Kris had been pacing all night. The others could hardly sleep, what with the old, wooden boards creaking underfoot constatnly. But they made no complaint, only patted his shoulder on the way to bed and told him that it wouldn't be the last. Stryke had chosen this particular hideout, and to tell Kris to stop pacing, to stop recovering from what he'd just seen, would have been an insult to Stryke's judgement. And none, not even Kris at this point, felt like being Stryke's next victim. They'd all watched it on the news that night, how there had been no clues, save the bullet shells. The guys had patience, he had to give them that. Now that they were in the clear, they'd relaxed, and taken Kris' pacing in stride. They'd all had their own ways of dealing with this new way of life, dealing with what they refered to as 'Pickups and Shootdowns'. They knew that as it had with each of them, Kris' anxiety would pass, and he would just be another soulless, guiltless murdering machine. It was only a matter of time.

Or so all but one thought.

Kris had never come face to face with his choices, his motives, his life, himself as he was now. What the hell was he doing here? What had he just done, allowed to happen with little more than a spoken protest? Even that small protest had cost him, as the sneer, the degrading, disappointed glare Stryke hade given him cut him to the core. He'd come to respect his leader, wanted his respect and trust in return. He wouldn't have it now. Not for a good, long while. But was that what he really wanted? The mutual respect of one who'd turned out to be little more than a common street thug? No...Stryke was no common street thug. Not only did he know every law surrounding those his gang broke every day, but he could have been their lawyers for all he had learned. He certainly wasn't their leader for nothing. He could break into any vehicle, anywhere. Hell, he could unlock a door without a key while two blue-coats watched, and they'd not suspect a thing. A smooth-talker he was, his brains making up for his lack of heart.

Shaking his head, he shoved his hands farther into his pocket as he paused by a poorly-boarded window, suddenly bathed in split moonlight. Ah, hell. Why now, did he have to think of his sister? He had enough problems. He'd gotten nowhere since he'd left her behind almost nine years ago. Pride forbade him to return before it was too late, and now he couldn't even be sure of where she was. If she was even alive in the first place, she would hate him. Hate what he was, the punk kid who'd left her behind, and hate what he had become, a coward. There was no use going to find her. If she was alive, she'd be doing a whole hell of a lot better than he was.

Gunner.

The voice from the darkness drew his attention, though he'd barely had time to become suited to the name given to him by Stryke, the name that the others could shout out and not have to worry about identifying Kristofer Ritker. As he turned to look over his shoulder, Stryke stepped into the light, his eyes hard. Arms crossed over his chest, he paced as well, just a few feet infront of Kris himself. He was obviously in deliberation of what exactly needed to be said. Finally, he paused, sucked in a breath, and began.

Ya need ta git used t' it. Happens a lot. Can y'handle it, or what?;

Taking advantage of the fact that his face was shadowed, Kris rolled his eyes. Shaking his head mildly for a moment before again looking to his leader, he nodded.

Yea. Time's all I need. B'fore y'know it, Stryke, I'll be killin'em myself. Just gimme time.

How much time? We needja back in full operatin' order.

Soon, Stryke.

He seemed to accept this answer, disappearing an instant later, leaving Kris once again to his thoughts. Leaning against the windowsill, he scowled. This wasn't where he was supposed to be. He'd left home at the bright, starry-eyed age of fifteen, confident that the mechanic's job he'd been offered would see him through so that he could eventually go to college, and get set up with an apartment and a car. Now, at twenty-two, he had nothing but a gang of car thieves. He could never bring Kari into this, he'd been stupid enough to get himself into it. Now he was an accomplice to a murder. And he'd just told his leader that soon, he'd be killing two. What the hell had he been thinking?

He'd been desperate a week ago, when the others first caught him thieving a car on 'their' grounds. At first, stryke was more than willing to beat him out of the area. But when he saw the speed and ease with which Kris worked, the leader had offered him a proposal that he couldn't refuse. Join up, or face a bullet to the temple. Without much hesitation, as Kris had seen more into the offer than Stryke had first proposed, he joined. He knew with a sickening, growing dread in the gut of his stomach that his promise to Stryke had been true. However selfish it was, if it kept him fed, alive, and out of jail, he would kill.

His thoughts moved unwillingly to Kari once more, as well as the promise he'd made to her so long ago. She'd hate him for this, but after a few moments of careful thought, he realized that he could no logner care. He had his own life to live, and she now had hers. They had to move on. His promise to her, he now knew, would remain broken and empty. Shaking his head slowly, he made his way through the old, rickety house and headed to bed.