The Lead Lord Ezekiel leaned forward in his chair. He had been twirling a rifle cartridge in his fingers, as some poker players often twirl one of their chips. He put it down as he spoke.

"Sounds like something we should have done a long time ago, but this is classic business for me. Just let me get suited up, point me in the direction and we'll leave them buried with so many bullets that them and their places will look like swiss cheese. Though I've also got no time for less-than top caliber shooters trying to hog the action, give me anyone else as partners and let other crack shots have their own ranges. "

His delicate fingers pinched at the bridge of his nose, and Miles released an exasperated sigh. "Yes, go in with guns blazing. That couldn't possibly fail," he sneered at Zeke. He had been watching his...comrade twirl the cartridge in his hand even as Donny spoke. He had been enthralled, and his heel was tapping anxiously at the floor. Miles had been relieved when the man finally stopped, but would have preferred the gunslinger remain silent. He didn't care that the man could shoot his pinkie off from over a mile away, he was far too rash and cocky to have any say in the matter at hand. He summed up his annoyance in two words before continuing: "Shut up.

"I think it's obvious we need to take it slow here. Lay low. We've had enemies since we formed," Miles laughed, looking at the others with a raise of his eyebrow. "Now that it's...quite a few enemies, we'll just collect the intel we need and take it from there. The Irish have never been very smart anyway." He shrugged, content, and sat back.

Helen sipped from her thermos of chamomile tea and giggled affably at Miles' gung-ho attitude. The guy really didn't give any shits about how he came off to people. That sneer seemed to have been ripped straight from the cheesy anime that the closeted weeaboo watched. (Helen had seen his internet history. Shit taste, dude.)

"C'mon Miley," she teased lightheartedly, "there's no need to be such a fogey."

Her easy gaze shifted back and forth from her teammates and Zeke's cartridge twirling. That was some seriously magical stuff right there. She was kinda jealous, she could never twirl anything like that. Not enough dexterity. Her hands were precise, co-ordinated, not the kind for fun little things like this. She had a classmate who sat next to her in AP Calculus back in high school who would always twirl her pen. So majestic. But back to the more important things.

"Both of you have valid points. We need to show that the K9 is something to be feared but just barging in or tiptoeing around them isn't going to be effective enough in the long term. They'll snag us if we go all in and they'll snag us if we wait too long to attack. We need to strike with the element of surprise, go straight for their heads. Target the top and send the whole crew into disarray."

Maja Nilsson sat straight-backed in her chair with her hands placed on her lap. She spoke up.

"Who are we looking for, exactly? Are we just going to take to the streets until someone pulls a gun on us? Or shoot every person who looks at us wrong?" Her eyes flitted between the participating group members, but settled on Donny. Her tone of voice was not sarcastic or mean-spirited. They were simply phrased as questions.

Maja's sunglasses were clipped the collar of her business jacket, pressing against the fabric of her scarf. Her eyebrows were constantly furrowed, mouth always slightly frowning. Other than that, she had no passive mannerisms, or idle actions. Her hands were simply placed on her lap, her legs were flat against the ground and her shoes pointed forward, placed side-by-side.

On the ceiling of the small meeting room, lay the culprit of the incessant 'meowing'. A small white cat, curled up over the table, defying logic as its cried and called. It was starring to get at Yruzza. How did it do that? Glue? No, cats didn't have fingers. Did they? Upon bending his neck to find out, he realized that indeed, the cat did have fingers, man sized hands in fact. Interesting. With every passing moment, Yruzza longed to touch the cat, to shake its hand, but it stayed just out of reach.

Yruzza sat in a fetal position, curling and uncurling his fingers, disturbed by the cats man hands. It was agonizing. More so than hearing everyone talk, thier voice were to loud, to high pitched. They were idiots, all of them. They trusted con artists, made deals with fakes, and wasn't prepared for the consequences? Idiots. Idiots. Idiots. And now he was stuck them. Why? Why? Why?

"You all are missing the point!" he spat, much more harshly than he had intended to. "Half of the underground world will be after us, and you want to hit them head on, are you stupid? We don't exactly have the recourse to deal with the the 'whole' Mafia like that. Striking the head won't work here." he blurted, staring at the invisible man handed cat the whole to.

Out on nowhere, a knife would find itself lodged into the ceiling. In Yruzza's reality, he finally quieted that instant' meowing'.

