A Day in the Life: Rally Racing, Warrens-Style

GM: IronFist
Players: Simone/Gretchen
Summary: Gunfire! A crashed van! Pursuers! Gretchen and Fist investigate a crash and are wrapped up in a hectic chase through the maze-like streets of Aurora, ultimately delivering a member of the Royals back to his crew by hijacking his van. The Blackhearts lose a few members in the process.


It's a bit of a cold night in Denver, the wind just enough to creep beneath the skin for a shiver, and the Souk offered sanctuary in the form of countless figures to act as shields or sources of warmth. Questionable, but hot, 'comfort' food also aided the usual SINless make it through the night. Gretchen was likely just done dealing with her Sinner contacts, making her way through the market to scout the stalls curiously and leech some warmth before she had to brave the chills on her bike to make her way out.

The Fist mingled the Market on many occasions, always peering at stalls offering CDs and musically loaded chips, going through the collection likely to find himself some great samples, or some old tracks he hasn't heard. If there was one thing he loved about the old genres, was the lyrical genius that could be molded to the present day with some relevant synth hop beats. But that's all too complex for a guy decked in a professional coat looking like he's about to flash his ding to some lady orks, and a head decked with a yellow mask like he's some pro-wrestler or comic book weirdo.

Gretchen's face is covered in a little breather mask with side vents, goggles pushed up on her forehead and parka hood pulled up over her head. The nearest fire barrel makes an excellent destination for browsing the cluster of electronics stalls that seem to pop up in new locations every day. Different selections of goods, the latest rips of blockbuster trids, beetles, not to mention hardware by the case — music players, flashdrives, biomonitors — whatever fell off of a truck in the more "civilized" sectors the night before.

The German pulls her gloves off in the warmth of the flames, then slowly unwraps the bandages from her hands, breaking scabs where the wounds seeped after being treated.

Fishing into his mask by one of his temples, the Fist pulls out a hand rolled doobie that was likely resting over his ear, and it even has a slight curve to it for being pressed against his head thanks to the mask. Plucking the joint in between his lips, he begins patting along the many pockets of his coat looking for his light but decides to borrow one instead. Making his way up to a barrel where a masked lady is picking at her scabs, the Fist emerges nearby as he begins leaning in towards the flames with a face tilted to the side to get only the tip of the joint into the searing heat. He's puffing desperately to try and get it lit before his lips melt off, and once successful he pulls back.

The parka girl just unwinds the lengths of gauze unceremoniously, wadding up the material to toss it in the barrel, one hand at a time. She gives Fist a look, but remains silent, slipping her hands back into her fitted gloves with a good finger flex to see how the split knuckles feel.

Gretchen adjusts her bag, cinching the assault rifle sling she swapped the messenger bag's original strap for. With a push from an elbow she slides the bulk of the weight to the center of her back and pulls out a pack of Course nicosticks. Her mask is separated from her face and pocketed before she lights up.

The Fist is all puffy cheeked after he takes his first hit, looking down at the joint to make sure it's properly lit before taking an extra drag to fill his lungs completely so that he may exhale out a pungent cloud over the barrel. "Aaahhh that's that drek son." He speaks to no one but himself, because Fist rolls like that. Though does look at the unbandaging of scabby hands while he puffs. "You should wrap that drek back up asap." He says with a strained face of someone holding back a puff. Exhaling again, he continues. "Moment you touch somethin' here, you gonna get leprosy or some shit."

"Just split knuckles," she mutters, turning to look out past the marketgoers toward the city while she tugs her gloves tight, cigarette held between her lips while her hands are occupied. She reaches up for the smoke and looks down at her feet to ash. "Not the worst injury in the world." She hasn't soaked up enough of the warmth from this fire yet, and seems to be… making smalltalk? *Gasp!*

There's gunfire in the distance, barely heard over the crowd, and somewhat far enough away to not be too worrisome.. Maybe. Though it's hard to pinpoint where it's coming from, just another night in the Warrens right?

