Jump to content


Photo
- - - - -

Angels of Mercy vs. Children of Sayang: Khazan City


  • Please log in to reply
73 replies to this topic

#1 deojusto

deojusto

    I am One with the Ferret.

  • FPL Undercards Admin
  • PipPipPipPipPipPipPipPipPipPipPip
  • 4,023 posts
  • Gender:Male
  • Location:California

Posted 15 April 2011 - 04:07 PM

Well its finally done. My long fic about a clash between The Angel’s of Mercy and Children of Sayang rosters has finally been finished. I’ll be editing as I go, but fully polished story sections should appear in this thread when I get the time. They’ll probably be between 5-10 pages long per update. Thanks again to everybody who let me use their characters. Without further ado, here’s the first update…

#2 deojusto

deojusto

    I am One with the Ferret.

  • FPL Undercards Admin
  • PipPipPipPipPipPipPipPipPipPipPip
  • 4,023 posts
  • Gender:Male
  • Location:California

Posted 15 April 2011 - 04:11 PM

The Première

A man in a clean white waiter’s uniforms moves through the crowd offering champagne and water to any who would take it. He passes by a local reporter in a black cocktail dress; her assistant has a bulky camera hoistered in his arms. He gives her the silent countdown, three, two, one…

“Hello and welcome everyone, Sherry Stone here and I’m at the premiere of El Coyote. The new film has already opened at a half dozen film festivals across the globe, earning several standing ovations. It has come to the glorious Monument Theater in downtown Khazan City for its in-theater release viewing.

“But the big story of any film premiere are the celebrities attending it, or in this case not attending. Despite having starred and funded the film, celebutante turned aspiring starlet Sonja Sullivan is nowhere to be seen at her own film premiere… Only fashionably late we hope. Stay tuned with your favorite correspondent as we…”

The waiter passes behind her having deposited three glasses of champagne to the group of critics hovering near the theater doors. A waitress in an identical uniform with an empty tray nods to him. They walk towards the back of the lobby. Two men are quietly arguing by the back wall.

“Did you call her?”

“I did, I did a hundred times. I call every five minutes.”

“You’re her agent, you have to know where she is!”

“Sonja’s like that, she’ll disappear for days at a time. Goes off the grid; she doesn’t even tell me what she does.”

The waiter pushes the door to the staff area open. The waitress follows behind him as they sneak through the hallway into the kitchen. He enters the kitchen carefully, attempting not to drop his tray or trip across the pile of corpses lain in a heap against the wall. The waitress does the same and they both drop their plates onto a counter.

They dead men all wore his uniform, save that theirs were marred by red stains across their torsos and throats. One had his arm ripped off at the shoulder, cutting a messy trail of blood across the pristine floor. The trail led to the small man sitting on the steel counter next to the sink; he licked his fingers noisily. The waitress lets out an irritated sigh.

“I’m hucking drinks in a monkey suit and high heels, and you’re having a snack?”

Koji shrugs. The other waiter leans against the back wall and nods.

“I have to agree with your partner,” he says, “I did most of the leg work setting all this up, and I’m serving drinks with the girls while you all are sitting with your dicks in your hands.”

“Incorrect,” says Koji, “You only did all the leg-work you know about.”

He kicks a coffin shaped box beneath his feet; it is held shut by a thick metal padlock.

“Second, I would join the girls if I could; really I would… we are anything if not equal opportunity. It’s just that Voodoo doesn’t like to be seen in public, and the rest of us look like we were hit with the heavy end of the ugly stick. You should take it as a compliment, you’re the only one who looks normal enough to go out in public.”

Scourge unhooks his bowtie and begins unbuttoning the top button of the uniform shirt.

“Thanks I guess.”

It comes out with biting sarcasm which Koji heartily ignores. Star walks in through the door wearing the same uniform as the other two.

“It’s done. I served the last of it. Some of them needed extra motivation but nothing that a little ‘influence’ couldn’t help.”

“See,” says Koji, “she’s not complaining.”

A hard knock comes at the back door. Keijo opens it and a man in dark shades walks in. He is biting into a thick cigar and speaks in a calm tenor.

“Are you ready for curtain call?”

“Still have to set up the grand-finale.” Koji replies, “Shouldn’t take long though, no one would notice if we do it while their backs are turned. Nomad should be ready in the projector room; can’t imagine the projectionist gave him any trouble.”

“Then get to work.”

Koji grins at the seriousness of the command. With a laugh, he hops off the counter and grabs one end of the wooden box lying at his feet. Keijo grabs the other end and the two heave it from the ground and slowly carry it out of the kitchen. Star walks by Voodoo, silently disappearing into the back alley he emerged from. Scourge pulls a walkie-talkie from the table.

“Nomad. We’re done down here, are you set up?”

There is a brief pause, then the device clicks.

“Yeah I’m good on this end. We’ve got thirteen minutes before the reels switch, plenty of time. Did the freak set up his pet project?”

“He’s doing it now. You’ve got the go ahead to start the show.”

Nomad doesn’t give a response, and Voodoo and Scourge stand waiting. The sound of two quick musical tones echoes in from the lobby.

Attention: The film will be starting soon, please take your seats.

The muttering from the main room seems to move in a new direction. It was all in place now, nothing to do but watch. Scourge looks at the pile of dead waiters in the corner of the room.

“Should we do something about them?”

Voodoo begins moving for the back door.

“Why bother, it’s not like this is going to go unnoticed if we don’t…”




Outside The Monument Theater, Later

The sirens could be heard two blocks away. The Monument was surrounded by at least a dozen officers. A few were milling about in Hazmat suits, no order had been given to breach quite yet and they stood around hoping they would never have to.

