Kings of the World - HeroNES
- Thread starter Luckymoose
- Start date
Luckymoose
The World is Mine
KAPOW!
A hard right swing connects to the mans jaw.
“Who do you work for!?”
Lucky grabs him by his leather jacket and pulls him up. It's another one of the Black Star gang members, all of these men were. He draws his fist back again.
BAM!
Blood spurts out in unrealistic quantities as the man once again twists and falls to the ground. Coughing up more blood, and possibly a tooth, he laughs.
“What's so funny?”
The man replies with a middle finger up at Luckymoose.
“Oh really?”
Lucky drew back his leg for a good shin kick.
“Lucky, wait! We've got company.” Came the familiar voice of Firebird, who until this moment had been enjoying the interrogation of this scum. Across street from them stood a group of armed men, wearing the symbols of the Black Star gang, and accompanied by a tall, dark and muscular man. Lucky looked back, but then proceeded with the kick to the downed man for good measure.
“Well, well, well. If it ain't the man who put me in the slammer.” Roared the deep, almost demonic, voice of the tall black man. He began to remove unbutton his shirt, never neglecting the maniacal smile towards Lucky and Firebird.
“Another one of your old friends?” Firebrid queried.
“Yeah. Terrance Howard, the Gorilla Warrior.”
“Is he a threat?”
“Nah, he's a little girl compared to Tracks.” Lucky smirked.
“HEY! I'm a little girl.”
“Nah, you're a big girl compared to this wimp.”
“Thanks. But seriously? He looks strong.”
“SHUT THE F-CK UP!” Gorilla Warrior shouted across the street. “I'm not here to chitchat. I heard you got your asses handed to you by Tracks, well, I'm going to one up the fiend.”
“Come on then. If I could take you alone, then I sure as hell can take you with her.”
“Are you drunk?”
“Mildly.” Lucky laughed.
“Get those jive turkeys!”
Firebird put her hand out in the typical STOP motion. “Wait a second...got...to..get my ipod on.” She put the earphones in and pressed play, mumbling the lyrics of some song “-Now what are you all doin on a Saturday night-” She then motioned to carry on.
The gang members jogged across the street with their bats and knives, swinging wildly at the calm and cool Lucky and Firebird. A bat swung at Lucky, only to be ducked and a firm fist planted in the chin of one of the men. Firebird was stared down by a knife wielding brute of a man, but quickly disposed of him with a fireball while head banging. The brawl lasted all of half a minute as all the gang members were scattered across the street, either on fire or bleeding severely from well placed punches. Gorilla Warrior was not okay with this outcome, and with his shirt tossed aside began to show his true form. His muscles bulged and expanded, he became taller and his face began to morph into a more animal shape.
Firebird's lack of paying attention, whilst dancing away to the beat, lead her to not hear the loud roar from the transformed beast. With her eyes closed she danced away to the beat as behind her Luckymoose and Gorilla Warrior clashed in a brutal struggle. Man versus beast on the mean streets of Metropolis. With several fast and powerful movements Lucky was tossed around like a ragdoll, squeezed to a near popping point by the arms of this gorilla-man, and smashed through a car. Finally the dancing heroine bounced to face the two in conflict and opened her eyes.
“OH OOPS!” She squeaked as she let loose a stream of fire from her hands, scorching the back of the hairy beast as he had Lucky in a bear hug. A loud ugh came from Gorilla Warrior as he loosened his grip on Lucky. The latter of course capitalized on the situation with an eye gouge and a groin kick, bringing the big beast to the ground. As Lucky brought down his fist multiple times on the head of Terrance, he finally knocked him out, and laughed as he leaned back up. Turning to Firebird he looked disappointed.
“That rock and roll music is going to get us in trouble on day. Why don't you listen to the same music I do?”
“You listen to Irish folk and monastic songs. I would rather die.”
-_- “That can be arranged.”
“I'm kidding! What do we do with him?”
“He's going back to prison, but now I know for sure all of these crimes are connected. We have some investigating to do.”
“Aww, but that is so dull! I like fighting.”
“I like drinking, but sometimes we don't get what we want.”
A hard right swing connects to the mans jaw.
“Who do you work for!?”
Lucky grabs him by his leather jacket and pulls him up. It's another one of the Black Star gang members, all of these men were. He draws his fist back again.
BAM!
Blood spurts out in unrealistic quantities as the man once again twists and falls to the ground. Coughing up more blood, and possibly a tooth, he laughs.
“What's so funny?”
The man replies with a middle finger up at Luckymoose.
“Oh really?”
Lucky drew back his leg for a good shin kick.
“Lucky, wait! We've got company.” Came the familiar voice of Firebird, who until this moment had been enjoying the interrogation of this scum. Across street from them stood a group of armed men, wearing the symbols of the Black Star gang, and accompanied by a tall, dark and muscular man. Lucky looked back, but then proceeded with the kick to the downed man for good measure.
“Well, well, well. If it ain't the man who put me in the slammer.” Roared the deep, almost demonic, voice of the tall black man. He began to remove unbutton his shirt, never neglecting the maniacal smile towards Lucky and Firebird.
“Another one of your old friends?” Firebrid queried.
“Yeah. Terrance Howard, the Gorilla Warrior.”
“Is he a threat?”
“Nah, he's a little girl compared to Tracks.” Lucky smirked.
“HEY! I'm a little girl.”
“Nah, you're a big girl compared to this wimp.”
“Thanks. But seriously? He looks strong.”
“SHUT THE F-CK UP!” Gorilla Warrior shouted across the street. “I'm not here to chitchat. I heard you got your asses handed to you by Tracks, well, I'm going to one up the fiend.”
“Come on then. If I could take you alone, then I sure as hell can take you with her.”
“Are you drunk?”
“Mildly.” Lucky laughed.
“Get those jive turkeys!”
Firebird put her hand out in the typical STOP motion. “Wait a second...got...to..get my ipod on.” She put the earphones in and pressed play, mumbling the lyrics of some song “-Now what are you all doin on a Saturday night-” She then motioned to carry on.
The gang members jogged across the street with their bats and knives, swinging wildly at the calm and cool Lucky and Firebird. A bat swung at Lucky, only to be ducked and a firm fist planted in the chin of one of the men. Firebird was stared down by a knife wielding brute of a man, but quickly disposed of him with a fireball while head banging. The brawl lasted all of half a minute as all the gang members were scattered across the street, either on fire or bleeding severely from well placed punches. Gorilla Warrior was not okay with this outcome, and with his shirt tossed aside began to show his true form. His muscles bulged and expanded, he became taller and his face began to morph into a more animal shape.
Firebird's lack of paying attention, whilst dancing away to the beat, lead her to not hear the loud roar from the transformed beast. With her eyes closed she danced away to the beat as behind her Luckymoose and Gorilla Warrior clashed in a brutal struggle. Man versus beast on the mean streets of Metropolis. With several fast and powerful movements Lucky was tossed around like a ragdoll, squeezed to a near popping point by the arms of this gorilla-man, and smashed through a car. Finally the dancing heroine bounced to face the two in conflict and opened her eyes.
“OH OOPS!” She squeaked as she let loose a stream of fire from her hands, scorching the back of the hairy beast as he had Lucky in a bear hug. A loud ugh came from Gorilla Warrior as he loosened his grip on Lucky. The latter of course capitalized on the situation with an eye gouge and a groin kick, bringing the big beast to the ground. As Lucky brought down his fist multiple times on the head of Terrance, he finally knocked him out, and laughed as he leaned back up. Turning to Firebird he looked disappointed.
“That rock and roll music is going to get us in trouble on day. Why don't you listen to the same music I do?”
“You listen to Irish folk and monastic songs. I would rather die.”
-_- “That can be arranged.”
“I'm kidding! What do we do with him?”
“He's going back to prison, but now I know for sure all of these crimes are connected. We have some investigating to do.”
“Aww, but that is so dull! I like fighting.”
“I like drinking, but sometimes we don't get what we want.”
Seon
Not An Evil Liar
Lieutenant Kleiner furiously stared into the map in which all the recent killlings that involved the trademark burns on the victim examined. Serial Killer X, the people at the force began to call the killer, and with around 38 kills to his name, the police have been getting...much flak lately.
"Sir! We got the balistic markings found on the girl's body examined..."
"Good. Did you get a match?"
"Yes,"
"What?!" the police lieutenant grabbed onto the forensic exper's collars. "Which gun did it come from?"
The expert gulped. "It was from a guy murdered by the Serial Killer several weeks before the incident in the forest."
"DAMN!" the lieutenant shouted. The killer was mocking them, he was sure. "What do you think you are doing here? Get back and analyze the other evidences!"
"But I have already analyzed all of them!"
"Analyze them again then! What do we hire you lot for?" Kleiner shouted. The forensic expert left the door, grumbling on the way out.
Knock knock.
"What?"
A familiar looking man with a visitor's tag walked into the room, smiling. "Mercer!" Kleiner said. He finally took his eyes off of the map and gave Mercer a firm handshake. "What are you doing here?"
"Well, I heard what was happening on the news, and was wondering how things were progressing." Mercer said. "Heard what happened to George," he said, slightly more serious. "His body... did you find it?"
Kleiner sighed. "I am afraid not. But I think it's safe to assume that the Serial Killer got to him."
"The poor man," Mercer said. "I knew him since the time he joined the force."
Kleiner sighed once more. "We will find him, Mercer. We will find him." Kleiner's eyes glinted once in the light. "Oh, we will find him alright."
"I'll see what I can do to help," Mercer replied.
"That would be wonderful. Just like old times, Mercer. You, me, and crime infested Central City."
"Yes," Mercer said. "Just like old times. Well, see you later then. Call me whenever you need help."
..........................................................................................................................................
The man with the strangest looking piece of machinery in the world in his hand paused slightly and tilted the machinery as a man in a worn brown coat with a visitor's tag left the police station. Then he toyed with some of the knobs and switches on the machinery and entered the police station. He produced a visitor's tag from his numerous pockets and made his way into the room where Lieutenant Kleiner was still straining over the map.
"Hello?" the man said.
"Who is it?" Kleiner snapped.
"Ah, my name is Clarke Lamon," the man replied. "I am from the SynTech Research Division."
"Yeeees?" Kleiner said.
The man gulped. The lieutenant would be a hard customer. "Well, SynTech have been involved in the research of what makes..." the man pointed towards his head. "The...Specials...such as the Serial Killer...well, tick."
Kleiner scowled. "SynTech... that rings a bell... weren't you the people behind that incident in the city of Dark Falls? I heard that the entire town got firebombed because of what you people did there."
"Oh, no no no," the man replied. "That was, as we explained, a rogue project by some of the less scrupulous of the researchers, I assure you."
"Uh huh,"
The man sighed. "This project is also completely unrelated to that incident. Well, our research has shown that the Specials have an innate ability to change the properties of base matter in their immedieate surroundings, or within their very body. A Special with the ability to move at the speed of sound can use his ability to change the atomic structure of his body to become more resista-"
"Get to the point, please," Kleiner said hurriedly. The man looked slightly disappointed. "Well, we have determined that whenever a Special use his ability, it releases a form of radiation known as TK radiation. This device," the man pointed towards the device on his hand. "Can measure that."
"Oh," Kleiner said mockingly. "So what? So do the people leave a trail of TK radiation behind them which we can use to track them down or something?"
"Well, no, bu-"
"Then what are you doing here!?"
"Will you let me finish?!" the man shouted. "TK radiation has a habit of sticking around. If the Serial Killer has truly been doing so many killings this last few months, and considering the fact that disintegrating your victims would require a LOT of TK radiation, the machinery should light up like a Christmas tree if he is nearby."
"If he is nearby," the police captain said.
"Yes. In fact, you seem to have picked up some of the background TK radiation just by standing near crime scenes..." the man said.
Kleiner waved his hands. "Thank you for coming, Mr. Clarke, I will call you back if I need you."
"Bu-"
"Enough is enough, sir!" Kleiner said. "Goodbye."
The man sighed and left through the doors. Kleiner muttered something along the line of SynTech wackos planning on unleashing the zombie apocalypse again and went back to the map.
"Sir! We got the balistic markings found on the girl's body examined..."
"Good. Did you get a match?"
"Yes,"
"What?!" the police lieutenant grabbed onto the forensic exper's collars. "Which gun did it come from?"
The expert gulped. "It was from a guy murdered by the Serial Killer several weeks before the incident in the forest."
"DAMN!" the lieutenant shouted. The killer was mocking them, he was sure. "What do you think you are doing here? Get back and analyze the other evidences!"
"But I have already analyzed all of them!"
"Analyze them again then! What do we hire you lot for?" Kleiner shouted. The forensic expert left the door, grumbling on the way out.
Knock knock.
"What?"
A familiar looking man with a visitor's tag walked into the room, smiling. "Mercer!" Kleiner said. He finally took his eyes off of the map and gave Mercer a firm handshake. "What are you doing here?"
"Well, I heard what was happening on the news, and was wondering how things were progressing." Mercer said. "Heard what happened to George," he said, slightly more serious. "His body... did you find it?"
Kleiner sighed. "I am afraid not. But I think it's safe to assume that the Serial Killer got to him."
"The poor man," Mercer said. "I knew him since the time he joined the force."
Kleiner sighed once more. "We will find him, Mercer. We will find him." Kleiner's eyes glinted once in the light. "Oh, we will find him alright."
"I'll see what I can do to help," Mercer replied.
"That would be wonderful. Just like old times, Mercer. You, me, and crime infested Central City."
"Yes," Mercer said. "Just like old times. Well, see you later then. Call me whenever you need help."
..........................................................................................................................................
The man with the strangest looking piece of machinery in the world in his hand paused slightly and tilted the machinery as a man in a worn brown coat with a visitor's tag left the police station. Then he toyed with some of the knobs and switches on the machinery and entered the police station. He produced a visitor's tag from his numerous pockets and made his way into the room where Lieutenant Kleiner was still straining over the map.
"Hello?" the man said.
"Who is it?" Kleiner snapped.
