"State Law 2059 states that any suspect who does not comply with law enforcement for transportation to Re-Conditioning can be subjected to capital punishment at the hands of Official State Inquisitors - Clause 2, section 5B, Complete Compendium of Neon City Law."

The Inquisitor is slow about his business, but only out of deliberation. It takes an expert to assess the situation the right way. At his feet lie two bodies, both with their craniums shattered and splattered across rain-spattered blacktop concrete. Impact slugs and a Government-issued Talon 88; a messy combination, but they stop people. The other Scruffers sped off in all directions? No matter, the Inquisitor has seen this tactic before. It never works.

He jogs slowly, mechanically, into an alleyway. Gaudy neon signs are pulsing and flickering, light beams fluctuating through the heavy downpour. A city so rife with debauchery and excess needs guidance, and the Inquisitor, set alight by halos of hot pink neon, is the guiding force. He is the swift and divine Hand of God, and any that stand in his path are swept away.

One of the Scruffers is waiting for him, poorly hidden by a wired red sign reading "Scarlett Angelz 24/7". He leaps from behind cover, training a Yoram 227 .45 Revolver on the Inquisitor. An old fashioned and impractical weapon, but assessment indicates Velociraptor rounds are chambered, so caution may be needed. The Inquisitor ducks behind cover, slowly and with deliberation. Nothing he does is without calculation. Two of the six chambered Velociraptor rounds punch through an animated hover ad, showering phosphorous plasma and thin glass in all directions. An audible click, the telltale Achilles heel of the Yoram 227, signals a misfire. The Inquisitor steps out from his cover, aims, and fires a single shot. The Impact Slug punches through the Scruffer, caving in the front of the man's chest. He wheezes and scrabbles at the wound with crooked fingers. No use in fighting it, the lungs are collapsing and the wound is too wide to even think about stopping blood flow.

The Inquisitor marks the target as dead anyway and breaks into another slow jog. Always with deliberation.

He finds the other two Scruffers huddled beside State Designated Refuse Disposal Units. Cold, wet, feral. Less than human. The younger of the two is a boy. Assessment indicates that he is approximately aged nine years. The elder is a gaunt woman, approximately aged twenty-seven years. Judging by their exhausted composure, the cranially-implanted Neural Pathway has likely indicated the expiration of their comrade. All the more easy to finish the task at hand.

The Boy makes a sudden movement, breaking away from the Woman. He's clutching a snub-nosed Hammond Ultra-Lite derringer. It is almost comical and the Inquisitor smiles underneath his helmet. The Talon 88 is highly lethal for just about any full-grown adult, but it's overkill for this target. He shoots anyway.
The Woman howls, eyes bugging out, clawing at her cheeks with thin, bony fingers. The neon signs towering above the cityscape illuminate the alleyway, throwing shadows to and fro. In the light, the Woman is a demon; a shrieking banshee manifested by the city's abundant sin. She holds the boy's corpse against her own. Blood, tears, none of it is permanent, and it washes down the drain along with the downpour.

"Is this what you wanted?!" screams the Woman. Rain bombards her face, her ragged clothes, and the body in her arms.

The Inquisitor surveys her for a moment, slowly, but with deliberation. Then he raises the Talon 88 and fires a single shot.

Two more are marked as dead. The Inquisitor sends a Secure Neural Message to the Re-Con transport on standby. There will be no need for their services. As per the norm, the job was quick and clean.