Across the street and beyond the tapeline two men sat in a parked car.

“Well that didn’t take them long.”

“No.”

“Gotta give the KPD credit for responding so quickly. But then again, this is The Monument we’re talking about, not some projects in Hickory Park… You ever been?”

“To the Bottoms?”

“No, The Monument? It’s supposed to be really nice. Or at least it was really nice.”

“Right…no one’s going in or out. What’s your guess?”

The second man shrugs, leaning back on the passenger seat cushion. Jason sits up stiff in the driver’s seat, observing every person moving through the mob, he never glimpses away for even a second. John pauses before answering the question.

“My money would go for some sort of chemical attack. Anthrax maybe.”

“If it was anthrax they would have evacuated the building,” Jason says, “They’re not even going in to see if anyone’s ok. Maybe some sort of dirty bomb?”

“They probably don’t know what it is.”

Jason laughs.

“If they don’t even know what it is, what the hell are we doing here?”

“Well, we’re just all kinds of special,” John smirks.

He checks the barrels of his revolver one by one.

“Besides, back-up is on the way. Helenas is taking the next flight out of SFO, Jill was in Cambodia for some God forsaken reason, and another chick from New York volunteered. Never met her before but she’s supposed to be…well, we’ll see. I also called in a Khazan specialist. He’s good, you’ll like him… well probably not, but for the money he’s charging me you don’t have to like him.”

“And if something goes down before they get here?”

“I put a crate of Helenas’s bottled water in the back of your trunk just in case.”

“Bottled water?”

“It’s a long story…good one too, you aught to get her to tell it to you someday.”

He snaps the revolver back and shoves it into his holster. Jason finally looks away from the scene.

“We could get to the rooftop next door,” he suggests, “cross over on the fire-escape. We would be in and out before they ever work up the nerve to come in.”

“Maybe, but if it is a chemical weapon or some radioactive lump of sh*t, I would very much like to be wearing one of their nice hazmat suits… You ever pull off a Bavarian Fire-Drill.”

Jason nods,
“What were you thinking?”

“Khazan City PD? We could tell them were from a special terrorism task-force.”

“Wouldn’t work. The city cops don’t handle terrorism, that’s probably why they’re all just twiddling their thumbs right now. Besides, the entire department out here is a pretty well knit group. We should tell them we’re feds; at least that will take longer to verify. I think I even got some fake I.D.s in here somewhere.”

“It’s your plan Mr. Redfield… I’d throw the AR-15 under the seat though, not exactly a standard police firearm.”

The badges were resting in the glove box, they slip them on their inside pockets.

Both men pop open their doors simultaneously and calmly stride towards The Monument; Jason checks his glock and pulls back the slide, then stuffs it in a shoulder holster.

They duck under the tape without even acknowledging anyone. A young officer places a hand out to stop John.

“I’m sorry sir, you’ll have to stay behind the tape.”

“Relax we’re on the same side,” John flashes the badge too quickly to be questioned, “We’re with the Khazan National Police, Homeland Security task-force.”

“I’ve never heard of you.”

“Oh I’m sorry,” adds in Jason coldly, “Why don’t we hold off from investigating a possible terror attack until, what’s your name?”

“Oh-uh, Mick, Mick Spillane—”

“Lets hold off on finding the people who did this, until Officer Spillane here is sure his important task of guarding the tape line is secure.”

The officer is silenced long enough for the two to move past. They can finally see the doors of The Monument, it all seems normal from here. A large police van is parked on the curb; Hazmat suits sit on racks in the back.

“Hey!”

Jason and John turn. Spillane is following them, an older cop in plainclothes is coming with him.

“Crap” says John.

The balding man in an overcoat stalks towards the two, neither so much as flinch.

“Who the hell are you two?”

“Who’s asking?” Jason replies.

“Detective Ortega, and you’ll have to excuse me if I ask the questions; who the hell are you two, and what makes you think you can order around my officers like you’re the damned Commander in Chief?”

“Special agent Tanner,” says Jason, “and that’s Special Agent Clarke. Khazan Homeland Security Taskforce. Listen sir, I do not have the interest or the time to get into a jurisdictional pissing contest right now. This is still your case, but we go in with you.”

“You’re supposed to be Feds?... Tell me, how’s my old friend Director Nolan?”

The two “agents” turn to each other. John dramatically furrows his brow.

“Didn’t Nolan kick the bucket?”

“He sure did.” Says Jason.

Ortega pauses, then smiles.

“Nice try boys…”

“Hey, that’s just what I heard, maybe you haven’t talked to him lately, but I hear he’s dead.”

“It’s possible Nolan died since we last spoke, but unless she also had gender reassignment, I don’t think were talking about the same person.”

Jason sighs under his breath. John pauses, the wheels in his head still turning.

“Wait…Your name’s Ortega. You possibly Detective Manny Ortega?”

“What difference does that make?”

John walks away from Jason towards the balding man, pulling him into a corner away from the mob of officers now gathering around them.

Ortega glares at John, every time his mouth opens it seems like he was going to spit in your eye. John forces a small folded piece of paper into his hands before he got the chance. Ortega brusquely unfolds it and reads. The wind draws out of him. He shoves it back to into John’s palm. His earlier booming voice turns to a harsh whisper.

“Christ, why didn’t you mention this earlier?

“I don’t like to mention their name if I don’t have to.”

“I would have cleared all this up, someone should have told me you were coming.”

“No one knows I’m here, I’m not local, it’s a classified deal; I work under the German.”