Shane was listening to Donny and was making serious efforts into understanding what he was saying. The guy had a really weird accent that he didn't remember hearing at other people. As Donny was laying down his speech, Shane took out his pack of cigarettes from an inside pocket of his navy blue and white pinstriped suit along with the zippo lighter. He had the same cigarettes he smoked for the past 20 years, Marlboro red. He opened the pack, took a cigarette and put it in his mouth, putting the pack back in the pocket. Before he could light up the cigarette though, his attention was distracted by Zeke and his usual arrogant and full of himself attitude. The guy just suggested that he would go in with all guns blazing and destroy everyone like it was a walk in the park. Shane almost chuckled at that one as he took the cigarette out of his mouth and put it in front of his latte, together with the zippo lighter. It was a shame actually. Because he and Zeke were the only real gun nuts in this group, but yet they were miles apart in terms of mentality. For Shane guns were more then just simple, inanimate objects used to end lives. For him guns were a passion, and a way of entertaining himself. He loved shooting them and taking care of them. All of his guns were well maintained and looked like new.

Miles's plan however made a lot more sense for contract killers like themselves and seemed like the right thing to do. Helen on the other hand suggested that we should take out the leaders and once that is done the rest will be easy. Once everybody made their point Shane rested his elbows on the table and crossed his hands while looking at everyone. "I agree with Miles. The Irish are nothing but hot-headed and violent beer drinkers. They are dangerous indeed but, like Miles said, they are not very bright so let's not give them more attention then they deserve." He said as he stopped for a second, taking a sip from his cup of latte. "As for these freelancers I say we try and dig up as much dirt on them as we can and once we have all the necessary intel, we strike with devastating impunity exactly where it hurts the most. That should put them in their place." Said Shane with a determined tone as he rolled his right hand into a fist. "As for you dear Zeke, if you wanna play Rambo then please go right ahead. Don't let us stop you." Said Shane as he looked at Zeke smiling.

Neala, or "Lucky Nine-Fingers, as she preferred among her colleagues was picking her fingernails on her left four fingered hand of black powder a she listened. She felt a few eyes skim over her at the discussion of the Irish Mod. She simply shrugged.

"Ah oi agree de Oirish are violent, dumb, 'ot-heads. But isn't dat why yer al' love me? Who else wud voluntare ter wear a pipe bomb vest on occasion?"

The shoutgun on her back looked as if it had been ran through a washing machine full of rocks. Well honesty she didn't look to hot to speak off. Cut and scars covered her visible body as she whistled through a missing canine tooth. Her fur covered blue jacket only partially covered the Kevlar vest that had become her usual shirt. Ass kicking boots had a metal banded with studded spikes that looked more at home on a biker.

"Feck de mob boys, they are too greedy ter nu a gran' tin'. Oi still 'av contacts overseas if needed. Soon as yer dig up family oi'm 'appy ter pay dem a visit. make sure they nu messin' wi' us 'ill leave dem wi' nathin'. Till den oi don't mind bein' bait if nade be. yer al' nu oi'm de luckiest langer raun.

Borrealis raised an eyebrow. "It is incredibly foolish to base all of our plans on stereotypes. Most Irish people do not behave like our friend Ms. Lucky Nine-Fingers." Her eyes skimmed over their demolitions "expert". Still, she wondered how long most of the people on her team had survived if they were so eager to step into stereotypes. It was actually kind of ridiculous. This had genuinely thrown her for a loop, but her expression didn't show bafflement. Even though she was.

"The Irish mob is just as potent as any other. Do not dismiss them because you watch too many silly American cartoons."

She adjusted her sunglasses to be more comfortable on her collar.

Momentarily stunned by Ramshackle's outburst and lightning fast knife throwing, it took a minute for Zeke to recognize Shane's chiding remark.

Zeke's grip tightened on his rifle cartridge into a fist at the Reaper Man's personal gouge. Thorn criticizing him was one thing, but his professional rival turning the dagger in only got under his skin all the more. He exhaled, relaxing his grip again and repeated twirling his cartridge as he strove to calm himself down, he'd take out his rage on their foes later where he actually had a chance to show Shane up, there was no point in creating anymore unnecessary animosity between partners . . . All the same, he didn't sit well with the idea of laying back as Miles, Shane, and others were suggesting.

"As our colleagues are both proving in their own ways, we cannot be treating the Irish as if they're not worth the effort. They may be pissed out of their minds half the time, but that's what makes them so unpredictable. They're crazy enough to torch and shoot up places in broad daylight if they feel they can get away with it, and liquid courage makes people think they can get away with anything."

Zeke then stopped twirling his cartridge and stuffed it into his pocket, drawing instead a revolver from his right hip as he inspects it.