"Ah, my name is Clarke Lamon," the man replied. "I am from the SynTech Research Division."
"Yeeees?" Kleiner said.
The man gulped. The lieutenant would be a hard customer. "Well, SynTech have been involved in the research of what makes..." the man pointed towards his head. "The...Specials...such as the Serial Killer...well, tick."
Kleiner scowled. "SynTech... that rings a bell... weren't you the people behind that incident in the city of Dark Falls? I heard that the entire town got firebombed because of what you people did there."
"Oh, no no no," the man replied. "That was, as we explained, a rogue project by some of the less scrupulous of the researchers, I assure you."
"Uh huh,"
The man sighed. "This project is also completely unrelated to that incident. Well, our research has shown that the Specials have an innate ability to change the properties of base matter in their immedieate surroundings, or within their very body. A Special with the ability to move at the speed of sound can use his ability to change the atomic structure of his body to become more resista-"
"Get to the point, please," Kleiner said hurriedly. The man looked slightly disappointed. "Well, we have determined that whenever a Special use his ability, it releases a form of radiation known as TK radiation. This device," the man pointed towards the device on his hand. "Can measure that."
"Oh," Kleiner said mockingly. "So what? So do the people leave a trail of TK radiation behind them which we can use to track them down or something?"
"Well, no, bu-"
"Then what are you doing here!?"
"Will you let me finish?!" the man shouted. "TK radiation has a habit of sticking around. If the Serial Killer has truly been doing so many killings this last few months, and considering the fact that disintegrating your victims would require a LOT of TK radiation, the machinery should light up like a Christmas tree if he is nearby."
"If he is nearby," the police captain said.
"Yes. In fact, you seem to have picked up some of the background TK radiation just by standing near crime scenes..." the man said.
Kleiner waved his hands. "Thank you for coming, Mr. Clarke, I will call you back if I need you."
"Bu-"
"Enough is enough, sir!" Kleiner said. "Goodbye."
The man sighed and left through the doors. Kleiner muttered something along the line of SynTech wackos planning on unleashing the zombie apocalypse again and went back to the map.
KaiserElectric
Total Freakin Besties
- Joined
- Dec 2, 2007
- Messages
- 3,461
Hephaestus stared after the kid, wondering if his shocked newcomer impression had been successful in convincing him he wasn't dangerous. Hephaestus guessed it had, since he didn't turn around to do a drive-by on him.
"Stupid kid," Hephaestus sneered, scrunching up the tiny card in his hand. Stowing it in an inside compartment, he walked off in the opposite direction of where the kid had said the plane was waiting. Hephaestus would have never taken a risk like that, even before he became Hephaestus. He worked alone, he killed alone, and he certainly wouldn't bow before some idiotic gout-stricken crime lord who wanted to use him as a personal hit man. All he had now was what was left of his sister. He'd lost everything to the parasites at NeoLabs. He loved his sister from the day she was born, and when they destroyed her without a care in the world, all he had left was to extract his vengeance on the murderers. And did he need help from a crime family for that task?
Hephaestus paused momentarily, glancing back at the card the mobster had given him. Now that he thought of it, a temporary alliance with these crime lords would be a good idea. He could only do so much after all. Thinking of the mobsters committing the systematic murder of NeoLabs scientists was an exciting thing to think about. But if he wanted something out of them, he needed to give something in return...
An hour later, Hephaestus came to the private airstrip, where a lone single-engine plane was standing there. Crudely hiding his identity with a long dark trench coat, he carried a suitcase with him, stolen from the same place as the trench coat. Hephaestus opened the door and stuck his head in. The pilot, a fat middle-aged man with a head the exact shape, texture, and color of a cue ball, was turned around and looking at him, evidently having followed his progress across the runway.
"Where you want to go, Mac?" he asked.
"I can find my own way back," Hephaestus hissed. Before the pilot could protest, he tossed the suitcase onto a seat.
"Instead, you can take that to your boss," Hephaestus ordered, slamming the door shut behind him.
The pilot watched him stride back across the runway, then turned to look at the suitcase. Nervously, he tried to hear for any ticking noises, but heard none. Heaving his bulk out of the chair, he walked almost casually over to the suitcase. He set it on its side, hands sticky with sweat, and clicked open the latch. Nothing happened. Maybe it wasn't a bomb at all. Slowly, he opened the lid to look at the contents of the suitcase. His eyes bugged out in shock at what was in the case. Briefly, he considered taking the case and fleeing the country. He decided against it in the end, figuring that this Hephaestus character must have already called ahead and told him the package was coming. Climbing back into the seat, the pilot started the motor and taxied down the runway, heading straight to the boss himself.
Three days after Hephaestus gave the pilot the suitcase, the plane landed at the private runway of a luxurious mansion deep in the woods of Montana, secretly one of the headquarters of the most notorious mobster activities in North America. The suitcase changed hands until it finally reached the hands of Julio Junker, second-in-command of the Central City mob.
"What the hell is this?" Julio exclaimed in accented English as the battered suitcase was shoved into his hands.
"A special package for the higher-ups," a green-suited thug said slowly.
"I'm the higher-ups, so I'll look at it." Julio took the suitcase over to the table and threw it open.
"Mother of God," Julio exclaimed as he saw the contents of the suitcase. It was filled mostly with banknotes, mostly made up of hundred dollar bills, filed haphazardly into the case. Julio grabbed one of the wads and flipped through it. Genuine, definitely, he decided. The bodyguard shifted the money to uncover another goody; several clips of ammunition wrapped in a sheet of paper. The bodyguard glanced at the bullets in the clip.
"Armor piercing!" the body guard said excitedly. "This bullets will punch through metal like cheap toilet paper! This is military grade stuff here, sir,"
Julio was dumbstruck, until he saw the note crudely scribbled on the sheet of paper wrapped around the clips.
This must have been the Hephaestus character that he sent his men to rescue. Julio considered the offer for a short period of time. Killing NeoLabs scientists for a suitcase full of cash and military hardware? The job was almost too easy. In spite of himself, Julio grinned wickedly at the proposition. "Marco, get me the boss back in Central. I think we may have a future with our friend here."
"Stupid kid," Hephaestus sneered, scrunching up the tiny card in his hand. Stowing it in an inside compartment, he walked off in the opposite direction of where the kid had said the plane was waiting. Hephaestus would have never taken a risk like that, even before he became Hephaestus. He worked alone, he killed alone, and he certainly wouldn't bow before some idiotic gout-stricken crime lord who wanted to use him as a personal hit man. All he had now was what was left of his sister. He'd lost everything to the parasites at NeoLabs. He loved his sister from the day she was born, and when they destroyed her without a care in the world, all he had left was to extract his vengeance on the murderers. And did he need help from a crime family for that task?
Hephaestus paused momentarily, glancing back at the card the mobster had given him. Now that he thought of it, a temporary alliance with these crime lords would be a good idea. He could only do so much after all. Thinking of the mobsters committing the systematic murder of NeoLabs scientists was an exciting thing to think about. But if he wanted something out of them, he needed to give something in return...
An hour later, Hephaestus came to the private airstrip, where a lone single-engine plane was standing there. Crudely hiding his identity with a long dark trench coat, he carried a suitcase with him, stolen from the same place as the trench coat. Hephaestus opened the door and stuck his head in. The pilot, a fat middle-aged man with a head the exact shape, texture, and color of a cue ball, was turned around and looking at him, evidently having followed his progress across the runway.
"Where you want to go, Mac?" he asked.
"I can find my own way back," Hephaestus hissed. Before the pilot could protest, he tossed the suitcase onto a seat.
"Instead, you can take that to your boss," Hephaestus ordered, slamming the door shut behind him.
The pilot watched him stride back across the runway, then turned to look at the suitcase. Nervously, he tried to hear for any ticking noises, but heard none. Heaving his bulk out of the chair, he walked almost casually over to the suitcase. He set it on its side, hands sticky with sweat, and clicked open the latch. Nothing happened. Maybe it wasn't a bomb at all. Slowly, he opened the lid to look at the contents of the suitcase. His eyes bugged out in shock at what was in the case. Briefly, he considered taking the case and fleeing the country. He decided against it in the end, figuring that this Hephaestus character must have already called ahead and told him the package was coming. Climbing back into the seat, the pilot started the motor and taxied down the runway, heading straight to the boss himself.
Three days after Hephaestus gave the pilot the suitcase, the plane landed at the private runway of a luxurious mansion deep in the woods of Montana, secretly one of the headquarters of the most notorious mobster activities in North America. The suitcase changed hands until it finally reached the hands of Julio Junker, second-in-command of the Central City mob.
"What the hell is this?" Julio exclaimed in accented English as the battered suitcase was shoved into his hands.
"A special package for the higher-ups," a green-suited thug said slowly.
"I'm the higher-ups, so I'll look at it." Julio took the suitcase over to the table and threw it open.
"Mother of God," Julio exclaimed as he saw the contents of the suitcase. It was filled mostly with banknotes, mostly made up of hundred dollar bills, filed haphazardly into the case. Julio grabbed one of the wads and flipped through it. Genuine, definitely, he decided. The bodyguard shifted the money to uncover another goody; several clips of ammunition wrapped in a sheet of paper. The bodyguard glanced at the bullets in the clip.
"Armor piercing!" the body guard said excitedly. "This bullets will punch through metal like cheap toilet paper! This is military grade stuff here, sir,"
Julio was dumbstruck, until he saw the note crudely scribbled on the sheet of paper wrapped around the clips.
This must have been the Hephaestus character that he sent his men to rescue. Julio considered the offer for a short period of time. Killing NeoLabs scientists for a suitcase full of cash and military hardware? The job was almost too easy. In spite of himself, Julio grinned wickedly at the proposition. "Marco, get me the boss back in Central. I think we may have a future with our friend here."
The new suit was definitely an improvement, Peter decided. With the American President dead, apparently some big wigs thought it was a good time to put some money back into Homeland Security. And though it didn't mean for a fatter paycheck for Peter, helping him rebuild was a good enough Easter bonus.
The suit was definitely lighter. Combined with his own recovery and being used to piloting the suit, it no longer felt as if the weight of the world was on him. It could still stand up to the bullets, the falls, and the punching that he had been taking, but it came with an added bonus; it protected the internal software much better against heat. Peter smiled...Vulcan wouldn't burn him up this time.
And although Uncle Sam could have done without the bill, rebuilding the suit gave Peter the chance to do it right. At first, the suit was not to be weaponized; machine guns and a few missiles were tacked on to give him more staying power. Those aspects were incorporated from the very beginning, making the interface much smoother. It also took into the fact that Peter had more powers; his skills with technology and telekinesis would be much easier to utilize.
After the last injection, Peter had hoped a new power would be waiting for him from NeoLabs. Unfortunately, when the best minds behind a product get burned up, things like that happen. Such is life.
However, it seemed they were ready to compensate. Peter had heard they had hoped to give him an injection that could let him use fire as an answer to Vulcan. Instead, they gave him a chemical thrower that utilized napalm and liquid nitrogen. Although they did carry some risks, Peter knew he would be able to have an answer to Vulcan. He was using it like it was going out of style. Peter knew of course he had accountability for some of his actions, mostly due to the fact that Hero Insurance did not exist. Quite ridiculous really. The nation with more super freaks than anyone else, and no one thought of Hero Insurance yet?
The only question that remained besides the crippling lack of Hero Insurance was where was Peter going to play with his new toys? Blue had become a permanent part of the Task Force, and he spoke for General Hill, making Blue de facto leader of their little group. Not that Peter cared. Colonel McKenna had shown too often that he would let Peter lose his remaining arm if it meant a little bit more success.
But for once, the stars aligned, and Peter breathed a sigh of relief when he heard that they were going to Central. Finally! He felt that it would be in-character for him to say something sarcastic yet comical and cocky. Just to make sure that they knew that no matter what they did, he would remain an arrogant d-bag to them. But this was to good to pass up. All the thoughts of Vulcan disappeared.
Religion had never played a major part in Peter's life. Communist Poland in the 'wealthy' area of Warsaw wasn't a breeding ground for Catholic converts. Italy would have been if he could have understood Italian and didn't punch everyone of them in their smug faces. Catholic school made religion a source of discipline, anger, and infuriation for Peter, and classes at MIT, along with the demise of his family made him a firm convert to atheism. Until his father died, he hadn't said a prayer since he was twelve, and never one for himself until the crash.
But now, he had found his purpose once more. Maybe it would be best to pray
Dear Lord, I ask of you, give me strength. Give me the strength to find my father's killers. And when I find him, God make my aim steady and true, let my fists be a Sword of Damocles over their heads, and let me send them to Lucifer. Amen.
He finished with the sign of the cross. Now wasn't that a nice prayer?
Maybe he was a Catholic after all, hm?
The suit was definitely lighter. Combined with his own recovery and being used to piloting the suit, it no longer felt as if the weight of the world was on him. It could still stand up to the bullets, the falls, and the punching that he had been taking, but it came with an added bonus; it protected the internal software much better against heat. Peter smiled...Vulcan wouldn't burn him up this time.
And although Uncle Sam could have done without the bill, rebuilding the suit gave Peter the chance to do it right. At first, the suit was not to be weaponized; machine guns and a few missiles were tacked on to give him more staying power. Those aspects were incorporated from the very beginning, making the interface much smoother. It also took into the fact that Peter had more powers; his skills with technology and telekinesis would be much easier to utilize.
After the last injection, Peter had hoped a new power would be waiting for him from NeoLabs. Unfortunately, when the best minds behind a product get burned up, things like that happen. Such is life.
However, it seemed they were ready to compensate. Peter had heard they had hoped to give him an injection that could let him use fire as an answer to Vulcan. Instead, they gave him a chemical thrower that utilized napalm and liquid nitrogen. Although they did carry some risks, Peter knew he would be able to have an answer to Vulcan. He was using it like it was going out of style. Peter knew of course he had accountability for some of his actions, mostly due to the fact that Hero Insurance did not exist. Quite ridiculous really. The nation with more super freaks than anyone else, and no one thought of Hero Insurance yet?
