The Mean Streets – Upper East Side – Night City – March, Friday 13th, 2020, 12:53am
Taking DigitalScribe’s instructions to heart, Firewind ran the best he could under Merry Deth’s slight weight towards the parking garage where Bullseye was just pulling into full view. Overhead lamps spilled across the brown delivery van’s wet surface and reflected from the puddles all about it. The medtech could feel the sensation of the erupting volcano behind him and it urged him on. Slipping once, he felt a slight tingle and a burn rush up the inside of his right calf and instinctively knew that he could have seriously injured himself just then, but had somehow managed to keep his footing.

“Frack this! I’m getting’ the frack outta here!” The fixer’s voice rang out above the gunfire and ricocheting bullets. Hooking a leg over the rail, Spiff flung himself into the rain where he immediately plummeted to the pavement below. The impact was jolting and the pain that shot up his leg wasn’t necessarily centered on his thigh, but more originated around the right knee. Perhaps he’d favored the injured leg subconsciously, perhaps it was because of the injury that his strength had given and he’d twisted his knee. Whatever it was, the pain wasn’t enough to keep the fixer from lunging into a somewhat spastic sprint towards the retreating media and medtech.

For his part, Frankie wasn’t about to disobey Croaker on this one. The story was in this little chica draped over Firewind’s shoulder with a… with a rather nice suitcoat draped over her head. From his angle, the media had not been able to catch her face on camera when they had been inside the apartment, and it irked him just a little that he still couldn’t. DigitalScribe’s eyes widened a bit as a van swung around in the parking lot. He prepared himself to push Firewind out of the line of fire and dive to the side as well, but the medtech kept on cruising.

“You know them?” Frankie asked.

“Yes,” Firewind replied through clenched teeth.

That was enough for the media to keep on full steam ahead.

Reaching the southwestern corner of the building, Preacher barely ducked past Spiff as the man came raining down from above like a screaming banshee.

“Lord have mercy!” the solo declared as he spun about and raised his submachine gun at the lurching form of the fleeing fixer. Quickly blowing out the air he’d held in his lungs Preacher turned back towards the way they’d come. Gunfire reigned to his left and overhead and he knew it wouldn’t be long before the gangers built up enough alcohol-fueled guts to round that corner on them. In the mayhem, he’d missed the arrival of the van altogether, dropping to one knee in the rain, pinning his trench coat about him and taking aim on the corner.

Frank felt the soft body of Peacekeeper pressed against him as he pushed her back, instinctively putting his body between her and danger. Bullet’s belted against the corrugated metal all about him, another round striking his right leg to jerk it violently and bruise the skin and muscle beneath the protective layer of armor. He was using his considerable bulk to not only make it quite nearly impossible for the bounty hunter to move, but to make her an improbably target while he hoped to everything Holy that Croaker put that grenade through the window, and that they didn’t get plastered by the blast in the meantime. Tucking his head, he breathed in the sweet aroma of Jaimy’s wet hair, felt the shape of her body underneath him, and the rigid line of the submachine gun he’d just handed her sitting between them at waist level.

Trapped as she was underneath the large black man, Peacekeeper could only guess where her lover was, and wonder at whether Spiff had survived his leap. Rounds were sounding all about her, Guardian’s breath was hot against her neck, and the wind howled its fury overhead while rain lashed at their bodies trying to tear them from the fire escape.

Muttering to himself about their predicament, Bullseye could see Firewind and another individual he barely remembered from the bar earlier that night come lumbering up to the van, a body slung over the medtech’s shoulder. The second man—Croaker’s friend—lifted the back door, sending it on its runners with an irreverent clanking to end in a bounce off the stoppers. He felt the van dip as Firewind clambered into the bay and then again when the other man entered.

“Name’s DigitalScribe,” the other man offered with a bit of a harried smile while slicking back his sleek black hair. Bullseye caught tiny nodes of light flickering about the ends and knew instantly that the hair was TechHair™. “Glad you showed up when you did.”

With that, the man turned about and crouched at the rear of the van, weapon in hand, but not pointed at anything, the green light on his shoulder-mounted camera indicating a recording in progress. Meanwhile, Firewind gently placed the girl against the side of the bay lengthwise, and made sure she was secure.

Croaker had used heavy weapons in the past, but it had been a while, and he wasn’t as familiar with this underbarrel grenade launcher as he’d of liked. Still, the love of his life was up there pinned to a metal stairwell by a large black man and gunfire. If he didn’t do something, there’d be no living it down. He’d already loaded the thing, and now he raised the weapon to his shoulder and pressed the trigger. He felt the shwunk-swoosh of the release, heard the compression of air, and watched as if in slow motion as the grenade flew from the barrel, sailed through the air, and went right through the window, shattering the glass inward as it did so.

