Dalton was still brushing flakes of frost off his fingertips onto his pants leg as they walked up to the top levels of the Blok's higher levels. He took care to step lightly; the boards were cracked with hairline fractures spreading their fingers across their lengths, wicked thick splinters jutting out from hastily chopped sides. Most likely made of refuse pallets from one of the factories. As they'd rose from the second layer, to the third, fourth, then fifth layer, the stains and slumped junkies started to fade - but never disappear. The sixth layer was the newest, and as the Blok continued to grow from the multiple unplanned pregnancies that happened about every two months, they would have to stop building shack on top of shack, and would have to spill out, to create a new Blok. The patrol pattern of the soldiers going by the diseased sprawl had increased over the past year, looking at the slump with loathing.

The huts and sheds at the top weren't worth value even as a toilet to the upper class of Radasanth, but they were a fair bit nicer than the ones on the fourth level, and were a dream compared to the dank concrete dungeons on the ground, where the sunlight only trickled down around noon. Generally, the upper levels were reserved for the families with the youngest newborns, or for the families that were crew leaders that hadn't saved enough for a cramped outer city apartment without any draft. Styme's father was a crew leader, and so he was the closest thing to a "rich kid" they knew. He tended to get the new, exotic drugs the sailors would bring back to port with them, but was also known for going to the ground to kick around the dying junkies, but none of them were saints, so they remained friends with him.

When they walked in, Styme's parents were both slumped against each other on their bed, visible through a sloppily hung curtain, and Styme was sitting in a heavy, blocky oak chair beside the door. He leaped up and smashed Dalton against the door frame, shaking the hovel's walls, and both had their knives out, an edge at Dalton's throat, and a point at Styme's crotch. A breath later and he spun away, throwing the knife across the room and shoving his hands into the thick tangle of wheat blonde hair on his head, murmuring to himself, before shuffling back to sit in the chair, scratching at the goatee hanging in scraggles off his sharp chin. Dalton leaned down, and the tip of his knife in front of his eyes.

"You ever do that again, and you're just gonna be another dead Blok rat." Dalton and Klent laughed loudly at that as he tucked his knife away, and Styme looked up, confused, his pupils as wide as a piece of straw.

"Is it time to go to work?"

"You have smoked yourself stupid," Klent replied, patting their wealthy friend on his head, disregarding the fact that a few moments before, he'd been holding a blade to someone's throat. From a pocket inside of his vest, he produced Grimmy's tilt, and told Styme to open his mouth. Carefully dribbling a couple of drops on his tongue, Klent jammed the stopper back in the vial, and then they all stepped outside to have a seat and shoot the shit while they waited fort Styme to come up. They talked about the greasy, obscene items most male factory workers in Radasanth settled on; what drugs they had and hadn't done, which of the girls on the Blok they wanted to screw, how much they hated their bosses and the soldiers. Suddenly, Styme popped up, his spine straight as an arrow, eyes wide.

"Wanna do some more work? Got a side job tonight, could use some hands." Klent leaned forward, and gave Dalton a knowing smirk. Styme didn't answer; instead, he kept looking straight ahead, breathing through his clenched teeth with a hiss. A few quiet moments passed, then finally, "Do we get to kill anyone?" They exchanged quick, worried sidelong glances. The Blok didn't particularly produce well adjusted individuals. People full of misguided rage, abandonment issues, deeply buried resentment - the list went on and on. It made it quite problematic then, to gather a personal crew for a bit of pocket change, because typically you'd end up with a motley assortment of twitching wildcards that would either panic and shut down at the sight of blood, or be far too eager to see it. Dalton habitually rigged the machines in the factory so they'd work better, so waving drugs in some lunatic's face to get him in line didn't really feel much different.

"Some coin and an ounce of - "

"I fuckin' want that!" Styme cut Klent off before he could finish explaining the stipulations of the job, and reached out with desperation fueled speed for the vial of tilt, but Dalton grabbed his shirt collar and yanked him back. "After. You in?" Styme nodded vigorously, baring his teeth in what he probably thought was a smile, but looked more like a crazed rictus.

Dalton finally let go of the hilt of his knife.