“…you’ve got to be kidding me, does he have something to do with this?”

“No, no, nothing like that. We’re only interested in protecting our investments; I deal with a certain organization which has been making that rather difficult. I think they’re behind this, but me and my friend have to go inside to be sure.”

“Yeah, sure, whatever you need.”

“Thanks,” says John, “we’re expecting another guy to show up as well. Outside contractor, local PI called ‘The Mortician’.”

“I know him… well I know of him. I’ll let my officers understand he’s to be let through… These guys you’re going after, how bad do they have to be if the Syndicate is trying to help the police stop them?”

John begins to walk away.

“Oh… pretty bad.”

Jason hasn’t moved from his spot; John throws him the thumbs up and they step into the Hazmat truck.

“What was that all about?”

“Long story”, John replies curtly, “I have a few contacts in Khazan and we were able to work things out. Let’s not push it though, we should probably get out of here before the real national police show up.”




Inside the Monument

The flock of police officers in the bright yellow suits carefully creep through the doors. The projector still rolls yet nothing but the white flicker at the end of a reel is left. Everyone is dead.

People rest like rag-dolls wherever they happened to die; some cluster in a struggled mass near the front of the theater, a few others sit in their seats with an almost peaceful calm.

The floors are scummed with pools of red tinted bile. Jason looks down at an adult male. The man was bent over himself in the narrow aisle, a pool of blood plasters his knees. In his face Jason saw excruciating pain, he lifted his chin upwards, the skin was hot to the touch.

“This one still has a high temp, probably a fever of some kind. They must have been killed by some sort of biological weapon.”

“Not all of them,” John adds.

In front of him lies the cluster of bodies that piled onto the stage. They were strewn across each other, smeared with red stains issuing from open wounds. They were all men, save one woman in a black cocktail dress. John inspects closer, they all had kitchen knives in their hands.

He looks up towards the screen; starring front and center is a dark haired woman on a cross. The white light from the projector highlights her flesh; it has been carved up from the wrists to the shoulders, from the shoulders to the waist, and from the waist to the ankles. John looks to her then towards the pile of dead butchers piled before her.

“Sons of bitches.” He mutters.

The officers spread out, searching all the bodies. Jason kneels to analyze a body lying prone on the floor near the fire exit. John seems to freeze on the stage, there isn’t anything left he could do. He looks up to the beauty hanging on the wooden boards. Her hands and legs are tied back by heavy rope; she couldn’t have done anything to stop it.

He reaches out to touch her; even through the gloves she is cold. At least she was never infected. He moves his hand up to brush the dark hair from her face.

Her eyes were shut, her mouth was plied with a cloth, and her expression imbued a look he had never seen in her before.

“Sonja…”

For a brief second a muscle in her face twitched long enough for her to lift her eyelids. A weak flow of air escaped her nostrils.

“Holy shit,” said John, “Somebody! Hey, she’s still breathing!”

Jason rises.
“What?”

“I said she’s still breathing! She’s still breathing and she’s not infected, somebody get an ambulance!”

A young officer towards the back of the room dashes out the entrance. John leaps at the rope holding her limp body to the cross. He begins pulling at the thick knots but nothing budges. A hand taps him on the shoulder.

Jason steps past him; he briefly opens the zipper in the Hazmat suit, and slips out a four-inch combat knife. He places it between the ropes and the board; it saws back and forth, the rope breaks and one of Sonja’s hands tumbles down. Jason moves to the other board and cuts the second knot holding her to the cross. It snaps off, her body falls forward into John’s arms. He holds her up under the shoulders as Jason cuts the ropes at her feet.

Everything about her seems hollow in his hands, her seeming weightlessness, the empty expression on her face, the weak breaths still moving through her lips. Jason snaps the rope at her feet. Her body unhinges into a limp mannequin.

A pair of paramedics in the hazmat suits rush inward with the same officer who left a moment ago. They carry a stretcher up to the front of the stage; John carefully lays her onto it and they carry her out.

He turns to Jason.

“What kind of people could do this?”

“I can’t say for sure, not until we know what this is.”

A faceless being emerges from behind the show curtain.

“I might be able to help with that…”


More to come soon

#3 treacherous

treacherous

    Good...Bad...I'm the guy with the Hammer

  • Administrators
  • PipPipPipPipPipPipPipPipPipPipPip
  • 15,777 posts
  • Gender:Male
  • Location:In front of the T.V. mostly
  • Interests:Stuff and stuff.

Posted 15 April 2011 - 04:47 PM

Ooh Snap!
It's on like the Donkey Kong now. Can't wait to see what you cooked up.

#4 M Bison

M Bison

    Cool dude

  • Members
  • PipPipPipPipPipPipPip
  • 1,385 posts
  • Gender:Male
  • Location:Manchester, England

Posted 15 April 2011 - 05:23 PM

I hope the next part comes soon, heh. No rush of course, but i'm certainly enjoying this.

#5 Darkender

Darkender

    Believes Han shot first

  • Members
  • PipPipPipPipPipPipPipPipPipPip
  • 2,557 posts
  • Gender:Male

Posted 15 April 2011 - 05:32 PM

Yea same here. This felt like such a teaser.

#6 deojusto

deojusto

    I am One with the Ferret.

  • FPL Undercards Admin
  • PipPipPipPipPipPipPipPipPipPipPip
  • 4,023 posts
  • Gender:Male
  • Location:California

Posted 15 April 2011 - 06:29 PM

Yea same here. This felt like such a teaser.


