stranger to fighting, she just had more pressing things to do. "Buif anyone of them tries to mess with my workshop, they'll have another thing coming!"

Anyways, who would be stupid enough to come back to cause trouble after this mornings events? Not that Elissa thought the punks who had been chased off were overly intelligent.... So maybe they would.
 
Anatevka was understandably a little nervous in that first tense moment of the standoff, a single woman with an old rifle hardly seemed intimidating by itself. Then others joined the fray, friendly snipers and mechanical treaded bots coming together in an unlikely alliance of musical critics with guns trained on the street performer and his cronies. But perhaps it was not the threat of violence that finally broke the opposition, but rather the simple admonishment of Masterful Jack and his mother's disapproval of his actions. Ana was Kuznyetski, after all, and to her view of the world there was no way this sort of thing would be going on if their parents were more involved in their lives to straighten them out. Then again... maybe she wasn't the best example of this either, one of the youth that wished to escape the close-knit culture to spread their wings.

Thankfully the crowd broke up, but in doing so a hooligan bumped into her rifle in his mad dash for safety. The young merchant made sure to help steer him in the right direction with a light kick in the rump for good measure as he squirmed on his belly to escape the sounds of sirens approaching. Anatevka slung her firearm back over her shoulder and then wiped a little bit of sweat from her brow, wondering if she was going to be stopped for questioning by the detective that suddenly appeared on scene. Looks like her coffee and soup was going to be a little late this morning...

Hearing the well-dressed man mumbling something about "models", the shopkeep turned to him with a little bit of a raised eyebrow. She wasn't exactly sure what he was up to -- rich types often had concerns very different than the salt of the earth like her -- but Ana still wanted to make a good impression on the mysterious benefactor that she had helped rescue and couldn't dismiss his invitation. "Good morning, sir. You are okay, yes?" she asked, flashing a smile that was more homely than beautiful. "You think they are coming back? First my store, now this. Good for nothings do not learn, eh. Maybe we do need to have some kind of nashvek after all."
 
"They most certainly will choose your workshop as a target, Miss MacKinnon." Alex remarked, then spoke to the group as a whole.

"I believe if you all examine criminal behavior patterns for organized cabals within the same income level as our mutual nemesis, you will find a counterattack to be nearly a statistical certainty." There were probably at least thirty-three shorter ways for Alex to tell them 'these types always come back' instead of bringing something as dirty as statistics into the situation. However; the world is not a kind place and all people must eventually face up with harsh realities of city life. The fact of the matter is that some people apply mathematics. Alex Foster was one of these people. The mathmatician tugged free his pocket square with a flick of his wrist and dabbed casually at some invisible spec on his lapel. For all they knew at this point, even this minor disinterested action was calculated. Kind of like the brief glance over one shoulder at Amelia once more. Was it judgement? Invitation? Obnoxiousness?

Whatever it was, it was interrupted by a shrill cry and the clatter of stilletto heels on the pavement.

"Alex! You'll freeze to death without a coat!" The hourglass shape in the pencil skirt and blazer with bouncing black curls that dashed out to drape a wool coat over Alex's shoulders had a husky voice, like one of those women who narrated ads for sex toys or fast cars. She barely spent a second looking at the neighbors, though the barely visible colored lines spiderwebbing across her spectacles seemed to indicate that she was provided with some rudimentary information about them. The woman seemed unconcerned with anything other than laying hands on the thin man she'd just thrown the coat over, giving him a tender squeeze and a slow, low, "I love you, Alex."

"Do not touch me." He tossed her arms off instantly. What a dick. Withdrawing a cigarette from an overly elegant silver case in his newly returned coat pocket, Alex made a very intentional side step and lit his tobacco with a steely look shot in the direction of the would-be lover. "I instructed you to remain in the compound until--" He drew and exhaled, half smoke and half sigh, "Just return."

