Six-Seven-Eight... - about ten or so in a circle around them. A couple more hiding up between the buildings. This was starting to feel awfully familiar to him. He could practically hear Puck's annoying voice shouting in his head to spare their lives, too.

"No one asked for your help," spits out a voice dripping with hatred,"Go back to your side of the river, bleeders!" A few shouts of agreement come from the group, some holding improvised weapons. A rock or two gets lobbed in their direction as the circle begins to close in. There was no talking their way out of this.

There is a half-second of tension in Guts' body, mouth curled up to reveal teeth. Out of the corner of his eye, he spots a glint of metal in the crowd, and the black cloak billows open.

The silvery blur of a knife whistles through the air, and carves its entire length into a man's hand wrapped around a breaker. Its owner howls in pain as the firearm clatters to the ground. The trigger misfires on the impact, sending a shot somewhere into the street and quickly transforming the fearful crowd of onlookers into full-on stampeding panic. Most of the people around them are innocent, and they were only interested in getting the hell out of there. But that didn't count for all of them, the original band still remained in the chaos.

Looks like first blood was drawn, and it was time for them to fight.