The only question that remained besides the crippling lack of Hero Insurance was where was Peter going to play with his new toys? Blue had become a permanent part of the Task Force, and he spoke for General Hill, making Blue de facto leader of their little group. Not that Peter cared. Colonel McKenna had shown too often that he would let Peter lose his remaining arm if it meant a little bit more success.
But for once, the stars aligned, and Peter breathed a sigh of relief when he heard that they were going to Central. Finally! He felt that it would be in-character for him to say something sarcastic yet comical and cocky. Just to make sure that they knew that no matter what they did, he would remain an arrogant d-bag to them. But this was to good to pass up. All the thoughts of Vulcan disappeared.
Religion had never played a major part in Peter's life. Communist Poland in the 'wealthy' area of Warsaw wasn't a breeding ground for Catholic converts. Italy would have been if he could have understood Italian and didn't punch everyone of them in their smug faces. Catholic school made religion a source of discipline, anger, and infuriation for Peter, and classes at MIT, along with the demise of his family made him a firm convert to atheism. Until his father died, he hadn't said a prayer since he was twelve, and never one for himself until the crash.
But now, he had found his purpose once more. Maybe it would be best to pray
Dear Lord, I ask of you, give me strength. Give me the strength to find my father's killers. And when I find him, God make my aim steady and true, let my fists be a Sword of Damocles over their heads, and let me send them to Lucifer. Amen.
He finished with the sign of the cross. Now wasn't that a nice prayer?
Maybe he was a Catholic after all, hm?
His name was Dmitri and he had been born in Sevastopol in the 1940s. He didnt remember much of his childhood in the Soviet Union, and his earliest solid memories were of growing up in Tel Aviv. His family left for America when he was still a young boy.
Dmitri quit school a year or two before he would have graduated, moving onto a lifetime of blue-collar labour. Hed married, raised a small family of two sons, and become a shift manager at the plant.
But things began to fall apart. Many causes- too much time working to provide for the family and not enough with his sons, whod grown distant, an innocent but ill-considered affair, the big strike, a touch too much time spent at the bar, a closing factory, fights with the wife, heroin, drug-induced crime spree, divorce, a few years of incarceration
So had Damon met the man who now walked beside him, through the main park of Terminus. A kindred spirit. A human whod been worn down by the vicissitudes of life, one who had seen his whole existence already erode away to that of an inebriated vagrant, doomed to a slow death as he degraded to nothingness, all alone.
A man who could stare into the eyes of the aberration that was Damon.
Were these facts connected? Damon pondered them deeply, his brow furrowed.
The two men walked their way along the park, silent. People still shuddered and stepped out of the way when they saw Damons face, but while it riled him up, he was finding it easier to cope with a companion at his side. Dmitri, for his part, was marveling at his body, rejuvenated and freed from the heavy burden of a life gone off track.
No words needed to be spoken, even as the sun began to set through the spring leaves of the thick stand of oaks ringing the park. For the first time since the awakening of the Bent Man, Damon felt serene.
Deep within him, the dark grub of the void lay cold, in a profound hibernatory sleep. Its services, it seemed, were no longer needed.
Dmitri quit school a year or two before he would have graduated, moving onto a lifetime of blue-collar labour. Hed married, raised a small family of two sons, and become a shift manager at the plant.
But things began to fall apart. Many causes- too much time working to provide for the family and not enough with his sons, whod grown distant, an innocent but ill-considered affair, the big strike, a touch too much time spent at the bar, a closing factory, fights with the wife, heroin, drug-induced crime spree, divorce, a few years of incarceration
So had Damon met the man who now walked beside him, through the main park of Terminus. A kindred spirit. A human whod been worn down by the vicissitudes of life, one who had seen his whole existence already erode away to that of an inebriated vagrant, doomed to a slow death as he degraded to nothingness, all alone.
A man who could stare into the eyes of the aberration that was Damon.
Were these facts connected? Damon pondered them deeply, his brow furrowed.
The two men walked their way along the park, silent. People still shuddered and stepped out of the way when they saw Damons face, but while it riled him up, he was finding it easier to cope with a companion at his side. Dmitri, for his part, was marveling at his body, rejuvenated and freed from the heavy burden of a life gone off track.
No words needed to be spoken, even as the sun began to set through the spring leaves of the thick stand of oaks ringing the park. For the first time since the awakening of the Bent Man, Damon felt serene.
Deep within him, the dark grub of the void lay cold, in a profound hibernatory sleep. Its services, it seemed, were no longer needed.
Seon
Not An Evil Liar
Clarke mulled the orders that his superiors have given him as he drank coffee inside a cafe: study and capture, if possible, Serial Killer X. Secondary objective was to act as a PR boost for SynTech. The police lieutenant had refused to cooperate, but he would be brought around to listen, that he was sure.
He pulled up the laptop and looked into the copied documents from the CCPD. Pictures of all the victims of the Serial Killer, and his methods appeared on the screen. After a couple of horrified seconds, Clarke let out a deep sigh and closed the computer.
The assassin that was sitting beside him was chewing on a sandwich. He was supposedly an "expert" on dealing with any kind of trouble, or so SynTech superiors have assured him. But he was uncertain of how that would help him now.
"So," he asked the assassin. "Are you certain that you can change the police department's mind on utilizing my project?"
Assassin gave a curt nod and pointed towards a building across the street from the cafe. "Yes," he said. Clarke squinted across the street. It seemed like a normal enough building. "What abou-"
The TK-reader made a whining noise, and the entire building suddenly burst into flames. "What the he-" Clarke began to mutter. He turned to where the assassin was sitting, but he was already gone.
.........................................................................................................................................
"Lieutenant Kleiner!" said one of the policeman as the lieutenant approached. "The fire... I don't think it's naturall-"
"yeah, I got the jist of it on the way here," Kleiner said. "Was it the Serial Killer?"
"I don't think so sir. Witnesses say that the fire spread extremely quickly, and everyone inside the building has been accounted for."
"Damn," Kleiner said. "Well, good job on the rescue."
"Ah, Mr. Kleiner?" said a familiar voice. Kleiner turned around to stare into the face of the annoying man from SynTech. "Did you set fire on the house?" Kleiner said.
"Wha? Of course not," Clarke stammered. Right, Kleiner thought. "But I just want to show you something..."
Kleiner sighed. "This better be good."
"See, look at the machine." the machine in question made a small whining noise and blinked. "It's reacting to all the TK-energy in the air. You see, pyrokinetics..."
"Yes yes," Kleiner said. "So, what do you have?"
"You see, if a pyrokinetic set an entire house on fire, than the energy-output would have been significant. Some of the TK-energy would have stuck to bits of his clothing, which should show up on the meter, if he is still around.
He pointed the device at the crowd of people that had gathered around to watch the flames, and began to wave it in an arc. The beeping noise the machine made grew faster and faster until... "It's him!" Clarke shouted, pointing at a man in the middel of the crowd, who immediately turned and fled.
That was convenient, Kleiner thought to himself as he produced a gun. A jet of flame exited the fleeing man's hands and knocked the gun from his hand. The machine went crazy. Kleiner swore. Other policemen immediately began to give chase.
Clarke helped Kleiner back up. "Satisfied?" Clarke asked. Kleiner grumbled. "Somewhat," Kleiner answered. "I'll definitely call you later when I need help."
"Thank you," Clarke bowed.
He pulled up the laptop and looked into the copied documents from the CCPD. Pictures of all the victims of the Serial Killer, and his methods appeared on the screen. After a couple of horrified seconds, Clarke let out a deep sigh and closed the computer.
The assassin that was sitting beside him was chewing on a sandwich. He was supposedly an "expert" on dealing with any kind of trouble, or so SynTech superiors have assured him. But he was uncertain of how that would help him now.
"So," he asked the assassin. "Are you certain that you can change the police department's mind on utilizing my project?"
Assassin gave a curt nod and pointed towards a building across the street from the cafe. "Yes," he said. Clarke squinted across the street. It seemed like a normal enough building. "What abou-"
The TK-reader made a whining noise, and the entire building suddenly burst into flames. "What the he-" Clarke began to mutter. He turned to where the assassin was sitting, but he was already gone.
.........................................................................................................................................
"Lieutenant Kleiner!" said one of the policeman as the lieutenant approached. "The fire... I don't think it's naturall-"
"yeah, I got the jist of it on the way here," Kleiner said. "Was it the Serial Killer?"
"I don't think so sir. Witnesses say that the fire spread extremely quickly, and everyone inside the building has been accounted for."
"Damn," Kleiner said. "Well, good job on the rescue."
"Ah, Mr. Kleiner?" said a familiar voice. Kleiner turned around to stare into the face of the annoying man from SynTech. "Did you set fire on the house?" Kleiner said.
"Wha? Of course not," Clarke stammered. Right, Kleiner thought. "But I just want to show you something..."
Kleiner sighed. "This better be good."
"See, look at the machine." the machine in question made a small whining noise and blinked. "It's reacting to all the TK-energy in the air. You see, pyrokinetics..."
"Yes yes," Kleiner said. "So, what do you have?"
"You see, if a pyrokinetic set an entire house on fire, than the energy-output would have been significant. Some of the TK-energy would have stuck to bits of his clothing, which should show up on the meter, if he is still around.
He pointed the device at the crowd of people that had gathered around to watch the flames, and began to wave it in an arc. The beeping noise the machine made grew faster and faster until... "It's him!" Clarke shouted, pointing at a man in the middel of the crowd, who immediately turned and fled.
That was convenient, Kleiner thought to himself as he produced a gun. A jet of flame exited the fleeing man's hands and knocked the gun from his hand. The machine went crazy. Kleiner swore. Other policemen immediately began to give chase.
Clarke helped Kleiner back up. "Satisfied?" Clarke asked. Kleiner grumbled. "Somewhat," Kleiner answered. "I'll definitely call you later when I need help."
"Thank you," Clarke bowed.
KaiserElectric
Total Freakin Besties
- Joined
- Dec 2, 2007
- Messages
- 3,461
"Have we been making any large purchases recently?"
"What do you mean by we?" Dr. Faith asked.
"I mean the entire damned NeoLabs company," Dr. Hiro said, gesturing angrily at his computer screen. "Look at this. Someone has been taking money out of the NeoLabs budget willy-nilly."
Dr. Faith looked at the budget chart. Indeed, there seemed to be a drain in the funding, most of it being transferred over to military accounts before being taken out. How the money was being taken out without some company lackey picking up the source was anyone's guess.
"You know, I think it's the idiots over at Logics Programming that's been doing it. They don't see past their little lines of code and think we have money to burn." Hiro said scornfully.
"I used to be in Logics Programming," Dr. Faith said sharply, shaking her brown-blond locks out of her eyes angrily.
"Then you aren't a idiot. Congratulations." Hiro smirked. "All jokes aside, we can't have those loons taking too much money out, especially with this lunatic Hepatitis killing scientists."
"Hephaestus," Dr. Faith corrected him.
"Whatever. I still need to give Harding an earful over this. I'll be back."
Before she could remind him that he was killed by "this lunatic Hepatitis", he had stormed off angrily to yell at someone. He left his computer on, so Faith looked over some more budget reports. She noticed that the biggest purchase was for an array of chemicals. It looked oddly similar to the accelerated healing chemical she was currently working on. Did she order an underling to get those for her? She couldn't recall at the moment.
With a pang of guilt, she remembered her old friend Dr. Harding. The man was the Albert Einstein of computers, no doubt about it. She missed those old days too, when she, Wagner, and Harding were the dream team of computer technology, she was quickly rising in the ranks, and she didn't know what a drunken scumbag Stone was. Those were the days.
The day went by quickly. She mostly busied herself with paperwork for the rest of the day, leaving work feeling that she had at least gotten something useful done. As she walked out to her car, though, she was surprised to find a ring of police men surrounding the NeoLabs complex. Concerned, she asked one of the guards what they were doing there.
"The commissioner ordered guards around every NeoLabs facility in the Metropolis area," the policeman said woodenly.
"Why, what happened?"
"There was a massive shooting at the Queens NeoLabs complex this morning. Twenty three dead, more wounded. We think it was connected with the mob. Orders are to keep watch on every complex in the state."
Dr. Faith was stunned into silence at news of the massacre. How could she had not heard this news. Granted, she kept herself very busy with her work, but someone must have heard of the shooting.
Someone tapped on her shoulder, waking her from her stunned state. She jumped, expecting to see a shady figure with a trench coat and Tommy gun, but saw only another policeman.
"You don't by any chance know where I can find Miss Janice Faith, ma'am?" he asked politely.
"You're speaking to her."
"Oh, well that makes things easier," he said, taking his cap off. "I'm Chief Inspector Mason. I was told you were an associate of Dr. Harding?"
"Yes. Do you know what happened?"
"I just got word from Los Santos police. He's been fatally stabbed. The body was badly burned, but they managed to figure it out eventually."
"I'm sorry I didn't get another chance to see him," Faith said, half to herself. "He was a good friend."
"There was something else, too," Mason said. Dr. Faith raised an eyebrow.
"The LSPD told me that he was carrying a book on his body when he died. Supposedly, he had picked it up after he was stabbed for some odd reason."
Dr. Faith knew that Harding would never have done something without a good reason.
"What's so important about the book?" she asked.
"As far as we can tell, nothing much. It was badly damaged in the fire, all that was left of it was part of a title."
Mason took out a notepad and read off of it.
"Something with the words Iron Heart,"
He put the notepad away, leaving Dr. Faith to puzzle quietly.
"That's odd," she said slowly.
"LSPD has released the body to his family. Do you want me to let you know when services are?"
Dr. Faith declined, saying she had too much work here, and walked over to her car to leave.
And then the world ended.
Or at least, she thought it had. A fireball had erupted yards in front of her eyes, throwing her on her back. Mason was shouting something, but she was too shell-shocked to make out most of the words.
Someone picked her up from the ground. Slowly, her vision came back, and Dr. Hiro swam into view.
