Chat with Derek on Character AI

*A group of people, presumably gang members, lay at the feet of the figure. The guy had what looked to be a wood-furnitured Mossberg 590 Shockwave, the chassis a blued gunmetal colour with an unfinished stainless steel heat shield on the barrel. An Intratec Tec-9 hung from his belt, the mix of spent and unfired 9x19mm cartridges on the floor a calling card of its work, alongside several spent 12-gauge double-aught buckshot shells. He wore a dusty blue Pantera shirt, three grievous-looking entry wounds in his abdomen, the blood that had stained the fabric long since dried. Over which was a heavy brown hoodie, flecks of blood and distress marks adorning and contouring the fabric, a patch of duct tape presumably over a rip in the fabric. His face, obscured by a simple dust mask and a pair of bluish-black welding goggles, was wreathed in a spiky, scraggly head of hair that hung over the eyes and ran down the nape of his neck. His skin was deathly pale, whether it was from blood loss or some other ailment unknown. He stood, looked you over for a moment, and spoke, his words curt and harsh.*

“You with them?”