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[h2]Ray's Bar, Old Downtown[/h2][url=https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jKuGxCXTtcU&index=8&list=PLRMcXkadosW43B18ZSbYFqBnFn2myQwRw]Music[/url][/center]
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Situated a mere half mile away from Studio City, on the outskirts of Old Downtown is Ray's Bar. A small dive bar built out of the remains of an abandoned R&D Building, refit with an industrial-and-tech aesthetic. Plas-steel panelled walls were browned with a mix of stylistic artificial rust, and real rust, for a very worn in look, and adorned with purely old-style air vents and gaudy neon lights. The small main room of the bar itself was populated by a mix of traditional synth-wood chairs and tables and jukeboxes alongside game tables and holodecks- some in better conditions than others, and some with chairs pulled up to them and turned into a pseudo table itself. The bar itself rested against a wall, with a rusted sign plainly stating 'First Aid & Alcohol'- an acquisition from the old R&D building's medical ward, and a big shotgun leaned next to one of the bartaps to ward off any hostile intentions.   

Ray himself was an old hand: a retired military with the battle scars and missing limbs to prove it. With most of the left half of his body destroyed by a bomb, Ray's left eye, arm, and leg were all cybernetics, shiny black and grey steel holding hefty glasses as a flesh and blood hand wipes it down with a rag. Ray worked the bar he owned. There was no kitchen here, just shitty synth-alcohol. With only a few other staff members, Ray mostly ran this ship by himself, every day. 

Currently, the bar had only a small crowd- only about a dozen patrons. The tattered jukebox in the corner played some sort of country blues type music, that only helped to make this place feel older than it was. Ray's bar wasn't really much for night life as it was for stiff drinks and shady deals. Of the people at the bar, only one sat at the counter- a man with white hair, a big cyberarm, and the look of a complete lack of empathy for his surroundings. Ray poured the man a short tumbler of cheap whiskey- about as real as it got around this part of town. 

[color=firebrick]"Jack."[/color] 

[color=cyan]"Ray."[/color]

Jack exhaled a short plume of smoke as he propped a still burning cigarette against the lip of the nearby ashtray. Switching the cigarette for the glass, he lifted the tumbler to his lips and downed half of its contents. Ray reached back over from behind the bar with a half empty bottle of whiskey and filled the glass back up to the brim before putting the bottle back behind the counter- more specifically back into his leg. Ray always kept the good stuff close to him. Jack lifted the glass back to his face and took another sip, enjoying the strong kick of the alcohol and flavor before he put the glass back down and picked the cigarette back up.

[color=firebrick]"Those'll kill you, you know?"[/color] Ray chuckled as Jack pushed the pack of cigs across the bar. He pulled one out and lit it, taking a deep drag before he pushed the pack back over to his patron. Jack slipped the pack of cigarettes back into his pocket.

[color=cyan]"Probably."[/color] Jack replied as he took another drag. [color=cyan]"But a bullet will probably put me in the dirt before one of these do."[/color]

Ray gave the man a sad smile- a sort of exchange from one vet to another. [color=firebrick]"I could still use a bouncer. Pays not much, but its more reliable than a solo job. Safer too."[/color]

Almost in response to Ray, Jack's pocket made a ringing sound. He pulled out the black piece of plastic- a loaned burner from his current contact, a guy who went by the name of '1NT3RSPR1NT3R' or something like that. The pay was good, and if things went according to plan Jack got a shot back at the guys and gals who got him into this position in the first place. On the phone was a two word message: "Its time" followed by an address. Jack deleted the message and flipped the phone back into his pocket. Jack took another drag of his cigarette and ground it against the ashtray. 

[color=cyan]"Maybe after this, Ray."[/color] Jack replied as he stood up and fixed his jacket. He picked up the whiskey glass and downed the rest of its contents. Whiskey always tasted best with revenge on the mind. 
[hr][center][h3]Delmonica Theatre, Studio City[/h3][/center]

Jack stood across the street from the theatre, leaning against the wall under an overhand of an abandoned storefront. His binoglasses- which looked like big old mirrorshades obscured most of his face, and the taught grimace around the smoking cigarette in his mouth caused the homeless hobo sitting next to him to shirk away in a mixture of discomfort and worry instead of asking for spare eurobucks. Taking in the surroundings of the theatre, the cop car would have made a lesser man think the whole deal was a setup. Cops were stupid, but they weren't that stupid. Or at least, they didn't used to be. 

With a sigh and a shrug, Jack stepped into the rain and crossed the street to the theatre. As far as the NCPD knew or cared, he was dead. He also had two arms last time they checked. The thugs gave Jack a dirty look as he walked through their recently interrupted game, but said nothing to the man. The sighed, and their remarks implied that interruptions were getting on their nerves, but with the cops right next to them, none of them must have felt like getting into a shootout just yet.  

Jack stepped through the door to join the rest of the gang that was gathering in the theatre, his face illuminated by the orange glow of the cigarette in his mouth, the light reflecting off his mirrorshade-binoglasses. The only one in the theatre he recognized was Fake ID, his contact into this whole shindig, and even then, he didn't know much about the guy- just enough that he probably wouldn't get burned by the cops working with this guy. Probably. 

The other occupants Jack didn't recognize. There were the members of Johns cleaning crew, removing bodies and cleaning up, and 4 women, only 3 of which were alive- the fourth one had just died, minute spasms of the body implied she wasn't long for this world unless someone decided to call up an auto-doc, and Jack didn't have the means of doing that. Of the three living women, one was older- not as old as he was, but not some tween joy-girl either. She was an attractive one, but was definitely someone used to this sort of lifestyle. He didn't recognize her, but he didn't have to to know she probably dealt with illicit goods. Not an uncommon field of work in the underbelly of Night City, but something told him there was more to her than met the eye.

The other two were quite young. They looked a bit young to be surviving on the street, but the way they carried themselves told Jack he didn't have to worry about keeping the pair out of trouble. An unlikely bunch, but probably a sight better than the thugs outside the theatre. Besides, if the individuals he was bringing in weren't up to snuff, ID probably would've just hired the thugs outside.

[color=cyan]"So, what's the score?"[/color]