Logfile from M3

[Radio: (F) Public] Metal Shark chuckles. "Good evening. I... trust you're all doing well?"

[Radio: (F) Public] Obviously a Pirate Man transmits, "AH'VE GOT ANTS IN ME PANTS!"

[Radio: (F) Public] Feste, cheerfully: "Oh, yes! And yourself?"

[Radio: (F) Public] Alpha transmits, "Hello Metal Shark. *then hopeful* Did you kill Gate yet?"

[Radio: (F) Public] Violen transmits, "I'm doin' completely and utterly awesome, personally. But that's because it's me."

[Radio: (F) Public] Metal Shark transmits, "Hmhmhm... Quite excellent, thank you."

[Radio: (F) Public] Alpha evne more hopeful, "That's a yes, right?"

[Radio: (F) Public] Metal Shark transmits, "And... no. I have to admit, though, he would be an /excellent/ addition to the horde... Perhaps..."

[Radio: (F) Public] Alpha transmits, "Oh. Well, glad you are enjoying yourself otherwise."

[Radio: (F) Public] Metal Shark transmits, "... Hmhmhm... Haaaaaahaha! This is /too/ perfect."

[Radio: (F) Public] Obviously a Pirate Man transmits, "Then it sucks"

[Radio: (F) Public] Metal Shark transmits, "But /where/ could I set something like that up, is the question..."

[Radio: (F) Public] Gemini Man transmits, "No good. Just turned on our radio. Explain setting WHAT up?"

[Radio] Bowie sends you a tightbeam radio transmission: "Howdy."

[Radio: (F) Public] Metal Shark transmits, "Oh, nothing that concerns /you/... yet."

[Radio: (F) Public] Elec Man transmits, "What're we doing huh what now? I think I stepped in a puddle earlier."

[Radio: (F) Public] Gemini Man transmits, "Speed up until it does," "Or else don't tell us about it over the WORLD radio." "Ya know?"

[Radio: (F) Public] Metal Shark transmits, "Well, someone else /did/ ask."

[Radio] You send Bowie a direct message: "Howdy!"

[Radio] Bowie sends you a tightbeam radio transmission: "Still innerested in helpin out?"

[Radio] You send Bowie a direct message: "--Ah! Yes, I... have things to discuss with you as well."

[Radio] You send Bowie a direct message: "How about I drop by for a cup of coffee?"

[Radio] Bowie sends you a tightbeam radio transmission: "Might have a little trouble scarin up coffee whare Ah am jus now."

[Radio] You send Bowie a direct message: "Tch! Then go you must, to Brazil! Amazon ho!"

[Radio] Bowie sends you a tightbeam radio transmission: "Aren't the coffee beans a little unnerdone in Brazil?"

[Radio] You send Bowie a direct message: "That would depend on how you like your coffee, sir."

[Radio] Bowie sends you a tightbeam radio transmission: "Black."

[Radio] Bowie sends you a tightbeam radio transmission: "Ah'm in Europe right now...how's swiss coffee?"

[Radio] You send Bowie a direct message: "Of course. You are so very straight-laced, after all... *quiet chuckle* Ah, well..."

[Radio] You send Bowie a direct message: "Be right there."

You enter the Switzerland.

Switzerland

Switzerland is perhaps the world's most notorious neutral country. Home of the largest and most secure financial institutions on the planet, it retains its neutrality and tries to stay away from the wiles and worries of a world gone mad around it. However, the Swiss are not naive. Their country is a cunning mix of technology and tradition, high-tech building in the same cities as churches that are centuries old. Switzerland is a country that wants to be neutral, and now they have the means to remain so, even possessing defenses against intrusion by the now numerous hostile forces on Earth. All of this, nestled in the Alps Mountain range, in valleys dominated by beautiful forests and calm rivers.

Contents: Contents:

Bowie [Unarmored] [MH]

East <E>: Central Europe

West <W>: France

South <S>: Italy

North <N>: Germany

Southeast <SE>: Balkan Peninsula

Up <U>: Sky Above Western Europe

There are coffeehouses, and there are coffeehouses. This particular one would rate on the lower end of the scale, and would almost certainly never be mentioned in the tourist guides. Not that the coffee isn't up to snuff, but the decor leaves something to be desired. The paint was fresh no less than twenty years ago, and the upholstered chairs are threadbare. What makes this place attractive is that no one minds if Bowie is a little scruffy, and the staff is more than happy to look the other way when business is taking place - many of the alcoves have curtains that can be drawn for privacy. Bowie is seated in one such alcove, nursing the closest thing he can find to American Black coffee.

*jinglejinglejinglejingle!*

Feste is all too conspicuous today, but-- perhaps that is more of a cover than anything else he could conjure up. He soon appears at Bowie's alcove, incessant jingling heralding his approach.