It was at this point that the stereotype leaning against his police cruiser got a little fed up with being ignored. Well, the sentient gin still had at least heeded the remark to obey traffic laws; but that remark was really just an attempt to be handsome and funny at the same time. The detective gritted his perfect row of beautiful pearl teeth and clenched his handsome fists before commenting, "Well kids, I hate to ruin this little block party but somebody called the police and I want some answers, damn it. You--" A thick finger jutted out at Amelia. "The little broad. You don't seem to be participating in this... Whatever it is. You happen to see what happened out here?"

It seemed Amelia was going to get her wish. Not only was he going to take statements from witnesses, he was making her the star witness. If someone had only come along and replaced his NSP with a snubbed Mancannon or a holster-worn Styrling Silver, it would've been just like in her stories.

Not far away, the gorilla-sized ID-Sol that Jack had bumped into on his way out began to slowly approach with lumbering footsteps and his eyes on the collection of people (and machines) that had given him the opportunity to ask for Masterful Jack's hat. And though he walked without his prize for now, the word 'counterattack' was being tossed around and something in the beast's botched flash programming had clicked or flipped a switch or rang a bell or done anything at all to tell this behemoth that there was still a chance yet he may have that hat in hand before something else struck his fancy.

-----

"Look," The ID-Sol remarked to his companion, "If you wanna check it out you can go on ahead. But if you ask me, it's nothin' but trouble and..." He lowered his newspaper to peer over at her and then to the coffee she'd deposited for him on the table. With a sigh, he took up the mug and asked almost sheepishly, "Yer just gonna go over there either way, aren't you?"

-----

On the roof of the vacant restaurant, the pile of rags that had previously extended the barrel of a rifle shifted and extended the head of a woman. With straight bright orange-red hair and piercing emerald eyes, she stuck out like a sore thumb against her quilt-like urban ghillie suit and the overly grey surroundings. Standing, she examined these same surroundings with a cold look, tracing with her eyes the path that Masterful Jack and his gang had run in. She strode across the roof of the building and raised her rifle again, peering over the bridge and into the streets beyond to the best of her optic's ability. After a moment's evaluation, she stowed the rifle and spoke into what I will call her designated microphone rag.

"They've gone to a van in the airport parking lot on the other side of the aqueduct. They're not going anywhere right now."
 
The companion smiled back at the ID-Sol. She had this kind of conversation with her boyfriend several times. Both of them were stubborn like oxen, so either way one had to let the other do whatever. This time she would go alone though, since her lover could not stand to be around Alexander. She could not blame him. She herself was part of Alex's schemes in the past and even if she should get dragged in again, she had to go and see that nothing gets way too bad.

"You know me well," The woman said and got up. She grabbed a pair of pants that were over the couch and put them on. Wondering for a bit, she put on a Styrling everyday vest and Styrling Silver Special in cop-holster in her armpit. She put her loyal pig stick on her belt. A foot long bayonet. Finally she put on a bomber jacket and zipped it up. Taking an ushanka hat from the hanger she look back at her boyfriend.

"Don't you worry," she said with a smile. She walked up to the man and gave him a kiss. "I will just see what the hell is going on. Maybe try making sure that none of those guys get into too much trouble. I won't be long hopefully."

-

Few minutes later she already walked throught the street to the congregation of locals and detective talking to them. She looked at Alex and the woman next to him and frowned. She was not sure what he did to the woman to get her this way, but probably even she did not deserve this fate. Bullet in the forehead might be better for her. Although like this she was still alive, probably so Alex could use her.

The weather was chilly, so the woman pulled her ushanka tighter on her head and continues in the brisk pace. She took a packet of cigarillos from her pocket and box of matches. Striking one match she lit a cig. She shook the match out and tossed it away as she finished her walk.

"Cheers Lexi," she said ignoring the rest of the group, only giving them a look and a nod. They possibly saw one of her shows at Rosa's, where she played her guitar and violin often. She walked up to Alex, towering before the well dress man. "What are you up to?"
 
