Nick looks at his hand.

"Oh...yeah. I haven't had a smoke in a while. Must've picked the twitching up from Mickey there. Smoking is just a result of living in the sprawl.", Nick says, also smiling.

"So...Sue...if you're looking t' join, we could always use more members, and we ain't as fucked in the head as some gangs out there, like the Drakes, or the 'Weeners. And we won't make you do something like stand in a circle of fire to join, or other crazy shit like that."

Then Nick turns to Mickey.

"Hey man, I didn't mean anything by it. Just showing him the colors. You and me, we're like partners in crime. Hey, don't look at me like that."

Sue nods to the newcomer, sizing him up. "Like I was tellin yer friend here, my name is Sue. Nick was just fillin me in on yer current predicament. You the Big Man? Maybe I should talkin to you then." Sensing the newcomer's tenseness, Sue unzips his jacket to give him easier access to the predator on his hip but takes care not to show the gun or make any overt acts of aggression.

Seeing the twitch, What is it with these guys and the twitching fingers...?

After hearing the exchange between the two men, Sue turns back to Nick. "Nuthin personal, friend, but I'd like to hear what the Big Man here has to say before I hand out one of my last smokes."

He looked at Sue, not realizing his finger was twitching. "Just homelessness. As for biz, what do you bring to the table, Sue?" That name...it reminded him of some old, old song...by some guy called...the man of black?

[OOC: the itallycs w/o quotations are thoughts, sorry for the confusion]

"Thats a good question, omae. A better one is what is it you need brought?"

"We ain't got a Big Man yet. No one's too eager for the job seein' as how it seems to be cursed. But Mickey does have the most votes now. Two out of three.", Nick says.

"We need anything right about now. Fighters, gunners. I see you get a Pred and something on your back. If you can shoot someone, we can use you. Thats pretty much it."

Sue raises his eyebrows when Nick mentions the Pred. He takes a deep drag as he ponders his options. Apparently coming to a solution he shrugs and hauls out the 'Nails. He shucks one half way out and hands the pack to Nick. "Two-thirds, huh? You can have a smoke...And I can do what you're talkin 'bout. But I'd like to hear it from the closest thing you got to a Big Man. No offense, friend."

He turns to Mikey, "So whats it gonna be 'yea' or 'nay'?"

Nick pulls the cigarette out, and places it between his lips. He pulls a out silver Ronson with a red Hammer and Sickle on it. Then he flicks the lid open, spins the thumbwheel, and places the resultant flame on the end of the cigarette. He sucks down a long drag, then opens his mouth to let the smoke out.

"None taken...friend.", he says around the cigarette. He hands the pack back.

"Thanks."

He eyeballs Sue, unsure what to think. "Give me what you know about this erea and the players in it. If you're usefull you're in."

He looks at Ricks, blinking several times, trying to signal the mage to scan the Boy Named Sue with astral sight, magic, whatever.

Ever had one of those days? You know, the day where nothing goes quite right; where everyone's out to take a steaming drek on your lawn? Usually a guy complains about a day like that, says everyone's out to get him, he gets laughed at and called paranoid. I'd like to see you try that with a 750lb. Trog; especially when the Trog in question can bend rebar into balloon animals. Yeah, call Blitz paranoid, and see how it feels to suck baby food through a straw for the rest of your life.

Since he'd hung up the phone from talking with Friday, his Lone Star insider, Blitz'd had a bad feeling growing in his gut. Not three times nuked week old burrito bad, but close enough to be uncomfortable. He shook it off, though, when he walked into Skags looking to recruit. Can't be going into a place like that with worry playing across your face. Attitude. No matter what drek life throws your way, you've gotta steel up, suck it in, and put on a good face; the kind of face that tells a man that messing with you'll result in being lynching by his own large intestine. Blitz had summoned that face by remembering the words of his father: One of these days, you'll wake up dead...

