Red Lace bar.

The Orc drives you to an all night bar in a rundown district. If your sense of the city is correct you reckon that you're only about three blocks from where Big's brothel is situated. You get out and pay the cab driver. You give him a generous tip, but from the leer and the frothy drool dripping from his green lips the chance to peer down your top and get a good look at tits as you bend forward to pay him was more appreciated. As he mutters his thanks you notice his right hand move out of sight to his lap. For a moment you expect it to come up with a weapon, but then his jerking shoulder and the heavy lidded look of his eyes tells you his purpose is less deadly.

"Tanks." The Orc grunts, as he registers the tip without taking his eyes from your partially exposed breasts. "You take card, Feck know city good."

With the hand not wrapped round his cock he thrusts a dogeared business card out the window. You find the Orc's blatent masturbation as he stares at your chest grotesquely amusing. You bend down a little more allowing him a better view and take the card and allowing you fingers to brush his hand. A shake of your shoulders makes your exposed midnight black titflesh jiggle and makes Feck groan. With a giggle you turn away and deliberately exagerrate the sway of your hips so that the Orc gets a good view of your rolling ass under your short skirt as you cross the street. A loud grunt and a muttered oath before you've taken a dozen steps betrays the fact that Feck has shot his load.

The bar looks like the lowest dive in the city. A blinking neon sign over the door says 'RED LACE', but closer up you spot that some wit has smashed parts of the sign and that with the blanked out letters the bar's real name is the less exotic 'FRED'S PLACE'. The bar's exterior is grubby, the paint faded and patchy. Half the windows facing the street are boarded up with planks and corrugated iron sheeting. You pause before the open door to the bar. A weapon scanner is built into the door frame but it's lights are dead and from a couple of it's broken panels crazy tangles of burnt out wiring hangs. There's no sign of a doorman, obviously they're not too fussy about who enters.

In real life you wouldn't even consider entering this sort of dive and you glance over your shoulder to where Feck the Orc cabby still sits, smoking a cigerette after beating himself off.

"Fuck it." You mutter to yourself. "I'm the Fox. A feared assassin and a dark elf."

You enter. The interior is dark, lit mostly by gaudy multicoloured signs which illuminate the bar in a patchwork of different hues. There's a long bar at the back lined with stools and tables scattered haphazardly across the room. To one side is a raised stage area with a stainless steel pole, a woman half heatedly writhes around the pole for the amusement of the half dozen patrons who cluster at the stage edge. Apart from those watching the dancer there's about a score of other people in the place, half sat or propped against the bar and the rest scattered in twos and threes at the tables. It's hard to tell the race of the denizens in the flashing coloured light, but from their builds you judge about half are human.

You receive a few lingering glances, as you walk up to the bar. Behind the steel counter the barman looks half Ogrish, bigger and bulkier than any human has a right to be with overdeveloped canines that protrude from his wide mouth. He looks you up and down with a leer as you approach.

"You're a fresh face." He growls, "If you're working then we get ten percent per john you pick up in here. For another twenty percent you can use the comfort room over there."

The half Ogre indicates a door marked 'employees only'. Down the bar a few feet away a pair of heavily made up women look at you sourly. Wearing skimpy hotpants, tube tops and high heels both women look tired and hardened and noticably displeased by your arrival. They whisper to one another as the continue to eyeball you.

"If you want to make a few creds more we pay 50 per half hour on the stage and you keep any creds stuffed in your panties." The barman informs you. "House rules are you finish butt naked, but I'd keep your boots on, otherwised you'd cut your feet on broken bottles."

You wonder what to do next. Telltale bulges beneath the clothing of some of the closer barflies tell you that most of them are packing, but are they operatives who can answer your questions? The barman is still leering awaiting a reply.