"Ih, uh," Amelia started to say, bringing one gloved hand out from inside her jacket and scratching her head. She wasn't expecting what happened, so being singled out like that came as such a complete surprise to her that she was without words for a moment. After quickly realizing that it probably made her look mentally challenged due to that, the short, raven-haired girl finally spoke up. "I was throwing the trash out and they started to play some shitty music..." she started to say, looking at the detective.

She could almost see the place around her losing its contrast and becoming black and white, as well as some easy jazz playing in her head, just like in the movies. At least until she saw that NSP again, which completely killed the situation. The effect was also visible on her face, which made her cringe slightly. Suddenly, she didn't seem to want to talk anymore.

"Then I went back inside, but he probably saw more than me," she said, pointing with a motion of her head towards Alex.
 
What the man - what Alex said, made sense. Tabernacle dedicated a micro-fraction of its immense processing capability to researching criminal gang activity, tagging cases where low-income street gangs acted in reprisal against an enemy or neutral party. The overwhelming majority of the time, provided the gang in question hadn't been completely wiped out, their return was a guarantee, and the probability of them being armed was nigh 100%.

Further calculations were necessary in light of this new information. Tabernacle dedicated more of its mental processes to this while the rest of them discussed the events, running tactical exercises in his mind. One Baba Yaga was not enough - as poorly armed as the gang was (by Nepleslian standards) their probability of overrunning a single unit was something like 65% at its absolute worst. Two units wasn't much better, no - this would require all three, and his main chassis for the greatest probability of success, plus the armed intervention of the rest of the neighborhood.

That much, at least, Tabernacle was sure of. Vance Bridge Road had never failed to show unity before.

The giant, 1200 pound armored chassis directed itself towards the reticent man that the neighborhood had saved.

"Direct me to where my Ba- my robots and I will do the most good. Armed as I am, I am no tactical genius." Tabernacle said to the man. "I have reached consensus with your predictions, and indeed, it seems the gang will return. Therefore, we must prepare for the worst."
 
“And what, exactly, is all this racket?” said a voice as it approached the motley group. The voice was soft, smoky and carried what some may consider that perfect little note to send shivers up a grown man’s spine. Its owner’s hips swayed as she walked, moving to her own slick beat. The woman had a figure that you could keep time to, and a pair of heels that did just that off the hard asphalt of the street.

Black seemed to be the color of the day. From the peacoat and skirt she wore, to the long black stem that protruded from her mouth, crowned beautifully by the red-hot cherry of a lit cigarette. It was easy to say she stood out in sharp contrast to even the dim sunlight that filtered through onto the road. Her honey blond curls matched it though, full of the same bounce and volume as her gait in spite of the perpetually damp Craggston air. She inhaled slowly, holding the fragrant smoke in her mouth for just long enough until she felt that soft satisfying burn on the back of her throat, before allowing it to float into the cool afternoon air, enjoying the beautiful contrast.

Ruby red lips once more closed around the filter as a single ocean blue eye considered those in front of her, its twin hidden under the jaunty angle of her hat. That deep blue gaze moved across the group as if teasing at their very souls for a brief, hungry moment. A smile, soft and smooth as the rest of her, crossed her lips.

The sight of the woman was rare but not unheard of in Vance Bridge Road. She had been staying but a few weeks in the small town and had kept mostly to herself during that time. A well-dressed curiosity, who browsed the grocer and enjoyed expensive drinks and, one assumed, could enjoy a fast car. She sashayed over to come to a halt next to the massive wall of parts that was Tabernacle as she imposed her presence upon the group.
 
Ana seemed to go mostly unnoticed by the detective who was focused on Amelia, but that was alright by her. She preferred to keep a low profile most times, being an immigrant to the neighborhood, and keeping her record clean to ensure good business was always the order of the day. She stuck around a few more moments, though, brushing her hands off and waiting to see if she was going to be questioned next or accused of something... though it was obvious by the look on her face that she'd prefer to get back to opening her store properly for the day if the morning scuffle was over and done with.

