The Angels of Sayang
Posted 30 June 2012 - 07:49 PM
PS I changed it so Jasmine is missing rather than dead.
Posted 30 June 2012 - 08:33 PM
Posted 01 July 2012 - 09:30 AM
Posted 01 July 2012 - 05:18 PM
Posted 01 July 2012 - 07:01 PM
Posted 01 July 2012 - 08:48 PM
Posted 01 July 2012 - 09:23 PM
Posted 01 July 2012 - 10:29 PM
Posted 01 July 2012 - 10:38 PM
Posted 02 July 2012 - 01:17 AM
Posted 04 July 2012 - 12:54 AM
The Bottom Girls’ hideout was a bit too large to be described of as a shack, despite having many shack-like qualities. The empty cardboard boxes stacked in the corner turn pink from the neon glow that creeps in through the cracks in the walls and the steel barred windows. A collection of massive pistols, compact machine guns, and Jill’s rifle lie in the scrap wood armory behind the team.
Merci, The Conspiracist, and the five Syndicate hired guns are spread around a blueprint that lies on the table. They seem to be waiting for something. The sound of retching comes from the small scummy bathroom in the corner. A toilet flushes. The door opens and Jill walks out Sarah looks her way.
“Yeah,” Jill says, “Just a some bad fish.”
:You are such an awful liar.
:You need to see a doctor.
“And get told something I already know. Can we focus on the current crisis please?”
“What,” Sarah asks mildly confused. Jill shakes her head.
“Sorry, not you. Anyway, thanks for waiting everybody. Time to get down to business.”
Jill traces her finger along the diagram, repeating every word near verbatim as Jack says it in her head.
“So this is the Donner Communications Supply Warehouse. This here is the main entrance, and this,” She moves her finger to the far back right corner, “this is where we think the Communications Jammer is being stored. It’s experimental so it should actually be small enough to fit in the back of Georgia’s truck… yes Jack it is a very badass truck.”
“Question: What is the security like here?” Sarah asks.
“Actually should be pretty light. They don’t know we’re coming. Most of the warehouse holds cables, wiring, and manufacturing supplies. It’s useless crap, the security guard’s salary would cost more than what could be stolen. We should just count ourselves lucky for their lack of storage space.”
“Then why send everyone?” Sarah asks, “If it’s such a cakewalk then wouldn’t we be better off if some of us tried to hunt down the Angels who got brainwashed or whatever? I’d feel pretty useless as lookout at an unguarded warehouse.”
Jill rubs the bridge of her nose.
“Well, it may not be that simple. We don’t have time to scout the location or do any perimeter checks. Plus this Donner guy, the one who owns the warehouse, he’s not just some rich schmuck. He’s dealing in military grade interference generators, plus some other stuff.”
“Other stuff?” Sarah says flatly, “what aren’t you telling us?”
“We think he’s Sayang,” Merci says, “Tony had him under the red file as a high level member of The Gourmands Club.”
Sheila lets out a snort.
“Ha. So what, Big bad De Luca’s keeping tabs on a cooking club now?”
“Something like that,” Conspiracist says, “but think less Jamie Oliver, and more Jeffery Dalmer.”
Sarah winces as a shiver races up her back. Jill nods.
“Exactly, so no matter how safe I think it’s going to be, I’d hate to end being cut up into steaks, so I’d rather prefer we have too much firepower then not enough. Cutey, Sheila, Talon, and I will enter the warehouse. We bring the Comms Jammer to the loading docks where we move it into the aforementioned badass van. Georgia drives Sheila’s girls and myself in the van and Merci, Conspiracist, Talon and Sarah convoy the vehicle from in front and behind. If we need help before loading the Jammer you come running. Got it? Any questions?”
A hearty Slavic voice emerges from the purple android with more decibels than should be allowed.
“Da, I have question,” he says.
Jill winces as he speaks, then attempts to keep her sigh under her breath.
“How does having Communications Jammer help us to murder children?”
“Well, right now we’re on the defensive from these children. The Children of Sayang have some sort of super-secret neural-inhibitor weapon, aka ‘psychic shit’, and they’ve installed it at the Atlas Initiative compound where Tony and the others are holed up. Project Reaver seems to be only one part of a larger operation. However what we do know is that however this weapon works, it requires the acquisition of some giant ass radio dishes, manufactured by Donner Communications. If we get this jammer in position it should allow us to attack their compound without getting our brains fried, scrambled, or possibly eaten. Luckily we should still have the element of surprise.”
