Lyra shook her head.

"I've had a few tenants who used to run with the Rats," she said, "but it's a pretty big gang, Quacky. Odds of any of 'em knowing this specific guy"--she motioned to the poor bastard being used as a very macabre marionette--"aren't too good, I'm afraid."

Still, even if she didn't know who the bastard was, she was curious. Can genetic mods bring someone back to life? And how the hell did a dead Rat get a hold of that kinda mod? Affording a big-ass hand-cannon is one thing, but that? She shook her head. This just reeks of trouble.

Niklas thought for a moment, pondering the dead man.

"No, I can't say that I did. I'd like to think I'd remember something that odd. As far as I can remember I've never seen anyone with a twitch quite like that one."

Niklas paced the bar for a few moments, until Quackshot turned to Lyra with his question.

"If you've got some connections, even if they might not know that rat, getting in touch with them might not be a bad idea, Lyra. I just want to get this cleared up and figured out, otherwise sleep won't come easy for a while. For now, let's just get this place cleaned up-"

During the middle of Niklas' sentence the bar's doors were kicked open, and a small metal canister rolled in. Before anyone could react it exploded into a blinding flash of light and sound, leaving everyone in the bar temporarily incapacitated. After a few minutes everyone's senses slowly restored to relative functionality, and Niklas came to a few realizations. First, that had absolutely been a flashbang. Second, he really hated flashbangs. Third, there was a different dead body in his bar now.

The third one came as a bit of a shock for Niklas. The corpse in front of him was no longer that of a dead rat, but instead a middle-aged man with greying red hair. What concerned Niklas even more than the new corpse, however, was what he was wearing.

Those are dev-district clothes. We need to run.

"I know everyone's just as confused as I am, but we all need to leave this bar and get as far away as possible, right now."

When the the flashbang went off, Quackshot let out a series of loud, panicked squawks and flapped his hand before his eyes to shield them from the bright light. His ears were ringing and flowers of translucent color blossomed within his eyes.

Upon regaining his senses a few minutes later, he found he was sitting on the floor a few feet away from the body of the Rat, or at least what was once the body of the Rat. In its place was the body of a middle-aged man, though the wounds were all the same as the previous body. The change was astounding and needed to be tested further, if only there were time for such a luxury as to transport the body to the Medical District for a proper autopsy.

Hearing Niklas' suggestion, Quackshot scrambled to his feet and cocked his head about quickly to survey the establishment.

"Is everyone alright?" he called out. "Does anyone need a doctor?"

He swooped over to his satchel and slung it over his shoulder with a gloved hand poised to withdraw any supplies from it if need be. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, anxious to leave right away.

As soon as the light had come--blinding and white, like looking into the sun--Lyra knew what it was. The deafening roar that followed a split second later only confirmed her suspicions.

"Oh shit!" Instinctively, she pulled her knife from her side and tried her best to stumble into a corner to make sure she could only be attacked from the front. Not the best defense, but better than nothing, and better than just standing around waiting to be killed. But no attack came. Somehow, that only made her less sure of her own safety.

This isn't right, she thought. There should've been gunshots, tasers, some teether hopped-up on chems with a knife jumping us by now. Nobody wastes a bloody flashbang on a prank, or even a robbery. Right?

As her senses returned, she looked around the bar, cautiously surveying her surroundings. That's when she noticed the body. Her eyes widened. That wasn't the same Rat who got offed--hell, he wasn't a rat at all. In fact, his clothes looked straight out of... the development district?

Son of a bitch!

Immediately, she started toward the door, hearing Niklas and Quackshot as she did. "Quacky, I'm sure everyone's fine, but we're not gonna be if we stay here much longer. I'm with Niklas on this one: we need to leave. Now." She shook her head. She hated getting caught off-guard, and she hated not knowing what the fuck was going on, but all of that was taking a back-seat to her instincts right now, and her instincts were screaming at her to get the hell out of that bar. Meanwhile, her conscience was telling her not to leave these poor sods behind. She turned to face them. "Listen, if you guys want, you can follow me back to my place--pretty under-the-radar of most folks, you could lay low for a while. But we need to go now, alright? I don't know what the fuck just happened, but between the flashbang, the corpse-trade, and the dead dev-district fuck, I don't really think I want to know."