`I'm looking for some guys who might be up for a rumble in the sewers. Got a few Losers to take care of, if you catch my drift. Spoils of war go to the guys you can find to come along, hell, I don't care what they take. I'm not in this for the money. Think you know anyone who might be up for a fight?`

Now, there are certain things you just don't expect from your favorite bar. Sometimes you can't anticipate the kind of things you don't expect, especially if you're a none too bright Troll, and a thought like that confuses you, and the change is somewhat subtle. Well, ok, some would call it pretty fragging obvious actually. You see, almost every one of the half a dozen or so fresh bodies in Skags at that moment had done some accessorizing that morning. Bandanas, caps, doo-rags and the like, all in nice bright shiny new Loser colors. Funny, how a Loser is a lot like a roach. Leave even one of the vermin alive, and they multiply pretty damn quickly. There'd been a good number of chairs pushed back, a few drinks finished, some iron produced, and a whole lot of angry eyes looking the way of the big ugly Troll.

Of course Blitz wasn't the type to back down from long odds easily, and this was -his- bar after all. A greasy loking guy with a flock of seagulls haircut and a beat up looking

Warhawk in hand started to speak up -he probably figured he was the senior Loser present, and he'd deliver an ultimatum- but Blitz wasn't giving him the chance. The towering Trog let out a warcry and heaved the nearest table to him from the floor, throwing the heavy topped furnishing into an end over end tumble which sent neo-Losers scrambling. Not all of them made the dive in time, however; the large table took down a pair of butt ugly twin dwarves and a kid who didn't even look old enough to shave in it's fall. He'd let these bastards kill too many of his fellow Edgers, he'd failed for long enough. These guys may not have been Losers for more than an hour, but they sure as hell were going to pay for signing on. He didn't intend on letting a single one of them so much as crawl out of Skags that day.

Blitz's flurry of disjointed, rage infused, internal monologue was cut off by the dull impact of a Browning slug in one shoulder. Snapped back to a somewhat higher plain of consciousness, Blitz realized two things: the slug had hit a dermal deposit, and some idiot was rushing him with a baseball bat. As the guy rushed, Blitz looped the chain around his fists in an eerily casual, practiced, gesture, leaving the bulk of the chain's length hanging. He grunts as the flock of seagulls guy manages to score a grazing shot along his thigh, but he was too focused to even care. He takes two quick, long strides to intercept and pass at an angle the guy with the bat, easily brushing the incoming swing aside. With a quick twist of the heavy chain as he flips it towards the guy, Blitz caught the hapless Loser around the throat, securing him in a hangman's choke with the chain. In the same fluid motion, Blitz used the momentum of his sprint, along with some brute force, to haul the guy clear over his own horned head. Releasing one end of the chain in mid throw allows the Loser, who's neck has been snapped by the force, to twist free and tumble right into Mr. Warhawk.

For the time being, that just left one Loser standing. Said Loser, after witnessing that outright scary display of strength and unbridled rage, actually managed to yell something to the effect of 'die motherfragger,' as he fired off a shot which drew a thin line of blood from just under Blitz's right armpit. Now, had the poor guy known that only a few short seconds after firing the blood drawing shot in question the frontal lobe of his skull with be caved in by the end of a heavy length of chain, rending him a vegetable for the rest of his life (albeit a rather short life, given the quality of medical care avaliable to the denizens of the Redmond Barrens in this day and age), he'd probably have tried to make his last words a little more elloquent.

The blood and cerebrospinal fluid slick chain hanging loosely from one hand, both fluids dripping down his front, Blitz turned to regard the guy with the flock of seagulls hair.

He turned just in time to catch lead in the hip. The force was enough to stagger even the big Troll a step or two back, but it just added more fuel to his rage. Two painful steps foward, and he kicked the heavy pistol clean out of the guy's hand. Flock of seagulls tried to push Blitz back, but all he ended up with for his efforts was a crushing hand grabbing at his wrist, and hauling him just high enough so another crushing hand could get ahold of his throat.

`Alright chummer, you's got one chance ta tell me where in da sewers yer doss is or...`

Before Blitz could deliver the actual threat, the sound of a shotgun action being levered came to his ears. He slowly craned his neck to look over his shoulder. There behind the bar, the 'tender stood with a double barrel granddaddy of a shotgun levelled at the big Troll's back.