It is and it isn't. In context in the rest of the story this makes sense as a beginning, but on its own it is very vague. Its just the way I ended up blocking up what I've written.

#7 treacherous

treacherous

    Good...Bad...I'm the guy with the Hammer

  • Administrators
  • PipPipPipPipPipPipPipPipPipPipPip
  • 15,777 posts
  • Gender:Male
  • Location:In front of the T.V. mostly
  • Interests:Stuff and stuff.

Posted 15 April 2011 - 07:35 PM

Yea same here. This felt like such a teaser.


Ahhh, you know the guy at the end is the Conspiracist. I'm going to have Marshell make Parasite eat the Conspiracist. I did like that Parasite still isn't playing dress up. Also, I believe Jason Redfield should get some sort of award for appearing in so many different Sayang fics. He's a big part of mine too. Gonna have to take him out too.

#8 Darkender

Darkender

    Believes Han shot first

  • Members
  • PipPipPipPipPipPipPipPipPipPip
  • 2,557 posts
  • Gender:Male

Posted 15 April 2011 - 07:53 PM

Ahhh, you know the guy at the end is the Conspiracist. I'm going to have Marshell make Parasite eat the Conspiracist. I did like that Parasite still isn't playing dress up. Also, I believe Jason Redfield should get some sort of award for appearing in so many different Sayang fics. He's a big part of mine too. Gonna have to take him out too.

<_< Marshell's just sore cause he ended up with a file.

#9 Jason Redfield

Jason Redfield

    Believes Han shot first

  • Members
  • PipPipPipPipPipPipPipPipPipPip
  • 3,262 posts
  • Gender:Male

Posted 15 April 2011 - 08:06 PM

I was so excited to see this posted that I actually started fist-pumping the air.

It did not disappoint.

I didn't notice any grammatical errors that jumped out at me, so good job in proofreading. The piece itself seemed very solid; you didn't drag it out but you gave plenty of details to keep us interested, as always.

All of the characters were portrayed quite well. You nailed Scourge's sarcasm perfectly, as well as Jason's overall attitude. I'm glad I moved him into the Angels now.

Also, I believe Jason Redfield should get some sort of award for appearing in so many different Sayang fics. He's a big part of mine too. Gonna have to take him out too.


Hehe. Now that you mention it, that's quite true. And feel free to try your best. He's in desperate need of target practice. <_<


In any case, can't wait for the next installment.

#10 treacherous

treacherous

    Good...Bad...I'm the guy with the Hammer

  • Administrators
  • PipPipPipPipPipPipPipPipPipPipPip
  • 15,777 posts
  • Gender:Male
  • Location:In front of the T.V. mostly
  • Interests:Stuff and stuff.

Posted 15 April 2011 - 08:24 PM

This reminds me that I must finish the Clash thingy. I might include all these tie in fics as links.

#11 deojusto

deojusto

    I am One with the Ferret.

  • FPL Undercards Admin
  • PipPipPipPipPipPipPipPipPipPipPip
  • 4,023 posts
  • Gender:Male
  • Location:California

Posted 18 April 2011 - 04:41 PM

Part 2

From the rooftops above…

The Conspiracist glares down at the pack of cops below. They had entered less then a minute ago, if he wanted to get in on this he had to move now.

He springs from the rooftop, bounding over the gap towards The Monument. The motion is quick and silent, unnoticed to the authorities below. He lands onto the fire escape cleanly, rising like a panther.

He slips through a second story window and begins to glide through the halls. He walks towards the edge of a room that seems to be letting out an unexplained sound.

He pushes open the door to the projector room and stalks in. The projectionist lies on the floor; the backside of his head has been neatly caved in. A single errant projector still runs on. The Conspiracist carefully steps over the body and looks onto the theater from the high angle view of the projection box. Men in yellow hazmat suits have spread through the aisles observing the bodies. Even from this distance he could see the symptoms of the moviegoers. It was enough to confirm his suspicions.

He leaves the room by a side door which opens to a staircase. He was careful to open the door with his elbow; not that fingerprints would be an issue through gloves, but procedure was still procedure.

The stairs empty out to a kitchen facility. The Conspiracist was contemplating what kind of fancy theater would have a full kitchen when he saw them. They were men and women, all in the same crisp white uniform, all murdered quite brutally. None seemed affected by any of the symptoms of those inside the theater, one of them was missing an arm at the shoulder.

The Conspiracist began to muse to himself.

“He must be working with others.”

He follows a path that secretly led from the kitchen to the back of the screen. He ducks briefly behind the curtains, waiting for a seemingly dramatic opening.

“What kind of people could do this?”

“I can’t say for sure, not until we know what this is.”

Bingo.

“I might be able to help with that…”

The Conspiracist emerges from the curtain, John and Jason look back at him oddly.

“You know him?” John asks.

“No,” Jason replies, “and I’d think I’d remember a face like that.”

The Conspiracist steps forward, beneath the mask his mouth opens to speak. Sometime during this he blinks; John’s revolver is pressed against the tip of his nose when his eyes open. John’s aim is rock steady, but it was impossible to tell if he had managed to intimidate the faceless man.

“Allow me to explain,” the Conspiracist says calmly, “I’m with the Angels of Mercy… I follow leads others are too ignorant or too terrified to touch, I work in the shadows of lies that the world leaders deny exist.”

“Let me guess, ‘The Conspiracist’?”

“I see my reputation proceeds me.”

“As far as reputation is concerned I’ve always viewed quality over quantity. Being the Angels’ most famous nutjob isn’t exactly something to be proud of.”