"Why leave?" Ronnie asked sitting nonchalantly on her bar stool. And yes, it was most definitely her bar stool now.

Ronnie rubbed at her eyes briefly before looking around at everyone. The dead body was different but a corpse was still a corpse, right? Dr. Quackshot being flustered and panicked she could understand, there was very little that couldn't make the old man panic. But Niklas? Now that was different. Ronnie swung her legs back and forth as she rested her elbows on her thighs, waiting for everyone else to come to a decision. Ronnie was perfectly fine sitting on her bar stool and would have liked that drink she had asked Niklas for earlier when she first got to the bar.

Sitting up straight, Ronnie thought to herself. Fate better not be trying to deny her alcohol. If she didn't get her drink at some point that day, Fate - or whoever got in her way - will be finding itself on the business end of babies.

"'Why leave?'" Quackshot parroted, darting around the room. The train of his trench coat flapped about behind him, always a few paces to slow to keep up. "We leave because that corpse, and likely the person we all had thought to be a Rat, was from the Development District. This means they figured out a way to make someone look exactly like someone else, be it a gene mod of something else. That's besides the point. The point is that there was a figurative rat in the Rats. ThysenKrüpp could be barging in here at any minute!"

As he passed by each person while rambling, Quackshot tugged at their elbows and patted their shoulders to get them all to move towards the exit. He was more urgent with these actions with Ronnie than with Niklas or Lyra. Truth be told, Quackshot felt responsible for the death of Ronnie's brother. It was an errand he had sent the poor boy on that killed him. Quackshot blamed himself for how reckless Ronnie had become following her brother's death. He wanted to take Ronnie under his wing to make it up to her, somehow, for his part in her brother's death. It never seemed to work though. He was not quite fit to be a parent, especially for someone as independent and strong as Ronnie. He could never hope to fill whatever void she might have in her life. The best he could do was be a mother hen of a doctor for her when she stopped by for a checkup or medical aid, but he was always a mother hen for the patients he came to know personally and called "friends."

He shook his head once, refocusing on the present problem.

"We live in dangerous times, Ronnie!" he squawked. "There's chaos afoot!" He screeched and spun around dramatically, anxiety creeping up his spine. He was putting on his best show of panic he could muster, even if most of it was actually genuine. If I really sell how dreadful this situation is, I could convince everyone to leave for safety. "If we're caught here, they won't just kill us, they will torture us for every scrap of knowledge we may possess! It will be worse than having your body parts replaced with cybernetic mods or getting a gene mod without anesthesia. It will be worse that anything any of us have ever experienced. You will wish for a quick, painless death after they catch you. Trust me, I have seen some of the bodies while I was harvesting organs for 'donations.'" He tried to chuckle at that last bit, but it came out like a strained wheeze.

"Please, let's just go now while the getting is good." He shortened the rate of his breathing to play up his panic. The air whistled sharply as it passed through his mask. Quackshot started to wring his hands, sway quickly back and forth, and jostle his leg. In his panic, he thought he saw shadows moving outside the windows and along the ceiling of the bar. "Come on, everyone! Let's go!"

Niklas nodded in agreement as Quackshot suggested their egress. He grabbed his emergency supplies from behind the bar, stuffed a .25 Auto into one side of his belt, and a cleaver in the other. Motioning to the others, he started making his way to the door. It was then that the gunshots started. From outside the bar came the sounds of various street weapons, from chuggers and pop-rockets

(guns that just about any street tough could get their hands on) to shredders and .45 Cal SMGs



(guns only the bubble gang could afford). What really concerned Niklas though, was that he heard a couple guns that he hadn't heard in a long, long time. In between the bursts of shitty Gutter guns, Niklas could just barely pick out two sounds that chilled him to the bone. The first was a quiet, abrupt burst of static, and the second was the distinct whistle of a Thysenkrüpp smart rifle. A smart rifle that was being fired very, very close to the bar.

Niklas turned around, and was about to shout something to the others in the bar, when he felt the impact on his back. The force carried him directly to the floor, spraying blood around him. In his last moment before passing out, he saw shadowy forms slipping down from the ceiling.
_______________________________________

Bartek slipped down from his perch on the ceiling, slowly lowering to the bar's floor. His cloaking field shimmered as he took his place behind the beak-faced gutter slime. Tanika and Leroy took their places behind the other two, and in unison their knuckles slammed into the lower backs of their respective targets. Surges of electricity ran through the three bar patrons, and they each slumped to the floor.