There are pockets of black hidden between the glimmer of neon and streetlight outside the Bottom Girls hideout. A silent beast lies hunched in one such dark corner. He peers over the ledge of a fire escape between the fourth and fifth stories of a nearby apartment building. The hideout is right under his nose, figuratively and literally.
Remington retains a quiet predatory presence as the night around him is filled with engines, laughs, cries, shouts, and the buzz of the two-way radio at his feet.
“Hey big guy” John’s voice says over the radio, “anything interesting on your end?”
Remington growls something with no translation nor need of one. He then picks up the radio.
“No,” he replies, “these cowards remain in their shack….We know where they are, we aught to just,”
“Rush head first into the enemy base where they may be waiting to ambush us? Yeah that’s what they tried; remember how that worked out for them? You were there, nearly ripped Helenas’s throat out.”
“I could have done worse,”
“You could have gotten shot in the head… but still. If you’re getting sick of tracking duty, I may have something for you.”
Remington taps his claws against the radio.
“The Sayang goons finally got moving and we’ve got eyes on the alleys in and out of that place. You aren’t needed there anymore, but we may have a new lead on the identity of one of Jill’s new friends. How fast can you get to the other side of Lowtown?”
“Good, we have a target we need interrogated. Sylvia can handle that part, she’s good at that stuff. She’s on her way. However, it is unlikely that said target will appreciate Sylvia trying to illegally download their brain. So I want you to make them more ‘complacent’.”
“Let me guess,” Remington says with a sneer, “Alive and in one piece.”
“Well alive at least,” John replies, “ with a working brain. However, all non-essential organs are sort of negotiable.”
Remington gives off another growl that scrapes the bottom of his throaty register.
“Give me a description, point me in their direction, and I’ll do the rest…”
Emmi ‘Slag’ Levent’s apartment was always cold, but it never bothered her or Gracie. When Emmi pushes door open she finds Gracie curled up at the foot of her bed. As the door shuts Gracie pokes her head up, then ambles towards her human roommate. Emmi reaches down and pets Gracie across the back of her neck.
“Hey there Ms. Gracie. You waiting on me?”
Gracie circles between her legs and begins lightly head-butting her ankles.
“Yeah, yeah,” Emmi says, “I know what you want.”
Emmi opens a cabinet and pulls a single unit from the silvery tower of tuna cans stacked there. She pops the top open and spoons the contents out into a white milk bowl. She lays the bowl onto the floor; Gracie isn’t anywhere near her. Instead the cat is now at the window. Gracie hunches low to the floor, and her tail goes rigid as she looks out the window to a dead lane alley. Emmi hears her give a vicious hiss.
“Oh what the hell is it out there now?”
Emmi walks over to the window and peers out. There are a few garbage cans, a streetlight, and some broken beer bottles. Gracie lets out another hiss.
“Gracie, there’s nothing out there, what are you—“
The window explodes inward as the wolfman pounces through it. His frame barely fits through, but it’s enough for him to send Emmi sailing through the room and crashing into the refrigerator.
Remington slowly rises to two legs. The cat at his side hisses and rears back on its haunches. He barks once; the animal scurries under the bed in the other room. Remington turns his attention back to the woman on the floor. She’s still moving but her chest and arms received a few skin-deep cuts. He reaches out and grabs her throat with his massive claw. He feels the burning heat immediately but only grips tighter.
“Do yourself a favor,” he growls, “don’t struggle…”
Slag loudly builds up a loogie in her throat then spits it into his eye. It burns. Remington tosses her down and tries to claw the volcanic ore from his eye. Slag quickly makes it to her feet as the beast roars out. She manages to stumble her way out the door before he can notice.
Once she’s out, she runs. She’s halfway down the hallway when the door shatters into splinters behind her and a now angered wolf-man rushes out of it. Slag stops running and sees that the beast still remains a good distance from her. Molten blood is boiling from the cuts on her arm and the claw shaped wound on her chest is already creeping out into steaming metal armor. Slag squeezes her hand into a fist, contracting the muscles and forcing the burning blood to rush out. It quickly forms into a ball around her palm. The beast at the other end of the hallway roars, and Slag lets the molten ore ball fly.
It hits Remington’s shoulder with enough impact to make him flinch, but its not so much the speed that hurts, it’s the smoldering that causes pain. It drips over the hole left by Helenas’s rifle just a few hours earlier. This angers him more.
Slag throws another one, but the beast bounds across the hallway to dodge. Slag starts firing ball after ball and Remington continuously leaps out of the way, but always manages to move a little closer to her every time. A door on the hallway opens; Mr. Jensen pops out and pushes his glasses to his face.