Fist triple hits his joint, ashing it randomly into the flames before he offers it up in a puff puff pass kinda deal. The guy to his right refuses and just breaks the entire thing……now he doesn't know who to give it to, so he just ends up taking another hit. "They say that.. Next thing you know drek's all yel-.." He pauses in his chit chat, listening to the gun fire, vaguely looking towards the south. "..-llow."

Gretchen eases her way toward some sort of cover if possible, while still remaining near the heat source. If there isn't anything nearby that qualifies, she'll remain in place. Either way, she glances around skittishly, alternating between a seeming urge to duck and a compulsion to stand on tiptoes to get a better look. Head tilted exaggeratedly out to one side, she asks, "What's going on?" She pulls her goggles down in the hopes that they might offer a better view.

The German can't see a damn thing, so pushes the lenses back up above her brows.

"Why would my knuckles turn yellow?" She still seems captivated with the potential fracas in the distance and only voices her question dreamily, speaking on autopilot.

"Because you dipped them in trog dung or somethin' by accident." Fist looks over yonder and shrugs his shoulders to her initial question. "I dunno.. Was kinda far. But this kinda normal drek." He puffs his joint again, offering it her way now.

Gretchen shrugs, rolling her shoulders in her coat as her body warms up. She lets the conflict in the distance simply remain some unknown conflict in the distance and looks up to the masked man cautiously. She does reach out for the joint, however. "Thank you," she croaks through a cloud of cotton. She puffs, she passes, then picks back up where she left off with her nicotine.

Gretchen accepts this 'when in Rome' moment, and unless the crowds closer to the gunfire and engines start panicking, she's going to soak up a bit more warmth here and wait for the joint to circle back. "If I start pawing at troll shit, I deserve gangrene, or whatever the fuck…"

Fist is puffin his J, then offers it back in turn once he's hogged a few extra puffs than he should..but hey it's his. He can't help but laugh, perhaps a mental image of her pawing troll doodoo. "I guess ya really do.." He laughs again.

The crowds are very much accustomed to the When In Rome, it seems it's far enough away to not be in the Rez.

The cycle continues, with Gretchen playing her part in the wheel of time, puffing and passing as the fates have decreed for her. She does suddenly peer over her shoulders, eyes angled high, as if to spot any trolls that may have overheard her shit-talking them. The joint continues its journey through space and time, and grubby hands at the burn barrel, and the girl shifts her weight from one leg to the other as she makes ninety degree turns to alternate which sides of her are exposed to the heat. She looks down to ash again as she turns back toward Fist. "What's with the mask?" She bluntly comes out with the question on everybody's mind, half-expecting the crowds to gasp at her taboo-breaking forwardness.

"It's dope right?" Fist smiles as he puffs the joint one last time and throws the roach into the firepit. "It's just my hood persona, yanno? Some slot BTLs, some kidnap slots, I wear a mask." He shrugs his shoulders.

The rattling of an engine is heard down the alley backways, the screeching of tires and the smashing sound of a front end rearing into something solid. The clattering of plastic highbeam covers and shards of broken glass.

The German girl simply can't dispute the man's explanation. It's bullet proof. "No, I get it." She nods, then veers her head off toward what sounds like a crash.

"'Sides, I dun want no fanclub at my own place, so I let 'em love the mask." The Fist too is looking off towards the sounds of a crash, he even points towards it. "Ya wanna check it out? Betcha we can score his sound system n' sell it here." He then jerks a thumb back to the market. "Hustle it for like a couple hundred, n' get some fuckin' scrumptious grub."

Gretchen's hands unconsciously smooth the front of her drab coat, the feel of a pistol through the insulation providing some reassurance though she doesn't reach to draw. "Kind of," she says idly, peering off into the distance before turning back for a moment. "Seems like a good time to take a walk," she offers in a vague sort of agreement. She tugs her hood down tight by gripping the 'seen better days' faux-fur, then steps back out of the fire circle, shivering slightly at the sudden and noticeable change in temperature, even for only having moved one meter away.