Though she tried to show some empathy for Alex, his manner of speaking still seemed to partially go over her head and his dismissal of the woman fawning over him didn't really help his case. She however got the gist of the gang coming back being an inevitable thing, though. and with greater guns and greater numbers they wouldn't be scared off by just her and her sentimental old rifle. Of course, the kerchief-wearing young entrepreneur knew that she also wasn't alone, as she ran a brown eye over the hulking hunk of intelligent metal that was Tabernacle sounding in agreement with the apparent mastermind of their neighborhood watch.

"If Jack comes back, then we must first have a plan to protect our homes and businesses that everybody can understand," spoke Ana, the intention of her words obvious, as keeping it simple -- and not muddied by unnecessary statistics -- would be best for the majority. "I'd even be willing to offer some free beer and light snacks for the meeting, on the house, to encourage our fellow neighbors to come out." Naturally, this would be some good advertising chances too.

The homely Anatevka paused a moment when she saw the approach of the woman in black. Didn't she come to her grocery a few times last week? The Kuznyetski proprietor had an uneasy feeling about her, that kind of woman that usually had a different kind of trouble following them.
 
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"I am glad you agree-- and I think our first move should be to procure resources." Said Alex. He rested on his cane and inhaled slowly, doing some simple addition a few times in his head to gather the neccesary elements. He was about to suggest a course of action when two more newcomers showed up. Not wanting to surrender his hold over the crowd to the exotic and flamboyant-looking women, he gestured to them as if they too were a part of the presentation.

"Ah, allow me to present Chrysanthe Chronis," He gestured to the red-headed giantess with the ushanka, "And Jaquelin Hyde." This, referring to the classic dame with her ruby lips and swaying hips.

"Ladies, we were just discussing the matter of turning back these criminals who have been comitting auditory harassment upon this neighbourhood every morning for the last several weeks. Perhaps..." Alex tried to smile. He couldn't. "Perhaps the two of you would be interested in removing the criminal element from Vance Bridge Road, being concerned citizens. Anatevka here was just suggesting we settle down for a meeting someplace with snacks, perhaps this abandoned restaurant?"

Nearby, the detective had just about had it with their flippant attitude. (If you begin reading this post in the voice of Robert Mitchum, now, that's fine.) Amelia was providing what seemed like the perfect amount of help to seem helpful while doing nothing at all. Putting aside the natural leadership skills she displayed, he also noticed her eyeing his NSP and considered briefly dropping his khakis so she could get a look at the snubbed HHG strapped to his thigh or the Styrling nestled in the small of his back. These were the kinds of things, he found, that often got him in trouble on Nepleslia. On Yamatai, anyone would take only the briefest disinterested glance at his weapon and then immediately fixate on his physique. He knew this because he was secretly an undercover YNP agent trying to suss out a nearby tobacco smuggler. This, for the detective, was another matter for another time.

"Yeah, thanks for nothin', kid." Said the stereotype, gritting his row of perfect teeth and stepping away from the raven-haired would-be informant. He walked towards Alex and the ensemble of 'concerned citizens' with a determined gaze, only to be stopped when the creature who had once demanded Masterful Jack's hat interposed himself between the man and his destination. The detective looked up at the pile of leathery brown muscles with a sideways mouth and sighed.

"He'yo." Spake the beast, "Gimme that badge."

The detective took a moment to measure the features of this powerful man, watching the flaring nostrils and bulging eyes with a cold look of his own for a moment before producing a small tin shield and handing it over with a dismissive, "Here ya go, kid, you can be a Junior Detective. I'll even sign yer fuckin' bookbag."

And then he walked around the giant and moved on, leaving the behemoth behind to examine the tiny badge and mutter, "Yo, ey, I don' want dis piece o' shit."

Finally, the stereotype was nearing his goal. There were newcomers now, too. More people to provide an explanation for this terrible interruption of his brooding break. The same rich-looking dope from before, that giant robot with its harem of smaller presumably lady robots (robot sexuality is a complicated subject), the Kuznek broad, some kind of female-to-male tranny with a giant wrench, bottled crazy, the tallest woman on the planet, and...