`Drop him, and get the hell out of here. You're not welcome at Skags no more.`

Blitz grunted, flexing his fingers effortlessly to crush the guy's windpipe. No more bad hair days for that Loser. With a disbelieving frown creasing his visage, he dropped the guy, and turned to the tender. This wasn't happening. He was the fraggin' champ here. Now suddenly he wasn't welcome?

It was one of those days.

Stepping out of Skags, a gut full of lead, and a head full of confused anger is bad enough; it's even worse when the 'Star are there waiting for you. Good old car 665, a step away from Satan; Friday's cruiser. Officer Friday was leaning back on the wall by the front entrance to the fight bar, having a smoke, when Blitz came out. His partner, whom Blitz had never met before, was sitting on the hood of the cruiser, shotgun lazily held over his lap.

`Well now, don't you look like drek warmed over.`

Friday laughed a rough laugh, and flicked the cigarrette to the ground, stepping up beside Blitz.

`Been one of those days.`

Blitz was muttering, both Friday and... hell, the other guy must be Saturday. Neither of the pair caught his words.

`So pal of mine, you promised me the bust of my career. Where, pray tell, is it at?`

`You're sounding mighty brave today, your boyfriend decide to play catcher last night...`

`Come on now Blitz, mind your tounge. From what I see there's no drug but gonna go down here at all. That means we just wasted company gas coming into an off limits zone, for nothing. Say, that's a nasty looking GSW you've got there. How'd that happen?`

He could see it coming; Friday was covering his sidearm, and Saturday was shifting to stand up. Little rat bastard figured he needed a bust to make quota, so he was gonna try and bring Blitz in. Fraggin' rent-a-cops, all the same. Blitz moved before either of them realized he knew what the deal was, though. He sidestepped and grabbed Friday's wrist, wrenching his arm around behind his back. Now, from Saturday's perspective there's a problem. Sure, Friday doesn't even come all the way up to chest level on the big Troll, but if he takes the shot, and missed, well he's in a world of drek. The look on Saturday's face was enough to tell Blitz he'd already won this one.

`Drop the meatgrinder, nice and slow.`

Saturday shoots a look to Friday for guidance, but all he gets is a pained expression of urgency. Reluctantly, the officer set the shotgun down on the pavement by the cruiser. As Saturday was bent over placing the boomstick down, Blitz liberated Friday's Thunderbolt, giving the cop's wrist an extra twist to discourage any retaliation effort.

`Good, now slide your sidearm on over here, then walk on over to that parking meter.`

He indicated a bent old broken down meter across the way. Saturday again reluctantly complies; when instructed to cuff himself to the fixture, and toss over the keys, he does just that. While the officer is not looking, Blitz takes a moment to bring the novacoke out of his pocket, and stuff it into Friday's jacket pocket, while patting him down for other weapons.

`Now you see what it feels like to be hearded around by some fragger with a gun? Not too funny now, is it?`

`You're gonna pay for this Blitz. Assaulting an officer, destruction of...`

Friday was sound desperate, and Blitz didn't like it, so he just grunted and cold cocked the cop with his own pistol. Tucking the Thunderbolt into his belt, Blitz walked over to pick up the other sidearm as well, tucking it in with the first. He then smiles, and picks up the handcuff keys, walking over to a nearby sewer grate, he drops them on in.

While Saturday let out a stream of curses, Blitz walked over to the squad car, and hauled open the driver's side door. A little bit of bending, some extra effort, and a mighty heave and Blitz hauled the door clean off of the car. Silent now, worried about what the angry Troll's gonna do with the door, Saturday mutely watches the display. Sitting the door on the side of the road, it didn't take Blitz long to find a suitable piece of 'crete for a re-enacment of one of his favorite childhood games: runaway car bowling. He leans in to twist the keys and start the car, then he puts it into drive, drops the brink, and pulls clear.

He didn't even bother to watch where the car hit. Shotgun resting on one shoulder, cruiser door in the other hand, he headed back towards Bleeding Edge turf as he knew it.

Of course, it was still one of those days.