Fist peeks about then slinks away from the fire, following along with the German girl as they walk towards the suspicious crashing of a vehicle. "So what's your schtick? I wear a mask." He asks, fishing about his pockets to pull out a tin case full of small cigarillos, pinching one inbetween his lips. "Oi, ya got a light?" He points back to the barrel, that was his light.

Gretchen starts pocket-hunting for a lighter with the nod of a head. She drifts to the side out of the way of the foot traffic before producing a Bic that she passes to Fist. "Does everybody have to have a schtick?" She pulls her own mask back out after dropping her cigarette, then applies it to her face and holds it for a moment as it self-adheres. Her goggles are replaced over her eyes, and someone well-versed in hundred year old sci-fi might go so far as to say she looks a little like one of the Sand People from a famous war trilogy set somewhere in a galaxy far, far away.

"Uhhh… Yeah?" Fist looks at her like she's crazy for not having a schtick. He then accepts the lighter and sparks it a few times until he gets a flame, which he lights up the tip of his cigarillo with. He underhand tosses it back to her, walking along and clouding their route with some thick tobacco smoke.

Taking the alley leading to source of the crash, down the way the back of Mitsuhama Shogun is seen angled compared to the street with smoke still coming out the mini-van's exhaust. Only the back panels are visible so far, and look smacked with various bullet holes and missing windows.

The approach to the mini-van reveals the rest of the van looking riddled with bullets, the vehicle loaded up with boxes and crates of various sizes and marks. The driver side has someone at the wheel, his door currently opened and his figure hunched over the wheel as if he was trying to find his motivation to get out, but the blood pooling on the ground beneath him probably indicates he isn't in condition to move much. He appears to be alone.

As they near the van, Gretch draws a ladies' hand cannon and subtly taps a button on her brass-plated goggles that looks like just a small pin, perhaps part of the lens-calibrating hardware. She spies the open door and the injured (if not insta-dead) driver and kneels down in a quick motion to grab a handful of slush, snow or ice. She underhands this at the body in the seat. "Hey!" She calls out sharply, but quietly, her mask making it sound a bit like a pressurized hiss.

As for the Fist, he remains weaponless, dragging on his cigar and looking about the area slowly, and then studying the van's dire condition. He's about to voice something about the elephant in the room, but Gretchen is picking up slush and throwing dirt on someone who's already having a pretty shitty day.

The Driver mumbles something, he's still alive, but he musters what energy he can to raise his Hatamoto II and aim it towards the approaching pair. He appears to wear a lot of purple and gold, with embroidered crowns on his jacket. " Urhk… Tell Susan she ain't gettin' drek fraggers…"

With the Alta trained on the slumped figure, the handful of street slush spatters the edge of the door frame and splooshes over onto the body, small clumps of ice clattering. "Oh shit!" Sand Person Gretchen tries to scramble for cover, backpedaling the way she came in quick steps, both hands clasped on the grip of her pistol.

"Susan? Mang I ain't know no fraggin' Susan." Fist doesn't budge, instead feeling insulted he's being called Susan or something. He turns to look at Gretchen, but finds her peddling back. "Hey! Before you go! Are you called Susan???" He points at her, as if this was all her fault now. He's gonna find Susan.

The girl skitters back and around the edge of the van, ducking beneath the windows. "I'm not carrying messages from you, I'm her to collect." Gretchen tries to bluff the Royal into tossing his weapon, but is on the verge of darting up to the passenger side window if need be.

During her few seconds of attempted convincing, she hastily rifles through pockets to slip out a silencer which she rapidly threads into the barrel of her weapon.

"Nope… They're here to collect…" There's a deep strain in his voice, hauling his body back into the seat best he can, he's actually putting on the Reverse which Gretchen can vividly see as those white lights shine out over the brakelights.

Fist is kinda dumbstruck, looking at Gretchen with a finger. "You's Susan?"

"Yeah, I'm fuckin' Sus—" Gretchen longstrides to the side as the reverse lights flash on. She glances out toward the sound of incoming vehicles, then makes a difficult snap decision — She closes the distance to the passenger side window and attempts to take aim at the driver…

Maybe the attempt at sarcasm didn't really hit home. Gretch feels the need to explain — "I'm not Susan, I'm not fucking involved! But if you want a chance at seeing the sun rise, you'll stop the van and drop your fucking weapon." She tries to get the Royal to freeze, just peeking in the passenger window with her weapon sighted in.

