Though he wished the whole way down that one of the errant beams of noontime light that broke the clouds would be an errant laser, Gray found his course unharried as he drove down along the Duwamish Waterway. The New City fell away and the Verge began, and the water was a rainbow-filmed ribbon as it sloshed dubiously on its way toward the Sound. Gray had only been down this part of town once or twice, and it was never as far as the Waterway - this was new territory for him, new and dangerous, though he was somewhat sure that he would be able to make his way along unmolested. As he drove past an intersection, an example of that which made him so sure of this swung into sight - a trio of Pacifiers were busy roughing up a pair of kids in monocyle leathers with kinetic batons, bending them both over the hood of a patrol car. Heavy clubs across the backs of their thighs, they twisted in misery.
Between that brutality and the automatic shotguns fixed on the backs of the Pacifiers, Gray believed two things: that the everyday folks down in this area were going to be respectful or at least very shy of anyone who even looked like they might produce a badge, and that there was a great possibility that those boys down at the park might very well drill him as soon as they saw him coming. Or maybe he’d get lucky and the Pacification boys had worn them down into a state of cooperation.