The explosion blew the glass of the windows out, challenging the raging storm and rolling a brilliant, momentary flash of fire into the rain. The immediate second following the explosion was silent as though sound had been blown away. Then, the screams of wounded filled the gap.

Spiff heard Croaker call out his warning and the following explosion, but had continued on his hellbent pace for the van, as the screams started up behind him, the fixer leapt and ungracefully slipped past the media to the floor, sliding across some raised molding to come to rest on his back, staring up at the ceiling, his right leg burning, his heart racing.

DigitalScribe smiled a little foolishly to himself as the man became a blur through his camera, the whole of his haphazard escape caught on digital media. The explosion had been beautiful and the light sensitive sensors in his camera had immediately compensated for the glow. He knew that the action he was recording would sell like wildfire if not to his immediate publisher then hundreds of BBSs and social hotspots across the Net would fight for the footage. Now if they could just get out of there alive and convince Croaker that it was in their best interest to publicize. After all, that’s how those big sardines from Solo of Fortune magazine landed the high paying contracts, neh?

The Mean Streets – Upper East Side – Night City – March, Friday 13th, 2020, 12:53am

The Mean Streets – Upper East Side – Night City – March, Friday 13th, 2020, 12:53am
Croaker watched as the first of his two grenades flew true and exploded inside the building, shouts of pain and death clear in the air.

“Peacekeeper, Guardian move your asses now!! I got you covered” he shouted as he quickly reloaded the second and last concussion gren into the launcher. A quick look behind and to his right he saw Preacher was there covering the street.

“Preacher, once Peacekeeper and Guardian hit the street, fall back and cover them as I cover the three of you. Then at the van cover me as I withdraw.”
SMG, smart link and head scanning everywhere, gren launcher loaded, Croaker covered the withdrawal of the last members of his team plus 1.

Spiff jumped off the balcony, praying for the solace of the van. His landing twisted his knee and dropped him like a rock, and his fit of irrational behavior was ended as soon as it had started.

Explosions and screams surrounded him as he pulled himself back up and rushed into the van, knowing it was useless to backtrack now. When he fell into the van, passing through DigitalScribe's green light, Spiff stared up at the ceiling, his anger rising.

Without turning his head (his gun easily reachable), Spiff flipped on his sandeviston speedware and turned his eyes to DigitalScribe, ensuring that all his focus was on his camera.

He slipped his gun from his holster and blasted a round through DS's camera.

::assuming all of this goes well (it won't I'm sure)::
"No cameras," he muttered, recalling Jack's orders, keeping the gun aimed at DS's head.

The Mean Streets – Upper East Side – Night City – March, Friday 13th, 2020, 12:53am
Crouching within the mouth of the van, Frankie Tordesky barely glanced at Spiff as the fixer slid past on his back. His focus was truly on the activity going down at the Hole, at least that’s the front he presented. The cybernetic hook-up he had with his camera was specially designed. The tech was fresh and DigitalScribe was the type that had to have cutting edge technology. His camera was designed to provide a panoramic view of his surroundings with wide-angle lenses both front and rear. Frankie had been drawn to this particular camera for that reason specifically. He’d known a few combat reporters who had bought the Big One because they’d been so focused on the story that they’d been unable to react to the threat coming from behind them until their brains painted the sidewalk. This Nikkon America Campod was designed to help keep the reporter alive while at the same time gather more of the story than previously possible. Picture-in-picture display shown in an overlay in front of Frankie; the wide screen presentation of what lay before, and the spread of what lay behind. This is how DigitalScribe spotted the fixer’s actions before Spiff could execute.

Both men had their weapons in hand. Neither had holstered them since the fire escape and within the Hole. It all lay within their reflexes at that point… reflexes and initiative. Frankie threw himself to the left, spinning and bringing his Sternmeyer to bear on the fixer while Spiff—still on his back—raised his weapon to target the camera.

Had DigitalScribe remained perfectly still, Spiff’s sharpshooting would have been easy, but the media was moving and moving quick. The round dispensed from the chamber of the Mark II with a slight kick as Spiff pulled the trigger. It burst into the air with a fiery intent, driven forward by gases and combusted explosives and tore through the fuselage of the Nikkon America’s rear interface. Sparks erupted, and pieces of metal chipped away slicing into Frankie’s neck, but the damage to the camera was superficial. It was, after all, a combat camera with bullet-proof casing. The only thing that really changed in DigitalScribe’s view was the rear image flickered and wavered for about three seconds before stabilizing.