“If truth is what you want, sometimes you must leave the constructs of what is ‘sane’ to find it…”

“Excuse me,” Jason butts in, “at some point you mentioned you knew who did this?”

“Whom,” states The Conspiracist, “a group.”

“It doesn’t matter,” John scoffs, “the subject would still be ‘who’.”

“Whatever…One of their members has been active in Khazan for some time.”

He points out towards the morbid audience.

“He can replicate new diseases at will. I’ve seen these symptoms before. Three locations across Lowtown, nothing as big as this, testing stages maybe… He calls himself Scourge.”

Jason leans forward.

“Now there’s a name I’d recognize.”

He motions to John to drop the gun. John slowly pulls the revolver away.

“I guess that confirms it. Sayang has recruited Scourge. These bastards are growing fast.”

“Sayang?” The faceless man asks.

“Terrorist organization,” John adds, “Real bad guys. I’m sure you’ve been too busy chasing the Illuminati vampire dogs of Atlantis to have heard of them.”

“You’d be surprised.”

Officer Spillaine comes in through the front doors. He yells out towards the three men on the stage.

“Excuse me, Agent Clarke. Your uh, ‘specialist’, is here.”




Outside The Monument


He had to check the address again to be sure; he pulled the note out of the pocket of his soiled and worn white trench coat. The address was right, someone had actually attacked the Monument.

Huebris didn’t come up here much; not many would invite anyone in his line of work to Uptown anyway. Every now and again a Syndicate pantheon member would come into some money and try to pass himself off as a gangster with sophistication; aside from that, people born in Lowtown, stay in Lowtown.

Huebris had to muscle through a flood of reporters just to get past the tapeline. In the this city your average drug murder isn’t worth reporting, but somebody attacks rich celebrities at a city landmark, then it’s newsworthy.

“Excuse me, sir?”

Huebris looks towards the young officer.

“Before you go inside, you’ll need to put on a Hazmat suit.”

“Why?”

“I can’t say sir. The suits are in the truck.”

Huebris spat onto the pavement. A few dozen cops, a promise to pay his whole fee plus tip from someone he had never met, and now hazmat suits. This just kept getting more and more interesting.

He threw on the bulky yellow suit and followed the officer inside. It soon became obvious why he needed it; you could smell the sickness from the lobby. He had seen massacres before, caused a few of them too, this was a little more… creative.

The swarm of police officers were photographing corpses. Three men were standing on stage, two of them moved towards Huebris; they didn’t walk like cops.

“You’re The Mortician?”

“And you must be Mr. Reynolds,” replied Huebris, “I was surprised when you called. I don’t usually work for the upstanding citizens brigade.”

“You prefer working with the mob?”

“I prefer working with people who can afford to pay me. That doesn’t often include piss-poor vigilantes. Which makes it all that more surprising when one of them hires me out of the blue without ever explaining what he’s getting me into.”

Huebris looks back onto the stage. The third man waiting there wasn’t wearing a hazmat suit; he appeared to be in a faceless mask and trench coat. There was a blood-stained wooden cross standing behind him.

“What exactly have you got me into?”

“We were hoping you could help tell us that.” John replied.

He points to one of the bloodied corpses sitting in a jumbled pile towards the front end of the theater. Huebris walks towards it. He takes off his fedora and places it on a clean seat next to him, takes a deep calming breath, then places his hand on its shoulder.

His mind rushes with the familiar sensation of exploding visions and convulsing emotional pain; the dead man’s life rewound, then played before his eyes….



The Vision…

“Attention: The film will be starting soon, please take your seats.”

The soon to be deceased film critic looks up and follows the crowd inside. Up until now everything was fine; he had a few drinks, as had everyone else. He didn’t necessarily want to, but the wait staff was very compelling.

He took his seat and the movie started. A few minutes in it was obvious that it was the same independent, intellectual, self-indulgent crap you’d expect. He got to see Sonja Sullivan in a tank top in the first scene so it didn’t seem all that bad. It was actually just getting good; then the film cut out.

One moment the heroine is staring across the wide Mexican-American border, the next we’re in a gritty sepia tone dungeon. The audience doesn’t make a sound; perhaps it was just a trippy dream sequence. A large man in a Greek comedy mask steps forth and faces the camera. His voice echoes like a phonograph recording.

“Hello… As I’m sure you’ve noticed, this is not apart of the regular scheduled programming…. consider this a teaser trailer for the…‘main event’…”

He lets out a small laugh. The critic turns to his left and sees the woman sitting next to him shivering and clutching her knees. The man on screen continues.

“Tonight we’re going to make filmmaking history… This will be the world’s very first interactive film experience… not 3D, not 4D… you will actually be apart of the action… you will strive to be like the heroes you worship, and you will suffer the consequences should you fail… I would expect some of you are already experiencing the consequences…”

The sound of vomiting comes from the critic’s left; the woman has fallen from her chair. People around the theater begin to panic. The critic’s view begins to blur, but he can still make out that sickly sweet plaster smile on the screen.

“You are all infected; the symptoms to expect are dizziness, blurred vision, fever, vomiting, internal bleeding, and expiration… even the strongest of you has fifteen minutes to live, thirty tops.”

The critic attempts to get out of his seat but is pounded by vertigo. In the corner of his periphery he sees men futilely slamming against the exit doors.

“However, there is no reason you all need to die… Check under your seats”

He looks back to the masked man on screen, then down to the ground. He gropes beneath the chair and finds something wedged under the cushion. He carefully grasps and pulls. A long carving knife glimmers back at him. He looks back to the screen. The psychopath just keeps grinning.