Hollywood. It wasn't familiar; it wan't likely friendly; it sure as frag wasn't home. But that's the way of it, and so here he is. Biltz pulls up alongside Kake's truck on his Scorpion, both him and the bike looking worse for wear.

His warpaint is all but gone now, most of it run down his throat, streaked with sweat; he's covered with blood and craniospinal fluids. Some of the blood's recent, some is actually his. Well, plenty is his in fact. Added to the flesh deep trails and the now bandaged (with the colors of a falled Loser) gut shot wound, he has a rather nasty looking cut just under one of his tusks. He'd come across some dandellion eater trying to hotwire his bike back at the old Loser doss. Seems this was the only guy who wasn't out celebrating newly acquired turf with the alliance. Hell, he probably wasn't even part of the deal. Little slitch was quick though, that Blitz'd give him. Of course, now he was just dead. When he approaches the hotel, he's got a large military kit bag in one hand, the shotgun strapped to it; the bar fridge from the old Loser doss strapped around him; the pair of liberated Thunderbolts in his belt; and by the Ghost he's still carrying the cop cruiser door with the number 665 on the side in one hand. He's favoring his wounded side jsut a bit as he approaches, as little as possible in fact. He stops by the gathered persons, and nods solemnly.

`Been one of those days, hasn't it?`

Mickey turns to look at the cruiser door coming his way with the troll attatched to it, eyes agog. "Good lord, Blitz, what the hell did you do? If you've been playing chicken with the star's vehicles again you can pay yer own bloody hospital bills this time."

"Holy shit, Blitz...holy shit. You know what, though? I'm not going to ask. I don't need or want to know.", Nick says, a look of surprise on his face.

The big Trog shakes his head, and can't help but letting a drek eating grin cross his face.

`I had to keep a souvineer.`

In time, maybe he'll explain, right about now he needs a nap something fierce.

@ Mickey:
"Well, ta be honest with ya, I'm kinda new to these parts m'self. But I will tell ya this :[states LM's IC "state of the union" post] Will that do?"

Sue takes another drag and flicks the ash away as Mickey responds to Blitz. He leans towards Nick and whispers, "I think I'm startin to see why its only two-thirds," and winks.

He turns towards Blitz, taking in the scene. "Been one those days, huh, chummer?"

With deliberate slowness pulls the flask of snyth-scotch from the inner pocket of his jacket. "I reckon whatever you did deserves a drink. I'll trade ya the rest of the booze in this, here," shakes flask. " For one of them Thunderbolts." Sue extends the flask to the big Troll, " And if that price is too steep....well, shit you can have it just for bringin' the door back."

Blitz regards the new guy a moment, and cocks his head to the side. He looks over to Mickey and Nick.

`'e with us now?`

He was gonna have to get used to the new faces. Only hoped Mother was still around, he needed something easy on the eyes. He looks back to Sue.

`No thanks, I think it's about time I quit. As for the piece, they's got a bit o' sentamental value to 'em. Had to lose a decent insider for 'em.`

He'd miss Friday. Hell, it was fun having a cop scared drekless of him.

"Fair enough, friend." Sue takes a swig from the flask and replaces it in the jacket pocket.

Mickey looks at all the guys getting along with Sue. Idiots! He could be a Renraku plant! Still, keep your friends close and your enemies closer...

"Allright Sue, you're in on probation. Do good and we'll make it permanent. Now, down to biz...let's get to that recon. Sue, you're with Nick and Painkiller. You're Alpha 1, Alpha two and Alpha three. Ricks, you and Yellow are with me. We're Omega one...that's me...Omega two and Omega 3. Blitz, hold down the fort here and guard the truck with the rest. You're Gamma Team. Let's get to it people."

Alpha Team? What the fuck?, Nick thinks to himself.

"Kssht. Thats affirmative, Red Leader. Making my attack run on the Death Star now.", he says as if over a radio. He then chuckles at his own joke.

`da Frag?`

He's not so delicate when it comes to expressing his confusion at the designations. When was it they became military exactly?