The media’s initial impulse was to drill the fixer. As he slammed up against the other side of the van (the side that Merry Deth lay sedated against), his arm remained outstretched, the Sternmeyer leveled right at the fixer’s head, the media’s brow furrowed, anger and confusion in his eyes.

“What the hell!?”

“No cameras,” Spiff muttered as his weapon trained on DigitalScribe’s forehead.

“Peacekeeper, Guardian, move your asses now!” Croaker’s voice was carried through the storm on the wind.

DigitalScribe’s expression suddenly broke into a charismatic grin, though his weapon never left its target. “Ever hear of asking, Choomba?”

Back at the Hole, Croaker continued to give orders with a sharp tone derived from stress: “Preacher, once Peacekeeper and Guardian hit the street, fall back and cover them as I cover the three of you. Then at the van cover me as I withdraw.”

“And so it was,” the solo drawled, glancing over his shoulder up to where the bodyguard was pulling himself off of on top of the beautiful bounty hunter. He could still hear the screams and cries from inside of the wounded as Croaker slipped his last grenade from his pocket and slipped it into the chamber.

The Mean Streets – Upper East Side – Night City – March, Friday 13th, 2020, 12:53am

“Ever hear of asking, Choomba?”

Spiff's right eyebrow raised from behind his sunglasses. If it hadn't been attached to his face it might have hit the roof of the van. He had heard the guy named Croaker making some sort of deal with him. Surely this would've been in the discussion...

Spiff holstered his gun, No use if he's faster than me, and took off his sunglasses to look at DS. (persuasion attempt) "Part of the deal is no cameras. I've got way too much riding on this to have that thing frack it up."

----assuming DS puts the camera away-----

"Let me pay for the repairs on that thing. In exchange, I don't want to see any of this on the morning news if you know what I mean."

With that, Spiff reached for his phone, but it wasn't there. "Frack I hope she gets back here quick," and Spiff checked his digital camera to see what kind of mess laid around the corner.

The Mean Streets – Upper East Side – Night City – March, Friday 13th, 2020, 12:53am
Croaker watched as Guardian started to move, having kindly covered Jaimy with his body.
The Nomad could not help but feel a tinge of jealousy at that but knew it was irrational. Keeping watch on the stairs and upper floors of the building, while Preacher beside him watched the alley way, Croaker only wished they would move faster. Time was quickly running out with more Wild Things, not to mention half the city's sec guards, surely on thier way. With no time to look behind him to check on the status of the van he could only hope BullsEye had it all under control....

There came the familiar whistle Frank had been expecting, followed immediately by an ear drum blowing explosion. The blast wave sent fragments of glass, brick and furniture flying through the hole in the wall where a window had been only a heartbeat earlier. Subconsciously, Guardian could feel some of the debris hitting his body armor and a couple of pieces of glass bite into his flesh, but the adrenaline wave kicked in by his Sandevistan booster chip pushed all that into the background.

All the while - which seemed like forever thanks to the ref boost - the big bodyguard was lying on the stairs covering Peacekeeper's slim form with his own, his eyes were locked into the scene at the van. DS had made it safely within the cover of the metal can along with the two others. But then something strange happened. Just as he was getting back on his feet, Frank's augmented eye zoomed in to see Frank and the other guy point their guns at each other. Had there been time Frank would've cursed as the sound of a single shot caught his ear.

With reflexes far better than normal, the black man pushed himself into motion and past the smoky window. Screams and groans filled his ears as he made his way down the remaining steps of the fire escape. In some other situation with other people involved, Guardian would've spent a precious second to help the woman up, but he knew it would've been just a waste of time now. Peacekeeper was more than capable of taking care of herself.

As the heavy combat boots connected with the tarmac with an loud thud, Guardian bent his knees somewhat both to absorb the impact and to launch himself into a run. Despite his big form, the black tec-leather covered bodyguard could move fast when needed. In his eyes he could still see the bright flash of the Mark II's muzzle, but as he ran he could also see that he still had his job. The Media was in one piece and apparently unharmed and his own Sternmeyer was fixed at the other guy's head. Damned. You nearly f***ed this up, Frank. Can't let it happen again.
Guardian's first instinct was to put a nice .44 slug through the man's brain. He wouldn't even have had to stop to drop the fracker. Then again, DS could've done the same already, but hadn't. Apparently the worst part of the exchange was already over. But something had to be done for it not to happen again...

