||Spill Into The Streets|| [Open]

Some people were in it for the green. Money, after all, didn’t grow on trees. Then, of course, you had the crazies mixed in with the dutiful— the men and women that wanted to hurt the world and just maybe, themselves too. One or two of those nuts on a spree would be enough to weed out the weak before a job was even completed. But hey—the criminal underbelly never judged. Hell, it had a place for everyone when it came down to brass tacks. The desperate. The lost, the young and old. Angry, bitter, lonely, fearful, intelligent, confused. Male or female—crime had no restrictions. What mattered wasn’t what you came for—rather, it was why you stayed on.

Mirach tilted her head to the side, ignoring the hiss of her latest patient as he gritted his teeth against the last, fast stitch she completed in his upper thigh. “You’ll live,” she said flatly, her brown eyes darting for the nearest window, where moonlight streamed through the broken glass. Slick blood smeared her leather gloves; she would make sure to dispose of them later, but for now her mind was preoccupied. The pressing darkness outside of the empty warehouse made their group nervous, but it was not the night that worried them most. It was the rival gang, the crack of gunshots, and the immediate memory of sounds that shook them: the shrieks, slurred swears and the soft thump of slumping bodies. They could practically still taste the metal in the air, feel the crunch of forgotten garbage under their feet after scrambling down bloated alleyways, and most importantly, each person could feel the grease and grime, the sweat, sliding from their brow. For a moment, Mirach held her breath too, fascinated by the suddenness of what had happened, the shivers still coursing down her back. Even her heart hammered, struck by the raw violence that had killed three of her colleagues and wounded a fourth without warning. But she smiled faintly below her mask, a dark, malicious glint in her eye and a laugh perched somewhere in her chest—a sign that maybe she enjoyed the adrenaline kick from this kind of thing entirely too much. Mirach—or Asclepius, as these people knew her—could barely contain her excitement. Her shoulders shook with silent laughter.

She lived for this. Pure energy thrummed in her veins, high off of it.

Sirens blared though, hopefully distracting her ragtag group of companions from her amusement. She wasn’t sure if they would appreciate her twisted sense of humor at the moment. In an effort to hide it better, she ducked her head and knelt down beside the man hunched against the wall—her patient—amused by how white his knuckles were as he gripped his thigh. Some light bounced off the angry lines etched into her mask, made her eyes glow under the shadow of her hood for a moment, as if she really were some primordial beast and not a person. As a result, her patient cringed. His dark skin glistened with the same blood that was on her gloves, primarily because she had just half-hazardly cleaned, pinched shut, and sutured the deep laceration that ran horizontally across his skin. “I hope you’ve had your tetanus shots,” she added woodenly, though she pushed up from the floor a moment later.

“All right, fine. Sound off. Who’s still here? And not dead?” She called out, only a touch of humor in her tone. Such a shame, when diplomatic relations between gangs fell through and resulted in turf wars—especially at such a trying time in history, when the world was crazy enough without things like this to add to the mix. Hell, for all “Asclepius”—Mirach—knew, some of these people were paid off by the original gang members to act as stand-ins in case such a thing occurred. This could be their first time out on the streets like this, selling their lives for some extra cash and boy oh boy, was it one hell of a start to a criminal career if that was the case. Mirach brought her hands together and cracked her knuckles before flexing her fingers. Some blood had managed to soak into the sleeves of her dark hoodie as well, which she felt she might have to burn later for good measure. All and all, Mirach really hoped she wasn’t the only veteran here, but she supposed it didn’t matter.

The night had already amused her thoroughly.

Time Stamp: May 8th, 11:53p.m.
Mask: Click Here
Notes: Open to anyone, even characters that are accidentally caught up in what happened. Basically a diplomatic meeting between gangs gone bad. One gang hired extra hands to help them out, just in case. Negotiations however, fell through rather quickly. Hopefully all the information you need to join is in the post or here. Let me know if you need more. ^^