"Faith? Faith! Speak to me!"
"Ouch," she said weakly.
Hiro looked overjoyed at the modest sign of life. Drunkenly, she twisted her head around to see what had happened.
Where her car was parked mere seconds ago had turned into a fiery crater. People were swarming to the front of the building in a frenzy. Sirens already began to grow louder in the distance, and she could here Mason yelling something about a car bomb.
She felt as though she were about to faint. As her vision began to blur again, she noticed something odd in the distance. A silhouetted figure on the opposite building. Was it her, or did it seem to have a pair of blood red eyes?
Her vision darkened, and she passed out on the pavement.
"What do you mean by we?" Dr. Faith asked.
"I mean the entire damned NeoLabs company," Dr. Hiro said, gesturing angrily at his computer screen. "Look at this. Someone has been taking money out of the NeoLabs budget willy-nilly."
Dr. Faith looked at the budget chart. Indeed, there seemed to be a drain in the funding, most of it being transferred over to military accounts before being taken out. How the money was being taken out without some company lackey picking up the source was anyone's guess.
"You know, I think it's the idiots over at Logics Programming that's been doing it. They don't see past their little lines of code and think we have money to burn." Hiro said scornfully.
"I used to be in Logics Programming," Dr. Faith said sharply, shaking her brown-blond locks out of her eyes angrily.
"Then you aren't a idiot. Congratulations." Hiro smirked. "All jokes aside, we can't have those loons taking too much money out, especially with this lunatic Hepatitis killing scientists."
"Hephaestus," Dr. Faith corrected him.
"Whatever. I still need to give Harding an earful over this. I'll be back."
Before she could remind him that he was killed by "this lunatic Hepatitis", he had stormed off angrily to yell at someone. He left his computer on, so Faith looked over some more budget reports. She noticed that the biggest purchase was for an array of chemicals. It looked oddly similar to the accelerated healing chemical she was currently working on. Did she order an underling to get those for her? She couldn't recall at the moment.
With a pang of guilt, she remembered her old friend Dr. Harding. The man was the Albert Einstein of computers, no doubt about it. She missed those old days too, when she, Wagner, and Harding were the dream team of computer technology, she was quickly rising in the ranks, and she didn't know what a drunken scumbag Stone was. Those were the days.
The day went by quickly. She mostly busied herself with paperwork for the rest of the day, leaving work feeling that she had at least gotten something useful done. As she walked out to her car, though, she was surprised to find a ring of police men surrounding the NeoLabs complex. Concerned, she asked one of the guards what they were doing there.
"The commissioner ordered guards around every NeoLabs facility in the Metropolis area," the policeman said woodenly.
"Why, what happened?"
"There was a massive shooting at the Queens NeoLabs complex this morning. Twenty three dead, more wounded. We think it was connected with the mob. Orders are to keep watch on every complex in the state."
Dr. Faith was stunned into silence at news of the massacre. How could she had not heard this news. Granted, she kept herself very busy with her work, but someone must have heard of the shooting.
Someone tapped on her shoulder, waking her from her stunned state. She jumped, expecting to see a shady figure with a trench coat and Tommy gun, but saw only another policeman.
"You don't by any chance know where I can find Miss Janice Faith, ma'am?" he asked politely.
"You're speaking to her."
"Oh, well that makes things easier," he said, taking his cap off. "I'm Chief Inspector Mason. I was told you were an associate of Dr. Harding?"
"Yes. Do you know what happened?"
"I just got word from Los Santos police. He's been fatally stabbed. The body was badly burned, but they managed to figure it out eventually."
"I'm sorry I didn't get another chance to see him," Faith said, half to herself. "He was a good friend."
"There was something else, too," Mason said. Dr. Faith raised an eyebrow.
"The LSPD told me that he was carrying a book on his body when he died. Supposedly, he had picked it up after he was stabbed for some odd reason."
Dr. Faith knew that Harding would never have done something without a good reason.
"What's so important about the book?" she asked.
"As far as we can tell, nothing much. It was badly damaged in the fire, all that was left of it was part of a title."
Mason took out a notepad and read off of it.
"Something with the words Iron Heart,"
He put the notepad away, leaving Dr. Faith to puzzle quietly.
"That's odd," she said slowly.
"LSPD has released the body to his family. Do you want me to let you know when services are?"
Dr. Faith declined, saying she had too much work here, and walked over to her car to leave.
And then the world ended.
Or at least, she thought it had. A fireball had erupted yards in front of her eyes, throwing her on her back. Mason was shouting something, but she was too shell-shocked to make out most of the words.
Someone picked her up from the ground. Slowly, her vision came back, and Dr. Hiro swam into view.
"Faith? Faith! Speak to me!"
"Ouch," she said weakly.
Hiro looked overjoyed at the modest sign of life. Drunkenly, she twisted her head around to see what had happened.
Where her car was parked mere seconds ago had turned into a fiery crater. People were swarming to the front of the building in a frenzy. Sirens already began to grow louder in the distance, and she could here Mason yelling something about a car bomb.
She felt as though she were about to faint. As her vision began to blur again, she noticed something odd in the distance. A silhouetted figure on the opposite building. Was it her, or did it seem to have a pair of blood red eyes?
Her vision darkened, and she passed out on the pavement.
Seon
Not An Evil Liar
Hey, blood red eyes is my gig!
KaiserElectric
Total Freakin Besties
- Joined
- Dec 2, 2007
- Messages
- 3,461
There's enough blood red eyes to go around, I'm sure. They're all the rage among us evildoers.
Civil war. That was just what this town needed. Not only was there a tin man destroying infrastructure, and an increase number in bank heists as of late, but now there was a civil war going on in the Barrio. The gunslinger sighed, sitting atop his chopper in the hills overlooking the town. He knew this gang war was a result of a recent power vacuum, and that power vacuum was his own doing. This was his mess, and he'd have to clean it up.
He gunned the motor on his bike and took off towards town. It was late at night, but there were still plenty of people out on the streets. Most didn't pay him any attention, but a passing police officer nodded his approval at the Wrangler-clad warrior, and the Gunslinger nodded back.
He reached Rosilia Street, the same street he had killed the two drug dealers a couple months before. Life had, for the most part, continued as usual here, the signs of his work long gone. He drove along, knowing he would eventually run across some of the Locos. It wasn't long before he did.
He drove down the street until he reached Chavez Park. He knew this five acre park in the middle of the slums was a major hangout spot for the Locos. He turned off his bike and got off to patrol the park on foot.
At first, it didn't seem there was anyone around. After walking the perimeter a ways, however, he heard muffled cries and tears in the bushes near a convenience store alley. He feared what he'd find, but he knew he had to investigate. He pulled out his right revolver and pushed aside the bushes. Two mid-twentish Mexicans with green bandannas over their faces stood up in surprise. One was armed with a knife, which was covered in blood. The other was unarmed, and stood staring in shock at the intruder.
Two quick shots dropped both gangsters before either had any time to do more than stand up and stare at the Gunslinger. Their lifeless bodies fell to the ground, a bullet in each heart. The Gunslinger stepped over the dead body of the knife-armed Loco to approach the writhing, crying form before him.
He dropped down to a knee and holstered his revolver as he examined the person on the ground. He was somewhat relieved that he hadn't stumbled upon a rape, as was his first assumption, but instead, just another gang fight. The man rolling on the ground in front of him had an orange bandanna tied around his right arm, a member of the gang that called themselves the "99ers", after their home turf, 99th Street.
Casually, he drew his revolver again and cocked the hammer. As he brought the barrel to rest against the wounded man's temple, he reconsidered. He then holstered the revolver, yet again, and grabbed the man by his shirt, pulling him up face-to-face with himself.
"What are you doing in Locos territory?" he demanded.
The man, startled by the question, but still suffering badly from the stabbing quieted his yells of agony, but was unable to bring himself to answer. A swift backhand across the face loosened his tongue, however.
"Pedro sent me in to check it out," he explained between gasps for air, "said we got a hookup with the new leadership in the Roja Cartel. Said old Boss Mendez was killed, and now his nephew, Enrico Mendez, is in charge. He don't want to deal with the Locos no more, wants to deal with us." he paused as the pain almost overwhelmed him, but he was cooperating pretty well so the Gunslinger didn't slap him again.
"So, I was supposed to find out how organized these bastardos are, so we could figure out how soon we could begin dealing here. Thats when those putas found me. We got in a fight and they stabbed me in the stomach!" he finished explaining, then began crying in pain again.
The Gunslinger pulled out his revolver and placed it against the 99er's head. He thanked him for being as cooperative as he was by putting him out of his misery quickly. He returned to his bike chewing on new worries. So, it wasn't just that the Locos were dissolving and fighting amongst themselves. It wasn't just the 99ers trying to move in on their turf. There was now a new head to the Roja Cartel, someone he knew next to nothing about. It was time for the Gunslinger to do some homework.
He gunned the motor on his bike and took off towards town. It was late at night, but there were still plenty of people out on the streets. Most didn't pay him any attention, but a passing police officer nodded his approval at the Wrangler-clad warrior, and the Gunslinger nodded back.
He reached Rosilia Street, the same street he had killed the two drug dealers a couple months before. Life had, for the most part, continued as usual here, the signs of his work long gone. He drove along, knowing he would eventually run across some of the Locos. It wasn't long before he did.
He drove down the street until he reached Chavez Park. He knew this five acre park in the middle of the slums was a major hangout spot for the Locos. He turned off his bike and got off to patrol the park on foot.
At first, it didn't seem there was anyone around. After walking the perimeter a ways, however, he heard muffled cries and tears in the bushes near a convenience store alley. He feared what he'd find, but he knew he had to investigate. He pulled out his right revolver and pushed aside the bushes. Two mid-twentish Mexicans with green bandannas over their faces stood up in surprise. One was armed with a knife, which was covered in blood. The other was unarmed, and stood staring in shock at the intruder.
Two quick shots dropped both gangsters before either had any time to do more than stand up and stare at the Gunslinger. Their lifeless bodies fell to the ground, a bullet in each heart. The Gunslinger stepped over the dead body of the knife-armed Loco to approach the writhing, crying form before him.
He dropped down to a knee and holstered his revolver as he examined the person on the ground. He was somewhat relieved that he hadn't stumbled upon a rape, as was his first assumption, but instead, just another gang fight. The man rolling on the ground in front of him had an orange bandanna tied around his right arm, a member of the gang that called themselves the "99ers", after their home turf, 99th Street.
Casually, he drew his revolver again and cocked the hammer. As he brought the barrel to rest against the wounded man's temple, he reconsidered. He then holstered the revolver, yet again, and grabbed the man by his shirt, pulling him up face-to-face with himself.
"What are you doing in Locos territory?" he demanded.
The man, startled by the question, but still suffering badly from the stabbing quieted his yells of agony, but was unable to bring himself to answer. A swift backhand across the face loosened his tongue, however.
"Pedro sent me in to check it out," he explained between gasps for air, "said we got a hookup with the new leadership in the Roja Cartel. Said old Boss Mendez was killed, and now his nephew, Enrico Mendez, is in charge. He don't want to deal with the Locos no more, wants to deal with us." he paused as the pain almost overwhelmed him, but he was cooperating pretty well so the Gunslinger didn't slap him again.
"So, I was supposed to find out how organized these bastardos are, so we could figure out how soon we could begin dealing here. Thats when those putas found me. We got in a fight and they stabbed me in the stomach!" he finished explaining, then began crying in pain again.
The Gunslinger pulled out his revolver and placed it against the 99er's head. He thanked him for being as cooperative as he was by putting him out of his misery quickly. He returned to his bike chewing on new worries. So, it wasn't just that the Locos were dissolving and fighting amongst themselves. It wasn't just the 99ers trying to move in on their turf. There was now a new head to the Roja Cartel, someone he knew next to nothing about. It was time for the Gunslinger to do some homework.
Luckymoose
The World is Mine
Update is tomorrow night, deadline will be 6 PM.
"Man I got a bad feeling about this"
"Stop complaining! You begged me to take you with me"
"I know man, but still. I'm just gettin this vibe"
"Look, I've been working with the McLean family for six years. And then Julio comes to me offering ten times more than I've made in a single job just for plugging a guy? I don't care what kind of vibes you're gettin, this is big money here though."
"Fine, fine." With that, the timid gangster became silent.
Two people, a man and a woman, walked outside of the building. The two gangsters took notice and left the car
________________________
As the two mobsters crossed the street, hidden in the darkness, a patrol car waited.
"Are they the hitmen?"
"I believe so. Call in the signal."
________________
The two mobsters cocked their guns, and were moving in for the kill. These two wouldn't be missed, and the payout that was promised was too good ignore.
Suddenly, both the mobsters found their guns floating in the air, and zooming away, right into the hands of a moving suit of armor. The suit rushed towards them, and knocked them both onto the ground. Two cops walked over and handcuffed the mobsters, while another cop escorted the two targets away from the scene.
The cops turned away, and the mobster could stare directly into the lights in the suit's eyes.
To the mobsters clear shock, the suit began speaking
"Do you know George McLaughlin?"
"G-gg-geeorrge M-c-cccc-lllacaughlin?"
"No! G-e-o-r-g-e! M-c! L-a-u-g-h-l-i-n!"
"Uuuuh y-yyess"
"Stop crying!"
After a few minutes and tissues, the mobsters regained their composure.
"Yes sir we know him."
"Well, know of him."
"Right, everyone 'knows' him, but no one really 'knows knows' him"
"Where is he now?"
"No one knows!"
"Don't you work for him?"
"No sir, we work for the McLean family."
"The McLean family? You wouldn't happen to know Frank Wallace, would you?"
"Frankie? Yea, he's a lieutenant, he supervises down in Packingtown."
"Still there? Interesting. See, that's funny. My father used to work down in Packingtown"
With that, the mobster's expression turned to pure terror, but the suit continued talking.