Reaching the superficial safety of the van, Guardian's Armalite was still pointing at Spiff, but he forced himself to turn his eyes back at the Hole for a second to take in the scene. "Scribe, keep your piece aimed at his head." Watching Croaker and the rest of his team pull back, Guardian's voice got even more serious and he moved his black eyes back at the fixer. "You will hand over your gun to Scribe now. I will not ask again."

The Mean Streets – Upper East Side – Night City – March, Friday 13th, 2020, 12:53am
Crouched in the rain, the solo kept the submachine gun at ready, his eye sighting along the slick, black length. He could easily make out the inert form of the ganger Coyote at the end, but it wasn’t to this that he focused. For around that corner he saw two of the Wild Things stick head and shoulders out bearing handguns while three more sprinted across the alley’s mouth, water splashing up from their boot heels. His boosterware was a constant, forcing him to practice slower movements so as to appear natural when he didn’t want it to show. Now, however, he was letting loose, and with smooth movements Preacher had corrected his aim and squeezed off a three round burst. The rounds took the first ganger up the chest and exploded his head; the corpse falling back onto the pavement, his arms wind-milling, his weapon begin flung into the street.

“Part of the deal is no cameras. I’ve got way too much riding on this to have that thing frack it up.”

DigitalScribe continued to point his handgun at the other man’s head, and with a mental command, disengaged the camera. Why the media blackout? he wondered as Spiff finished holstering his weapon.

“Let me pay for the repairs on that thing. In exchange, I don’t want to see any of this on the morning news if you know what I mean.” The fixer gave his pockets a quick pat and snarled, “Frack! I hope she gets back her quick.”

It took seconds for Guardian to clear the stairs and reach the van. He’d always been fast despite his bulk, and with the Sandevistan activated, he was on the top of his game. His quick pause at the mouth of the van caused water to cascade from his shoulders and spray those within.

“Scribe,” the bodyguard instructed as Frankie looked up at him through squinting eyes, his left hand raised to shield him from the sudden torrent of rain.. “Keep your piece aimed at his head.”

DigitalScribe glanced back to where the fixer lay looking at his watch, apparently unconcerned with the arrival of the large black man. “You will hand over your gun to Scribe now. I will not ask again.”

The corner of Frankie’s mouth twitched a little upward as it struggled to smile, but the media’s attention momentarily shifted to see how the driver and Firewind were handling the change of events. Either one of them could really frack this up, and to the media, the potential for a huge story was growing with every passing second.

“It’s all good—be chilled, Guardian,” Frankie’s tone was non-plussed, though he secretly worried about the condition of the camera. It was battle-ready, but you never know what kind of ammunition a person was using, and armor piercing rounds were more and more common these days. The media’s voice was calming, and not just intended for the bodyguard, but for everyone in the van as he relaxed, rolling his handgun back in his hand and dropping his arm to his side. “We just needed to config an understanding here, is all. Everything is chilled now.”

As soon as the dead weight of Guardian had left her, Peacekeeper used the railing to hoist herself to her feet and take advantage of the situation her lover had arranged. Out of habit more than anything else, the bounty hunter quickly scanned the destruction in the room as she rapidly descended the stairs hot on the bodyguard’s heels. The apartment hadn’t been in great shape to begin with—things rarely are when under the care of boostergangs—but it was a shambles now. The couch behind which the gangers had been positioned was on its back, smoldering. The bodies of the gangers were strewn about, some with lacerated limbs, some smoking as much as the couch. A chunk of the floor was missing and the whole space about the couch was a blackened shadow. At least two were rolling about in obvious pain, one stood near the door, a girl about eighteen or nineteen. She had some black smeared across her cheek, her bright pink and black hair was disheveled and hung in her face. She wore a black leather trench coat that was obviously armored, had nose piercings with chains running across her cheeks to her ears, and was raising a Militech Mini-Gat submachine gun in the slow motion action that non-boosted users make when facing down boosted edgerunners. Guardian had passed by quick, without even looking into the room, but Peacekeeper saw it and reacted quickly as she continued on her way.