`Musta missed more dan I thought...`

He grunts, and looks up to the hotel. Well, 'least he can claim a room now. He looks over the collection of people, some of which he ain't got a clue who they are. He grunts, and nods in the direction of two of them, since his hands are full.

`You and you, you's got front door duty. No one comes in or out without you either knowin' their face, or me clearin' 'em.`

He indicates another.

`Take da truck. Sittin' up in da cab'd be best. Remember it's got mirrors ta watch the sides, no pokin' yer head out. Ya do that, yous might get shot. The door guys can watch yer ass.`

The hefts the duffel up a bit more, and grunts as a pain lances through his side. Some more blood soaking through his bandages on the gut wound.

`The rest of yous, come wit me. I'll gets someone on any back door this place may 'ave, and a runner to communicate back 'n forth. If drek goes down an' tha runner's not 'der, yell.`

He starts into the hotel now, having to manouver for a few to get through the door with his odd load of goodies. First order of business for himself is to find a nice room with a view, second or third storey'll do.

"In any case, Sue, Pain. Let's go do some Recon.", Nick says. He puts his Ares duffel bag down on the step platform on the truck, and begins pulling out guns.


"Now, the Nick Rowden way to do recon is to find a nice watering hole. Maybe a nice prefab shanty with a name like Piss Alley, and one or two kinds of very hard drinks. Bartenders in places like that tend to know everything. The second step is to begin a long habit of patronage. After that, you've got everything to know in this place down.", he says while looking over each gun.

"Either of you want to borrow something?"

In the bag is a sawn off double barrel shotgun, a Defiance T-250, an AK-98, a Colt M-23, a Beretta 70 SMG, a Predator, a Warhawk, a Ceska vz/120, and lots of ammunition for each one. Nick pulls out the Warhawk and sticks it in his belt. Then he pulls out the katana he found in the Losers doss and adds

"Huh...I found this thing. I wonder where the Losers got it. It's real nice."

"I like how you operate," Sue cracks his knuckles. "Lets do some recon..." he smiles.

Sue peers over Nicks shoulder into the bag and lets out a low whistle, "Jesus H Christ, Nick. Do you know something I don't?"

He picks up the T250 and sawed off shotgun, puting them through the paces. "Nice pieces of work, here. I might take you up on the offer if thing go sour down the road, but for now I think I have enough. I have been meaning to pick up another pistol at some point, but that can wait."

He checks the action and load on both the Predator and his Sawed-off Shotgun. He replaces them in thier respective holsters and nods at Nick, "Ready when you are, omae."

He frowns and looks at Nick with his half vacant stare through narrowed eyes. "Alpha 1, that's you Nick, do take an actual look around, hmmm? Before you actually enter any bar or consume any alcohol."

He figures his labelling Nick "Alpha 1" and himself "Omega 1" would let the rest know that the "1" meant they were in charge of the team. Nick seemed to be taking charge, so that was good. Blitz was doing the same. There might be hope yet. By the Corporate Court, Renraku would not get any more shots in if he had any say in the matter!

"Gamma 1, if anyone is in the place who seem tough and amenable, invite themto stay and meet me when I return. Make them comfortable and make them not want to leave." He figured Blitz would translate that to mean "hold 'em there 'till I get back. If they bolt, capture with extreme violence." Like he did anything without extreme violence. Still, a loyal pitbull was a usefull tool. Point at what you want bit and watch the pitbull go.

"Allright, Alpha, move out." It was amazing how easily corpsecspeak returned. He adjusted his weapons, carrying his broken wrench. He'd need new spray cans soon. If there was a store that had some around he'd pick up a few. He gestured for Yellow and Ricks to flank him and started to stride away to circle the block, then lead them in an outward spiral search pattern. He expected Nick to do the same right up until he found a bar. Hopefully he would find the establishment first.

((Ugh, no action for days and when I get too busy to post, you all come out of the woods))

Durring the exchange with the newcommer, Ricks gives the guys a good look on the astral. Once Mickey is ready to get moving, Ricks looks to him and asks, "I can call up those watchers like ya wanted, but what exactly do ya want me ta do with em?"