"Yea, he worked their for quite a while. Wallace got him a job, promised good pay and housing. Never came though. Wallace would make his workers come in for 14 hour shifts. Even on Sundays, Wallace would send thugs down to the churches to make sure that after mass, people would still come in. My father was lucky, he got out when he saw what Wallace really was. But a friend of mine didn't. His name was Jorvis Strauten. He had a wife and baby to feed, so he just stuck with it, he was the only one bringing in money for his family. But even he couldn't take it.
He organized some workers one day. They had a Union, but it was all run by Wallace. No, Jorvis wanted a real union, something that was meant to protect the workers, not give kickbacks and positions to the Irish mob. So Wallace decided to have a chat with Jorvis, to see if they could 'work things out' "
The suit shook its head and continued
"Wallace and Jorvis took a walk through Packingtown together. Only Wallace came back. Said that Jorvis decided that he simply was done working there, and if the workers weren't happy with what was going on, they could starve for all he cared."
The suit shook his head again.
"No one saw Jorvis again after that day. Then his wife starved, giving everything she could to her child. Then the child starved, no one cared about it, wandering about Packingtown. An entire family, gone, because of Frank Wallace."
With that, the chemical thrower's lights switched on, and napalm burst through, hitting both of the mobsters in the faces. Iron Guard watched the two men roll on the ground, dead men still breathing.
"May you perish for his sins."
"Stop complaining! You begged me to take you with me"
"I know man, but still. I'm just gettin this vibe"
"Look, I've been working with the McLean family for six years. And then Julio comes to me offering ten times more than I've made in a single job just for plugging a guy? I don't care what kind of vibes you're gettin, this is big money here though."
"Fine, fine." With that, the timid gangster became silent.
Two people, a man and a woman, walked outside of the building. The two gangsters took notice and left the car
________________________
As the two mobsters crossed the street, hidden in the darkness, a patrol car waited.
"Are they the hitmen?"
"I believe so. Call in the signal."
________________
The two mobsters cocked their guns, and were moving in for the kill. These two wouldn't be missed, and the payout that was promised was too good ignore.
Suddenly, both the mobsters found their guns floating in the air, and zooming away, right into the hands of a moving suit of armor. The suit rushed towards them, and knocked them both onto the ground. Two cops walked over and handcuffed the mobsters, while another cop escorted the two targets away from the scene.
The cops turned away, and the mobster could stare directly into the lights in the suit's eyes.
To the mobsters clear shock, the suit began speaking
"Do you know George McLaughlin?"
"G-gg-geeorrge M-c-cccc-lllacaughlin?"
"No! G-e-o-r-g-e! M-c! L-a-u-g-h-l-i-n!"
"Uuuuh y-yyess"
"Stop crying!"
After a few minutes and tissues, the mobsters regained their composure.
"Yes sir we know him."
"Well, know of him."
"Right, everyone 'knows' him, but no one really 'knows knows' him"
"Where is he now?"
"No one knows!"
"Don't you work for him?"
"No sir, we work for the McLean family."
"The McLean family? You wouldn't happen to know Frank Wallace, would you?"
"Frankie? Yea, he's a lieutenant, he supervises down in Packingtown."
"Still there? Interesting. See, that's funny. My father used to work down in Packingtown"
With that, the mobster's expression turned to pure terror, but the suit continued talking.
"Yea, he worked their for quite a while. Wallace got him a job, promised good pay and housing. Never came though. Wallace would make his workers come in for 14 hour shifts. Even on Sundays, Wallace would send thugs down to the churches to make sure that after mass, people would still come in. My father was lucky, he got out when he saw what Wallace really was. But a friend of mine didn't. His name was Jorvis Strauten. He had a wife and baby to feed, so he just stuck with it, he was the only one bringing in money for his family. But even he couldn't take it.
He organized some workers one day. They had a Union, but it was all run by Wallace. No, Jorvis wanted a real union, something that was meant to protect the workers, not give kickbacks and positions to the Irish mob. So Wallace decided to have a chat with Jorvis, to see if they could 'work things out' "
The suit shook its head and continued
"Wallace and Jorvis took a walk through Packingtown together. Only Wallace came back. Said that Jorvis decided that he simply was done working there, and if the workers weren't happy with what was going on, they could starve for all he cared."
The suit shook his head again.
"No one saw Jorvis again after that day. Then his wife starved, giving everything she could to her child. Then the child starved, no one cared about it, wandering about Packingtown. An entire family, gone, because of Frank Wallace."
With that, the chemical thrower's lights switched on, and napalm burst through, hitting both of the mobsters in the faces. Iron Guard watched the two men roll on the ground, dead men still breathing.
"May you perish for his sins."
Luckymoose
The World is Mine
Deadline is extended by popular request.
sophie
Break My Heart
Rossiter opened the large glass doors of the primary entrance of Benign Intelligence. He quickly found himself in a pleasant, bustling lobby, filled with many important, official looking people moving from one end of the lobby to the other. Rossiter eyed the lobby for several moments. Before him was a reception desk, manned by a very beautiful blond woman, mid-20s, appeared harmless, but wouldnt be surprised if she were trained in some kind of small arms combat. Behind her lay a security checkpoint; SOP: metal detectors, bag check, and all that. He counted 6 security officers at this checkpoint; all of them appeared to be armed with M9 pistols, but little more than that. He doubted any of them truly knew how to use their guns, and was confident that should the need arise; he could disable all 6 before one of them so much as drew their pistol. He also figured should he find himself without a weapon, his best bet was the portly guard checking the monitors; his perceptions and reflexes appeared the weaker of the 6. Finally, behind that was the real content of the lobby: an open room containing 4 Doors, 1 elevator, 2 stairwells. He also noted 6 other guards scattered around the large room. These men appeared much more competent, and were armed with MP5s. Rossiter ran through a number of scenarios in his mind, taking note of plausible pieces of cover around the room. Finally, Rossiter concluded that this was probably not a trap and that even if it was, it would pose no real threat to him, and so, after a period of about 2 minutes, he advanced towards the receptionist.
Can I help you sir? the lovely blond-haired receptionist inquired.
Thnames Eric Rossiter, he stated confidently, I was invited here by a Mr. Morris. I believe he has arranged for me to speak with the CEO.
Ah yes, Rossiter, the woman responded without checking her computer, Bill has been expecting you. Turning slightly, she pressed a button on her intercom machine. After several minutes a voice responded.
Yes, Elaine?
Mr. Rossiter is here to see you, sir.
Excellent, send him up straightaway.
The intercom cut out and Elaine, smiling, looked up to Rossiter. Bill will see you sir. Let me just print out your clearance badge, and we can get you on your way. She turned back to her computer and began typing. A few moments later the whirring sound of a printer confirmed the job was done. Elaine rolled back from her desk and grabbing the newly printed badge, slipped it into its laminated cover, clipped a lanyard to it, and handed it to Rossiter. Rossiter looked down at the badge:
Eric Rossiter
Clearance Level: C
Meeting with Bill
To the right was a picture of him Where in the hell did they get my picture from?!?! he thought to himself as he quickly glanced around the room. Elaine smiled at Rossiter before finally urging him on to security.
Rossiter thanked the lady, before moving on to the security detail. How he loathed security details. He approached the man he could only assume was in charge. Mid-20s, Tall, broad-chested, sporting aviator glasses, and a smug, self-important grin that smacked of a man who thought his sh*t didnt smell. Good lord he despised this man already, and hoped that before this meeting was up hed get a good excuse to punch him square in the mouth.
Name and badge, the man said snidely. Rossiter glanced down at the badge hanging prominently from his neck. Name and badge, the man said again.
Its right there, Rossiter said gruffly, see for yourself.
Why you! I aughta! the man began, but, seeing the cold composure of Rossiter exuding confidence and raw power, backed down. Ah, yes, Eric Rossiter he said, swiping a scanner across Rossiters badge. Ill just need you to, ah, to just pass through our metal detectors.
Eric passed under the arch. BZZZT! the detector rang.
Ah Im er do you have any metal on you that might have tipped off the detectors, like some loose change or perhaps OH CHRIST! he exclaimed as Rossiter opened his jacket, revealing a veritable arsenal of small arms. Casually, almost routinely, Rossiter began to remove the guns and place them all on the table while 6 security officers stared agape at the spectacle they were now witnessing.
I think that should just about do it, Rossiter finally said with no less than 8 different guns now laying on the table before him.
Oh I yes, very well, why dont you pass through again. Said the head guard, finally snapping out of his amazement. Rossiter passed through the metal detector again, this time without error. He turned to get his guns back. Im, uh Im sorry Mr. Rossiter, sir you cant take these in with you, the guard said diffidently.
Rossiter moved confidently towards the guard, bringing the full brunt of his 67 height to bear. Towering over the man he glared at the guard for a full minute. The guard did nothing but cower in fear, his confidence now completely shattered. He glanced around quickly, desperately looking for some kind of reprieve, but his fellow guards merely stood there agog, watching the spectacle.
Suddenly Rossiters expression lightened. He smiled: very well, Ill be back for these later. He said pleasantly, then turning deadly serious again: be sure to keep them safe for me. Finally he turned and strode towards the elevator, leaving the dumbstruck security guards in his wake.
Who the fk was that guy? One of the guards asked, worriedly.
Just some punk, the head guard said, I cudda taken him no problem. You shoulda seen me guys, I was this close to poppin him right in the jaw.
Yeah, I saw you, another responded, saw you shakin just like the rest of us. Frankly, I think we got out of that one lucky.
Tch, yeah right. The head guard said derisively.
Rossiter left the moronic security guards behind him and stalked off towards the elevator. He nodded to two of the tougher looking guards he identified earlier who were guarding the elevator before they waved him in. The one on the left grinned knowingly at Rossiter, clearly entertained by the scene he caused at security. Those pricks had it coming, he thought to himself.
Rossiter got in, and the sliding doors of the elevator shut behind him. Rossiter looked down at the control panel, there were only two buttons: up or down. I guess this is a direct line, he thought to himself, pressing the up button. The elevator whirred for about a minute, before finally; a loud ding announced his arrival at the top floor of Benign Intelligence. The doors slid open and Rossiter exited the elevator.
Rossiter found himself in a dimly lit room. Shafts of light from the open windows in the back of the room revealed a moderately sized room, and one that was fairly Spartan; to his left sat a number of large filing cabinets. In front of him was a desk with one chair. Behind the chair sat the man who he assumed was this Bill figure. The man appeared to be in the tail end of middle age, probably somewhere in his early 40s, with thick black hair, a strong face with penetrating, brown eyes. Bill had his elbows in the desk, fingers interlaced, showing a wedding ring on his left hand, the man was obviously deep in thought. Rossiter quickly glanced around the room, taking stock of the situation. The elevator appeared to be the only way in and out of the room; he doubted there was a ledge on the other side of the windows. The sparse room in all likelihood didnt have much he could use for a weapon, and he was assuming Bill would have a pistol in one of those desk drawers. In that case, in the event of situations going sour, hed have to get to Bill before Bill could open the drawer and pull out the hypothetical pistol. Rossiter was running through a number of scenarios in his head when Bill noticed that Rossiter had entered the room: only a couple seconds had passed. Bills expression lightened, Ah Eric, welcome, please, have a seat, can I get you anything to drink?
Im fine standing, thank you, and no, I wouldnt like anything to drink.
Ah, come on now. Im not going to attack you, if thats what youre thinking. There is nothing in this desk, see for yourself, he said, now opening the drawers in his desk. Rossiters eyes drifted to the opened drawer, but he remained standing. Look Eric, if I really wanted to kill you I certainly wouldnt have allowed you into my office unescorted, now would I? Rossiter stood there for a couple seconds, weighing the options before finally moving forward and taking a seat in the chair. Bill smiled, There we go. Now about that drink Ive got you as a whiskey man.
Scotch, please.
At that Bill got up, walked over to a wall in the room and pushed a button. A panel slid open revealing a cabinet full of various beverages. He poured a Scotch for Rossiter and for himself, a good Amaretto. He carried the two glasses back to the desk and sat down. Now, lets get down to brass tacks, shall we? Im sure you want to know what Benign Intelligence, or BILL as my workers lovingly refer to it as, is.
Organization formed in 2003, officially labeled as private contractors. Sent operatives to Iraq and Afghanistan. In good graces with the US government. Has since branched out to individual contracts. Has foot in the door of the mafia. Does hits, launders money, moves drugs, protection. Rossiter said, flatly.
My, you have done your homework, havent you? But then you wouldnt be the best hitman in the city if you didnt.
Ex-hitman, Rossiter corrected.
Yes, well see. But anyway, you have gotten to the essence of our organization. Officially we are private contractors, but in reality, we are the handymen of the Metropolis Underground. You need something done and well do it. Our organization has a near-bottomless budget and is probably the largest Intel organization short of the US government. The only problem is
Your operatives on the field are grossly incompetent. 7 botched operations in the last 4 months. Operatives left dead, VIPs killed, covert missions uncovered, Rossiter interjected.
Youve hit the nail on the head. Were inefficient on the field. But thats where you come in.
Im retired, Rossiter interjected again.
Now now, hear me out for just 10 seconds before saying no. You dont have to stick with us long term. We just need you for this one job. After that youre free to go and we wont bother you again. Bill waited a few moments. Rossiters silence told Bill all he needed to know. He opened a drawer and Rossiter began to move to his feet, although he settled again as a raised arm by Bill showed he meant no harm. From the drawer, Bill pulled a manila folder, dropped it on the table, and opened it, revealing a large stack of papers. Rossiter looked at the folder for several moments before finally picking it up. He started to flip through the documents. Bill continued:
Three weeks ago our services were hired by a contact. Im not at liberty to say who this man was, or what his affiliations are. Needless to say he was a member of one of the Metropolis Mafiosi. A drug cartel, Puerto Rico Suave has been moving in onto their turf. We were asked to assassinate their leader. Two weeks ago we made our move, but it was disastrous. 3 Operatives killed, and 2 captured. If those operatives break, not only will our reputation be shot, but we could make enemies of PRS. Eric, we need you to lead a squad into PRS headquarters, extract our operatives, and if possible, finish the job for them. Oh, and theres a catch. Rossiter, who had up to this point been flipping rapidly through the countless maps, assessments, and Intel on the cartel now stopped at one page.
