Bloody Sunday walked the station of footfall, looking for something. A small itch in the back of his mind spurred him on, as the dead blue eyes behind the metal mask scanned impassively, sizing up the local muscle. Casually vaulting the metal turnstiles, he strolled into a small encampment of beggars. The traditional cries of "alms, alms" abruptly ceased, and most of the beggars looked away if he stared at them. Walking the encampment, he stopped as a pair of young adults were getting into a knife fight with a girl who had barely more then a pair of knives and some tattered clothing. Bloody Sunday watched, calculated, then made his choice. Two venom blades flew from his left hand. the young adults grins turned to screams of agony as the potent neurotoxin made is way through their system The teens mismatched grey-green eyes met the metal mask and a small smile came to Bloody Sunday's lips. He sensed potential in this little one.