"Take them back with us, and grab the two bodies. Take care of Mr. Robington's, otherwise things might get messy."
_______________________________________

Quackshot, Ronnie, and Lyra awake to find themselves tied together in the center of a dimly lit room. The floor seems to be some kind of industrial metal surface, and the only distinctive features they can make out are a small drain near them, and a couple vents in the walls. A single metal door stands on the east side of the room, with no distinct features. Each of them has a searing pain spreading up and down their spine, and their legs appear to be nonfunctional (those with cybernetics feel the implants/mods restarting, a painful process). Niklas and the corpse(s) from the bar are nowhere to be seen, as are any weapons/equipment they might have had on them. Their attire seems to be untouched, and besides the back pain each of them seems unharmed.

Lyra's eyes opened slowly, twitching in-sync with the throbbing of the pain in her back. She slowly turned around (as much as she could, given the circumstances) to survey her surroundings, her mind still hazy. What the hell happened?

And then it came to her--the noises she'd heard as she ducked for cover from the street thugs' sloppy gunmanship. Not just that static, but that unmistakable, high-pitched whistling, a sound she had grown accustomed to hearing when she worked for ThysenKrüpp. A fucking smart rifle, she thought, as her eyes widened in horror at the implications. ThysenKrüpp was mixed up in all of this. Two years trying to run away from her mistakes, only for those very same mistakes to ambush her in a seedy bar in the middle of the Gutter. She broke out in a silent panic, her breaths coming quickly and raggedly, her mind a frantic cacophony of worries and frustration and anger and terror. It was overwhelming, far too much to bear, endless worries and possibilities assaulting her mind. She couldn't take it. She opened her mouth to scream, and...

She exhaled. She shook her head. No, she thought, panic won't get me anywhere. I just have to stay calm and try and take as much control as I can of this shitstorm. She forced her breathing back to a calm, steady pace.

Well, may as well use this, she thought, maybe make them regret fronting me the money for this mod. With that, she focused, and her vision when black for a fraction of a second before returning in a series of blues, yellows, oranges, and reds, as she gazed at the door to see just how many guards were waiting to blow the rag-tag group's heads off if they managed to escape.

In both senses of the word, Quackshot was shocked. He was surprised by the sudden arrival of gunshots, causing him to squawk loudly again and dance around to avoid bullets. He was also surprised by the sudden, painful jolt of electricity that coursed through his body. It was all just so... shocking. The last thought traveling through his head as he felt himself collapsing into the blackness of an unconscious void was something his parents had said when he was younger and hadn't left the nest yet: "You have special eyes. Look, look with your special eyes. What do you see? You can see everything with just a glance..."

He awoke sore and immobile, a sharp chirping pain still pecking at his muscles and nerves throughout his body. He didn't like this feeling of being a caged bird. Panic bubbled up in his throat as he looked around the unfamiliar space. He tried to squawk again, but it came out as a faint gasp. He was aware he was still wearing his mask, but he didn't know if it was ever removed from his face between the time of him being knocked out or waking up.

The panic bubbled up higher and he bit his lip nervously to keep it contained. What if they saw my face? My actual face? Fuck!

He looked around at his friends. Lyra was looking around slowly, a look of constipated concentration on her face. Whatever she was doing, she didn't look too happy about the results. Ronnie still looked to be waking up and Quackshot assumed she might be in worse shape than either of them. While he didn't know much of anything regarding cybernetic mods, he did know that metal conducts electricity and that nerves send electrical signals to each other to make the body move. With those two pieces of information, he guessed Ronnie would have to reboot her mechanical body parts following such a hard shutdown. Like using a defibrillator... he thought absently, trying to refocus on something that would cause him to panic less than the current situation.

Niklas didn't seem to be tied with them and Quackshot bristled. He's dead. Why else would he not be here?

"What happened?" Quackshot asked aloud, fishing for his friends to respond to him. "Are you both alright? What happened to Niklas? I think he died, but I don't know. Where do you suppose we are?" He lowered his voice, "What should we do? We're just sitting ducks like this."