"Besides, with all due respect, I believe that Ramshackle has half a point in that we're not looking at the full picture. The Mobs are one thing, and The Commission can still be dealt with if we're worried about the Italians, these freelancers we keep discussing are another thing entirely. Its all fine and dandy to suggest we dig up intel on them, but who's to say they're even going to give us the chance? How do we know they haven't already tracked us to here, have tipped off the Irish, and they're all currently on their way to try blow us all away in one swoop before we can all agree on a plan? Or that they won't try and kill us all on our way home? They know they're facing a team of the best killers in the business, and know that their best bet at knocking us off is to try and catch us with our guns empty and our blades hung up. We have to let them know that they're going to have to think 10 steps ahead, not just 2 if they want to kill us."

Zeke then slams his revolver on the table on its side and stands up, pushing his chair back, looking over at Shane directly.

"That's what I intend to do. So how about we agree to disagree and split our approach to this coordinated endeavour? Its not like the Irish are tough to find in this city, and if they've already declared war on us, we're not breaking any rules by responding with blood and fire. Me, and those with me can try and deal with the Irish directly, or at least let them know they're not just going to smack us down like we're nothing. While you and your crew can get to work finding out who else wants to take us off our thrones and how best to deal with them . . . Call it divide and conquer, or splitting one target into two so that the shooter has to choose which prey is more worthwhile to them at the moment, or simply elephant and mouse approaches, whatever the hell you want."

Shane's remarks didn't fell good on Zeke's ears who imidieatly engaged in a rant, visibly upset about how the others, or at least some of them, treated his plan. Once he finished speaking his opinion of the whole thing and suggesting a course of action, Zeke pulled out a revolver slammed it on the table and looked directly at Shane, making his intentions clear and determined to follow his path.

Not impressed, Shane grabbed the cigarette from the table, lit it up and put the zippo lighter back in the pocket as he took a smoke and released it through his nostrils. "You're not gonna impress anyone by slamming that revolver on the table. Certanly not me. If you wanna jump in the devil's mouth be my guest." Said Shane as he took another smoke.

“There are other more effective ways to terminate your enemies. I'm not gonna follow you to my death just because you wanna prove a point. We are assassins not GI Joe's.” He continued as he drank the remainder of his latte.

Coy's only response to the following plans was a series of nods, shrugs, plus thumb twiddling. He may have seemed to have been ignoring all of the proposed plans, but the ski mask wearing henchman was indeed listening. Zeke wanted to shoot them to death, Miles wanted to collect intel, another wanted to take out their leaders, and on the list goes, but for every idea it seemed there was a person opposed to it, causing back and forth arguments which helped nobody. Once his own idea hit him the silent assassin picked up a pencil before beginning to scribble it down, that is, until the boss man demanded everyone's attention.

Replying with a satisfied nod, the assassin was pleased with his team: Thorn was a solid sniper, he could handle close range himself, and Borrealis infiltration skills could come in handy. He approached Borrealis and gave her a welcoming wave before gesturing for Miles to join them to discuss battle plans.

Maja returned the wave, though it didn't feel welcoming. "Mr. Coy, I must continue to insist that you use your words. It will be very difficult to communicate with you via the radio if you do not say anything." She looked at him plainly. He was certainly an unorthodox man. Dressed to be completely incognito in such a way that he was no longer incognito. He would probably be arrested just walking down the street.

She unclipped her sunglasses from her collar and placed them on the bridge of her nose. She made sure the earpiece was firm in her ear and then placed the collar mic where her sunglasses had been.

"We should stick together. Not too close, but no farther away than two blocks. If any one of us see's any trouble-makers we need to eliminate, notify the others. Coy, for everyone else's sake, I hope you are not the one to find them as we will never know about it, will we?"

As she spoke, she reached inside her business jacket as she talked, pulling out a handgun. She checked the slide, and confirmed there was a bullet neatly lodged inside. She grabbed her silence and screwed it onto her handgun.

Miles had been watching and listening since his first suggestion, nodding along to ideas that closely resembled his own and unapologetically rolling his eyes at others. And unlike Shane, there was a flicker of surprise or fear or both when Zeke slapped his gun down on the table. K9 was not the most well-adjusted group, and although close knit, Miles would not be surprised if any one of them were to snap; he crossed his arms, scowling, at the thought. Even himself. Thankfully, First Degree Donny brought the...discussion to a wrap before things could get even more heated.

