Ladyboy arrived at Stamford Bridge as the baggies were setting up. Flanks of truncheon wielding Dinos ran from the Tube station at Fulham to the stadium entrance. A Yellowjacket circled above.

First came the song, "Liverpool, la-la-la, Liverpool, la-la-la," followed by the chanting young men and their shaved heads and red and white scarves. A beer bottle went over the cordon line at a middle-aged geezer, probably on his way to his mystery book club meeting. This breach of civilized conduct was rewarded with the hooligan tackled, his arms wrenched behind him, then handcuffed.

A few of the young toughs caught a glimpse of Ladyboy. She received the usual calls of "fuckin' poofter!" and "fuckin' bastard!" She ignored them as she leaned casually against a lamppost, hands in her pink Zoe jacket.

The mark was among the last of the Merseysprawlers to arrive via Tube. Some poor BritRail sod was going to be working double overtime fixing up the cars the thugs had trashed. As if the Tube wasn't banged up enough as it was. After tasking a watcher spirit to keep an eye on him, she walked into the stadium.

An hour was spent at one of the sticky concession stand tables, coating her nails with clear polish. The stomping of feet and shouts of "fuckin' bastard!" echoed through the halls beneath the East Stand. Her mojo kept the increasingly drunk crowds from noticing her. There were the usual "Trogs out! Trogs out!" chants that ended with the slaps of fists on soft body parts as a meta or a sympathizer took offense.

The watcher informed her the mark was on his way down. Staggering, a bent cigarette in his mouth and an empty paper cup in his hand, he was a pathetic sight. She followed him into the toilets. He had already dropped trou and was about his business. Hiking up her skirt, Ladyboy let the invisibility spell go and joined him at the adjoining urinal. "Think you could help me out with a zip-up love?" she asked. "My nails aren't dry yet." This was the part she liked best.

The mark looked at her, startled. "Fuckin' poo-" he began as she jammed her index finger in his ear. The little shit wasn't worth wasting mojo on and a shock glove jolt to the tympanum worked as well as a bullet to the cranium. He fell; trousers around his ankles, and his life ended twitching on the scummy floor of a football stadium bog.

As she walked out, she smacked her lips at a pair of Chelsea loyalists on their way in. "He's all yours, mates," she cooed.

Fog had rolled into the streets outside The Bridge and dark was falling on The Smoke. Her heels clicked on the sidewalk. She pulled out her 'link. When Buffalo Soldier answered she told him the job was done. "Ta for this," he told her. "The Old Firms will be pleased. The boy was getting mouthy. Fancy a pint later?"

"Can't do it love," she replied. "I've got a date with a curry and a Ken at the Jabberwok."

"Go easy on him, eh?"

Ladyboy just laughed.

I imagine Central London's Astral was pretty nasty when they took power 20+ years ago and I can see all the sensitives in positions of power not really wanting to have to endure that all day every day.

I envisioned a massive project to take the aura's of all the parkland and strengthen them with Rituals and push them out and merge them all together by Cleansing and Aspecting the corridors that separate them. Creating an island of idyllic calm for the 'haves' to undertake the running of the 'Green and Pleasant Land' without actually having to see the real dystopian wasteland they ruled over.

I'd stick in some gratuitous AR, maybe some drones, etc.

As a former colonial power, a significant portion of Britain's population descends from various ethnic origins - Indian, African and Chinese being the most prevalent. Surprising to many visitors is that while many such groups have established their own distinct communities, they are still seen as British and accepted as such. They have assimilated the local attitudes and mannerisms and many converse fluently with the regional accents.

>Well the ones who've been here a couple of generations anyway.
>Blank

The British police are hard to bribe, hard to bluff, and generally do not overlook minor misdemeanors. They are corrupt in more fundamental ways. Racism is endemic (both anti-metahuman and anti-ethnic) and so is a genuine dislike for people at the bottom of the social ladder. The British police are not nice people, but they don't express their prejudices too overtly most of the time.