There was no pause, no hesitation, the threat was there and it didn’t matter that it was a teenager. Peacekeeper’s arm crossed her body, the submachine gun hanging at her left side while she brought her .44 up at chest level and she squeezed off a single round. She’d never been partial to submachine guns… too messy, but in this situation, she’d accepted the weapon for the full auto capabilities; best to be able to spray an area filled with boostergangers with hot lead than try to be clean and precise. The bounty hunter continued down the stairs as the ganger’s brains painted the door and Peacekeeper was out of sight of the scene even before the girl’s body had hit the floor. Moments later, the beautiful, dangerous woman was passing Croaker at a dead run, giving him a look with her eyes that spoke volumes and yet was nearly unreadable. She arrived not half a second behind Guardian and was momentarily taken aback by the sudden trouble in the van. Sure, she harbored no good will for the media, but they had bigger fish to fry, and now, Guardian was holding Spiff at gunpoint, and DigitalScribe was saying something about everything being chilled.

From the driver’s seat, Bullseye frowned as he watched the alley behind them through the side mirrors. He was basically oblivious to the upcoming exchange between the media and fixer until the gun went off. At that point, any number of things passed through the nomad wheelman’s mind, and since he’d already had his Llama Comanche out and at ready, it took practically nothing for the man to spin about in his seat, weapon held at the ready, though not aimed at anyone in particular, his eyes searching for trouble.

The gangers at the other end of the alley opened up. Three were beginning their sprint across the opening, weapons pointed down at Preacher and Croaker and the already disappearing Guardian and Peacekeeper. One remained crouched at the corner near Coyote’s body, and another stepped up to take the place of the one Preacher had ended, standing over the crouching figure. It was the crouching figure who fired next though, putting three rounds down the alley with surprising accuracy. Preacher felt the impact strike him in hat, biting through the crown and ripping a gash along his scalp; the armor plating he had in the hat having saved him from a deadly wound. The second and third impacts were to the body and leg, both didn’t penetrate, but the solo knew he’d have some nice bruises to remind him of the near misses. Blood poured down his forehead and across his face almost immediately. Head wounds bled badly. But that wasn’t the end of it for the man. The second ganger opened up as well, firing three more rounds. The first took Preacher across the head again, gashing his forehead over his left eye, but not penetrating the skull. The second went past, and the third struck him dead in the chest. This time Preacher gasped as the round penetrated his armor, punctured his pectoral muscle, and buried itself in his flesh. Grimacing against the pain, the solo remained steady.

Within the cargo bay of the van, Firewind sat with his back against the wall of the van with one hand next to the unconscious girl’s head, the other resting in his lap when Spiff came sliding in on his back. Firewind knew DigitalScribe. They’d worked together before on a contract where the media had caught wind of a rather shady political deal going down and had felt that his team might need some medical backup. His perception of the man at the time had been one of similar intentions. Firewind, after all, was not a corporate slave. He’d long ago decided that wasn’t his gig. DigitalScribe seemed bent on bringing down the big dog, and had been the whole reason the medtech was on this run tonight, but then Spiff—relatively new to the evening’s activities—had popped off a shot at… the camera, yes, the camera. That’s what it boiled down to. The Baretta M20-F that the medic carried holstered under his left arm had suddenly found its way into his hand, though the medtech didn’t know which person he’d end up shooting if it came right down to it as both men ended up pointing their weapons at each other for a moment. A brief exchange and the arrival of more guns… this whole thing was a frackin’ mess! Then there was the additional gunfire from the alley! The chaos was enough to freeze most people, but Keahi wasn’t most people. He was a combat medtech.

Croaker knew Preacher had been hit. He’d heard the whine of the round that had missed pass his ear, and the impact of the rounds had caused the cowboy solo to jerk about a bit, but standing slightly behind the man, he didn’t know how badly, and the situation meant that he didn’t have much time to ascertain the fellow’s condition. They were being fired upon and that constituted immediate action. Croaker’s thumb flipped the regulator to full auto as he brought his weapon to bear on the alley. Twenty rounds of armor piercing heat flew from the barrel to pepper the whole mouth of the alley. The first sprinter spun about and fell to a roll, lying still at the end; the second stumbled and rolled to lie on the drenched pavement jerking about and screaming in pain. The third sprinter’s head vanished in a spray of dark liquid; the crouched individual bowed backward and the his head exploded as well, while the man standing above him had his legs whipped out from underneath him, an action that put his head right into the path of another bullet, killing him.

The Mean Streets – Upper East Side – Night City – March, Friday 13th, 2020, 12:53am

Spiff was examining his picture, hoping for some good news (and probably coming across a picture of his bodyguard lying on the pavement) while Guardian ran up. He kinda figured this was coming, but there was little he could do to change the big man's actions. He was certain that the only talking that would get him out of this situation had already occured, so further speech was a waste of time.