On top of the page was a paper clipped picture of a tall, lanky Asian man, appearing to be somewhere in his early twenties. Beneath this picture also attached to the paperclip was a police headshot of the man. Rossiter read aloud the name listed on the Intel report: David Wu
Yes, thats the catch. David Wu. You may have heard about him from the news; he was one of the 5 supers who escaped from Metro Asylum 2 months ago. After escaping he joined up with PRS and has since helped the cartel gain massive amounts of territory around the city. He has pyrokinetic abilities and a penchant for destruction. He is highly dangerous, and is the main reason why we need your help. So your mission is to kill the cartel, kill Wu, and retrieve our captured operatives. Will you accept this mission?
Yes, but Im only doing this to kill Wu. There will be no other missions. After this you do not meet with me, you do not spy on me. You take me off your grid.
Bill gave a knowing smile, Excellent! Now, lets get you outfitted, shall we?
Can I help you sir? the lovely blond-haired receptionist inquired.
Thnames Eric Rossiter, he stated confidently, I was invited here by a Mr. Morris. I believe he has arranged for me to speak with the CEO.
Ah yes, Rossiter, the woman responded without checking her computer, Bill has been expecting you. Turning slightly, she pressed a button on her intercom machine. After several minutes a voice responded.
Yes, Elaine?
Mr. Rossiter is here to see you, sir.
Excellent, send him up straightaway.
The intercom cut out and Elaine, smiling, looked up to Rossiter. Bill will see you sir. Let me just print out your clearance badge, and we can get you on your way. She turned back to her computer and began typing. A few moments later the whirring sound of a printer confirmed the job was done. Elaine rolled back from her desk and grabbing the newly printed badge, slipped it into its laminated cover, clipped a lanyard to it, and handed it to Rossiter. Rossiter looked down at the badge:
Eric Rossiter
Clearance Level: C
Meeting with Bill
To the right was a picture of him Where in the hell did they get my picture from?!?! he thought to himself as he quickly glanced around the room. Elaine smiled at Rossiter before finally urging him on to security.
Rossiter thanked the lady, before moving on to the security detail. How he loathed security details. He approached the man he could only assume was in charge. Mid-20s, Tall, broad-chested, sporting aviator glasses, and a smug, self-important grin that smacked of a man who thought his sh*t didnt smell. Good lord he despised this man already, and hoped that before this meeting was up hed get a good excuse to punch him square in the mouth.
Name and badge, the man said snidely. Rossiter glanced down at the badge hanging prominently from his neck. Name and badge, the man said again.
Its right there, Rossiter said gruffly, see for yourself.
Why you! I aughta! the man began, but, seeing the cold composure of Rossiter exuding confidence and raw power, backed down. Ah, yes, Eric Rossiter he said, swiping a scanner across Rossiters badge. Ill just need you to, ah, to just pass through our metal detectors.
Eric passed under the arch. BZZZT! the detector rang.
Ah Im er do you have any metal on you that might have tipped off the detectors, like some loose change or perhaps OH CHRIST! he exclaimed as Rossiter opened his jacket, revealing a veritable arsenal of small arms. Casually, almost routinely, Rossiter began to remove the guns and place them all on the table while 6 security officers stared agape at the spectacle they were now witnessing.
I think that should just about do it, Rossiter finally said with no less than 8 different guns now laying on the table before him.
Oh I yes, very well, why dont you pass through again. Said the head guard, finally snapping out of his amazement. Rossiter passed through the metal detector again, this time without error. He turned to get his guns back. Im, uh Im sorry Mr. Rossiter, sir you cant take these in with you, the guard said diffidently.
Rossiter moved confidently towards the guard, bringing the full brunt of his 67 height to bear. Towering over the man he glared at the guard for a full minute. The guard did nothing but cower in fear, his confidence now completely shattered. He glanced around quickly, desperately looking for some kind of reprieve, but his fellow guards merely stood there agog, watching the spectacle.
Suddenly Rossiters expression lightened. He smiled: very well, Ill be back for these later. He said pleasantly, then turning deadly serious again: be sure to keep them safe for me. Finally he turned and strode towards the elevator, leaving the dumbstruck security guards in his wake.
Who the fk was that guy? One of the guards asked, worriedly.
Just some punk, the head guard said, I cudda taken him no problem. You shoulda seen me guys, I was this close to poppin him right in the jaw.
Yeah, I saw you, another responded, saw you shakin just like the rest of us. Frankly, I think we got out of that one lucky.
Tch, yeah right. The head guard said derisively.
Rossiter left the moronic security guards behind him and stalked off towards the elevator. He nodded to two of the tougher looking guards he identified earlier who were guarding the elevator before they waved him in. The one on the left grinned knowingly at Rossiter, clearly entertained by the scene he caused at security. Those pricks had it coming, he thought to himself.
Rossiter got in, and the sliding doors of the elevator shut behind him. Rossiter looked down at the control panel, there were only two buttons: up or down. I guess this is a direct line, he thought to himself, pressing the up button. The elevator whirred for about a minute, before finally; a loud ding announced his arrival at the top floor of Benign Intelligence. The doors slid open and Rossiter exited the elevator.
Rossiter found himself in a dimly lit room. Shafts of light from the open windows in the back of the room revealed a moderately sized room, and one that was fairly Spartan; to his left sat a number of large filing cabinets. In front of him was a desk with one chair. Behind the chair sat the man who he assumed was this Bill figure. The man appeared to be in the tail end of middle age, probably somewhere in his early 40s, with thick black hair, a strong face with penetrating, brown eyes. Bill had his elbows in the desk, fingers interlaced, showing a wedding ring on his left hand, the man was obviously deep in thought. Rossiter quickly glanced around the room, taking stock of the situation. The elevator appeared to be the only way in and out of the room; he doubted there was a ledge on the other side of the windows. The sparse room in all likelihood didnt have much he could use for a weapon, and he was assuming Bill would have a pistol in one of those desk drawers. In that case, in the event of situations going sour, hed have to get to Bill before Bill could open the drawer and pull out the hypothetical pistol. Rossiter was running through a number of scenarios in his head when Bill noticed that Rossiter had entered the room: only a couple seconds had passed. Bills expression lightened, Ah Eric, welcome, please, have a seat, can I get you anything to drink?
Im fine standing, thank you, and no, I wouldnt like anything to drink.
Ah, come on now. Im not going to attack you, if thats what youre thinking. There is nothing in this desk, see for yourself, he said, now opening the drawers in his desk. Rossiters eyes drifted to the opened drawer, but he remained standing. Look Eric, if I really wanted to kill you I certainly wouldnt have allowed you into my office unescorted, now would I? Rossiter stood there for a couple seconds, weighing the options before finally moving forward and taking a seat in the chair. Bill smiled, There we go. Now about that drink Ive got you as a whiskey man.
Scotch, please.
At that Bill got up, walked over to a wall in the room and pushed a button. A panel slid open revealing a cabinet full of various beverages. He poured a Scotch for Rossiter and for himself, a good Amaretto. He carried the two glasses back to the desk and sat down. Now, lets get down to brass tacks, shall we? Im sure you want to know what Benign Intelligence, or BILL as my workers lovingly refer to it as, is.
Organization formed in 2003, officially labeled as private contractors. Sent operatives to Iraq and Afghanistan. In good graces with the US government. Has since branched out to individual contracts. Has foot in the door of the mafia. Does hits, launders money, moves drugs, protection. Rossiter said, flatly.
My, you have done your homework, havent you? But then you wouldnt be the best hitman in the city if you didnt.
Ex-hitman, Rossiter corrected.
Yes, well see. But anyway, you have gotten to the essence of our organization. Officially we are private contractors, but in reality, we are the handymen of the Metropolis Underground. You need something done and well do it. Our organization has a near-bottomless budget and is probably the largest Intel organization short of the US government. The only problem is
Your operatives on the field are grossly incompetent. 7 botched operations in the last 4 months. Operatives left dead, VIPs killed, covert missions uncovered, Rossiter interjected.
Youve hit the nail on the head. Were inefficient on the field. But thats where you come in.
Im retired, Rossiter interjected again.
Now now, hear me out for just 10 seconds before saying no. You dont have to stick with us long term. We just need you for this one job. After that youre free to go and we wont bother you again. Bill waited a few moments. Rossiters silence told Bill all he needed to know. He opened a drawer and Rossiter began to move to his feet, although he settled again as a raised arm by Bill showed he meant no harm. From the drawer, Bill pulled a manila folder, dropped it on the table, and opened it, revealing a large stack of papers. Rossiter looked at the folder for several moments before finally picking it up. He started to flip through the documents. Bill continued:
Three weeks ago our services were hired by a contact. Im not at liberty to say who this man was, or what his affiliations are. Needless to say he was a member of one of the Metropolis Mafiosi. A drug cartel, Puerto Rico Suave has been moving in onto their turf. We were asked to assassinate their leader. Two weeks ago we made our move, but it was disastrous. 3 Operatives killed, and 2 captured. If those operatives break, not only will our reputation be shot, but we could make enemies of PRS. Eric, we need you to lead a squad into PRS headquarters, extract our operatives, and if possible, finish the job for them. Oh, and theres a catch. Rossiter, who had up to this point been flipping rapidly through the countless maps, assessments, and Intel on the cartel now stopped at one page.
On top of the page was a paper clipped picture of a tall, lanky Asian man, appearing to be somewhere in his early twenties. Beneath this picture also attached to the paperclip was a police headshot of the man. Rossiter read aloud the name listed on the Intel report: David Wu
Yes, thats the catch. David Wu. You may have heard about him from the news; he was one of the 5 supers who escaped from Metro Asylum 2 months ago. After escaping he joined up with PRS and has since helped the cartel gain massive amounts of territory around the city. He has pyrokinetic abilities and a penchant for destruction. He is highly dangerous, and is the main reason why we need your help. So your mission is to kill the cartel, kill Wu, and retrieve our captured operatives. Will you accept this mission?
Yes, but Im only doing this to kill Wu. There will be no other missions. After this you do not meet with me, you do not spy on me. You take me off your grid.
Bill gave a knowing smile, Excellent! Now, lets get you outfitted, shall we?
“So then, our plan?”
The two figures were sitting across from each other, warming their hands around a burning shrub, deep in the parklands at the fringes of Terminus.
“Plan… heh.”
Dmitri raised an eyebrow at this response.
“There’s never been a plan, you know.” Damon said, staring off into the greasy sky.
“Nothing at all?”
“What would there be to plan for?”
“Nothing at all.”
“Exactly.”
The two lapsed back into silence for another few moments, as the fire spread across the grass to tickle at the roots of a nearby tree.
“I suppose there was some purpose to it. I wanted to… ‘show everyone’, you know… make people see the world as it really is.”
“You did that with me.”
Damon paused and gave a critical look at Dmitri.
“Everyone else ended up dead, or insane, or as lawn gnomes, or something. People needed to see what I could see.”
“Hmm…”
Another pause.
“And why did they need to see that?”
Damon did not enjoy digging around through the innards of his soul, but sought out the answer nonetheless.
“Because…”
“Yes?”
“Because… I didn’t want to be alone.”
Dmitri narrowed his eyes.
“It’s more than that.”
Inwardly, Damon was shifting uncomfortably. These questions were digging closer and closer to the dormant monster within him, threatening to stir it back into awareness.
“I… needed to get back at them. The world. Everyone.”
“Get back for what?”
“What are you!?” Damon suddenly turned on his interrogator, “Trying to play psychiatrist?”
“Trying to get answers, I suppose.”
Damon knew why he did what he did, and he was not comfortable with the answers. Spite, nihilism, anger, depression… these were all underlying motivations- there was no vendetta, no grand purpose. The beast had awoken within him, but it was a simple engine of destruction, childlike and evil.
What did he want to do? Damon knew that he himself wanted no more than any other human- companionship, acceptance, and purpose. But the terrible, bent creature that slumbered within him, and had previously reigned unchallenged over his body… god, what did it want?
Ruination. It placed value on nothing, it consumed, twisted and destroyed, nothing else.
“I don’t think I have the answers.”
Damon could tell that Dmitri knew he was lying.
“In time then.”
“Give me a while to go through my thoughts. Now let’s get out of here, or my shoes will catch fire.”
The two men departed. The inferno behind them would continue to rumble along merrily for several hours.
The two figures were sitting across from each other, warming their hands around a burning shrub, deep in the parklands at the fringes of Terminus.
“Plan… heh.”
Dmitri raised an eyebrow at this response.
“There’s never been a plan, you know.” Damon said, staring off into the greasy sky.
“Nothing at all?”
“What would there be to plan for?”
“Nothing at all.”
“Exactly.”
The two lapsed back into silence for another few moments, as the fire spread across the grass to tickle at the roots of a nearby tree.
“I suppose there was some purpose to it. I wanted to… ‘show everyone’, you know… make people see the world as it really is.”
“You did that with me.”
Damon paused and gave a critical look at Dmitri.
“Everyone else ended up dead, or insane, or as lawn gnomes, or something. People needed to see what I could see.”
“Hmm…”
Another pause.
“And why did they need to see that?”
Damon did not enjoy digging around through the innards of his soul, but sought out the answer nonetheless.
“Because…”
“Yes?”
“Because… I didn’t want to be alone.”
Dmitri narrowed his eyes.
“It’s more than that.”
Inwardly, Damon was shifting uncomfortably. These questions were digging closer and closer to the dormant monster within him, threatening to stir it back into awareness.
“I… needed to get back at them. The world. Everyone.”
“Get back for what?”
“What are you!?” Damon suddenly turned on his interrogator, “Trying to play psychiatrist?”
“Trying to get answers, I suppose.”
Damon knew why he did what he did, and he was not comfortable with the answers. Spite, nihilism, anger, depression… these were all underlying motivations- there was no vendetta, no grand purpose. The beast had awoken within him, but it was a simple engine of destruction, childlike and evil.