Ronnie had woken up before the other two. It hadn't been a gradual thing nor was it fast. Her eyes didn't just snap open like a maniac, but they didn't flutter open and close several times before slowly opening either. No, her eyes just opened. And she listened to the quiet breathing of Quackshot and Lyra for a while. Niklas wasn't there, she couldn't hear him and she didn't expect to either. She had seen him get shot and collapse before they were all jumped by the Initiators. Ronnie mentally cursed herself for allowing that to happen. She had gotten lazy and lax within the confines of the bar and around people she sort-of knew. Well, that was on her.

Ronnie didn't move when she heard the change in breathing in Lyra and Quackshot. She didn't move when they started to. She didn't move when Quackshot started talking either. With all this non moving one would think she was paralyzed. But she wasn't. In fact, all of her muscles and nerves were tingling and screaming like a small room full of yowling, part pissed and part confused, wet cats. And she would be lying if she said it didn't hurt. It hurt like a full-on collision with an air-semi going well over the speed limit and getting tossed from your crappy speeder through the windshield only to smash into the grill of the semi.

Ronnie huffed from where she lay on the floor. This was going to be a while. (And a really long day.)

Bartek stood in the main hall of the Robington building, passing the time by hacking in and out of the building's security system.

Alfred sure is taking his damn time. Maybe he's making me wait on purpose. The old codger never did like me.

He decided to glance into the cell in the building's basement, to keep an eye on the prisoners. They all seemed to be awake at this point. The bird man was panicking, which gave Bartek a good laugh. He always did enjoy watching gutter scum out of their depth.

"Bartek, sorry to have kept you waiting."



Alfred made his way down the stairs towards Bartek. With the death of Hemingway it had fallen upon Alfred, the family steward, to run things until the son was fully trained (a point that he was far from, as far as Bartek was concerned).

"That's quite alright sir. How is the boy handling his father's death? I'm sure he must be quite distraught."

"You and I both know you don't care. Have you talked to the prisoners in our basement yet? If not, I'd prefer to be the first to question them. Hemingway was quite important to me, and I'd like them undamaged before my turn at them."

The old fellow's trying to do my job.

"Absolutely Alfred, be my guest."

Alfred and the Initiator saluted each other, and Alfred began to make his way to the basement. Bartek turned, refocusing on keeping himself entertained. Who knows how long the old man was going to take, but Bartek would be damned if he wasn't going to have a turn. The girl with all the junk mods caught his eye in particular, he could have some fun hacking into those.

I wonder what Alfred could possibly hope to achieve by interrogating the prisoners first? Maybe I'll watch.

__________________________________

Alfred made his way to the basement very quickly. He didn't like Bartek, but the man was smart, and it might not take him very long to figure out that something was wrong. He slid open the hidden door into the basement cell, and stepped into the light, so that the prisoners could see him very clearly.

"All of you, I need your attention. Now. You don't have much time. I need you to tell me completely honestly, did you kill Hemingway? Don't bother lying, I'll be able to tell."

With the last statement Alfred tapped the center of his forehead, indicating his particular genetic enhancement.

"If you didn't do it, I need you all ready to leave. You're taking my ward and getting out of this part of the city. There's a safehouse in the garden district you can go to. I just need to know that we can trust you."

Quackshot cocked his head at the old man's approach, leering incredulously at him behind the bird mask.

"Two things, wait, no, three things," Quackshot chirped up quickly. "One, the only Hemingway I know died centuries ago and was a writer. I assume you mean the dead body with the red hair. Two, I tried to save that man from dying when Ronnie brought him into the bar, but he looked like a member of the Rats who apparently died weeks ago. And three, do you really think we would lie to you now when you can so easily kill us?"

His feathers felt ruffled as he sulked, still leering at the new arrival behind his mask. A lot of questions were circulating in his head and his panic was shifting into anger. He and his friends had done nothing wrong and yet here they were, sitting as prisoners with an old man wanting information from them and telling them to take his charge with them to the Garden District like a group of Gutter-dwellers taking care of some rich kid wouldn't look super obvious in the same district as all the other rich people.

Ronnie moved her head slightly to watch the newcomer. It was an old man that reminded her of the kind of rich family butler her brother used to tell her stories about when they were young. Ronnie bet the man's name was the stereotypical 'Alfred' too. That would just be the icing on this cake of absolute fuckery.