Fist puffs his cigar, looking between Susan-not-Susan, and the incoming headlights. "Uhh… Listen.. There's a buncha drek coming this way mang."

"….Fuc*coughhackcough*..Fuck you.." Royal looks healthy as hell, but he's determined, as a bloody hand is trying to cling onto the shifter to pull it down into drive, but the fingers slip off with his escaping strength. "It's them or you… "

Fist is pointing one way, then pointing to the van. "Hey drekface, listen to the dame n' move over. We bustin' yo wheels n' getting the drek outta here! Whuz 'dis shit worth to ya boys anyways huh??"

"Man get'yo purple bleedin' ass over, fuckin' loud ass chigga." The Fist helps move the driver over to the other seat, in the most gentle ways he knows, aka shoving him over to hurry things up, because shit is coming, Fast. "Yeah you heard me, yo shirt's loud, fragga. How the fuck you guys doin' some shadow shit when we see ya punk ass three kilometers out huh?" He gets behind the wheel, closes the door, and just smashes the pedal down to the floor. "Yo where the fuck we takin' this drek to?? This a slow ass fuckin' van!"

Gretchen crouches low and slings the sliding door to the side, narrowly dodging the packaged foodstuffs that topple out of the wrecked van. "Slide your weapon back — don't TURN!" She keeps the silenced barrel of her weapon on the driver in a firm grip, though she nervously whips her head once or twice to try to spot the incoming Blackhearts. She encourages the masked marauder to take the wheel as the Royal gives up his seat and dives in just before Fist puts the pedal to the metal.

"Northwest, just get us moving out toward the wall," Gretchen calls out, slamming her sliding door shut while trying to keep her gun trained on the hostage.

Gretchen also points a lot! "Turn here!" and "Around this block," are common phrases in the heat of the moment.

The headlights are gaining on their tail, easily blamed on the van's poor acceleration versus the group that were already coming full speed. At the first indication to turn, Fist immediately swerves the vehicle into the turn, the rear corner of the van smacking into a dumpster but it helps right the vehicle and continue zooming down the road. Behind them, the first car goes for the slippery turn, though it's tires fail to adhere properly and it smacks into the dumpster nose first. The two bikes have a bit more maneuverability and manage to zig-zag out of that situation, however the second car is coming in WAY too quick, and as they begin to turn the extra speed causes the vehicle to lift up on it's two side wheels and cave in with combo of vicious spirals that leads it /right/ into the First car. Debris, shards of glass, and metahuman blood are all part of the mess that's left behind.

"Holy SHIT that was fucking awesome!!!" Fist is staring at the scene through the rearview, though the next indication to turn comes, and he goes for it!

Gretchen frantically tries to look front, back and side to side, all while gripping an oh shit handle and trying to keep her pistol on the Royal. She Vaders through her mask as the sharp turns threaten to send her tumbling through the back of the van, "If you don't try to get clever, we can all walk away from this, deal?" She wracks her brain for some means of lessening her worry about the captive ganger. "You should be fucking thanking us for showing up when we did!" Between cries of "Turn here," she attempts to get his agreement with the promise of surviving the night.

"…I'll fraggin' blow your brains out if'n ya tryin' anything funny, slot…" The Japanese one-shot mini-shotgun is still ready to be used, the user isn't in a good condition, but if that's a buckshot in there, that probably doesn't matter with the spread. His sour mood can be explained by the fact he got shot and is currently bleeding. "Get this stuff to my boys…and maybe we won't come looking for ya…"

"Then we're on the same fucking page!" Gretchen feels that the man's comment is… acceptable /enough/ to buckle herself in after slinging her bag around her body to her front as she sits down.