The screen rises up towards the ceiling; the film projects on the brick wall behind it. The pale sepia light contrasts against the dark skin of a lone woman on the stage as she thrashes against the ropes holding her to a wooden cross. His vision clears briefly, he can see her face clearly, recognizing it from the film.

She attempts to muster a scream through the rag shoved in her mouth, the calm words of the psycho on screen drowns her out. His wide white smile projects across her entire torso.

“Now each of you has been provided with the ability to save yourself… there is an antidote hidden somewhere on Ms. Sullivan… or more appropriately, somewhere in Ms. Sullivan.”

The critic looks to her, then to the knife in his hand.

“If you’re willing to do what you must, you will live to see tomorrow… to those who cannot or will not save themselves, well, perhaps the world was better without you… but if you’re having trouble making up your mind, you should know there’s only enough of a cure for one of you…and the other filmgoers might not be so...hesitant….”

The screen cuts to blank white. More people are getting sick. By the critic’s side a man rushes by, knife in hand.

He charges his way towards the front stage and hops towards the damsel on the cross. Our critic isn’t far behind, the blade still in his hand.

He rushes to her and begins looking for any signs of something that could be hidden in her, under her skin. Another hand grabs him and throws him to the side. Sherry Stone rushes towards Sonja; she plunges a knife into her gut. Sonja screams in agony, the reporter inserts her hand into the wound and begins routing around.

The critic falls back in another spell of vertigo. Everything becomes hazy. He stumbles away, Sherry seems to be rooting through the intestines, a few others had opened up the limbs. Sonja continues to give out pained cries until her head drops. The critic’s head drops down as well.

Liquid bile flows out his mouth and onto the floor. He bends over in pain.

“I got it, I got it!”

Sherry emerges from the pack, a thin glass vile is in her hands. She shoves a few of the men back as she escapes. The critic quickly comes to his feet and pounces on her; they both tumble to the floor. She clutches the vile with both hands. Unable to pry it from her, he does the next best thing.

The knife slides against her throat quickly. It ruptures with blood; in her death he grasps the vile for himself.

He can’t escape; as soon as he has it the others pile on top of him. He attempts to bring the vile to his mouth. The sharp pain of repeated stabbing comes from his backside.

He drops the glass vile and another man snatches it away. The critic only lives long enough to see that man stabbed in the ribs before his eyes close for good.






The Monument, Later

Huebris steps back. The out of body experience was never fun, and it got worse with the especially painful deaths. He took a moment to regain his composure; Jason and John both stood waiting as Huebris organized all the visions in his head.

“So, what was it?”

“It was…complicated,” Huebris replies, “but if you went to the projector room and checked the last reel, you wouldn’t be wasting your time.”

Jason looks towards the man in the faceless mask. The Conspiracist nods back, and disappears offstage. Huebris begins undoing his hazmat suit; the smell wasn’t great but he felt better without it. John and Jason look at him, startled; Huebris waves towards them.

“You can probably take yours off too. Based on what I saw it wasn’t airborne; wouldn’t drink any of the booze they got stashed around here though.”

John’s eyes twitch,
“They poisoned 120 dollar champagne…those bastards.”

“It wasn’t poison. They said the victims were ‘infected’, a fast-acting disease… What happened to the broad on the cross?”

“We took her down and they sent her to St. Crispin’s. She’s in critical condition, she might not make it.”

Huebris nods. He picks up his wide brimmed hat and places it back on his head. He begins to slowly make his way towards the lobby.

“Well, best of luck to you. You know what to do.”

“You don’t want to stay longer?”

“You wanted to know what happened; now you do. The transaction is finished.”

“Right,” John mutters, “check’s in the mail.”

Jason and John pull the hoods off their hazmat suits. Jason watches Huebris as he pushes his way from the crime scene.

“You’re right,” he says, “I really don’t like him.”

“What I miss?”

The Conspiracist appears behind them, a film reels under his arm.

“You are very good at that,” Jason says “like a ninja or something.”

“It’s almost Batman-like.” John adds

The Conspiracist hands Jason the reel. The police begin to crawl towards them now that Huebris has left; Jason hands the reel to Detective Ortega.

“Special agent Clarke and I are going to need a copy of that when you’re done.”

“Right,” Ortega winks, “I’ll make sure you get it…”





Uptown streets

The Mustang pulls out first. Jason hops into his car while John stays on the pavement. The streets are beginning to be dampened by an increasing rainfall. Jason pokes his head out the window.

“You sure you don’t want to come with? There’s nothing you can do for her.”

“I’m sure you two will have it under control. Besides we’ve got at least three more people coming in for this already. I want to call around, see if we can find a motel that can keep its ears closed.”

The Mustang’s engine revs impatiently. Jason rolls the window back up and pulls up beside it. The two cars drive out towards the bridge to Lowtown.

John pulls out his phone and attempts to put in the number for directory assistance. Before he can, a checkered taxi turns onto the street. What luck. He puts the phone away and waves towards the cab. It slowly rolls to a stop on the other side of the road. John jogs through the rain and slides into the cab.

“Hi, can I get to St. Crispin’s hospital please.”

“Sure thing, Mack.”

The voice is sing song. John looks to the front of the car and sees that the driver is a woman, and a nice dame at that. The car slowly drives through the pelting rain.

He relaxes. There was something in the air. It was nice, familiar, it was Jasmine…no… Lavender.

The car makes a right when it aught to make a left. It wasn’t heading towards St. Crispin’s.

“Hey, you’re going the wrong way.”

“It’s all right, the meter isn’t running yet; I gotta make one stop first.”