Ronnie mentally sighed and rolled her eyes at Quackshot. He really could be so damned paranoid and way too cautious. Just looking at the butler-type man, Ronnie could tell he was being somewhat sincere. The old man had that look in his eyes that Ronnie's brother had whenever he thought she wasn't paying attention to him. Fondness, love, kindness. Butler man cared for this 'ward' of his. There was just one problem with his plan.

Ronnie tried sitting up. She could barely lift herself a couple of inches off of the floor before she had to give up and fall back down. She pointedly looked at the old man afterwards. And in answer to his question about this 'Hemingway' man she had only one thing to say.

"Had a Rat, not a writer. Rat got hurt on a job and went to a doctor," Ronnie nodded towards Quackshot. "Doctor tried, Rat died. Smoke came and Rat was no longer a Rat." Ronnie looked around her at the walls and ceiling of their room. "And now some are here."

Lyra's vision flashed back to normal, as she looked at the... butler... the BUTLER? Really? We're going from ThyesenKrüpp to a sodding Butler? She was a bit confused, to say the least. Still, his demeanor suggested imminent threat. Maybe ThysenKrüpp was tied up in all of this. In any case, the old bastard was offering a chance to escape whatever shit she'd gotten herself into, so she didn't really have much choice but to cooperate.

"Calm down, Quacky," she said quietly, "if this finely-dressed gentleman wanted to kill us, I'm sure he would have by now."

"Especially," she added, almost under her breath, "if that was a ThysenKrüpp gun I heard before we were out."

She turned to the butler. "In any case, I can assure you we didn't kill your 'Hemingway.' I may not like ThysenKrüpp or its various Dev-District lackeys, but I'd like to think I'm FAR too smart to knife one of their guys in the open, then drag him into a seedy bar while I have a drink. Don't think anyone but a Teether would be insane enough to pull that."

Alfred ran his gaze over each of the three prisoners. They all spoke truly (for the most part, at least), but did he really trust Jhona to these people? They seemed mostly competent, besides the one in the beak, but Alfred's memories of the Gutter were full of people focused on personal gain. Those weren't the kind of people he wanted protecting the son of Hemingway Robington. After a minute of consideration, however, Alfred decided that he didn't have much of a choice in the matter.

"Alright, I believe you all. Now let's go over things before I untie you. Jhona, my ward, has basic combat training thanks to myself, but has never been in any serious danger. I need you to make sure that stays that way. He's far too important to die in a Gutter fire-fight. Once you deposit him in the Garden district I don't care what you do, but until you do that he's your primary focus."

Alfred swiftly untied all three of them, and then shifted over to the far side of the room. Once there he pushed a hidden panel in the wall, and a door slid up, revealing a young red-headed male.

"Jhona, these fine citizens are going to be escorting you to the Garden district. Follow them, and trust them, to a point."

Alfred then pulled bags out of the wall, and handed them to the prisoners.

"These contain any equipment you had on you when you were captured, as well as some things you might need. Good luck."

Alfred turned to leave, and as he walked past the group he whispered to Lyra "Athena, your gun and armor are in the bag. Figured you might need them. Do us proud."

With that, he slipped out of the door. Bartek was going to be there any moment, he guessed, and he needed to be ready to buy the four escapees as much time as possible.

Did we just become glorified baby-sitters after being kidnapped? Quackshot thought as he collected the bag apparently meant for him. He was pleased to see his flasks of alcohol and tin of candy and lozenges survived, and the added supplies like basic rations and field medical tools. There were two other items that he had no idea what they did: a metal box with a button on it and a black sphere. The fuck are these? A garage opener and a smoke bomb? He wanted to show them to Lyra, but feared there may be cameras. Cocking his head about quickly, he spied a few mechanical prying eyes. His flash of anger from earlier shifted back to his usual state of panic.

"Is is Joe-nah? Or YO-nah? Ja-ho-na?" Quackshot squawked impatiently. "Young man, how do we get out of here quickly? The walls have eyes and I would rather our collective goose not be cooked."

He took a shot from a flask. It was cherry margarita.

Ronnie huffed and stayed silent through 'Alfred's' short speech. She only raised an eyebrow at the appearance of Jhona and the fact that there was a secret room behind a secret moving panel of wall. This was the 'enemy's lair,' of course there would be secret places. People who fancied themselves superior or as villains were predictable that way. It also made things easier for Ronnie when she was shooting them in the faces mid-villainous speech. Ain't nobody from the Gutter have time to wait and listen to a nut job rant and prattle.