Is Fist in control? Hell no. He's wide-eyed, unblinking, both hands on the wheel, and steering the van this way and that. Problem is, his navigator kinda lost her magic and started feeding him routes into streets that were less than ideal to drive through. "Oooh shit.." He could see it coming, that S in the road littered with random objects, icy little streets to boot, all he could do was let his hand kinda just jerk the steering from side to side rapidly to squirm the vehicle through the tight pass. The metallic screeching of thing rubbing against the side panels are amplified inside the vehicle, but all seems well. Behind them? Bike 1 is hot on their track, not only is it gaining on them, but it's making it through every rough pass they've encountered so far, and you can start making out the barrel of a submachine gun being aimed ahead. Bike two? Well he was about to start shooting himself, but the few seconds it takes for him to look down to grab his gun were too much, and the moment he lifts his gaze back up he's met face-to-face with Mr. Dumpster. And needless to say, Mr. Dumpster wins. The biker's body hurled over his bars, spiraling over the trash and landing roughly into the cement with a non stop tumble.

"There's only one more behind us!" Gretchen swivels from front to back, constantly, only daring to peek toward the pursuing bikes over the back of the van bench, but she catches that stuntman launch and breathes an almost-reassured deep breath. Adrenaline is spiking high though, and she isn't anywhere near calm. She keeps a white-knuckled grip on her pistol, her right arm now curled, not aiming at the Royal in the shotgun seat, but rather, ready to pop up over the seat back to fire a few rounds once the van settles enough for her to have a chance at hitting anything other than the boxes in the back.

Both the van and the bike are zig-zagging through burned car chassis, debris, squatting hobos, and their main source of heat: Trash barrel fires. The Masked one at the wheel is barely able to keep the vehicle from hitting anything that would cause them to lose control, but a few close calls are easily noted as the vehicle trades paint with one solid object or another. Behind them, the ganger on his bike holds the throttle steady with his right hand while the other lifts up slung SMG… He takes his time, following the vehicle left and right, and then takes a shot! The trio of bullets going true to their home and bury themselves into the back of the driver's seat, smacking at the ballistic weavings concealed in the Fist's coat. No wounds, but likely a few bruises from that. "Aggghh! Heeeeyy do somethin'! He's fuckin' shootin' at me!!"

The spattering burst from the biker's weapon causes Gretch to tense, hunkering down as the rounds rip into the seat back just in front of her. "Stay on the fucking rooooooaaaaaaad—" She rises and twists as she yells, extending her arm over the top of the bench to plug away at the rider with her bulky-barreled hand cannon. <SWIP SWIP> She squeezes a pair of rounds out past the supplies being thrown about haphazardly in the back of the van. One of the rear windows spiders with two tight shots, and small squares of the safety glass are blown out into the slipstream of the rampaging Japanese vehicle.

Gretchen bites her lip behind her mask, arm extended out over the bench, Alta tilted ninety degrees to the side due to her twisting angle. Her head is ducked low so that only a ratty line of hood fur and one goggle lens is above the seat back. The smart-tech works its true magic, providing guidance, but she makes a truly epic three for three sequence of shots in the span of time it takes to strike a match. The rear window spiders yet again, rendering it practically useless for further aiming. That's fine though. Totally fine. The final shot forms an inverted triangle with the previous two, and as the cracks spread like strikes of lightning frozen in time, the last round catches the forward-leaning rider just above his collar bone at such an angle as to rend through esophagus, lung and heart in one catastrophic path of ballistic penetrating power.

Her breath catches in her throat and she collapses to the bench seat awkwardly, still held by the straps of her seatbelt, and as her head hits the cushion, the pursuer spread eagle ninja stars straight into a phone booth, limbs and plastic both shattering in the impact.

With the immediate danger taken care of, things can finally move at a slower pace. Fist able to drive under more normal conditions thanks to the stress factor gone, and the way into Heather Gardens lays just a few turns ahead. The only thing that was left to settle was get Mr. Bleedsalot to give them some directions, which he will provide so they can head towards a safe house to deliver some random goods.

"Fuckin' a.. Nice shootin'! Pewpew! Fragga didn't even know what hit 'em!" Fist exclaims from the wheel, shifting uncomfortably in his seat where some bullets lay flattened between he and the seat.