What did he want to do? Damon knew that he himself wanted no more than any other human- companionship, acceptance, and purpose. But the terrible, bent creature that slumbered within him, and had previously reigned unchallenged over his body… god, what did it want?
Ruination. It placed value on nothing, it consumed, twisted and destroyed, nothing else.
“I don’t think I have the answers.”
Damon could tell that Dmitri knew he was lying.
“In time then.”
“Give me a while to go through my thoughts. Now let’s get out of here, or my shoes will catch fire.”
The two men departed. The inferno behind them would continue to rumble along merrily for several hours.
For the first time in several hours, the setting sun shone on a pair of beautiful gray eyes.
"Oh, hey, you're up. Want some water?"
The goddess of wisdom turned in her seat. "Thought about that one for the last couple of hours, huh?"
To her left, in the driver's seat, Mark grinned. "Something like that."
"It was very appropriate. But yes, I would like some water. There's still some in the cooler, right?" She was already reaching into the back seat to get a bottle as he nodded his assent.
Mark's boss, Captain Dixon, had responded fairly well to the tangle with the Izmailovskaya goons at Mark's apartment building. Nothing particularly bad was going to happen to him. Dixon had, however, been quite adamant that this time, he'd have to take leave and get the hell away from Central City, the Russians, the coke case, and everything else. He couldn't technically get the usual leave for killing somebody because he still hadn't killed anybody, but something clearly had to be done; three people had died and one had been nearly dismembered in his vicinity in the past month.
So he and Athena were taking a bit of a road trip.
As she unscrewed the cap of her water bottle and started to drink, Mark cleared his throat. "So, um, I've been thinking. Why, exactly, are you coming with me?"
Athena put down the water bottle and pretended to pout. "You didn't want my company?"
"No, no, I didn't mean it like that. But I mean, I assume you have things to do...in Central City...or something. I dunno, I never really asked about what you do when you're not around me, I guess."
The goddess chirped a laugh. "Mark, did you forget about the part where I'm a deity? I don't exactly have to endure the nine-to-five drudgery that is part and parcel of life for most of the rest of America."
"Then what do you do?"
"Lots of stuff. I mean, it depends. Sometimes I mess around, doing Things Only I Can Do. Sometimes I just go back to Olympos to be waited on hand and foot. Sometimes I sit there and read or something. Sometimes I go to the capital and play chess in Dupont Circle. Exercising my mind and all. And sometimes I just go to Libya or the Congo or India or Peru and kill people."
"Don't you need to sleep every night?" he said, somewhat subdued.
"Yeah, and where I do that depends on context. Maybe I'll spend the night on Olympos, or in the mud a few miles outside of Bukavu. When I sleep in Central City, I might take the form of somebody who's vacationing and stop in at their home, or I might sleep in a car. I don't do either of those very often."
He barked a laugh. "You sound more like a bum than a goddess."
"Yeah, my father says that too," she said distractedly.
"Earlier, you said you were fairly unusual for the gods in how you interacted with mortals...so this is what you meant?"
The gray-eyed goddess nodded. "It's one of the reasons."
"Still...killing with child soldiers in the Congo and stuff...it's awfully hard to fit you into any image of the omnipotent, benevolent deity."
"Yeah? Well, there's no good versus evil morality conceit here. I pick out my favorites from among humanity and hang around with them. I'm involved in the big things in their lives and the small things, too. Take Odysseus. I helped him kill everybody that tried to steal his wife, yeah: I also cheated for him to win a footrace with Aias of Telamon by tripping the big oaf up just before the finish line. Although that was also funny as all hell. Like the first ever Funniest Home Videos clip in history."
Mark laughed at the mental image of a huge ancient Greek warrior taking a tumble, complete with banana-peel sound effects. "So what does everybody else on Olympos do?"
"Don't get me wrong - they're as bad as I am with their favorite-picking and messing around. Usually, they don't tend to do it in person like I do. Instead, they trick their favorite mortals out in ridiculous amounts of tech and special powers and have them go at it. Maybe half the supers in history have been the result of Olympians playing our asinine games of Warhammer - with the Earth as the table. Except my father, who just bones anything with a vagina."
"It's kind of depressing to think about it that way. All that power...used for what? Killing mortals in ridiculously ostentatious ways."
Athena shook her head. "Don't moralize at me. We Olympians do way more than our share of helping out random nice people that ask us politely, even Ares, who's an all-around douchebag. Some of us, especially me, do nice things for random people that don't ask for our help. But we're not benevolent, and we're not omnipotent. We don't have some kind of obligation to help all mortals everywhere out any more than you have an obligation to help every ant in your yard. And that's not even getting into the idea of what 'help' constitutes, and what mutually contradictory pleas for help merit. It's a total moral freaking mess, and whoever starts volunteering her divine aid to every and any Good Person, let alone every human, is a moron."
Her tirade had left him speechless. Athena's face softened. "Look, gods need humans like narcissists need mirrors, some more so than others. We're not about to go on some bender and wipe the planet clean of humanity. But you are different from us. Nobody views you as vermin, but at the same time nobody's going to go all missionary-in-nineteenth-century-Africa on you, either, with a 'save the savages' campaign."
She sighed. "I can understand this is a difficult concept to grasp for someone in this brave new world of Jesus Christ and Richard Dawkins. By the way, there's a decent steak place about two exits from here."
Mark smiled and shook his head. "You're an odd duck, Goddess."
"Tell me about it."
He got in the right lane. "So, any other members of your family that I get to meet?"
"Depends. Probably not for awhile. You wanted to keep snooping around the Izmailovskaya connections on the sly, right?"
"I guess it was going to be awfully hard to hide my intentions from the Goddess of Wisdom," Mark laughed.
"Shouldn't have even tried. So we're headed to Metropolis, then?"
"Yep."
"Oh, hey, you're up. Want some water?"
The goddess of wisdom turned in her seat. "Thought about that one for the last couple of hours, huh?"
To her left, in the driver's seat, Mark grinned. "Something like that."
"It was very appropriate. But yes, I would like some water. There's still some in the cooler, right?" She was already reaching into the back seat to get a bottle as he nodded his assent.
Mark's boss, Captain Dixon, had responded fairly well to the tangle with the Izmailovskaya goons at Mark's apartment building. Nothing particularly bad was going to happen to him. Dixon had, however, been quite adamant that this time, he'd have to take leave and get the hell away from Central City, the Russians, the coke case, and everything else. He couldn't technically get the usual leave for killing somebody because he still hadn't killed anybody, but something clearly had to be done; three people had died and one had been nearly dismembered in his vicinity in the past month.
So he and Athena were taking a bit of a road trip.
As she unscrewed the cap of her water bottle and started to drink, Mark cleared his throat. "So, um, I've been thinking. Why, exactly, are you coming with me?"
Athena put down the water bottle and pretended to pout. "You didn't want my company?"
"No, no, I didn't mean it like that. But I mean, I assume you have things to do...in Central City...or something. I dunno, I never really asked about what you do when you're not around me, I guess."
The goddess chirped a laugh. "Mark, did you forget about the part where I'm a deity? I don't exactly have to endure the nine-to-five drudgery that is part and parcel of life for most of the rest of America."
"Then what do you do?"
"Lots of stuff. I mean, it depends. Sometimes I mess around, doing Things Only I Can Do. Sometimes I just go back to Olympos to be waited on hand and foot. Sometimes I sit there and read or something. Sometimes I go to the capital and play chess in Dupont Circle. Exercising my mind and all. And sometimes I just go to Libya or the Congo or India or Peru and kill people."
"Don't you need to sleep every night?" he said, somewhat subdued.
"Yeah, and where I do that depends on context. Maybe I'll spend the night on Olympos, or in the mud a few miles outside of Bukavu. When I sleep in Central City, I might take the form of somebody who's vacationing and stop in at their home, or I might sleep in a car. I don't do either of those very often."
He barked a laugh. "You sound more like a bum than a goddess."
"Yeah, my father says that too," she said distractedly.
"Earlier, you said you were fairly unusual for the gods in how you interacted with mortals...so this is what you meant?"
The gray-eyed goddess nodded. "It's one of the reasons."
"Still...killing with child soldiers in the Congo and stuff...it's awfully hard to fit you into any image of the omnipotent, benevolent deity."
"Yeah? Well, there's no good versus evil morality conceit here. I pick out my favorites from among humanity and hang around with them. I'm involved in the big things in their lives and the small things, too. Take Odysseus. I helped him kill everybody that tried to steal his wife, yeah: I also cheated for him to win a footrace with Aias of Telamon by tripping the big oaf up just before the finish line. Although that was also funny as all hell. Like the first ever Funniest Home Videos clip in history."
Mark laughed at the mental image of a huge ancient Greek warrior taking a tumble, complete with banana-peel sound effects. "So what does everybody else on Olympos do?"
"Don't get me wrong - they're as bad as I am with their favorite-picking and messing around. Usually, they don't tend to do it in person like I do. Instead, they trick their favorite mortals out in ridiculous amounts of tech and special powers and have them go at it. Maybe half the supers in history have been the result of Olympians playing our asinine games of Warhammer - with the Earth as the table. Except my father, who just bones anything with a vagina."
"It's kind of depressing to think about it that way. All that power...used for what? Killing mortals in ridiculously ostentatious ways."
Athena shook her head. "Don't moralize at me. We Olympians do way more than our share of helping out random nice people that ask us politely, even Ares, who's an all-around douchebag. Some of us, especially me, do nice things for random people that don't ask for our help. But we're not benevolent, and we're not omnipotent. We don't have some kind of obligation to help all mortals everywhere out any more than you have an obligation to help every ant in your yard. And that's not even getting into the idea of what 'help' constitutes, and what mutually contradictory pleas for help merit. It's a total moral freaking mess, and whoever starts volunteering her divine aid to every and any Good Person, let alone every human, is a moron."
Her tirade had left him speechless. Athena's face softened. "Look, gods need humans like narcissists need mirrors, some more so than others. We're not about to go on some bender and wipe the planet clean of humanity. But you are different from us. Nobody views you as vermin, but at the same time nobody's going to go all missionary-in-nineteenth-century-Africa on you, either, with a 'save the savages' campaign."
She sighed. "I can understand this is a difficult concept to grasp for someone in this brave new world of Jesus Christ and Richard Dawkins. By the way, there's a decent steak place about two exits from here."
Mark smiled and shook his head. "You're an odd duck, Goddess."
"Tell me about it."
He got in the right lane. "So, any other members of your family that I get to meet?"
"Depends. Probably not for awhile. You wanted to keep snooping around the Izmailovskaya connections on the sly, right?"
"I guess it was going to be awfully hard to hide my intentions from the Goddess of Wisdom," Mark laughed.
"Shouldn't have even tried. So we're headed to Metropolis, then?"
"Yep."
Seon
Not An Evil Liar
The reports of murders conducted by one that some may call Serial Killer X, Jack Junior, or the Disintegrator continues... the police force have refused to comment on the issue, bu-
A tall woman quickly switched off the radio as she was trying to prepare a meal. "But I wanted to listen!" complained a child.
"You can listen to it later," the woman snapped. There was a knocking noise. "Who the..." the woman nearly swore. "Here, could you go and tell..."
"I got it," the kid said. He left and started to walk towards the door. The woman was just about to prepare for some spaghetti when she heard somebody gagging. She rushed out just in time to see the child on the floor, bleeding profusely from the neck, and a man in a police uniform closing the door behind him.
The Serial Killer was in the house.
He held a reddened knife in one hand.
And he was pointing a silenced pistol at her in the other.
She shrieked and quickly side stepped as a bullet went grazing past her hair. She quickly rushed it a room before the killer could pull of another shot and locked the door behind her. She opened a window and, instead of escaping, snuck into a closet, praying to whatever Deity out there, God, Loki, Hermes, Buddah, Allah, whomever, that the Serial Killer wouldn't kill her, and that he would follow the false trail out the window. She heard the doors break open... She heard a man's voice curse loudly and rush towards the window... and then there suddenly was silence.
Did she make it? Was the killer gone? She lay hidden in the cabinet for what seemed like an eternity, until claustrophobia began to settle in. The darkness that enveloped her was maddening...
She creaked open the cabinet...
"I can still see you," said a man's voice. She gasped as she felt as if all her breath was knocked out of her. All over her body, she felt pain that she couldn't even begin to describe...and... then just as pain had come, it disappeared. She felt the man scream out in rage as he pulled her out and punched her. "WHO ARE YOU?!" the man screamed. "YOU ARE NOT HIS MOTHER!"
"Wha.." the woman said. "I am just a baby si-"
"NO! Only his parents must go through the Test. Why did you get involved in this?! How did I make such a mistake?"
He pulled out the silenced pistol. "No! Oh god..."
"Now... you know..."
"Just let me go!"
"...my secret."
"No!"
......................................................................................................................................
"Oi, Mercer!" Lieutenant Kleiner shouted as he left his police car and approached the man who seemed to be preoccupied with weeding his yard. "Want to go out and grab lunch or something?"
"Well, somebody's happy," Mercer said, glancing at Kleiner. "Nice break on your investigation, I assume?"
"Well, I dunnow," Kleiner said. "This guy at SynTech..."
"SynTech?" Mercer raised an eyebrow and put down his gardening hoe. "Weren't they involved in that whole z-"
"Yeah, the same," Kleiner murmured. "Anyways, one of them brought this cool gadget that he swears can detect the Serial Killer. Now why didn't we have one of those when we were hunting down specials few years ago?"
Mercer hurriedly murmured that it would really have been nice to have one of those. Kleiner frowned. "What's wrong, something on your mind?"
"Wha? Oh no," Mercer said. "Nothing at all. Let me go get my coat. Where are we going?"
"Where else? Taco Bell," Kleiner sighed. "I swear, in a couple of years, there will be more Taco Bells in this country than there are people in this city...."
A tall woman quickly switched off the radio as she was trying to prepare a meal. "But I wanted to listen!" complained a child.