Seeing as how 'Alfred' was cutting their impromptu meeting short and rushing them a bit - despite Ronnie's obvious lack of mobility, thank you not - Ronnie mentally scolded herself and just went with the Fuck it flow and pulled the bag meant for her closer. It hurt just as much as she had mentally envisioned that it would, semi-truck and all. In spite of the pain, Ronnie pulled herself up and rifled through her bag. Inside she immediately found her lovingly named 'Guns of Anarchy' and her 'Blades of Wrath,' which she quickly slid into their places upon her person after digging through the bag and strapping her shoulder holster back on as well. There were a few other goodies, courtesy of 'Alfred' as well. Food, survival gear, water, and a couple of toys Ronnie both hated and loved at the same time.

The new toys were a small metal box with a button on it and a black sphere, neither of which she knew anything about. She loved them for their mystery and hated them because they had ThysenKrüpp written all over them. She took them anyway. After mentally cataloging everything she recieved, Ronnie mentally prepared herself for the hardest part of this journey. The first fucking step. For everyone else it would be a piece of Niklas' rare and seemingly extinct Pumpkin Spice and Chocolate Pie. For Ronnie, it was the first of many Little Mermaid-esque steps. Knife-stabbing pain in each one. She took it anyway. . . After hauling her slightly immobilized ass off of the floor first, of course.

Lyra wasn't paying much attention to Jhona, or to the large bag that was given to her. In fact, she wasn't really paying attention to much of anything other than the one thing Alfred had said that made the blood in her veins turn to ice.

He knows my fucking name. How does he know my fucking name?

He seemed to be connected to ThysenKrüpp, so that could explain it--but then why not apprehend her? And why that thing about "doing us proud?" No, he had to be a Rat, that was the only other way. But either way, how the Hell did he recognize her? She paid good money to disappear, and either the Rats, ThysenKrüpp, or both had her figured out anyway. She hoped it was the former; the only real reason she avoided the Rats was to absolutely minimize the odds of ThysenKrüpp tracking her down, but it wouldn't be the end of the world to reestablish contact with them--well, and ThysenKrüpp had already gotten her, apparently, whether or not they knew who she was.

Then another thing dawned on her--her gear was hidden at her place. Not just in her place, but behind a false wall in her (code-locked) room. Her mind was racing now. Bloody Hell, my damn safehouse is compromised. Was everyone there OK? There were 10 other people there last she checked, and they were good people.

If anyone laid a finger on one of my tenants, I will fucking kill them.

She shook her head and looked around. Alfred had just left the room. She needed to get her ass in gear, especially if she wanted to make use of her gear. Right then, she thought, I've just gotta put all of this shit outta my mind for now. All that matters right now is gearing up and getting out of here--it doesn't matter how the old man knew my name, and the only way I'll be able to make it back to my place alive is by escorting this... Jhona? May as well not waste any time.

With that, she reached into her bag, and found a familiar rifle. It was definitely Bianca: the black synthetic stock riddled with tally-marks, the aftermarket barrel extension and the little switch on the side that prepared it to accept different ammo types. She smiled, far more fond of that gun than she knew was healthy. Then, she turned her attention to her armor. Should take Ronnie's mods a bit to reset... may as well make sure I'm not going into the fray in civilian clothes.

So she started to go through the oft-repeated motions of donning her armor: blackened metal and kevlar, complete with a big-ass kevlar-lined hooded coat that helped compensate for some of the more... haphazard maintenance that had to suffice once she left ThysenKrüpp. As she did so, she turned to the redheaded young man. "Jhona, right?" She grinned, trying her best to be somewhat hospitable to her ticket out of there. "Name's Lyra. Good to meet you. Sorry if we seem a bit wound up, but, given the circumstances, I think it's pretty justified, no?" Within about half a minute, she stood completely armored, helmet in her hands and Bianca slung across her back--years of practice had made putting her armor on second-nature to her. With that, she turned toward what she presumed to be the exit. "Well, I'm ready to go when you guys are. How are your mods, Ronnie? Given what we just went through, I'm gonna take a wild guess and say they probably feel like you fell off of a skyscraper."