Gretchen rises as the man's bike belatedly careens to the pavement midway through a chaotic flip caused by the bars turning as the rider's weight shifted. The motorcycle stumbles into a terrifyingly rapid somersault that results in a neighborhood-waking CRUNCH when the chassis wedges diagonally under the bumper of a burly flatbed truck. "Who did I just kill for you!" She pushes herself up and jabs her pistol against the back of the Royal's seat. Her mask hisses out the accented demand through the vents.

"Some…*coughlaughcough* jackass…" Royal man may be weak, but his smile is worthy of a king.

"Drop your fucking weapon." Gretchen repositions to be fully upright, one hand pistol, one hand bag.

There's the kind of 'Heh' from a guy who knows he has the winning hand when it comes time to show who's got what at the end of a poker table, unfortunately for anyone but him…

Welcome to Heather Gardens, home of the Royals, one of the richest gangs in the Warrens, ruled under the King, and criminally tied to the Mafia families. Graffiti tags with crowns, purple wearing gangers scattered about, and the common Uzi is replaced for some more prominent HK model.

"If I were you… I'd be the one to lower mine..*coughhackcough*"

Calmly, Gretchen simply says, "Pull over." She aims to have the vehicle stopped as casually as can be managed before they get too deep into purple and gold. She keeps her gun on the ganger and vents out a deep breath while unclipping her seat belt buckle. She then slips a square sterile-pak out of her bag and tosses it slowly into the man's lap. "MedKleen patch for victims of TRAUMA" is printed in bold above a medi-corp logo.

The Fist pulls over because unlike the other two in this, he doesn't have a gun, though he's pretty sure one good jerk of the steering wheel could solve that issue.. But, let's not risk it. "I mean… For what it's worth he didn't like… pop you in the back of the head while ya was shootin' the other guy right?"

"I need more than a patch..but thanks.. Just get me the frag over there.. " Royal talks from the front, he's in no condition to patch himself up anyways.

Gretchen eyes the neighborhood through the black lenses of her goggles, anxious, but feeling bold this evening. "…true." She gives Fist a look in the rearview mirror, then raises the barrel of her pistol while snapping the thumb safety. The patch-tossing hand drifts to her mask which she releases, and with the back of her hand she pushes her goggles up. Heavily-linered eyes glare at the ganger as she just… agrees. "Alright. Let's meet your people."

A weak blood coughing laugh declares the victory as the vehicle gets set back into motion. The rest of the drive is smooth, and relatively short as after a few corners Royal gestures to a garage door. With a honk of the horn, the door pulls up and inside is a very comforting sight for him, and probably not for the other two. Royals stacked with vests and automatics, the kind of automatics you wouldn't necessarily expect Gangers to have. They gesture the vehicle in, and immediately the wounded one gets pulled off the bench and dragged off to get some immediate treatment.

As for the two in the vehicle, they're kindly asked to exit the vehicle and line up on the wall to the side. A few moments later, a black hoodied man strapped with a purple armband that houses a golden crown steps up to the duo. He wears a pair of fancy looking hi-tech shades, and chews on a toothpick. "So.. I hear ya helped mah boy out… after some … " He looks back to another guy. "How'd he say it? … Right." He doesn't even wait for an answer and looks back to Gretchen. "..reluctance."

Gretchen swallows and clenches her jaw at the scene when the garage door crawls open but isn't foolish enough to make a fuss, all things considered. Her nostrils flare and her eyes flicker from ganger to ganger until Shades addresses her, at which point she focuses on him, with only occasional eyes to either side as a footsoldier shifts their weapon idly. "I wouldn't call it reluctance," the girl stubborns, body tensed.

"It was a tender situation. We sided with your man. End of story." Gretchen cranes her neck and dares to jut her chin.

"Well I think you might wanna call it reluctance." Shades waggles his toothpick at her before clamping down onto it. "..And not..say… tryin' to rob mah boy." He points to Fist then, and right back to her. "Mah boy who was dyin'." He looks back to his goonies who all but agree with nods. Once he's focusing back on the duo, he continues speaking. "See, King James.. He'd probably have ya both dead in a ditch. But I'm a cool guy. I can see pass your greed, deep down into your noble intentions of bringing mah boy back here.. So. I'll make it worth ya time since he tells me ya even slagged a few of the drekheads who killed my guys."

