Saturday, January 18th, 2014 - 8:00 PM PST - Some Gang Hangout Place - Los Angeles, California

Phase Two was one step closer. At least that's what I was told. I still fail to see what hanging around with a street gang will do towards their plan on saving the earth, seeing as though most would condemn these guys as being the scum of the earth. However, listening to the wild rants by my superiors, the morality of their agents isn't the most sought after attribute. Efficiency at all costs, they always say. So, here I am: [DATA EXPUNGED], the newest member of [GANG NAME EXPUNGED].

Well, soon to be newest member. That's sort of why we're here, isn't it? Jorge, and two well built, unmistakably Mexican men standing beside him wave me over to where they stood. The bandanna covering my mouth was on looser than normal, and the bottom of the identity concealer found itself wrapped around the cylindrical bottle of booze I've been guzzling since I walked in. My sunglasses rid down further the bridge of my nose so I could silently flirt with some barely legal chick hanging out with the group. I say barely legal in the sense that she's drinking the same shit I am. Realistically, she looks barely 19, if that. Out the corner of my wandering eye, I see the three wave me over again and push the glasses back up before making my way over to them. I pull the bottle from my mouth and leave it in my hand, tightening the bandanna.

"'Ey Jorge, this is the guy you was talkin' about?" says the slightly shorter man standing right next to Jorge. Jorge chuckles and nods back at him, taking a drink out of his plastic cup.

"Yeah man! This my dude!" Jeez, he was a little overbearing. I've only known him for about a day and he's going to bat for me pretty hard. I smile behind the mask of the identity concealer, as he slaps me hard on the shoulder, almost knocking the bottle out of my hand. I don't care if he thinks I'm his "dude" or whatever, I would break his fucking hand if he made that happen. Both of Jorge's colleagues however look rather unimpressed with me, crossing their arms and staring back between Jorge and myself with stonefaced expressions.

"He don't look like much."

Underneath the bandanna, my smile warped into a twisted smirk and my eyes grew wide behind the friendly exterior of the totally nonthreatening sunglasses. The hand that isn't wrapped around the neck of an illegally imported beer bottle curls into a fist, which I passive aggressively shove into the pocket of my hoodie. He smirks, staring me in the lenses. "Looks like we'll see just how tough he is when he steps in the fuckin' cage."

"I'm standing right here."

"I wasn't fuckin' talkin' to ya, was I?"

"You were talking about me, motherfu-"

"Cool it," says Jorge, stepping between us. Keeping his arm stuck out straight towards the tough guy, he turns his head and whispers to me, barely audible over the music and subsequent yelling to be heard over the music that filled the room with noise: "Save that anger for the cage man."

"What's the cage?" I shoot back, but the ever cocky tough guy steps around Jorge's arm and leans in between our heads, laughing.

"Ya might wanna keep your little love talk on hold ese."

If I could just punch his nose out through the back of his head, I would take that opportunity in a fucking heartbeat. No, gotta play nice for the sake of the organization. Can't punch a member of this gang in the face. I run the hand that was previously a fist in my pocket along the border of the cross patch now sewn into the fabric of the hoodie. That's what they wanted it for. The concept of subtlety is lost on these guys. The music dies out rather abruptly and a turn of the head reveals the source: that asshole's going to be giving some sort of speech. If I understand a word of this shit, I'll be shocked.

"Now, as most of ya probably have seen, our friends in the Shadows decided to hook us up with one of their own, too bad they decided to skimp out and send us the dumbest lookin' mothafucka they had on payroll!" Laughter from the group at large, but not Jorge and I. "Now, Jorge ova there says he's a bigger badass than he looks, but I ain't seein' it. Lucky for me and all of us, we can see just how tough this asshole is tonight! He's yet to be in the cage, and I wanna see if anyone's willin' to show this punk how we do business! Any volunteers?"

Two hands come up, one on the outer edge of the circle formed around the guy and the other lost in the middle of the crowd, barely sticking out over the sea of heads.

The guy I could see looked like your typical cholo: well built (seemed to be a running trend in this gang, sans OG Beached Whale), oversized LA Clippers Jersey to cover up the gap in clothing caused by his severely sagging basketball shorts. Shaved head for added stereotypes. He turns to face me momentarily, muttering some threat or another which I greet with silent eye contact which ultimately freaks him out enough to look away. I take a massive swig from the bottle, knowing damn well what's about to commence. The other guy's hand waves furiously over their heads and the tough guy nods.

"It's decided! Jorge, lead your friend to the cage."

"Follow me," he says, leading me down a hallway which leads to a doorway holding a staircase downwards. We go downstairs, where sure as shit in the center of the room stood a cage. Mats littered the area inside, giving the illusion of safety though I'm sure that'll go right out the window as soon as the fight begins. He rips the sunglasses off my face and says point blank:

"You're gonna want to take as much off as you can."

"You know I can't do that," I say, reaching for the glasses that he yanks out of my reach at the last possible second.

"Then you're going to get your ass kicked, man."

"Shit," I say, pulling my hat and bandanna off, fully revealing my face to someone not associated with the Organization for the first time since being allowed out into the outside world. I feel oddly naked like this. I rip the hoodie off too, and toss it to the floor before handing the essential identity concealers to Jorge.

"Fuck dude!" he exclaims, rushing to pick the sweatshirt off the ground. "Never let the patch hit the floor."

"Good to know."

The sound of feet stomping on the steps behind us make the pair of us jump and look up, to see that the bystanders and spectators crowded around their fighters, cheering, whooping and hollering like they were the screaming fans at a UFC event and not gang members in a likely illegal fight club in the basement of some dude's house. I walk up to the cage, grabbing onto the door and swinging it open before stepping in. The Cholo that I saw volunteer rips the jersey off him and proceeds into the cage with me, pounding his chest while screaming like a caged animal. He pulls up his pants and tightens the belt that I didn't do know he even had.

Okay, now for the other guy. Who I didn't know. The crowd starts to disperse around the fighting area's exterior, the tough guy flashing me the same smirk as he walked by. However, there was one guy who kept walking straight. A guy I recognized.

He pulls the door open and steps inside, cracking his knuckles.

He looks up from the ground and I see his face.

The guy I met with last night, the guy I made kill one of the drive by guys.

Well, fuck.