God, I hurt, he thought. Would it hurt any less if he just stopped, collapsed behind a dumpster, and let the Disassemblers catch him? They’d beat the drek out of him, kick his hoop until he was bleeding from all orifices. But they probably wouldn’t kill him. His gang, the First Nation, wasn’t officially at war with the Disassemblers, not at the moment. And he hadn’t been wearing his colors or even been carrying a weapon when they’d spotted him. He hadn’t been on gang business, merely cruising out to boost some stuffers to fill his empty belly. Just fragging bad luck that one of the trolls had recognized him.