Ricks snaps his fingers, his will casting out to the astral world, calling a few watchers to his side.

"The watchers are for advance recon. I want them to scout a 2 block radius and give a report on their findings."

"Sure, no problem, but main, Watchers ain't too smart. You'll have to be more specific. Should I have them look for groups of people? Say groups of four or more?"

Mickey answers Ricks as he walks along. "YOu know magic better than I. I trust your judgement...but if they can notice gang colours, that would be a plus."

Ricks whispers to the astral, telling the two Watchers to look for groups of three or more people. If they are wearing similar colors, they should report that as well.

Once he's sure the key points to the building are secured, Blitz goes to find himself a room on the second floor, facing the streetfront. He rests the squad car door on the wall beside the window, where it'll be handy in case of firefight. Next to it he props up the shotgun, and he sets the Thunderbolts on the floor in front of it. For a guy who doesn't use weapons beyond a chain, he's asembled a small arsenal. Times change, venues change, Trogs need to change too.

When he's laid out everything, Blitz drops his duffel and the fridge down by the bed, and sits on the edge of it. Only then does he take some time to unwrap the dressing he'd rigged up, to check the gutwound. He grunts as he pokes a meaty finger into it, no concern for what he's been touching before. Thing's still in there, feels a little odd. He's heard it's only real bad when things go cold down there though, and it's not really cold. Feels more like he pissed himself. Then again that's the blood soaking his jeans. He considers a long moment. He's got to be strong for these guys, but he's got a gut full of lead. Won't do to be advertising. He stands slowly, wincing at the pain, and he heads to the door of his room.

`Anyone got booze wit 'em?`

It's inevitable, gangers don't abandon good booze. So the first guy to answer, someone he's never seen before, he calls over. He pulls the guy -litterally, by the arm- into the room, and puts finger to mouth.

`This don't be told to no one but you an me.`

He indicates his bloodied gut, and slumps onto the bed.

`Need you to find me a doc. Someone who can get this bullet out of me. Fragger got in a lucky shot before I crushed 'is throat. Got it?`

He waves the guy off, hoping he keeps his mouth shut and just gets a doc. He's too tired to re-enforce the order with some threat. Instead, when the guy goes, Blitz just lies back and closes his eyes.

The building, at first glance abandoned, is actually far from it. No one harrasses Blitz and his crew as the wander in, nice as you please, pick out a spot, and hunker down, but there are several dozen sets of eyes, mostly squatters and junkies, looking at them. The first floor and the second floor share a giant hole between them, leaving only the outer rooms safe, and making the hallways surrounding them balconies with no railing. There are stairs, but you shouldn't trust them. There is, however, an easily climbable stack of crates allowing for access to the second floor. Here, in one of the far corners, two chipheads lay, open chip cases scattered around their blanket-covered bodies. One of them stirs momentarily, the female, to poke the other, saying that they should probably go get some food. The male shrugs and falls back into chip-induced sleep.

The third floor, after a quick recon, is taken up by a half-dozen dysfunctional families. At any given time, two of them are in a screaming match. The kids of these families, different races and ethnenticities, are playing in the halls. At least, they do until the father of one of them notices, backhands his child for associating with "those damn fruity daisy-eatin' point-ears" or "one of those damn ugly, lazy, dirty trogs. You don't know where they been".

The fourth level is all open, with all the walls having been demolished at some point, to varying degrees. There are men, women, children, and everything in between laying about on scavenged furniture, or soiled mattresses, watching jury-rigged trid, or playing cribbage at the one actual table. Off in the corner, there's a kitchenette piled with week-old and broken dishes, and there's three pots of water boiling on the stove, and only one of them is to make food. There is a toilet, a tub, and a sink in one corner, with someone asleep on the toilet, pants around their ankles, and a young woman bathing her children in the tub. There seems to be alot of green and gold in the area, on jackets and bandannas, mostly faded and moth-holed. No one seems to really be taking care of their colors.