The car pulls behind a blind alley just off the bridge. The alley is narrowly squeezed between two industrial buildings. The car slows down, and a man in a dark suit steps out from the street. John quietly moves his hand to his gun. The car stops and the man steps through the side door. He sits in the back of the cab opposite John.

“Thanks doll.”

The car speeds up out of the alley. The man in the cheap black suit looks to John.

“So Johnny boy, how ya been?”

John draws the pistol out in a fraction of a second. He jams it directly into the man’s torso. The man smiles politely.

“Come on Johnny boy. You can’t be this jumpy, I don’t mean you no harm. I’m just sharing a cab with you to, hey where are we going?”

“St. Crispin’s.” replies the dame up front.

The man nods.

“Really? Who do you know there?”

“A fellow Angel’s member,” John replies, “She was kidnapped, tortured, and used as a meat puppet. She was barely breathing last time I saw her and she probably won’t see the end of the week.”

The man is silent for a moment.

“Wow… don’t I feel like a jackass.”

“Don’t worry about it DeLuca, I already thought you were a jackass.”

The cab pulls onto the highway, leading inland towards the hospital. It charges through the rain like a bullet. John pulls his gun back and stares out the window.

“I’ve read a file on you once,” he says, “you work Lowtown, The Bottom, Hickory Park. I’ve never even been there. So what the hell do you want from me?”

“Word travels fast in this town,” says DeLuca, “especially when you’ve always got one ear to the ground. Word is, someone attacked The Monument Theater. You know what they say, wealth travels up, but sh*t always runs downhill; won’t be long before The Bottom gets hit too. And when it is, you’re not going to get a fleet of black and whites like you did tonight. I’m the best we got.”

John laughs contemptuously. He looks back towards DeLuca.

“You’re a half-bit Syndicate gangster.”

“Ex-gangster…people can change their ways. I fought to get out; I spilt blood… gone legit now, I’m a P.I. . Got my own office and everything.”

“You can call yourself an ex-‘whatever you want’; doesn’t make it true. Besides, assuming you’re only shady and not entirely corrupt, neither I nor my pocketbook wants to deal with more private dicks.”

“Then call this me expressing my altruistic side…” DeLuca puts on an easy smile, “You said it yourself, you’ve never even been to the Bottom, I’m the only one looking out for it. This other PI you mentioned, let me guess… ‘The Mortician’?”

John nods. The taxi passes traffic left and right. They would be there soon.

“You know him?”

“Everybody knows everybody down here,” De Luca says, “Hell, I can’t afford not to know him; he’s my main competition. But, I don’t exactly work under the same motivations. Don’t get me wrong, I ain’t warm and fuzzy, but if the city’s going to go down, then I figure it would be in my best interest to not go down with it.”

The Taxi rolls off the highway and swerves into the St. Crispin emergency wards turnaround. The woman behind the wheel brakes suddenly. The car idles in front of the ward. John opens his door but doesn’t get out quite yet. He looks away from DeLuca as he speaks.

“This stays within the Angels, no outside contacts,” He says, “The people inside the Monument were given a disease. We don’t know what quite yet; its quick, travels through drinking sources, and it’s lethal… the group behind this are real psychopaths; this could be just a taste of things to come. Chances are that a tightly packed, overpopulated center of the city would be a strong breeding ground for a virus, so yes, Lowtown will most likely be hit. I could tell you more but we’ll have better info tomorrow. If you want in, I’ll need some things on your end.”

DeLuca grins.

“Name your price, Johnny boy.”

“I’m trying to rally the armies on this one. My cell’s coming down, plus a few other Americans, but I’m short on local talent. People who know the city, know potential targets, know how to get around, how to find people, you know the drill. Any Angels in Khazan who owe you favors?”

Deluca nods and grins.

“Well aside from the Mortician, who let’s face it, neither of us can really afford, there are a few in Khazan I could round up. There’s a new guy, works for hire, but more reasonable. He’s got some weird political theories, conspiracy nut.”

“Let me guess, dresses like he’s Rorsharch and has a habit of appearing out of thin air. I ran into him earlier. Him and another guy are covering some locations where he thinks they tested out the virus before tonight.”

“Well then there’s another local,” DeLuca suggests “A Bottom-Dweller like me. He dresses like the Green Hornet, bandit mask and a fedora.”

“Name?”

“Jackson. Thomas Jackson.”

“And what’s his price range?”

“None. He’s a good old fashioned do-gooder, at least as far as I know at any rate. Kind of a loner, doesn’t announce himself that much. But, I wouldn’t be a very good detective if I couldn’t track people down.”

The rain is slowing. A blaring horn comes from behind the car, they had been blocking the Emergency Room driveway for a minute now.

“One more thing,” John adds, “The Americans are all flying down here on first notice. We can’t do much until the cops get back to us on something. I need somewhere we can stay that’s inconspicuous.”

“Inconspicuous is my middle name.”

“Anthony Inconspicuous DeLuca, wow, kids must have given you crap for that in high school.”

“Very funny…There’s a guy I know, runs a place for people to keep a low-profile, stay off the grid for whatever reason. Doesn’t ask questions… bit of a perv though, if you got any dames with you, you might want to look after them.”

“Trust me, if he tries anything on these girls he’ll end up with a broken hand. Maybe a cracked rib and a shattered testicle as well.”

The horn from the car behind them blares again. John steps out of the cab. DeLuca reaches out an open window and hands him a card.

“I’ll set it all up. Just give my office a call when they get here. Oh and Johnny boy… I’ll expect you to pay your cab fare next time.”

