Bonnie

The streets would've been remarkably empty for any other part of town. Venturing into the skids on wheels often led to an involuntary exchange of ownership. When Bonnie got off the bus she checked her watch. The one thing that seemed to stay consistent among the ever changing landscape of L.A. was the inefficiency of the public trans. She was a long way from London and an hour later than she thought she'd be. She doubted the Faders would care as long as she delivered the fix. She wouldn't care much either, so long as they had the dough and she wouldn't have to waste anybody. Ugliest part of the job, that. At least she wasn't in the pleasure parlors any more.

She eyeballed the building before going in. Bullet-chipped bricks, rust, and termites seemed to be the only things holding it together. In the second story window she saw the reflection of a neon sign that read "liquor". Past that scarlet glow she saw a mutie wearing teashade glasses and a white suit. Past that she saw the bulge of a gun in his armpit, and three muscle-bound goons lined up behind him. She hit a button on her mobile and said "I'm going in. Keep my backup on standby."

Anders

Anders rocked back and forth on the worn out, uncomfortable, metal chair in front of the cafe. The hand-cannon tucked into his pants under his shirt kept digging into his gut, and he determined that some of the creds from this job would go towards one o' them fancy slide-space holsters another trigger-man told him about back in the slammer.

Something in the lighting changed and suddenly he was more aware of the slight breeze that made it past the high collar of his coat to the back of his neck. He could feel the anxious rush of adrenaline entering his system, felt his muscles coiling and his skin tightening, and knew that his prey was near.

He could smell her from where he sat. Her high-end perfume mixed with the salt of nervous sweat. As sure as he knew the hunt was on, so did she. She hurried through the swishing automatic doors of a multi-level boutique and disappeared. Anders cursed to himself: too many possible exits. He got up and pursued as casually as he could force himself to be. The doors swished shut behind him as his hand slipped into his coat to grip the holster of his gun.

The Outhouse of Madness

Here's a graphic I made for a fantasy football league called The Outhouse of Madness: