With a forlorn creak, the door to the Second Chance Bar & Grill swung open. Armored boots thumped dully on the worn wooden floor as Damocles sagged wearily at the bar. The familiar scents of cooking meat, brewing coffee, and cheap alcohol greeted the mercenary's senses. Ambient chatter hummed in his ears. In the back, a dilapidated jukebox belted out Michael Jackson's "Blame it on the Boogie". Flicking his rifle's safety on, he deposited the gun between his legs, barrel down. A Colt Mk 75, an old but reliable and accurate model, especially when smartlinked to one's armor or cybernetics, as it was with his own suit.<br/><br/>"Hoi, chummer," grumbled a voice to his right. "Bad run?"<br/><br/>"Went to drek," Damocles answered, his deep voice given a synthetic quality by his suit's audio. "The Johnson nixed the case. Team's dead, but I did manage to nab a set of prints. Power armor, by the looks of it. Last time I run with a bunch of inexperienced redshirts." At this, he passed the briefcase to the right-hand speaker.<br/><br/>His fence and fixer, Whistler, was a grizzled old veteran, one of the first generation of Hunters. Age and a leg injury had put paid to his career in the field, so Whistler instead served as a mentor, logistician, and gofer for Damocles' circle of new Hunters: Kairos Acquisitions, one of the underworld's most infamous Lodges--a colloquialism for a loose coalition of allied Bounty Hunters.<br/><br/>Whistler opened the case and tucked the hard drive it contained into a coat pocket. He raised an unlit cigarette. "I'll have this loaded up to the Unternet soonest. Expect bidders within the week, yeah?" The Unternet. First thing the criminal underworld did when Friend Computer took over was to set up a backup 'net, untraceable and nigh undetectable thanks to an ever-changing security web. With that, Hunters could communicate and work in comparative freedom, and technomancers and deckers ran free in the secret avenues of VR.<br/><br/>Damocles snapped his fingers, a pilot light flickering to life on his right index. "Thanks, old man," he said as he raised his lit finger to ignite the cigarette. "How are the others? Did we get the Space Station job?"<br/><br/>Whistler took a puff and downed the dregs of scotch in his glass. "Good stuff. Anyway, the old team's doin' good. Karma's over in Vladivostok finishing an intel op. She'll be back Saturday. Deuce and Arno are en route to a retrieval job in Manila. They should be done and rested by next weekend. And you know the ISS job slots haven't opened yet. I've got you four first in line, but the contact hasn't finalized the details yet."<br/><br/>Damocles grunted noncommittally and motioned the bartender over for--<br/><br/>A loud creak. Hands strayed to sidearms as the bar patrons turned in sync to regard the open door.