If roads were the veins of a city Brighton must have been the elbow, or that spot between your toes. It sure looked like someone had taken a city-sized needle to them, jammed it in over and over until all that was left was cracked blacktop rippled from years of water damage and freight. In the back of a cramped old McMasters Plumbing van it sure felt like it, at least, the bench-style seats bolted down by chop-shop boys hard on fat asses and slim asses alike. It wasn't the only one of it's kind swimming upstream, little white blood cells on the offensive. It had been a long time since someone had stirred up Hoxton's human immune system like this and the H10 Crew was pretty well determined to make them sorry they had.

Meanwhile, Alex was counting.

Thumbing bullets into a magazine, more importantly, but the principle was the same. About a week ago he would have said [i]clip[/i], as per common vernacular, and would have had no more idea of what he was doing than the average asshole walking down the street, but that was about a week ago. Now Alex was practically an expert, having researched the mechanics of the various most common firearms in the H10 arsenal somewhat extensively. He could have told you that the most common weapons they had were the 9mm handguns that were also statistically the most commonly appropriated by police officers and, thus, statistically the most re-sold by the blue on the take. He could have told you that the Glock 17 9mm in his hands was the most commonly confiscated gun in Chicago as of 2014, as well as the gun that was most spoken of in rap music. If you'd really wanted to know, he could have told you the seventeen different parameters the Austrian government provided in their initial request for a firearm to replace the aging Walther P138 service pistol.

Not that he cared, but you know. Good to be thorough in what you do.

What he didn't know [i]shit[/i] about was the little silver pills burning a hole in his pocket. Some people had already taken theirs, back during Dante's little war-rally. Others were waiting, the effects of their powers a bit too extreme or detrimental in close quarters to warrant popping it before the moment. Dante had only just taken his, skin beginning to boil and blister and crack like tar, like something burning him from the inside out until all that was left was scorched carbon. When Alex had first heard about the effect his immediate thought had been 'what happens to his hair', answered now by the acrid smell invading the van as the long dreads sizzled away and fell like fuzzy, decapitated snakes to the floor.

"Man, that shit is nasty." KillRoy muttered from where he sat next to Alex, waving the stink away with a gloved hand. "The fuck you gotta do that inside for?"

"Like a dutch over, bitch. You think he don't wait to make you smell it?" Someone else from down the bench muttered, earning a tense laugh from a few of the rest as the driver thumped his hand to the ceiling.

"Yo jockies, saddle up! Two blocks to go!"

"This is it." Dante was muttering, teeth clenched together as they blackened and cracked, hardening and flowing at the same time. His eyes were balls of jet, rolling, and the van was sagging distinctly on his side. "This is it, boys and girls. Ain't nobody gonna walk into our house anymore, you feel me? Let's get this done and make it real."

"Fuck yeah."

"Make 'em pay."

"Fuckin' stains."

"Get ready to roar, boys, we're the fuckin' lions in here! I want fifteen minutes of apeshit from every one of you motherfuckers, am I clear?"

"Clear!"

"I said am I [b]fucking[/b] clear!"

"[b]Clear![/b]" Fists pounded the ceiling, one hard enough to dent the metal and leave four little knuckle-marks of flickering street light  above them. Its owner was sheepish for all of a second before Dante's craggy hand caught him behind the head and shook him hard enough to jostle his eyes.

"That's my goddamn [b]boy![/b]" He shouted as the van came to a stop outside The AutoMach, the nominally-retail auto-club the Breakers used as their base of ops. Dante and Alex' van might have been the first to roll up but it wasn't the last, two more skidding to a halt just behind them as the men inside stood and fumbled to get the door open.

"[b]Show these assholes some apeshit motherfuckers, boys![/b]!" Dante apparently couldn't be bothered to wait for the door to open all the way--he pushed off as soon as he saw fresh air and no tin-can sliding nonsense was about to stop him. It burst open like something out of [i]Alien[/i], tearing away against stone shoulders like it was nothing as Dante Black charged headlong through the wall and into what was very suddenly a mess of gunshots, shouts of alarm, and various battlecries.

Speaking of battlecries, whether it was the most eloquent thing or not Dante's bravado seemed infectious. As the rest of the assault boiled out towards the breach in the wall (or, you know, [i]the front door[/i]) Alex waited for them to pass, hopping out only just before the van pulled away. There was no exit for this mission, no 'Plan B'. This was kill or be killed, and the H10 Crew had decided which side they were on the moment that stupid sonofabitch put his fist through David King's left lung.

His brother Alex pulled his hand from his pocket, fist clenched tight around three silver pills, and popped them into his mouth as one. He'd never taken so many at once before--Hell, this would be his second time glowing--but as the rush slammed through his system and pulled his lips back in rictus he flexed his fingers and chambered his first round with a cool professionalism he absolutely didn't have. Alexander King wasn't scared, no matter what anyone thought.

He was out for blood. And funny thing about that...