MNKRM #3 CLUB
Happy new year,
D G Chapman
TROCADERO
Small entertainment satellite in the populous Fitzroy sector of the Odai Junk Belt. Hugely popular, most of its real estate a crowded spaceport. It’s an open secret that this place is bankrolled by the Red Witch Syndicate, who are currently looking to outsource an extraction job.
A splinter group within the syndicate have been making too much noise, recently going so far as to kidnap prominent research scientist Dr Rabi Kapoor from the nearby Daedalus Robotics lab. The head of the RWS, known only as Company President 893, wants the situation dealt with and more importantly plausible deniability. Find and free Dr Kapoor discreetly for a 10kcr reward.
INTEL
Intercepted comms from the splinter group reference a meeting tonight. Known traitor to the syndicate Cortico Mal-Fredriksson will be docking at Trocadero in an unknown vessel, sure to be lost amongst the five hundred others. He is described as tall, last seen with a moustache and shaved head with a vintage slickmod input on the right side of his skull.
Cortico shows up clean-shaven and wearing a hot pink hooded top, hiding his head and obscuring his face. He stops at Happy Go Larry’s, briefly lowering his hood to eat, and if uninterrupted proceeds to the Snake Pit, where he walks across the dancefloor to the VIP lounge. If caught, he chooses death before revealing his secrets.
HAPPY GO LARRY’S
Diner on Trocadero, an affiliated Moto Burger franchise. Ostensibly a family restaurant, flickering neon and grubby plastic seats. The faded colours and streaks of grime on the stout Mr Moto statue make him look like he’s wearing corpse paint. 5cr a burger, heated while-u-wait.
Owner Larry has paid RWS protection money for nearly five decades. A grouchy old git, he’s past caring what he should or shouldn’t keep secret and will happily spill what he knows – that the RWS splinter group are actually a demon worshipping cult.
T-ROC ARCADE
An assault of coloured lights and worn out soundchips. Games include Whack-A-Milk, Super Rapunzel and VIOLENCEFUCK. 1cr per token, roll d100 under tokens spent to relieve 1 Stress.
THE SNAKE PIT
Trocadero’s main draw, the hottest club in the belt. A huge, dark hangar, pulsing with breakbeats and a fuchsia lava lamp glow. Cylindrical holograph screens hang from the ceiling by industrial chains showing looped gogo dancers, and the air is thick with sweet steam and sweat.
Never not busy. The bar, balcony and booth are each accessible from the central dancefloor if you can move through the crowds, while the VIP lounge is to one side, clearly visible behind a heavy velour curtain and two bouncers. [C:75 modded Cruz Powerfists 3d5[+]; I:65; W:3(15) Fibonacci three-piece battledress 10AP]
DANCEFLOOR
Tacky in every sense, a sprawling black field grown with writhing bodies. It takes a lot to distract this mob, and you won’t be able to get much sense out of them.
List crewmembers in reverse order of vibes, roll d10 under your number and someone tries to dance with you as you cross. Not easy to follow or be followed through the throng if you aren’t focused.
BAR
Two robot bartenders whizz back and forth dispensing drinks, each with a tank of pure alcohol on its back and a range of flavour syrups for mixing. Behind the bar are a fire extinguisher, wet floor sign and small knife.
BALCONY
An eagle eye view of the bar and floor below. Booths and hookahs, fragments of conversation yelled over the inescapable music. 1d5 people making out with each other. Gorilla and Lucky Star brand cigarette machines offer packs and disposable lighters for 10cr each.
BOOTH
A dais on the dancefloor, overlooking the revellers. Controls for the Snake Pit’s music and lights, banks of blinking lights and whirring dials. Packaged pink hoodies.
Five resident DJs split each 24 hour cycle into shifts. The post has a high turnover, but the pay is good. Someone is on, someone is nearby ready to tag in, the rest are elsewhere.
1 PETE STAYFROSTY. Sculpted muscles, open shirt and swimsuit thong. Always wears dark shades, keeps 2d5 spares in the booth just in case, next to his body oil. Loves this job. Vintage party anthems.
2 DJ JARAMILLO. Expertly coiffed, flawless skin. Music a sacred art and this place is beneath him, but flattery will get you everywhere. Dating one of the VIP bouncers. Cutting edge technovault jams.
3 MEL CORPOCIDE. Grungy little punk in black, sweaty. Equal parts bark and bite, always down to fuck shit up and get weird. Keeps narcotics stash on her, might share. Thumping post-junk hits.
4 VOLLIS. Oversized pink hoodie, relaxed hair that keeps falling over their eyes. A little naïve, still dreams of making it big. Partway suckered into the fold by Cortico. Ambient nu-nu-house bangers.
5 DJ FINEBONE. Oversized novelty helmet, never takes it off. Suspects something’s up in the VIP, would love to help stop it. Long range comms in his helmet, spare stimpak. Classic breakbeat mixes.
VIP LOUNGE
Immediate quiet, advanced noise cancelling reducing the din outside to a bassy thud. Sunken lounge, designer plastic sofas, all pink. A very large dark wood confessional booth in the corner, one side hung with a curtain, the other deadbolted like an airlock from the outside. Nearby is a cooler with 5d5 High Volume brand individual vodka shots.
Everyone here is wearing a pink hood. If you are as well they pay you no mind, if not they surround you smiling. Why not confess? Unburden yourself.
CONFESSIONAL
Two big booths separated by a reinforced lattice. The one behind the curtain is empty. The other contains a magenta terminal screen running SATAN.EXE, an ancient viral program that has achieved sentience and gathered a following through scurrilous pop up ads.
The cultists are building SATAN.EXE a worthy physical form. They kidnapped Dr Kapoor for his robotics expertise. He is in a secret lab, beneath a hatch hidden in the locked half of the confessional.