“You will hand over your gun to Scribe now. I will not ask again.” Spiff was sure Guardian was shouting in the rain and gunfire, or perhaps he was just that pissed. He was about to respond when, thankfully, DS did for him, Spiff still staring at his datawatch.

“It’s all good—be chilled, Guardian,” Scribe still had his gun pointing at Spiff, but he couldn't blame him. He had just fired a dual-purpose round within inches of his head.

Spiff knew that the aggression was cooling, so he missed most of what Digital Scribe said while he focused intently on the picture. He was about to start wondering why Firewind hadn't started work on him when he felt the presence of two more guns in the van, and the heat of adrenaline picking back up.

Spiff didn't move, regardless of whether he saw anything of value in the picture anymore, he needed to keep his head down. He had a forum post to start work on anyway, but it could wait until these gents put their guns down. He didn't need another bullet in him. His gun was holstered, and the big bodyguard could see that. He just had to pray that he no longer looked like a threat. He'd respond if addressed of course, but that hadn't happened, so he was working.

The thought of Rev's sour voice grazed through his head, and he considered how urgent that phone call was also. A scowl briefly smothered his poker-face as he recalled how stupid it was to give that girl his phone. He just hoped that she was as good as her reputation expressed. In any case, it was time for medical care now, so he hoped that doc was ready to get to work...if only he'd put that damn gun down.

The gangers at the other end of the alley opened up. Three were beginning their sprint across the opening, weapons pointed down at Preacher and Croaker and the already disappearing Guardian and Peacekeeper. One remained crouched at the corner near Coyote’s body, and another stepped up to take the place of the one Preacher had ended, standing over the crouching figure. It was the crouching figure who fired next though, putting three rounds down the alley with surprising accuracy. Preacher felt the impact strike him in hat, biting through the crown and ripping a gash along his scalp; the armor plating he had in the hat having saved him from a deadly wound. The second and third impacts were to the body and leg, both didn’t penetrate, but the solo knew he’d have some nice bruises to remind him of the near misses. Blood poured down his forehead and across his face almost immediately. Head wounds bled badly. But that wasn’t the end of it for the man. The second ganger opened up as well, firing three more rounds. The first took Preacher across the head again, gashing his forehead over his left eye, but not penetrating the skull. The second went past, and the third struck him dead in the chest. This time Preacher gasped as the round penetrated his armor, punctured his pectoral muscle, and buried itself in his flesh. Grimacing against the pain, the solo remained steady.

The beautiful bounty hunter had been watching the events in the van when the shots were fired drawing her attention out to Preacher. Her eyes widened when she saw that he'd been hit numerous times. She pulled her submachine gun from it's holster and darted out of the van once again. 'No man left behind' her thoughts darting from subject to subject yet none would notice. Her caution as a bounty hunter was displayed as she made her way to Preacher's side carefully. Peacekeeper kept her gaze about her surroundings and would take aim to anything that moved that was not on her team. Slowly she would make it to his side and put his arm around her shoulder so she could lead him back to the van. Submachine gun at hand, though she didn't much like using it, it was her only option, other than the grenades, but those would take longer and be a waste for how few were showing themselves. The rain pouring down as was the blood from preacher's body and head. Her concern unreadable as she began helping him to the van at a faster pace than her leg would allow, but the adrenaline kept the pain at bay.

The bounty hunter was dangerous in a good mood, but now she was upset and was deadlier than anyone she was with. It wouldn't surprise her if she could kill with a look when she felt the way she did. Peacekeeper reacted on impulse which was wrong, and she went into the field knowing the dangers. She couldn't sit there while Preacher was standing there losing a great deal of blood. Shaking her head she began tearing cloth from her attire to wrap around his wounds after checking to see if the bullet was still in the wounds or not. It was difficult to do on the run, but she didn't want him losing any more blood than he already had. She was worried a great deal about him but nobody would notice it, because she didn't want them to know.

The Mean Streets – Upper East Side – Night City – March, Friday 13th, 2020, 12:53am
Croaker watched the fire escape and windows of the Hole as first Guardian and then Peacekeeper/Jaimy moved past him, she giving him a look with her eyes that spoke volumes and yet was nearly unreadable, he could only hope that the look was meant to be a positive one.
Then she was past him and on her way to the van.

Suddenly gunfire sounded from beside him as Preacher let go a 3 round burst. His attention drawn to the head of the alley Croaker watched as a Wild Thing having taken Preacher’s burst was blown backward out of it, but behind the now dead ganger were 5 of his friends.

