[closed.] this ain't no place for no hero

[tirejacked]

Who: Jason and Kate
Where: Old Town
When: end of week 4, just before ch 3 hits
Summary: Surely they have black market tech support for brain problems. Jason goes snooping, Kate inserts herself into the proceedings. Because that's what friends do.
Restrictions/Warnings: UH. Possible violence/some talk of gross cyborg things/unsanctioned medical procedures and the like, I guess.



[He starts close to home.

That is: what serves as "home" these days. Old Town is the biggest hub on Westerley, which serves a few particular purposes. One: it's centralized and easy to access, making it a good place to conduct business. Two: it's closely monitored by the Company in places, but the sheer density of its population makes it easier to disappear into the crowd. Know where to look and you can find just about anything. Weapons, jakk, smuggled goods. Sexters, fences, leg-breakers. And, most relevantly to this particular trip into the underbelly: black clinics. Bonesaws, hack modders. The kind of people who'll stitch you together or wire you up without asking questions. As long as you've got the joy to cover the bill.

It wouldn't be the first time he'd set foot in a place like that. Not that he'd been in a state to have a choice in the matter, the first time. Whatever slapdash thing they'd wired into his brainpan had jumped him like a dead battery. Dragged him back from the brink, even if it hadn't made for the kindest of experiences to wake up to. It had worked, he'd pulled through, and for the past few years that was the important part. But now, there's the deja-vu, the odd disassociation, the sneaking scraps of information that just don't fit right. Some serious mental glitching to persist after last week's weirdness should have settled. At some point, you start to wonder about side effects.

Of course, tracking down the 'doc' who did the job is almost impossible. He very deliberately doesn't keep contact with the parties responsible anymore, and black clinics are mobile and hard to find as a rule. So, he starts close to home, purely reconnaissance. Casting a wide net in the hopes of catching himself a lead to follow or a likely explanation. Place a few bugs, ask a few questions. See if it's all in his (hah) head.

The black market is lightly crowded, still bouncing back from the week just like the rest of town. The clinic is a ramshackle old tenement with an open sign in the window and nothing else. It smells like old blood and charring flesh and antiseptic.

There's a commotion behind him, and he backsteps to press his back against the wall, dodging out of the way of a man in a rush to get through the door. Hand clamped around a damaged mechanical implant on his arm that is sparking and spitting and sending his fingers into spasms. The door slams shut behind him.

Well, looks like he's in the right place.]

Comments

[fledges]

[Kate is here, as always, on business. She likes to keep in contact with the dealers and fences around Old Town, partially because they usually have great tidbits of information, and partially because it's a hell of a lot easier to find things that have been stolen when you have connections in the first places thieves like to dump their scores.

Still, she hates it down here. It throws her cushy Company upbringing in her face, and makes her feel irrationally guilty that she can't do anything for the desperate people here. There are predators, too—the ones profiting off of misery and suffering, but there are also those who don't really have a choice about being here, and Kate knows there's nothing she can do to help them. At least, nothing immediate. It means she's on edge and not in a great mood.

For some reason, Jason is the last person she expects to see. She has to do a double take, to make sure it's actually him, but there's no mistake. Here on a warrant, maybe?]

Jason?