Both watchers come back at almost the same time, both very quickly. They are babbling on, over each other, around each other, fighting for attention. When you finally get them to calm down, one refers to about a dozen people wearing green and gold in the top story of the building to your right, and the other is refering to a group of about a half-dozen, all with similar tattoos, hanging out on the steps to an apartment building, wondering if tattoos would work for what you meant. He's very excited, and eager to please, like a young dog.

As the watcher returns, Ricks turns to it and asks, "What do the tattoos look like?"

Nick hands his duffel bag of guns to Bishop.

"Take care of that for me, will you?", he says, placing some bullets for his Warhawk into his belt.

"Alright. Pain, Sue. I'm in charge of this outfit, so Pain, you keep track of anything interesting we find. Sue...you...I don't have a job right now, but I'll think of one. Gentlemen, let us go begin this recon...mission......thing.", he says. He leads the group on a search that begins around the perimeter, then eventually spirals in on right angles.

Mickey watches Ricks converse with seemingly nobody, just like the Shaman character on "The Odd Coven." Must be talking to the spirits. Maybe it was the watchers. "Hey, Ricks, who are you talking to? If that's the watchers what have they got for us?" As he spoke he used the last of his spray paint to put the Anti Renraku circle and slash on an open spot on a mostly intact building. People needed to know, after all. He hucked the two cans, aiming the second at the one he thwer first and missing badly. Drek! "If they got recon, we should check it out."

"Spotted come folks wearing gold and green in that building there. Up there way is a dozen or so people hanging out in front of a building and they all sport the same tats. I sent it back to tell me more about the tat, maybe I could ID the gang. If you want to head on over, thats cool too though."

The watcher seems a little confused at the question for a bit, and makes a thinking face, but then it understands. "Yeah, they all got them cats with the stripes on 'em and the orange and stuff. Some of em got stripes on their arms, too.

It's while the runner's gone to find a doc that Blitz starts to notice things; more things than he'd usually notice in fact. He's been gaining some clarity lately, call it paranoia, or expirience growing on him, either way he's noticing things. He gets restless waiting, knowing in an area like this a doc might take ages to find, so he re-covers the gut wound and starts to walk the area. He leaves the other Edgers that aren't on watch to some well needed rest, asuring Mother he'll be ok; seems she noticed the blood wasn't all that of his enemies.

He first notices the general air of the place, the desperate clinging to some form of normailty. The semblances of more normal life where it seems people'd be too downtrodden to bother. That tells him there's hope for this place at least. He considers heading back down to check the watchers, but the crate climb was enough of a slitch going up, he'll figure out the way down later. It's contemplating those crates that he notices the chipheads. He frowns a touch, and makes a mental note to ask Mother to bring a little food to them when he next sees her. He conducts the recon for the rest of the building himself, smiling despite himself when the childrens' play was unninterupted by his presence, the little bodies streaming around him. The father's comments and actions brought a deep frown to his face, and his lip curled. There was the urge to simply drive the bigot's head into a wall, but not with the children present. Intstead, he caught the human's gaze with his own, and let his eyes speak volumes. Sure he's ugly, and dirty right now, but he damnwell ain't lazy. When he passes by the guy to head towards the fourth floor access, he lets a little of that anger trickle, and throws a very restrained elbow to get him out of the way.

On the fourth is where he starts to notice the colors. Green and gold. Gang colors. Colors that should be worn with pride, but seem to be neglected. He grunts, and surveys their numbers, then approaches one of the men wearing them.

`Now I a'int from 'round here, but seems to me the Katos fell on tough times... would mean we shares something in comm'n.`

The chiphead looks up from the mattress blankly. "Yeah, huh? Kato what? Oh, right, the jackets. Yeah, there's a big box of em in the corner if you wanna join up, but all that really means is you can crash here if you wanna. Listen, you're in the way of my Star Trek. They got another new series. Star Trek: The Borg Life. Kooky shit."

A deep frown creases his features, and the big man grunts.

`Ain't you got no pride left? Jus handin' out colors like their candy on some corporate kiddy holiday...`

He looks to the trid, and frowns. Wasteful things. He looks back to the chiphead.

`Who runs the show 'ere? Who's your leader?`

"They all got tattoos of cats on em... I don't know, doesn't sound familiar. You wanna go check it out?"