"You can listen to it later," the woman snapped. There was a knocking noise. "Who the..." the woman nearly swore. "Here, could you go and tell..."
"I got it," the kid said. He left and started to walk towards the door. The woman was just about to prepare for some spaghetti when she heard somebody gagging. She rushed out just in time to see the child on the floor, bleeding profusely from the neck, and a man in a police uniform closing the door behind him.
The Serial Killer was in the house.
He held a reddened knife in one hand.
And he was pointing a silenced pistol at her in the other.
She shrieked and quickly side stepped as a bullet went grazing past her hair. She quickly rushed it a room before the killer could pull of another shot and locked the door behind her. She opened a window and, instead of escaping, snuck into a closet, praying to whatever Deity out there, God, Loki, Hermes, Buddah, Allah, whomever, that the Serial Killer wouldn't kill her, and that he would follow the false trail out the window. She heard the doors break open... She heard a man's voice curse loudly and rush towards the window... and then there suddenly was silence.
Did she make it? Was the killer gone? She lay hidden in the cabinet for what seemed like an eternity, until claustrophobia began to settle in. The darkness that enveloped her was maddening...
She creaked open the cabinet...
Spoiler :
"I can still see you," said a man's voice. She gasped as she felt as if all her breath was knocked out of her. All over her body, she felt pain that she couldn't even begin to describe...and... then just as pain had come, it disappeared. She felt the man scream out in rage as he pulled her out and punched her. "WHO ARE YOU?!" the man screamed. "YOU ARE NOT HIS MOTHER!"
"Wha.." the woman said. "I am just a baby si-"
"NO! Only his parents must go through the Test. Why did you get involved in this?! How did I make such a mistake?"
He pulled out the silenced pistol. "No! Oh god..."
"Now... you know..."
"Just let me go!"
"...my secret."
"No!"
......................................................................................................................................
"Oi, Mercer!" Lieutenant Kleiner shouted as he left his police car and approached the man who seemed to be preoccupied with weeding his yard. "Want to go out and grab lunch or something?"
"Well, somebody's happy," Mercer said, glancing at Kleiner. "Nice break on your investigation, I assume?"
"Well, I dunnow," Kleiner said. "This guy at SynTech..."
"SynTech?" Mercer raised an eyebrow and put down his gardening hoe. "Weren't they involved in that whole z-"
"Yeah, the same," Kleiner murmured. "Anyways, one of them brought this cool gadget that he swears can detect the Serial Killer. Now why didn't we have one of those when we were hunting down specials few years ago?"
Mercer hurriedly murmured that it would really have been nice to have one of those. Kleiner frowned. "What's wrong, something on your mind?"
"Wha? Oh no," Mercer said. "Nothing at all. Let me go get my coat. Where are we going?"
"Where else? Taco Bell," Kleiner sighed. "I swear, in a couple of years, there will be more Taco Bells in this country than there are people in this city...."
North King
blech
- Joined
- Jan 2, 2004
- Messages
- 18,165
Rebecca rather liked the dining hall's third floor. Maybe it seemed a little lonely, but she liked the quiet, and after all, her friends knew exactly where to find her. And the view – the tables were oriented towards the gigantic window (more a glass wall, really) that overlooked the lake – the view was absolutely stunning. It was nice to be able to kick back, full of a good meal, and stare at the sun glittering off the half-thawed lake, reflected sunbeams broken by the sea.
“Hey, Becca.” Kim slid into the seat across the table, her face a little red.
“Heya. How's it going?”
“It's all right.” Excellent. Spectacular. I think I can feel my heartbeat in my kidneys.
“What were you up to today?”
“Not much.” I think my life is golden today. She was finding it difficult not to smile. So was Kim, for that matter. “You?”
“Oh, I was doing some poking around in the Science Building's basement.”
The sort of happy, sort of dazed look on Kim's face fell away immediately. “Again?” Seriously? “Rebecca, it's been like, two months since that weird ice-thing.”
“Five weeks. And no one's been able to explain it yet.”
“Freak weather events happen all the time.”
“Not like that.”
“Don't you think you're getting distracted from other things?”
“No.” What else was there to be distracted from?
“Really? So what are you doing this Friday?”
“Er... well, it was the first bit of free time I'm going to have in a while, so I was going to keep on investigating. I think I found a secret tunnel; it's not on any of the floor pla – ”
“Rebecca. You've forgotten entirely about my recital, didn't you?”
“Umm.” She flushed. “Of course I'm coming, but that's only like, two hours, right? So I can hear that, and do... uh...” She quailed under Kim's furious look. “I'll be there.”
“Good. But that's not the point. The point is that you're letting yourself get so utterly distracted by this little side project of yours that you're... I dunno, getting all withdrawn and angsty. It was hard to find time to talk to you as it was, with your, what, 20 credits and all? And now it's just getting ridiculous.”
“I...” She sighed. “You're right. So here's what we do. You're going to help me investigate.”
“What.”
“With my project! That way we all win.”
“WHAT.”
“I was joking. It's a fair point.”
“Damn right it's a fair point. We haven't even had girl talk in like, a month.”
“That's what she said.”
“Girl date, tonight? My room?”
“Yeah, I guess. I mean,” she said, flinching at the glare, “Yes, of course!”
The air dances as it always does. Have you ever felt the swish of carbon dioxide slowly filtering down towards the ground, falling as rapidly as it is exhaled, doing a slow, slow, violent tango with the rest of the atmospheric mixture...?
“And this just makes it as classy girl date as could be,” she said, reaching for the cup.
“Nothing like boxed wine to get the conversation flowing, I think.” Kim paused. “Well, that... or hypnosis. Or a variety of intravenous drugs designed to make the patient susceptible to suggestion – ”
“That's what she said.”
“You have got to stop doing that.”
“I'll restrain myself in the future... Like right there.”
Kim smirked at that one, and knocked back a good half the cup in her first go. “You know what happened today.”
“Actually, no.”
“You didn't go wandering around in my brain?”
“I avoid it as best I can, you know.”
“Guess.”
The planet moved. Oh, you can't see it, no, but the ionosphere ripples as it crashes into the solar wind, like little waves from a stone in a pond, circling the world at spectacular speeds – “I don't know.”
“They're playing one of my pieces at the next orchestra concert!”
“What.”
“Yeah, I just – I don't even...” They never did that. First student piece in years, I think I might accidentally say, “squee,” and that would not end well.
“That's amazing! Which one?”
“Oh, you know, the one with strings and woodwinds.”
“That narrows it down?”
“Actually, in my case, yes.”
“Still, I can't wait to hear it! How on earth did you get the director to agree to that?”
“Well, I dunno. I think it was something the composition teacher d...”
boiling broiling roiling coiling burning BURSTING RIPPING RENDING –
“…e you all right?”
“I – uh – ”
simmering shaking quaking breaking, fevers will sing today, m'lord
“Becca!”
“Something's wrong here.”
bouncing in unison, thrashing and motion
“I mean... here. Like, Redmountain.”
“What is it?”
How can the air crack if it isn't a crystal? What if it was a crystal? What if fluids were solids and solids were facts? What if every motion was a broken mirror? What if we slowed it down? What if the dance became march?
“Seriously, snap out of it.”
“I – ” She made a conscious effort to block out the raucous chorus in her head. “Something is going very, very wrong here.”
But she didn't have to say it, really. Things were grinding to a halt. The air was like pins and needles on her skin, almost as though it were crystallizing, becoming solid, freezing like ice into shapes and prickles. And not just on her skin – in her mouth, in the back of her throat, down her esophagus, in her lungs, in her pores, in the hemoglobin in her blood.
And she tried desperately to understand, thinking frantically. Kim was looking shocked and horrified across from her, but it wasn't actually shock – it was that her face was frozen, as though she were unable to move. Humans caught so unnaturally are ever so startled. The wine in her cup, which had been rocking back and forth, was gathering on one side, as though caught in a photograph. And her arms couldn't cut through the air anymore, it was as though they were imprisoned fully... but at the same time, she could hear the air, and it, too, was trapped against her arms, and against the wall, and against itself.
And she understood. The air wasn't freezing. Time was stopping. But why was she still conscious? No, not time, she thought, trying desperately to clench at the notion. She could stilllll feel hers... hersel... herself think even if the neurotransmitters were moving ever slower and ever... Neurons still fired, but so, so, slowly.
Time wasn't stopping. Time was still going on. But the atoms were stopping. The air had heated up. Now it was cooling down. Not freezing – it was going to absolute zero. No movement. And – she thought, regaining fire, strength doubling every second – that was why she was still thinking. She couldn't do anything about time freezing, but the movement or non-movement of atoms?
Piece of cake.
Someone had stopped this little bubble of the world from moving at all. And it was time to find out specifics.
“Hey, Becca.” Kim slid into the seat across the table, her face a little red.
“Heya. How's it going?”
“It's all right.” Excellent. Spectacular. I think I can feel my heartbeat in my kidneys.
“What were you up to today?”
“Not much.” I think my life is golden today. She was finding it difficult not to smile. So was Kim, for that matter. “You?”
“Oh, I was doing some poking around in the Science Building's basement.”
The sort of happy, sort of dazed look on Kim's face fell away immediately. “Again?” Seriously? “Rebecca, it's been like, two months since that weird ice-thing.”
“Five weeks. And no one's been able to explain it yet.”
“Freak weather events happen all the time.”
“Not like that.”
“Don't you think you're getting distracted from other things?”
“No.” What else was there to be distracted from?
“Really? So what are you doing this Friday?”
“Er... well, it was the first bit of free time I'm going to have in a while, so I was going to keep on investigating. I think I found a secret tunnel; it's not on any of the floor pla – ”
“Rebecca. You've forgotten entirely about my recital, didn't you?”
“Umm.” She flushed. “Of course I'm coming, but that's only like, two hours, right? So I can hear that, and do... uh...” She quailed under Kim's furious look. “I'll be there.”
“Good. But that's not the point. The point is that you're letting yourself get so utterly distracted by this little side project of yours that you're... I dunno, getting all withdrawn and angsty. It was hard to find time to talk to you as it was, with your, what, 20 credits and all? And now it's just getting ridiculous.”
“I...” She sighed. “You're right. So here's what we do. You're going to help me investigate.”
“What.”
“With my project! That way we all win.”
“WHAT.”
“I was joking. It's a fair point.”
“Damn right it's a fair point. We haven't even had girl talk in like, a month.”
“That's what she said.”
“Girl date, tonight? My room?”
“Yeah, I guess. I mean,” she said, flinching at the glare, “Yes, of course!”
The air dances as it always does. Have you ever felt the swish of carbon dioxide slowly filtering down towards the ground, falling as rapidly as it is exhaled, doing a slow, slow, violent tango with the rest of the atmospheric mixture...?
* * * * * * * * *
“And this just makes it as classy girl date as could be,” she said, reaching for the cup.
“Nothing like boxed wine to get the conversation flowing, I think.” Kim paused. “Well, that... or hypnosis. Or a variety of intravenous drugs designed to make the patient susceptible to suggestion – ”
“That's what she said.”
“You have got to stop doing that.”
“I'll restrain myself in the future... Like right there.”
Kim smirked at that one, and knocked back a good half the cup in her first go. “You know what happened today.”
“Actually, no.”
“You didn't go wandering around in my brain?”
“I avoid it as best I can, you know.”
“Guess.”
The planet moved. Oh, you can't see it, no, but the ionosphere ripples as it crashes into the solar wind, like little waves from a stone in a pond, circling the world at spectacular speeds – “I don't know.”
“They're playing one of my pieces at the next orchestra concert!”
“What.”
“Yeah, I just – I don't even...” They never did that. First student piece in years, I think I might accidentally say, “squee,” and that would not end well.
“That's amazing! Which one?”
“Oh, you know, the one with strings and woodwinds.”
“That narrows it down?”
“Actually, in my case, yes.”
“Still, I can't wait to hear it! How on earth did you get the director to agree to that?”
“Well, I dunno. I think it was something the composition teacher d...”
boiling broiling roiling coiling burning BURSTING RIPPING RENDING –
“…e you all right?”
“I – uh – ”
simmering shaking quaking breaking, fevers will sing today, m'lord
“Becca!”
“Something's wrong here.”
bouncing in unison, thrashing and motion
“I mean... here. Like, Redmountain.”
“What is it?”
How can the air crack if it isn't a crystal? What if it was a crystal? What if fluids were solids and solids were facts? What if every motion was a broken mirror? What if we slowed it down? What if the dance became march?
“Seriously, snap out of it.”
“I – ” She made a conscious effort to block out the raucous chorus in her head. “Something is going very, very wrong here.”
But she didn't have to say it, really. Things were grinding to a halt. The air was like pins and needles on her skin, almost as though it were crystallizing, becoming solid, freezing like ice into shapes and prickles. And not just on her skin – in her mouth, in the back of her throat, down her esophagus, in her lungs, in her pores, in the hemoglobin in her blood.
And she tried desperately to understand, thinking frantically. Kim was looking shocked and horrified across from her, but it wasn't actually shock – it was that her face was frozen, as though she were unable to move. Humans caught so unnaturally are ever so startled. The wine in her cup, which had been rocking back and forth, was gathering on one side, as though caught in a photograph. And her arms couldn't cut through the air anymore, it was as though they were imprisoned fully... but at the same time, she could hear the air, and it, too, was trapped against her arms, and against the wall, and against itself.
And she understood. The air wasn't freezing. Time was stopping. But why was she still conscious? No, not time, she thought, trying desperately to clench at the notion. She could stilllll feel hers... hersel... herself think even if the neurotransmitters were moving ever slower and ever... Neurons still fired, but so, so, slowly.
Time wasn't stopping. Time was still going on. But the atoms were stopping. The air had heated up. Now it was cooling down. Not freezing – it was going to absolute zero. No movement. And – she thought, regaining fire, strength doubling every second – that was why she was still thinking. She couldn't do anything about time freezing, but the movement or non-movement of atoms?
Piece of cake.
Someone had stopped this little bubble of the world from moving at all. And it was time to find out specifics.
