38

"Be careful, young man," the leader says. "Some people interpret a smile as a threat. All those teeth."

The big guy behind him growls, flashing yellow fangs.

"Of course, some people can't be trusted to go out on their own, which is why my friends are sticking close to me tonight. Back off, Vindlérson."

A touch of Rage in the leader's voice, and Vindlérson—six and a half feet tall, three hundred and fifty pounds or so of brutal, functional muscle—flinches and steps back. Satisfied, the leader turns back to you and says, "My people know me as Heinrik, though you can call me Mr. Boone if you prefer, as I'm not the sort of man who boasts about his accomplishments. You're here with Elton, right? And Nin?"

Somewhere, you hear Roscoe shout, "Where the fuck is security?" Not much agitates the old man, but you can feel the tide turning against the Cultists, and you can see why: Vindlérson's jacket has a Black Sun patch and he's wearing a Vegan Reich shirt. The woman in gray behind him wears a t-shirt that says NOT STOLEN—CONQUERED above a map of the continental United States. With security absent, SHARPs and antifascists are closing ranks, looking for improvised weapons. You might be able to keep the Cultists talking to forestall a fight, but on the other hand, you doubt Elton would want you talking to them.