What in the bloody fucking hell is going on? Goddamn fuck shit fuck--

First, his dad is murdered. Second, several wankers take over his basement to interrogate people. Third, Alfred tells him to run off with a bunch of strangers? Jhona wasn't much for cursing, but after the last few days, screw manners.

Jhona's appearance was abnormally underwhelming. His hair was messy. Red rings dominated his usually bold green eyes (one of which was covered with an eye-patch that specifically had night vision). Had he been crying? Not in public. Had he smoked some questionable things last night? Nobody's business. Did he maybe finish half a bottle of priceless scotch his dad used to be fond of? Better bloody believe it. He was, however, very alert for someone who looked like he had a brick smashed into his face.

He rifled with the straps of his armor. He wasn't a fan of the bizarre conglomerate of materials, but Alfred had designed it specifically for survival. There were strange tools and knickknacks all over him, some of which he had yet to discover. Except maybe the fanny packs. Jhona was pretty sure Alfred added the fanny packs to make him look like a complete bloke. While he fidgeted in place, he also listened closely to the conversation happening behind the secret door--a door which he was forced to hide behind until told otherwise. He used the light from his wristwatch to admire the beautiful, exciting metal walls around him. So shiny, so bare, so magnificently maddening.

Soon enough, the interrogation was over. And Alfred blinded Jhona with light by activating the sliding door. He squinted at the ragtag group of gutter dwellers in front of him. Way to not make me sound like useless, Al. In spite of everything, he bowed his head slightly to greet the group. Mostly because it was a habit.

When … the vulture-looking fellow? … spoke to Jhona, he couldn’t help but be taken a little off guard. “It’s Joe-nah,” he answered. “But YO-na would make a good song title.” For the love of god though, why was the guy wearing a beak? Did it do anything?

He stared, curiously, at the … was the person a girl or a guy? … with cybernetic mods. He had seen mods in a museum before, but not in action. Many citizens in the development district horrible stories about the “might as well be medieval” technology. He wondered if he should offer the person a hand up, but he/she was on his/her feet before he had the chance to ask.

Lyra ended up being a sanity-saving grace. He could actually understand what she was saying. “Yeah, that’s me.” He watched Lyra put on her equipment. Like a reminder, he followed suit, activated a metal mask hidden under his collar which expanded to fit around his face, and then raised his hood in order to hide his brilliant red hair. A voice changer built into his mask helped to disguise his voice from his usual smooth, low, slightly accented tone. “Guess we’re heading out.”

When everyone seemed about as ready as they could be in the hellish situation, he reentered the secret passage way that hid a tunnel behind it. Having only one eye that could see in the dark threw off his balance a bit. Funny, Al told me to never go down here under any circumstance. He patted the enormous sheath which hid his sword. "So ... this is an awkward way of making, uhm, new acquaintances."

Ronnie spared a glance at Jhona before looking back to Lyra and saying, "Fairy tale tango with a semi."

Ronnie grabbed her bag of stuff she couldn't be bothered to organize at the moment and wrapped the strap around her waist so as not to block her side arms. Taking in a silent inhale, Ronnie went towards the secret passageway Jhona had been hiding in. Aaaannnnndddd yep. Every step and movement of the arms sent thousands of stabs of pain down her nerves and hit her right in the spine. That was the problem with cybernetic mods. They were hardwired to the delicate nerves around the spine, which is what allowed Ronnie to feel her mechanical limbs and freely move them. And it wasn't just her arms and legs that hurt, Ronnie was essentially half-blind since her eyes were cybernetic as well. Ronnie had gone blind on missions before, so the half-blurred faces of those around her didn't worry her at all. She'd just have to figure out what Jhona looked like after she regained the full use of her eyes. She hoped the face was better than the voice, otherwise this impromptu party was going to have some problems. Despite all the machinery saying otherwise, Ronnie was still human after all, and she could only take so many flaws and such in a person. If someone was going to be trash, the least they could do was be good trash.

Stepping into the passageway, Ronnie nodded at the Jhona-blob and introduced herself.

"Ronnie," she said before passing Jhona-blob and taking out two of her knives, keeping them at the ready and her ears open. She stopped just a few meters into the tunnel, signalling to the others she was good to go and was waiting on their slow asses to stop dilly dallying and get moving. If she was in her usual condition she would have already been jogging off, setting a rhythmic pace for the others to follow or get left behind.