If Alex thought a gunfight would be crazy, it was nothing like a gunfight on neon.

Bedlam. Anarchy. The laws of physics had apparently washed their hands of this little corner of Brighton as K-Ton dropped literally killer beats and Ramsay held a car door up with his goddamn brain. That little wannabe--Lottie? Lonnie?--had pulled a fucking [i]tiger[/i] out of thin air. This was absolutely [i]no[/i] place for a guy like Alex, who could barely tell which way to look. At the best of times he was one for focus, for tackling one issue at a time but this? He didn't even know where to start.

He actually sort of did, though, now that you mentioned it. There was nothing like that neon high. Alex had rocked the ganja at a party once or twice, even dropped some acid after getting out from big brother's lead thumb, but [i]neon[/i]. People had told him some wild things--and he was seeing some unbelievable things just then--but it all fell away when the beat dropped and the world became a fucking symphony of [i]lub[/i]s and [i]dub[/i]s. 

Having spent what felt like most of his life studying gross anatomy, circulatory systems, microbiology, there was something completely unreal about [i]feeling[/i] it. And not just his own--that was the trippy thing. Yeah, he could feel the living system of it inside him, but he could also feel Lottie's. Lana's. Whatever, he could feel [i]hers[/i] pumping from her fluttering little bird-heart into--

Well. Hers was confusing. But Dante's--dammit, another bad example. How could something like blood feel [i]stony[/i]? But the rest of them were pretty much human, still, and he could feel it all. Why blood, though? That's what he couldn't understand. What could it possibly be about blood in particular--the leukocytes? The hemoglobin? Only Alex would look a super-gift horse in the mouth, but the sheer improbability of made him want to flat out laugh (or would, if he was the laughing sort).

Instead, he took a shot to the arm for thinking about high-school biology in the middle of a gang war.

It hurt. It [i]really[/i] hurt, so much that it was surprising instead of horrifying. It had missed the bone, gone right through the muscle, but funny--it wasn't bleeding. There was blood, but it was sliding right on through like a happy little river. Just pumping along without a care in the [i]what the fuck was he doing?![/i]

It all slammed into him like a punch to the stomach. He was lucky it wasn't another bullet--another one had whizzed by but missed him entirely in lieu of the brickwork across the street. Probably from some idiot who didn't even know he was there. The Glock felt heavy in his hand, his mouth suddenly dry--he choked up on the grip, reassuring, before manning up and pretending like he belonged there. He dashed forward to the plaster and cement of the wall, pressed his head back to the peeling white paint. Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, get ready to move in--

And was bowled over by a sudden explosion of the drywall above him, sending him lurching forward with his head ringing. A Breaker was flat against the sidewalk, the storefront now entirely shattered thanks to someone from inside--Dante, probably, if the hollering from inside was any indication. The guy on the pavement wasn't getting up, but as Alex stood to head inside someone else popped their head through the hole in the wall. Someone he didn't recognize. Someone with a sawed-off he was busy leveling, and Alex shot him.

It was the kind of blind luck shit that happened at range like this, but it really was just that simple. No aim, just kind of point and squeezed, and there he was. Had been. If Alex was a better person he probably would have felt something more significant at the loss of human life, but when it came right down to it all he could think was that bodies were bodies once they'd hit the ground. The Breaker didn't look all that different from his brother after that fucked had wasted him. 

No, scratch that. The Breaker had more of his chest left.

It was that kind of stupid body-horror realization that woke Alex back up. They were here because these motherfuckers had killed his brother. Because David was [i]dead[/i], and all the neon in the world wasn't about to change that. But it was about to give him some company, because seriously?

Fuck those guys.

It was easier after the first, now that his head was in the game. His arm hurt--[i]really[/i] hurt--but between the neon and the adrenaline there were so many better things to think about. It was just meat, after all, just more meat, and looking around there was a whole goddamn butcher's shop of it in here. He'd ducked inside to take cover behind what was left of a Camero when he reached out, felt for the nearest [i]lub[/i], and [i]dub[/i]'d.

And about ten feet away, one of the Breakers crumpled. He fell backwards over what probably used to be a couch before all this started and stayed there. There are approximately 5.5 liters of blood, or one and a half milk jugs for the less scientifically inclined, in the human body--about half of it was pouring out of the man's face. Gushing, boiling over, eyes and ears and nose... It had to go somewhere, after all.

It was that easy. Was that really all it took? Another reach, another [i]squeeze[/i] and pop! A second Breaker down. And then a third. Two more men busted like gushers in less than ten seconds, and now Alex realized it actually could be that simple. Why not? Squeeze a trigger, squeeze a vein, waste an--

His back hit the crumbling wall behind him and he couldn't breathe. The world was blurry, but as it came into focus he could see the body of his cover-car twisted off it's cement blocks, Dante's massive black form smashed through the other side. The idea of something that could knock the granite man around was laughable, but as he forced himself to his feet with a hand that crushed the dashboard of the vehicle some fratboy motherfucker was making his way over and not looking to shy about it.

"You fucking punks." He was saying, not even real loud--the kind of way someone might shake their head at their kids when they acted up, except he was also working a pair of brass knuckles over his fingers in a way that made you think it wasn't the first time. "You've got no idea who you're dealing with, do you." He looked like the guy who killed David King, probably because he was, and he did not look sorry. This, to both Dante Black and Alex himself, was a problem.

"How 'bout you spell it out for me." The blackrock brawler was growling, getting himself to his feet, looking like he was ready for a--cross to the cheek, apparently. This guy was [i]good[/i], the kind of swinger you knew did this for a living. He hit like a truck and knew better than to let Dante get a hold of him, but for all of that Dante could take everything he could throw. For now.

Meanwhile, his buddy the psychic had shown up and decided it was time to play merry hell with people's guns. Maybe he had a thing for bullets, or maybe he just really good at this whole telekinetic thing--wherever he was, he apparently didn't have to stick his hipster head out to have everyone's favorite handgun about as useful as your average hair-dryer.

But they were losing, badly, and as the Breakers started to realize how far behind the eight ball they were the H10 Crew was starting to wear off and wear out. It was getting on time for the party favor, KillRoy firing off the flare for the one minute warning, but Alex and Dante only had eyes for fratboy.

One minute. Plenty of time.