<b>Valerie<br/>
</b><br/>Kappa Jacket the SMG Guy leaned against the wall, looking through the doorway at the shirtless, unconscious man on the table. He had frown on his features, the kind you get when somethings tuggin' at the back of your mind but won't tell you what it is. He heard what Valerie was saying, only half listening.<i>Out of town... Skullbangers</i>... An average Dreg day when you're lookin' for action.<br/><br/>It was her next sentence that made him turn his head, look at her square on. His eyes dropped, darted left and right, searching his mind. His brow creased deeper. His hand fell to the SMG hanging from his shoulder, his finger tapping the metal case. Then, at once, his every movement stopped. He closed his heads and his head drooped. His finger closed around the barrel of the SMG and his other hand lifted to his face which he held for a long uncomfortable moment. Then he took a deep breath, lifting his head and looking at the ceiling. He looked sad, also disappointed. He looked in the room and a depression fell over him.<br/><br/>He looked back at Valerie. "Describe this kid."<br/><br/><br/><br/><br/><b>Darion<br/>
</b><br/>Interesting day. That was one way of saying it. Hell of a fucking turn of events. That's more like it. One hour, sittin' pretty halfway into a glass half empty. The next, puttin' punks down like they were cattle. All in a day's work, or at least it used to be. It's a hard thing to get away from, history. You just keep runnin' and it just keeps catchin' up, and before you know it, you're playin' the grim reaper once more, the ferry man sending them on their way. You tell yourself you don't enjoy it. Strictly business. But that's a lie. Some part of you still knows the truth. When you pull that trigger, that dark corner of your mind gets off just a little.<br/><br/>They're dead, you're not.<br/><br/>But that wasn't even the part that's set you sideways, put you off balance. It's what you found at the end of it. Dreg gold, some tasty little secret thing with a big name stamped on the side. Anyone else, they'd think they hit it rich, were fuckin' lady luck herself. But you? You know better. Little boxes with big names on them are a dangerous thing. How many have you killed over things like it? A dozen, maybe? Maybe more. The kings and queens of purgatory don't like it when their things go missing, and down here in the gutters of humanity, there's no half measures. You might be fuckin' lady luck, but she's about to put a knife in your neck.<br/><br/>The animal instinct in you says ditch the fuckin' thing, and do it fast. Lose it and forget you've ever seen it before they come lookin'.<br/><br/>But then there's that other voice isn't there? The one that's tellin' you just how fucked you really are, just how far into the grave. There's somethin' in that little box and you know it. Could be somethin' worth a hell of a lot. And unlike all the sorry fucks down in the ditch with you, you know this game, you know how it's played. They send the predators, well... you ain't no prey. You get to thinkin' maybe you can play the player, cheat the game.<br/><br/>But that's the catch isn't it? That's the devil on one shoulder, the angel on the other. Make a play, go for broke... or know a loaded gun pointed at you when you see one.<br/><br/>Shit like that can drive a person insane. Only one recourse... calm the fuck down, take a load off and kick back; Put some time between you and it, get your head right. Stash the fuckin' thing and walk away until you've put a bullet in one of those fuckers on your shoulders.<br/><br/>Find some solace in hell.<br/><br/>Lifts and stairs goin' up and up until you start seein' some familiar facemasks showin' up among the gun toting Dregrats. Get your head just far enough above the shit to take a breath. You head for the places you know. You head for the Second Circle.<br/><br/>You walk down a street, WatchTower grim reapers on one side, warlord's goons on the other. It's always a funny sight. Both waiting for the other to make a move, pick that fight. Goons wouldn't know what hit 'em. Only ones near the Dreg that know what's under those face masks are dead, or used to be wearin' them.<br/><br/>You push open the doors the Second Circle, and all at once it hits you. Get that smell in your nostrils, feel that beat, feel that heat. Just underneath the smell of body oil, the lingering scent of sweat. You can feel the want in the place, the sharp claws of lust dug right into you. It's a place bathed in red, sellin' drinks that are too expensive, but you don't care. You gotta get your head right, and sometimes that means burying it.<br/><br/>You do what you came here to do. You settle in with a glass in hand.<br/><br/><br/><br/><br/><b>Jade<br/>
</b><br/>Somebody somewhere once said, if luck's a woman, then she's been scorned. And ain't that just the way of it?<br/><br/>One day you're doin' fine, walkin' like you own every fuckin' thing nearby, the next here you are. Sittin' in a back room waitin' for your turn to walk out on stage, wonderin' what tonight's shows gunna be. Hanging from a pole for their viewing pleasure? Or are you on rotation for a dirty show, leanin' back with hips forward for the world to see? Or is it that special time in hell where the rules get tossed and you get to get mounted? Smut show, or slut show, that's the question that hangs over that room and the people in it. Shit, some of them like it that way. Maybe you do too.<br/><br/>One way or another, the dude with the shaved head and his name in red along his scalp tells you you're up. Main stage this time, lucky you. You walk out into the heat of the main floor, under those hot red lights, glistening with body oil to make you smell all nice, make them want to taste you. How many pairs of eyes are watchin' you tonight? Fair odds are that one of them's going to put some money in the owner's pocket to put you on a bed and have their way. Par for the course of it, you suppose.<br/><br/>But hey, bright side is, even if someone's putting somethin' in you tonight, at least it won't be bullets.<br/><b><br/>
</b><br/><br/><br/><b>Spook<br/>
</b><br/>Spook grabbed the shooter, her left arm struggling for control. Her arm felt resistance, the man had a prosthetic. But it was his turn to be surprised. For all the strength he had, that right arm of her had more, clamping down on his wrist and shoving his arm skyward. Spook's face reflected in the lenses on the helmet as the black smoke whirled around her. She kicked up into him, but even with her prosthetic, his armor was extensive. Hers wasn't.<br/><br/>The return knee into her abdomen hit nothing but soft flesh, knocking the wind out of her. Her left arm faltered, but good old cybernetic tech didn't, her right kept hold. He shoved hard against her, trying to throw her off, bring that other SMG to bear, and he was getting close. Spook pushed, but he had mechanical advantage now, and another sudden hit to her solar plexus brought her to her knees, sputtering.<br/><br/>He threw off her left arm, brought the SMG around for the kill shot, a messy one at that range. But before he could pull the trigger, a mechanical armature swung around and tossed him like a sack of meat, sending him across the hall, smashing into the window, cracking it into a spiderweb of shards held together only by the properties of safety glass. Big Tiger yelled as his claw of an arm smashed the armored shooter into the window again, hard enough that the shooter lost one of his SMGs, which hit the floor and slid.<br/><br/>A burst of gunfire from the room ripped into the hall, the rounds hammering into Big Tiger, two of them finding their mark above his left shoulder blade and right side of his neck. He faltered, teeth gritting in a grimace of violent pain. The shooter shook his claw like grip and jumped into the air, twisting and kicking him hard across the jaw, sending the big man sprawling.<br/><br/>Spook heard more gunfire form the room, but nothing was sent her way. Sounded like Tiger 1 had taken the fight to them on another front. Wasn't her issue, not now. Now she had a black armored faceless enemy in front of her, wanting her dead. Deja fuckin' vu.<br/><br/>He didn't bother going for his dropped gun, he just aimed the one he still had at her.<div class="messageTextEndMarker"> </div>