Cold eyes warmed sligthly at the sight of the woman in the peacoat. She was some kind of dame-- the kind of broad that the moon comes out early for, just to cast a pale light over her alabaster features. Red lips that burned like hot coffee and tasted just as sweet. Her legs went on for miles, and the crisp smell of tobacco wafting from her cigarette holder told stories about dark nights in cities that knew how to keep their secrets.

"Good fucking gods be damned." The detective muttered, his cigarette bouncing with each word and keeping time with his quickening pulse. Briefly, he thought of the ex-girlfriend that hated him back on Yamatai. Then he thought maybe he didn't care. No harm in looking, or being looked at. Waving his badge around so everyone in the group could get a good look at it, he introduced himself.

"Buck Ladydick, Detective, Craggston Pee-Dee." He said smoothly, pushing his hat up his head to expose his eyes. "Any of you care to fucking explain what's going on around here?"
 
More and more of the neighborhood was coming out. This was all according to Tabernacle's further evolving calculations, and this accuracy pleased it, the giant Type 4 allowing itself a brief reprise from the endless waltz of statistics and probabilities that went on in its vast, cavernous mind.

Enough of that. To the niceties.

"Greetings..." A brief whir and clunk as Tabernacle deliberated on the proper gender greeting. "Mrs. Chronis. Mrs. Hyde. Welcome to the neighborhood."

A brief pause again, as Tabernacle collected his thoughts. "Anatevka is correct. Not only must the plan be simple, it must minimize collateral damage. If you wish to meet in the restaurant, that would be agreeable. I will use one of my Militant Class Automatons to stand in for me while the other two and my main unit..."

It pointed to itself with one of its delicate-looking fine-manipulation arms.

"...Will patrol the streets. We have time before they return - a little less than a day by my minimum calculations. I, nor do my Baba Yagas, get tired, so I will watch for advance elements of this Masterful Jack's gang." Tabernacle turned to the Detective, after declaring this.

Oddly, the big Freespacer didn't say anything - in fact, some worryingly loud screeching and kerchunks emanated from its hull. Then, a sheaf of paper spewed forth from an armored slot on its hull - it was a detailed after action report of its encounter with Masterful Jack, translated from Polysentience binary to Nepleslian trade. The long, scroll-like sheaf of print paper fell at the detective's feet, in a disordered heap.

"Detective. This is my witness statement. It is a one-for-one account of my encounter with the criminal Masterful Jack. If you request, I can also provide a video file in any format you should so wish." Tabernacle strategically left out the part where it illegally networked Nepleslian civilian infrastructure, an infraction punishable by fine - a little white lie never hurt anyone, did it?

With that, the armored ball, and two of the Baba Yagas left, stomping down the street as it began its security patrols. A single Baba Yaga remained with the group, the red monoeye in its armored 'head' glowing as brightly as Tabernacles - this meant that the big robot was now directly networked to the Militant, instead of in passive control. Everything that the robot saw and heard, Tabernacle heard as well.
 
Chrysanthe looked around the group as she smoked her cigarillo. It was colourful group of individuals. Just what Alex liked. Alex usually did not employ professionals, since those were harder to fool and use however he wanted to. If anyone knew that it was Chrys. The tall women puffed a cloud of smoke into Alex's face and looked at the rest of the group once again.

"G'day," she said, flicking her ushanka as she was introduced by Alexander. She especially gave a nod to the freespacer who spoke up to greet her. Chrys was part of this neighborhood for pretty long time, but that did not really matter.

The woman waited patiently as the cop moved around and more explanation of what was going on was heard. She looked casually at the giant black ID-SOL who looked as dangerous as he was simple-minded. If this should be Alex's new ID-SOL warmachine, the man probably really lowered his expectations for hired help.

"So mind if I am gonna state the obvious?" Chrys finally spoke up, letting another cloud of smoke from her lips. "If this Jack and his ferocious music gang returns, why don't we let cop deal with it. I am pretty sure, this here Detective Ladydick and his bobby on the beat buddies can take care of few ganger cunts."
 
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