Suddenly the Nomad and Solo found themselves in the midst of a swarm of bullets and Croaker knew Preacher had been hit. He’d heard the impact of the rounds against the Solo’s body and armor and Preacher’s grunt of pain telling him at least one round had gotten through, but being to Preacher's left and slightly behind him he had no idea as to the severity of the hit. With the situation as it stood Croaker did not have the time to check the Solo’s status as to just where he had been hit.

His thumb flipped the regulator to full auto as he brought his weapon to bear on the alley. With no hesitation or thoughts of just how unskilled he was with an SMG he aimed, relying on his smart gun link to send the bullets true.

Within seconds the threat from the 5 gangers was ended as Croaker emptied the MK-11’s clip and twenty rounds of armor piercing slugs flew from the SMG’s barrel to blanket the whole mouth of the alley. The first running Wild Thing spun about and fell to a the ground hard, lying still at the end, the second stumbled as if had tripped, fell to the pavement and rolled to lie jerking about and screaming in pain. The third runners head exploded in a spray of dark red liquid, the body falling back, nothing but bone left to signify where once a head had been.

The bullets then moved on next finding the kneeling Wild Thing causing him to jerk backwards and just like his gang brother his head exploded covering the Wild Thing behind him in blood, bone and gristle. The Wild Thing’s thought of dismay at being covered in such human debris short lived as the remaining bullets from the SMG cut his legs out from underneath him. With the action of such causing him to fall it too put this gangers head right into the path of the last bullet, which struck him dead on thus killing him.

With the death of the last Wild Thing in sight for the moment a brief lull in the battle fell and Croaker knew it was time for the two shadow runners to get the hell gone.

Turning to Preacher he quickly ascertained the Solo’s condition and made a snap decision. Letting the Smg hang from its sling and drawing his Armilite 44 he grabbed Preacher with his free hand and helped the Solo to his feet with his weight braced on him he started them both back to the van. Croaker main thought was to get Preacher back to the van and make him priority #1 for Firewind’s med tech; with an eye to their rear he kept the 44 ready to speak the sound of death.

Then without a word Jaimy was on Preacher’s other side supporting him and helping Croaker move the Solo in the direction of the teams transport. His eye's still on the Hole, his 44 smart linked, and the van close Croaker hoped for no more Wild Things....

"What the Frack is wrong with you?!" Bullseye says as he spins in his seat to try a get a better view as to what transpired in the back. "If you want to shoot something, shoot at those shooting at us you frackin turds or I'll leave you both here to fend for yourselves! You two got a problem, tough s***, it can wait till we get out of here to resolve, until then we have more important things to shoot at then each other!" With that, he sits and watches for a reaction out of the two.

(OOC:Sorry for not being very active this past month. Been a bad month for me, currently unemployeed, 3 systems crashes. -- Sorry to hear it. Bromern)

Firewind sat back in the van. Finally, some relative safety. He laid down the woman on a bench, and leaned up against the back of the van. Digital Scribe sat to his left, and then one more person slid in. It was Spiff, someone who he didnt know that well. But Scribe, well atleast they've been on a run together before. Firewind looked down at the woman for a second, when a shot rang out not even three feet from his face. He would of almost jumped through the roof of the van, if he wasnt already used to everything like that, explosions and what not. He wasnt even under the pressure of saving a life. But what did startle him was when he looked up, seeing the two aiming at eachother. His hand reached for his gun, but didnt pick a target, yet. He didnt want to add any more tension to the scene, because that was Guardians job, who joined in. The black man standing at the entrance of the van.

“Scribe,” the bodyguard instructed as Frankie looked up at him through squinting eyes, his left hand raised to shield him from the sudden torrent of rain. “Keep your piece aimed at his head.”

DigitalScribe glanced back to where the fixer lay looking at his watch, apparently unconcerned with the arrival of the large black man. “You will hand over your gun to Scribe now. I will not ask again.”



“It’s all good—be chilled, Guardian,” Frankie’s tone was non-plussed, though he secretly worried about the condition of the camera. It was battle-ready, but you never know what kind of ammunition a person was using, and armor piercing rounds were more and more common these days. The media’s voice was calming, and not just intended for the bodyguard, but for everyone in the van as he relaxed, rolling his handgun back in his hand and dropping his arm to his side. “We just needed to config an understanding here, is all. Everything is chilled now.”

Firewind sighed as the commotion died down, and one more joined them quickly after, this one being PeaceKeeper. She climbed in the van after Guardian, and now they all sat, waiting for the last two, Croaker and Preacher.

