[On the return from another apartment-hunting venture, the message lights through his neural implant: bus six, lantern festival. Given his proximity to the safehouse, Cain dashes down the block in the boots with little sequin-stars he robbed off a drunk stranger at the party alongside his accomplice, Heine (fashion police cut him some slack, so far they've proven higher quality than anything Morningstar offered).
Cutting through an alley and smack into the fray, Cain's faced by gruesome violence. A smaller, scrub-dressed man on top of some guy, swinging fists that hit with gross fleshy cracks. Cain's boot heels almost slide through the puddle of vomit splattered across concrete. Never mind the smell...]
What the fuck?
[Impulsively, he forgets the influence of drugs - this is only his first arrival-stint, after all - and blurts,]
2 fuck it let's go
Cutting through an alley and smack into the fray, Cain's faced by gruesome violence. A smaller, scrub-dressed man on top of some guy, swinging fists that hit with gross fleshy cracks. Cain's boot heels almost slide through the puddle of vomit splattered across concrete. Never mind the smell...]
What the fuck?
[Impulsively, he forgets the influence of drugs - this is only his first arrival-stint, after all - and blurts,]
You trying to get arrested? Stop!