<div class="floatleft">(https://pbs.twimg.com/profile_images/682703493682081792/2MWpsaIy_400x400.jpg)</div><span class="bbc_size" style="font-size: 16pt;"><strong>Spitfire<strong></strong></strong></span><br/><strong>Location</strong>Outside<br/><strong>Group</strong>Quasar, Red Wasp, Superbus<br/><strong>Action</strong>Chit Chat<br/><br/><br/>“I ain’t talking to shit.”<br/><br/>The gruff voice sounded from behind the assembling group of women.  There was a click as some old, dented zippo the woman kept on hand flared to life.  Somehow the flame was twice as large as any other lighter, casting a red glow onto the dark features of Spitfire’s face.  A cheap cigar was nearly burned to a crisp at the end before she put the fire out with another click.  One puff, two and smoke billowed from her nose and lips much like her name implied.  Spitfire, for her part, looked just as she had when first stepping off the bus.  Not even a ruffle to her heavy jacket or extra singe to the already poor clothing options.<br/><br/>“Cops gonna be swarming this place and if we’re lucky the boot-lickers won’t be in toe else they gonna give us a lecture about littering.  I ain’t in the mood to deal with Captain Fancypants and his toadies today.”  She grasped the cigar in her fingers, taking it away from her lips while the other hand jutted back toward the building in question.  “And I may have laid out two of our city’s finest over there.”<br/>