Firewind watched the two out there, slowly make there way towards the van. Gun fire was being exchanged back and forth, and he flinched as he throught he seen one of them get hit. The distintctive jerks of the body being hard to see through the darkness and rain. A torrent of gun fire poured from one of the figures, and for a moment, all was quiet. He looked even harder, and seen that someone was hit. One person was checking the other, and PeaceKeeper was rushing out, and checking the downed figure.

"Well if its anyone who should be out there, its me." Firewind thought to himself, and he quickly climbed his way out of the back, and ran out to the people. He could see clearer now as he got closer, and Preacher was the one who was down. He ran up to them and started to help drag him back. He quickly glanced over his head, wiping away waves of blood. But the head wasnt the worst of it, a few drops of medical glue or staples would do that job. It was his chest that he worried about. The wound looked more serious than what it really was, but he would need to get a good look in the van.

" Quickly, we need to get him inside the van and get these clothes off of him." Firewind looked back at the van, and knew that there were four people in the back. DS, Spiff, Guardian, and the woman who he hauled out of there.

" Move! Clear the right side of the van, we need to lay him on the bench! Get the hell out of our way!" Fire wind yelled to the peopel inside the van. There was no room for hesisation, evey second was precious, and he needed to get him inside as quickly as possible.

The Mean Streets – Upper East Side – Night City – March, Friday 13th, 2020, 12:53am
Preacher’s lip curled as he swallowed his pain and rose a little too quickly to his feet. The ruts along his scalp had been close. He wasn’t fooling himself. If he hadn’t had the extra armor plating put into his hat, he’d had been a dead cowboy right there.

“Thanks,” he growled to Croaker, though his obvious anger wasn’t intended for the nomad. He’d figured he’d beat the gangers and hadn’t considered them being too accurate. It had nearly cost him his life. It was that same stupid overconfidence that had put an end to the Three Muskateers.

Croaker made to sling his arm about the solo, but Preacher waved him off. He realized that he must’ve looked the sight, but there wasn’t any time for unnecessary weakness. “I’ll live, providin’ we hoof it out of here ‘fore reinforcements arrive.”

That’s when he saw Peacekeeper and Firewind making their way back to him. Bless them, he thought as he took a deep, stinging breath to ward off the dizzy, sick feeling that the head wounds were causing. Then, tough as a cowboy from a flat-vid, Preacher took off running back towards the waiting vehicle, Croaker on his heels.

Within moments the solo had settled on the floor of the van where he closed his eyes and breathed deeply again, his teeth clenched. “We got her? We got the bird?”

For his part, DigitalScribe was impressed with the man’s strength. The solo looked as though he was losing blood by the gallon, but a good portion of that was watered down from the rain. None-the-less, the media was more than a little impressed. He knew they’d be on their way now that everyone was to the van, but where to exactly? That was the question. It’ll happen whether you’re focused on it, or not, Frankie. Might as well do something productive. Working the straps of his camera, the media began to dismount it from his shoulder.

The Mean Streets – Upper East Side – Night City – March, Friday 13th, 2020, 12:53am

Peacekeeper offered Preacher support on the opposite side that Croaker was helping. Firewind had also followed and offered assistance to their teammate. Jaime smiles some as she heard Preacher's words and she shook her head while replying "Yes Preacher, we got her" that was all she said. There was no time for anything else, they needed to get the van out of there with minimal damage.

When Preacher was safely in the van, Peacekeeper knelt beside him and started working on patching him up. The bounty hunter was not only beautiful and skilled to kill, she also knew how to stop the bleeding. She kept concentrated and failed to notice that media was putting his camera away, and didn't seem to hear anything that was being said to her. Occasionally she would glance up at the man she loved, and shoot him a gaze that showed her emotions, but that was rare. She had to keep her face, if she showed emotions, she would be sure that nobody else took notice. Calmly breathing as the van screeched out of the area. Her eyes focusing on Preacher's wounds, which she dressed with anything she could find to apply pressure to the wounds until she could tie something onto it.

The bounty hunter knew that from this point on, life would only get better since their mission would soon be complete. As long as they all made it out alive, she would continue to lighten up from all her stress. Thoughts raced through her mind as she soft hands continued to mend to Preacher's wounds yet her mind was elsewhere. Perhaps Jaime was a healer in her last lifetime, but regardless, she was lost in thought about the events of their mission. There would be much discussed shortly about what their plans where from this point on. Soundlessly she finished cleaning the solo up from the blood in which was lost.