"Leaders, dude? Uh, I think you is thinking we's something we ain't. Listen, if you want a coat, go for it, they're warm. And you're *still* in the way of my Star Trek."

For a moment considers letting the watchers do the work, but decides against it. The Bleeding Edge need to feel capable right now. "Let's go have a look. Stay dark and silent. If things go for the worse, then remember, we outnumber them 3-12." He grins a quick little grin and keeps Nick's Ingram Smartgun where he can reach it. He gets Ricks to have the watcher manifest and lead the way, then fade as the building is in sight. He stays where he can't be seen and gives the building and people a good look.

Blitz snorts, and stretches to his full 8'11" height, chorded muscles drawing tight.

`Star Trek? Star Trek. Son have you got no pride whatsoever. All around you there is a real world going on with drek that's twice as crazy as that science fiction trid crap, but you're chipped out and lying in your own filth.`

He lets an angry clipped tone into his voice.

`Get on your feet now.`

Lee Emory'd piss himself with a guy this size barking at him, let's see if the chiphead's got any brains.

Sue listens to Nick and nods. "I pretty useful in certain situations...I tend to reco'nize 'em when I see 'em."

He falls in a step or two behind and to the left of Nick, "I think we should work out some sorta code...I saw this Trid once, The Good, The Bad, and The Troll; ever seen it? Its got this crazy theme, kinda like, Whaa-whaa-whaw and then it goes all fugazi and you know the drek's 'bout ta come down. It got these three guys and the Good and the Troll have this deal to get this loot that hidden in the Barrens--its set right in Puyallup--but the Bad is this Lone Star asshole...anyway," Sue takes a cigarette out of the pack and tucks it behind his left ear. "When I think the shit is 'bout go down, I'll take this here smoke out from behind my ear and ask you for a light. If you see something I don't, You ask me for a smoke and I'll hand you the one behind my ear. Waddaya think?"

"Asking for a light, huh? Yeah. I like the sound of that.", Nick says, cracking his knuckles.

"If you see anyone displaying colors, try and give 'em a wide berth. Unless they start messin' with you. Then, just take out the one with the best looking girlfriend. I find that to be a pretty accurate judge of who's the leader.", he adds as he walks.

The punk on the mattress simply looks dumbounded. "Yeah, uh, I gotta go now."

With that, he moves over three feet, over a half-naked girl who is passed out, and stares at the trid again.

A low growl forms deep in his throat. If there's one thing he couldn't stand it was someone with no motivation. How odd, apathy brought out a part of his father in him. The man he'd hated with a passion. In such times, he was a mirror of the man. He steps forward in two long strides, to grab the man by the shoulder, and haul him to his feet.

`Do you know what this drek does to you?`

He taps a meaty finger to the guy's chipjack.

`It fries your fraggin' brain. Makes you into a vegetable. Just like that does...`

He points back to the trid.

`You want to end up some piece of rot? You want to die useless? Because if you do, I can arange for that.`

The chiphead seems very scared now. "Jesus Ghost, man! What the fuck do you want from me!?!" He's cringing in Blitz's hand now, and might just piss himself. "What the hell do you want!?! I don't got no money, man! Here, take my pistol," he drops a pred that must be as old as he is on the floor, "and take my food," he drops two packs of instant noodles from the inside of my jacket. "Here, man, take my drugs," He drops two chip-cases, "and have some smokes," he holds out a half pack of Nails.

Blitz grunts at the outflow of offerings, but he allows a wicked smile to cross his features.

`Hold it together man. Pick up your stuff. I'm not here to rob you.`

He's suddenly putting on the friendly face, but not too friednly. Can't let the guy forget he's the angry violent Trog.

`I want you to do me a favor, gather together everyone you got wearing your colors, bring 'em here. I'll be waiting for you.`

He places a foot on the chip case.

`You can have these back when you've got them here.`

Ricks leads the group he is with up to the building that the tattooed guys are hanging out near. Stopping short, he gives them all a winning smile, "Hoy, whats up chummers?"