Fist remains quiet, arms crossed atop of his chest and simply listening to Shades run his power-to-the-head mouth. The talk of a reward does have him tilt his head to one side. "Damn straight. Ya wouldn't have gotten all your…" He points to the van. "…all that."

The small German's jaw muscles remain clenched, forcing her to speak through her teeth. "We brought him back. He got your cargo back intact. People died so your man could get home." She angles her head toward Fist, looking like a boss in a bandit mask how he do. Then, with a spasm in her neck, she professes, through gnashed teeth, "Thank you for being such a cool guy…" Gretchen's heart is beating at double- triple- quadruple time, and her face is flushed, peeking out from the hood of her large coat.

"My generosity knows no bounds! But don't have to pop a blood vessle over it." Shades waggles his toothpick again as he considers the two. After a moment that may seem like eternity, he snaps his fingers and turns around to walk away. Did he just order the gun squad? Luckily for them, just a guy holding a box with some random gizmos and a few credsticks in the mix. "Now get lost." Shades exclaims as he exits through a door into the building.

Gretchen's nostrils flare as she takes a deep breath that shudders in her chest ever so slightly. She accepts the box that is roughly handed over then looks to Fist and swallows. Leaning back slightly, she extends one of her feet behind her and leans until it hits the ground. She rotates ninety degrees and sidesteps a few meters to exit the garage while still able to dart her eyes from Royal to Royal.

Fist offers a Deuce to the gangers and like his hand gesture, he peaces out. As he's walking, he's not only unwrapping a wrapped protein bar for a chew, but he's also fiddling in the box to see what's in it. His choice? A few credsticks which he pockets with a grin. "Rest is all yours!" Of course… He may have taken the credsticks with the most money on them, but that was just dumb luck right?

Gretchen awkwardly shifts to hold the box in one cradled arm so that she can fish out a few of the sticks herself. She ends up gathering a small bouquet of three of the plascrete-grey treasures and tries to thumb the readouts. She doesn't argue, not right now, she simply carries on walking in the frigid Warrens streets. "We should head south from here," she pipes up, turning to look over her shoulder while she pockets her 'yen. "I might be able to have someone pick us up in a few blocks." Her teeth chatter and she peers around the Mission Hills rubble in the distance, visible in the spaces between gutted apartment blocks. "Maybe a lift back to the Souk."

"Ya wanna go spend ya cheese on some slots already? Damn girl, you down to party all the time like this??" Fist stuffs his face with his protein bar, doing a Kobe shot with the wrapper into the nearest garbage can. … The street. For digesting? Nothing better than a victory spliff, this only a little more special than the one he had at the fire. A nice fat cone. "I'm good on a ride, gonna smoke this, kick back some tracks n' just walk on home."

She finally maneuvers the box to be able to crook an arm around the top, with fingertips supporting the bottom and one edge riding on her hip. This allows her to fish out a joint of her own, and she dips her head down, using the box to block the wind as she flicks another of her many lighters, completely forgetting the one she handed to Fist earlier. "Yeah, I'm headed to the Hills." Her zen rollie is held between her lips, and during all this struggle, she Popeye squints to keep smoke out of her left eye.

She looks down into the box now, finding its weight nearly impossible to balance. "Here…" She struggles to lift out a large boxy object that was almost buried under the other junk. "Take… this…" Sticking up diagonally out of the cardboard flaps is the corner of an old boombox. "I don't want to lug this around." She grunts, trying to hoist it out past the other items with a poor grip on the jambox's plastic folding handle.

At this point, the Warrens rally team parts ways, IronFist with his boombox, Gretchen with a pair of headphones dragged from the box of electronics over her ears, tapping a portable music player with one thumb. She settles on some Lazerhawk and makes the trudge through slush toward the Crank to crash for a few hours.

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