2012 08 31

Fri August 31 2072 The Burnt Out Building in the Warrens offers a modicum of cleanliness. Clean BTL Disk exchange, blankets, Political pamphlets at the end of the soy food kitchen line, armed orks watching over it all. It's pathetic, but earnest. A warm smoggy breeze blows in through the broken windows. Mouzone sits among the more militant orks in a collection of donated chairs. Connor watches the flock. Questions rise: When do /we/ get to meet the money man? Why are /we/ sticking our neck out? What's with all the copper piping? Why do we need to pay off every damn gang? Connor, in his nebbish manner, deflects these questions and pads his answers. "Brothers, if we are to move up, we must make alliances….however temporary. Our benefactor is one of the few humans whom we should thank, in a perfect world, there would be more of him amongst his kind. The revolution is coming." Clapping, a smattering of hoots. Mouzone remains skeptical. He checks his pocket secretary and tries for service out here, where anything can happen.