<strong>Carol Neathawk<br/>Gehenna bar, a booth<br/>Talking with Berenger Zharkov and Adam Smith</strong><br/><br/><br/>Carol recognized the powder, wasn't sure what it said about the man who snorted it.  It Jacked up strength, but kept the head clear, no real high.  A professional's combat drug, in a sense.<br/><br/><em>I have trouble looking you in the eye, Mr. Zarkhov, because your eyes are very expressive, while your mask is just a blank.  I get the willies from the combination.</em><br/><br/>She was saved from having to answer aloud by the fight, she shifted in her seat, following the pimp with her eyes as he dealt with the business at hand.  What she saw was firsthand confirmation of every bit of street talk she'd heard about Zarkhov's iron control of his gang.<em>That hatchet... what is he going to do to them?  Not my problem.</em><br/><br/>"Kids."  Was all she said aloud when he returned.  "They don't listen, don't pay attention.  Whatever you're about to do to them, well, that's how they learn."<br/><br/>And another mask came up.  This one... seemed as blank inside as his mask was outside.  It was just the way he carried himself, no tension, no, no situational awareness, Carol decided.  He would react to whatever happened, and he would just deal with it.<br/><br/><em>The city is full of scary monsters out of fable, but they have nothing on these two.</em>He didn't join them, and the cop was thankful indeed for that.<br/>