The Taxi speeds off. John steps away from the street and heads inside. He turns the card in his hand; ‘Boiling Point Incorporated’…

#12 treacherous

treacherous

    Good...Bad...I'm the guy with the Hammer

  • Administrators
  • PipPipPipPipPipPipPipPipPipPipPip
  • 15,777 posts
  • Gender:Male
  • Location:In front of the T.V. mostly
  • Interests:Stuff and stuff.

Posted 18 April 2011 - 05:58 PM

Hmm, no respectable lowlife from Lowtown would've put up with all that sass from Reynolds. Plus, I'm certain De Luca has absolutely no idea what "altruistic" means. But, good segue. I'm ready for some action.

#13 Darkender

Darkender

    Believes Han shot first

  • Members
  • PipPipPipPipPipPipPipPipPipPip
  • 2,557 posts
  • Gender:Male

Posted 18 April 2011 - 06:15 PM

I got a feeling The Conspiracist is gonna be called a nut job alot in this Fic <_< . Anyways, good job I can't wait for the next part.

#14 M Bison

M Bison

    Cool dude

  • Members
  • PipPipPipPipPipPipPip
  • 1,385 posts
  • Gender:Male
  • Location:Manchester, England

Posted 18 April 2011 - 06:41 PM

This continues to be entertaining. It's really starting to sound like all of this is gonna be a huge deal, looking forward to where the story heads.

#15 Jason Redfield

Jason Redfield

    Believes Han shot first

  • Members
  • PipPipPipPipPipPipPipPipPipPip
  • 3,262 posts
  • Gender:Male

Posted 18 April 2011 - 07:40 PM

I can't say much more than what's already been said; it's a good transitional piece. Consistently entertaining and you're doing a good job of building up the suspense, as Bison mentioned. All in all, looking forward to seeing how this turns out.

#16 Sir Exal

Sir Exal

    Still Here, somehow.

  • Moderators
  • PipPipPipPipPip
  • 508 posts
  • Gender:Male
  • Location:The Bowels of Cynicism...In Minnesota
  • Interests:Promising myself I'll change and then never doing it.

Posted 18 April 2011 - 09:36 PM

Makes me wish I had actually finished that terrible AoM character I came up with.

#17 deojusto

deojusto

    I am One with the Ferret.

  • FPL Undercards Admin
  • PipPipPipPipPipPipPipPipPipPipPip
  • 4,023 posts
  • Gender:Male
  • Location:California

Posted 18 April 2011 - 10:17 PM

Thanks guys. The action picks up soon, as you've seen this is still set-up. I hate to say it but there is one more scene which is almost all exposition that sets up the rest of the story. All the angels get together into one room and basically say, "lets get a plan of action for the next fifty pages, but first how about a role-call!". It's a little dry, but it's needed to explain why they end up doing what they're doing. Then we cut right to the action and suspense.

To the two (maybe three) people who's characters have yet to show up, I apologize for that. I tried to make it as even as possible, but with almost eight characters on each side I could only put so many people in the intro. If they haven't appeared yet, they are coming and will jump in in the next scene.

@Treacherous: Yeah, DeLuca puts up with Reynolds but that's about it. He probably called him all kinds of lowtown naughty words once he was out of the car, but the way I see it John as a current (secret) Syndicate informant, and DeLuca as an Ex-Syndicate Gangster, would not get along famously. I also may have prettied up his language a bit, Poet said the same thing about Huebris so I think its just me not getting hard-boiled detective types.

Without further ado, a shameless plug... everybody go to the Kabuki page and give me some feedback. Seriously, I'm dying here.

#18 Nilan

Nilan

    Part of the Rag-Tag Fugitive Fleet

  • Members
  • PipPipPipPipPipPipPip
  • 1,217 posts
  • Gender:Male
  • Location:Colombo, Sri Lanka

Posted 19 April 2011 - 01:14 AM

I'll be reviewing Kabuki soon Deo, as soon as I get off work.

Meanwhile, this story's potential is insane. Even if it only ends up being a fraction as good as it could be (and I'm sure it would be MUCH more than that), the prospects are mouth-watering enough to make me cum in my pants.

More! More! Fast!

#19 M Bison

M Bison

    Cool dude

  • Members
  • PipPipPipPipPipPipPip
  • 1,385 posts
  • Gender:Male
  • Location:Manchester, England

Posted 19 April 2011 - 07:13 AM

Thanks guys. The action picks up soon, as you've seen this is still set-up. I hate to say it but there is one more scene which is almost all exposition that sets up the rest of the story. All the angels get together into one room and basically say, "lets get a plan of action for the next fifty pages, but first how about a role-call!". It's a little dry, but it's needed to explain why they end up doing what they're doing. Then we cut right to the action and suspense.

Eh, I don't think anyone is seriously begging for any action, as this so far has been plenty entertaining anyway.

Will be reading your chracter soon.

the prospects are mouth-watering enough to make me cum in my pants.

More! More! Fast!

Oh good lord.

#20 deojusto

deojusto

    I am One with the Ferret.

  • FPL Undercards Admin
  • PipPipPipPipPipPipPipPipPipPipPip
  • 4,023 posts
  • Gender:Male
  • Location:California

Posted 19 April 2011 - 11:40 AM

Meanwhile, this story's potential is insane. Even if it only ends up being a fraction as good as it could be (and I'm sure it would be MUCH more than that), the prospects are mouth-watering enough to make me cum in my pants.

More! More! Fast!

TMI Nilan. TMI.




0 user(s) are reading this topic

0 members, 0 guests, 0 anonymous users