[@Letter Bee]The news that there was a makeshift hospital spread like wildfire throughout the city. Within moments people began thronging the entrance, shouting and waving their hands in the air, each one convinced that his needs were more urgent than his or her fellows. Pickpockets moved like cruising sharks amongst the crowds, relieving the poor and destitute of what little wealth they had. More and more of Orleans' most desperate inhabitants were drawn to the place, many just looking for a place they could escape the clutches of both the Revolution and the Order. 

One group, however, was far from poor. Morris the Mongrel, one of the most unscrupulous and violent criminals in the district, had his bodyguards cut a swathe through the crowds. Once they entered the warehouse the Mongrel honed in on the man who was in charge, a  hard-eyed youngster. 

"Hey, asshole." Mongrel said conversationally. "I like the little game you've got going. A hospital to help the needy?" The scrawny gangster mimed cuffing away a tear. "Almost makes me want to cry. Or laugh." His face, already far from attractive, became even uglier. "Problem is, boy, that you want to run an operation right in the middle of my turf." He poked himself in the chest. "My turf." 

One of his bodyguards, a Synth weighed down by armour and the large grenade launcher it carried, pointed it's weapon as if by accident at the traders. 

"But I'm a forgiving kinda guy." the Mongrel went on. "I could forgive this little breach of etiquette if, say, you turned over a piece of your medical supplies?" The Black Market would appreciate that.