"Sorry 'bout the noise," he murmurs in greeting. "Didn't have time to change." A grin! "Now. Where were we?"

The odd choice in apparel seems to be working to the Fool's advantage - people are studiously paying no attention whatsoever to him.

Bowie motions for Feste to close the curtains before he joins him at the table. "Seein if ya were innerested in helpin."

The curtains are drawn satisfactorily tight before the Fool speaks again. He favors Bowie with a faked, saintly smile, and then drops it completely. "I very much want to help, but -- I must ask the same of you. We have our different methods, and, of course, teamwork will probably be mutually beneficial. What say you?"

Bowie waves hand in offer of the contents of the small coffeepot on the table, complete with clean and unused mug. There's also cream and sugar crocks, should the Fool prefers his brew doctored. "Ah thank we want the same thang - a free Europe."

"We do," says Feste flatly, preparing his coffee in relatively silence and with clockwork efficiency. He is clearly English, or pretending to be, with the way he handles preparation of drinks.

Bowie's coffee is black, in accordance to stated preference. "Ah won't claim t'know errythang 'bout ya, but Ah know ya have some pretty useful talents. If ya don't mind sharin 'em, Ah could share whut Ah have. Presumin ya have a use fer a two-bit gunslinger."

"I do," Feste replies to the latter comment, almost repeating himself. "I would be happy to contribute. And you-- you've been, ah, playing Santa Claus to our wayward charges in the Old World. That is precisely the kind of thing I would like to continue and enhance. Catch my drift, sir?"

Bowie nods once, then takes a measured sip of coffee. "Ah plan t'keep doin the same until someone stops me." He sets the mug down, gaze turning more directly to Feste. Somehow he manages not to laugh in spite of the motley. "Ya thank ya can find a relatively clear channel our like-minded friends can use?"

Feste nods, sipping at his cup of coffee. He quirks an eyebrow at it, briefly -- not up to his tastes? Or maybe he likes it. Hm. Ah well. He sips it again, looking up at Bowie when he brings up 'clear channels'. He looks... mildly surprised, and somewhat dismayed. The look is accompanied by a slight frown.

"Well, yes, I can. But I cannot guarantee that it will stay that way, even with regular rotation. It is a hideously insecure method of operation." And he would know, seeing as taking advantage of that is his job.

"Ah'm aware a the limitations," Bowie says with a quirked smile. "Still, it's better than tryin t'tightbeam a half-dozen people at once."

"And only partially less insecure," Feste chides, still sounding relatively unhappy with the idea. "The way this world works, I would trust words passed from mouth to ear to mouth to ear, in an infinite change of messengers, than I would the damn radio system. Technology be damned. I much prefer the human element." He sighs into his coffee cup. "But... these days... and considering how spread out we shall inevitably be... I suppose it's the best we can do." He looks up once more, presumably into Bowie's eyes, if he can catch them. Just so he can adequately convey how much of a bad idea he thinks this is.

Bowie's desert-brown eyes are weary. If it were possible for him to look old, he most likely would. He's a man with few resources and fewer options. "Ah'll take whutever Ah can get," he says with a quiet sigh. "An we'll both remind the others t'not use it as a party line."

Feste manages a smile, for the sake of the weariness he sees in those eyes. He should not have been so... harsh. Tsk. He feels bad now. "I am sorry." Out of an unseen pocket comes a pen, and with his other hand he deftly removes a napkin from the holder. Pen and napkin come together, and Feste writes something upon it. Having done this, he slides it across the table to the gunslinger.

On it is written a four-digit number: 6873.

"I intend to create a network, sir. Do let me know if you come across anyone who could contribute."

Bowie again nods, then picks up the napkin. Luckily for him, having an internal radio means that there's no programming buttons with which to tinker. Once done, he sets the napkin in the saucer and oh-so-accidently sloshes coffee on it. What a shame. "Whut sort a network?" he inquires.

"Intelligence, supply, advice, that sort of thing," Feste murmurs, waving his hand in the air to emphasis the 'that sort of thing' portion of his statement. "You see how you would fit very well into it."

"Ah can provide some intelligence, an some advice if anyone would want it." The last is spoken with a self-depreciating smile.

Feste sip! Sip! "Of course you can, and that is why I would like you, first of all people, to be a Fenian. That's what we're calling ourselves. Every good underground needs a codename, after all... will that do for you?"

"Fenian, huh?" Bowie says. His mug's almost empty, but makes no motion to refill it. "That werks. Mah little shindig with the Alliance is called Operation Revanche." And thus name is traded for name.

"Revanche," Feste echoes, quieter. "I like that." He grins. "And so we are set; we are allied. It is a portentous beginning -- for our enemies." The grin becomes a smirk.