"Oh, sure, but in my 'hood Pops and the clans keep the gangers in line. Corps means corporation, gigs like Jorg, here," she waves her hand around, "except with resources out the ass. Soon as you build something good, they want it, and they don't wanna pay for it. Fucking locusts."

She leans against the snack table, resigning herself to feeling peckish until they're freed and she can hit the mess again. When he leans in she raises an eyebrow, then smiles a little at what he says.

"Yeah. No place like home - and you know, we worked to make our patch livable. Blood and treasure and all that. Not giving it up to a pack of poncy suits who contract out their killing."

It may seems hypocritical, since Saturday is technically one of those contracters, but a) that's never stopped a single shadowrunner as long as the money was good and b) shadowrunning was, when you get down it, never really more to her than a means to an end.