As the names were dropped, Miles looked between his partners as they interacted. They were both skilled in what they did, no doubt. However, Nobody was paranoid, and his communication barrier would be difficult to deal with. Borrealis was difficult to read, and he didn't want to worry about protecting the woman. Sighing at Nobody's welcoming gesture, the man stood and joined the two as she took charge. "Ah, search and destroy. Let's hope they're not thinking the same thing. Especially with freelancers in the mix, it's going to be difficult to spot anyone with ill intent," he pointed out. "We should work under the assumption that..." he puased, frowning at Nobody. "That some of our faces are known. Cover up."

Zeke had been about to give another reply to Shane about how ridiculous that last notion was before Donny started talking, but afterwards he decided it wasn't worth it, and he certainly wasn't going to interrupt "The Boss" to do it. He'd basically gotten what he wanted, and The Reaper Man got his. He simply ended the whole confrontation by giving a glance back over at Shane, spinning the cylinder of his revolver as he picked it back up and said:

"Well, best of luck Reaper Man. We'll continue this discussion later as to who's better either after they're all dead, or when we meet in death."

He smiled a wolfish grin and winked over at the suited assassin as he holstered his pistol and walked over to the motioning Donny. He thought Donny's choices reasonable. The founding member of K9 was a masterful killer to see work in action regardless of what weapon he used, and Lucky was bound to be fun. Now to sort out the details of their plan of attack, then go and get suited up to make it rain lead on the Irish. He tested his mic and earpiece as waited to hear what Donny's thoughts were.

"... ...!"

Coy held his chin for a second before springing to life and reaching behind him only to reveal a small plastic kazoo. Pointing at it, he held up the number 1 using his hands and made a beckoning motion directed to his teammates. Still pointing at it, Nobody held up two fingers and gave a thumbs up, and finally the man held up three fingers before making a throat slash motion followed by a finger gun discharging into his skull. In short, Nobody attempted to get across that one kazoo noise meant come to his location to aide him, two kazoo noises signifies he's doing fine, and three means he's fucked. Taking out his machete from his bag, he cut the tiniest hole possible in the ski mask for kazoo space then resheathed it.

He put the earpiece in under his ski mask, attached the mic to his sunglasses, then placed the kazoo in his mouth. Humming into the kazoo, a mixture of a little bit of spit 'n' noise oozed out as Coy placed his hands on his hips and thrust his chest out, clearly proud of the idea.

Nobody nodded in agreement in reply to Miles stating it'd be difficult to detect anyone with ill intent before grabbing onto his heart and feigning injury from Miles' words. Nobody was actually happy about his own thinking being right in this scenario.

Maja looked at Coy with a deadpan stare. Her eyebrows furrowed and she pressed her lips together, blinked a few times.

"This works for me." She finally said in regards to Coy's kazoo strategy. She caught Miles's eye, and tried read his expression. "I can take care of myself, Mr. Thorn. Also, I recommend sunglasses. Mr. Coy and I seem to have the right idea. They are useful for many things." She pulled up her scarf to hide her mouth and nose, and tightened it. Now, she had sunglasses and a face mask, effectively disguising her.

She was confident in the abilities of herself and her team. Everyone here was experienced, hardened, and prepared to kill. She expected that only one, minimum, would perish if the freelancers did end up arriving and attacking the group. She had no idea who that one would be, because she predicted it would be due to a freak accident. Either way, she was worried very little by the idea of being attacked by a bunch of lowly free-lancers. If Borrealis now was to face Borrealis then, it would be no contest.

Reaper Man? Mute? Who were they again? He didn't remember, not remembering made him nervous. As Yruzza racked his brain to figure out who his team was, he passed the time by feeling the cats unusual man hands. They were clammy, sticky, bloody. Pretty normal hands if you asked him. To those around him, they would find Ramshackle atop the table, touching and feeling an invisible being near his impaled knife. Weird.

Unfortunately, the cats sudden reanimation, scared Yruzza right off the table and onto the floor. In his panic, he managed to grab his knife, releasing the invisible cat. Usually, at this moment, Yruzza would have been frozen with fear, if it weren't for the odd chance that he hit his head in the process of falling. It was a godsend, for at that moment, Yruzza experienced clarity of mind, the veil of instantly no longer clouding his eyes. Yruzza was back.

Getting to his feet, Yruzza reviewed the info that had been presented at the meeting. "Mafia's after us, and northeast. . ." he mumbled as he gazed at his would be teammates. Subterfuge and brute force. He was probably the brute force, or both in fact, he was good at both anyway. "How do we get to the 'northeast'?" he slurred as he fiddled with his knife, the one that used to bloody. The imaginary cat blood was thankfully gone.