There isn’t anything much in the way of classes or certification or any of that; what would be the point? The Omsbudman certifies the prize and disburses the award and lets the coyotes worry about the unfit. Poor yellow dogs, they are always hungry.
It’s not a crowded field. Most are thieves and saboteurs, sneaking guns away and melting them down for iron. Small fry, a virtue of their inescapable invisibility; this should be his level.
Teeth and blood and scar tissue: the hungry ones whet themselves sharp on adrenaline and luxury and prowl Northwest and Grand looking for the idle and the dangerous. They are allowed no edged weapons, no deaths, no guns of any kind, no partnerships. Crime Alley survives, as does International, as embassies of violence, eruptions of the foreign, the invader: designated hunting grounds.
The Biker hates them, in their too-flash costumes and their bullet-proof skin. They build their houses beyond the city proper, in the hills and hoarded trees; his sympathies are all with the fox, never the hounds.