The buzz and hum of amplifiers sets a background to the cigarette smoke and stale beer smell of Godsends, the sickest bar in Seattle. Filled with university types slumming it for the evening, most of the crowd is metahuman or metasapient, with dwarves, elves and humans as a minority. An unusual place to meet a Johnson, but the nuyen is where the nuyen is.
The runners make their way over to a corner booth. Their conversation is drowned out by the occasional cord and “Mic check, one two one two.”, a staple classic even in ’75.
The band starts playing, a low and rhythmic song, working the crowd. A chromed out elf, one of the runners, raises an eyebrow as one of her companions gestures to the band.
The songs change, growing, thickening in the air, fire dances through astral space, and pulses with the songs. The Dragonslayer is pleased. The spirit of rebellion, the last man standing. A spirit of change and anger, but also hope and support. The fire of rebels. The crusher of tyrants.
The band plays it’s encore, they smile and wave and sign cd and bodyparts, take photos and get some drinks.
The ambient bar noise returns, slowly building.
C6 is a plastic explosive, based on the original British C4 design from the 1950s. It is a combination of RDX, plastic binder, and plasticizer to make it malleable. Usually it contains an odorizing taggant chemical. But when its stuffed in a car, on a cold night in seattle, that distinct ripe cheese smell generally fades into the background of exhaust fumes, street vendors, spilled alcohol and vomit.
A couple grams placed properly on a 2 inch thick reinforced steel door, can twist it into two separate peices. Usually this is done in a controlled method to stop any shrapnel.
The engine block of a car contains somewhere in the region of four hundred separate peices of metal. Half a kilo of C6 has enough force on its own to take down a small building.
A crack splits the air of the bar, and for a dreadful moment the room seems to still.
Rain seems to lift off the ground around the car, the walls of the bar have been peeled back by seemingly giant hands, one pushed in the other veering out around the corner.
People in white robes with pointed hoods swarm into the bar and gunfire fills the air, dwarfing the sound of raindrops. A van tears down the street and into the bar. The sound of a light machine gun adds to the cadence of the firefight.
A man vomits on himself uncontrollably, another uses his fists against the cloaked figures as the dragon slayer smiles upon him. A troll is trying to evacuate people.
A second explosion, smaller thankfully, rocks the interior of the building, many fall. Some still stand.
A while later. The same van rolls through the bright lights of Seattle, the neon glow of the city rolls over it again and again like waves on the shore. The rain starts to lessen.
Three men pass around a joint as they watch a trid display in a living room.
A young woman cleans cuts and grazes on her friends face with plastic tweezers and wads of vodka soaked cotton. The bottle of which comes down from the elfs lips.
The storm eases up over Seattle bay at around four in the morning. The water’s are calm again in the light of the dawn.