“What the hell is going on out,”
The wolfman roars, and leaps past Jensen just as a burning ore bomb sails over his shoulder to slam into and then liquefy the hinge of Jensen’s door.
The old man throws the door shut. The sound of the pulling of a deadbolt can be heard from behind it.
Remington leaps within five feet of Slag. The creeping metal shell has already coiled around most of her torso; she stands her ground and flings her arm out to scattershot the burning metal across the hallway. The spray singes the beast’s fur, but does not deter him as he charges forward. The beast collides with her midsection and keeps moving. They punch through the parchment walls of the apartment and come tumbling down into the alley behind it. Slag takes the brunt of the blow to her ore-armored back.
Remington pounces over her without missing a beat and sends a speeding fist into her face. Then there’s another, and another, and another. Slag takes every blow on the chin, her lip drips lava red blood which sizzles as it hits the cold pavement. Remington’s fists begin to bleed around the knuckles as well, but the crushing blows keep pounding the girl into near oblivion. The beast stands on her chest. Slag cannot move her arms to defend her face, but does manage to sneak an arm between her attackers legs. Her molten fist squeezes down hard; the wolf howls. Remington clutches at her throat and throws her across the alley.
Slag goes spinning into the wall of her apartment and hits it hard. She shakes off the impact and the aches. She slowly pushes herself to her hands and knees. From there she staggers to her feet and begins to curl another ore ball in the clutched palm of her fist. The beast opposite her is frothing at the mouth, and bares his fangs in the pale moonlight. Slag wipes the burning bloody drips from her now iron coated lips.
“That the best you got you ugly little furball?” She yells with forced bravado she doesn’t have, “Please, I’m the Syndicate Slag. I’ve had dates who hit harder then that.”
Remington roars loud enough in response that even Mr. Jensen can hear it. Slag winds up for another fiery fastball, her arm snaps forward; but then it stops, trapped in motion. The ore-ball falls harmlessly onto the ground. Her entire body is stuck in place, even as more blood leaks out of her cuts. Remington stands upright to observe this odd behavior. The woman just stands there, frozen but burning, her mouth hanging open and eyes paralyzed in gaze. The repeated tap of heels on pavement echoes down the back alley. Remington turns to look behind him.
Sylvia Walker comes near the two, a cell phone clutched in her hands. She walks past Remington without comment and approaches Slag. She waves a hand in front of the girl’s face. Slag doesn’t blink. Sylvia touches a finger to the splotch of the strange molten blood covering Slag’s face. She quickly pulls the finger away on contact with it, then shakes her hand vigorously to get it off. Then she looks over her shoulder at Remington.
“This one give you trouble?”
“More than she’s worth.”
Walker nods. Remington spies the cell phone in her hand.
“Is that it?” he asks, “the big damn weapon?”
Sylvia circles around Slag observing what she can. She pokes her occasionally. No response.
“It’s a prototype,” She says, “localized and at reduced power. Not exactly lethal, but a little more elegant than beating someone unconscious with your bare fists.”
“Right. Elegance,” Remington spits out.
Sylvia peels open Slag’s eyelid and inspects her pupil.
“Don’t take it as an insult. There is something rather bestially graceful about watching a predator stalk his prey. It’s just that some situations call for less primitive strategies… hmm, no dilation changes. Interesting…”
Sylvia steps back and faces her team member.
“Well don’t just stand there. I’m not carrying her.”
Remington flares his nostrils, but does not verbally disagree. He heaves Slag over his shoulder and grunts at her surprising weight. Sylvia’s heels clatter ahead and Remington follows with the limp captive in tow.
Posted 04 July 2012 - 12:57 AM
Talon opens a hole in the wall with a single brick-shattering punch. While breaking through a window would have triggered an alarm this far less subtle method actually did not. Jill shakes her head at all this.
“I could have just had Jack disable the alarm. We could have walked through the front door.”
“Oh yes, that’s real fun,” Talon says.
Jill decides this doesn’t deserve a response and nods to Sheila and Cutey Honey. Talon and Sheila move through the warehouse quickly while Jill and Cutey cover the ‘door’. Cutey was another blonde, but while Jill was platinum, Cutey’s was closer to a honey-colored orange. She had a face that would always look younger than it was, and a voice that stayed sweetly melodic even as she swears up a storm. Cutey turns towards her.
“So, Jill right?”
Jill nods. Cutey leans against the door, her submachine gun tapping against her thigh.
“Tell me. You know Johnny Boy Reynolds now. What’s he like these days?”
“Now?” Jill asks, “What do you mean now?”
Cutey lips look like tiny little copulating dolphins every time she smiles, even when it was a smile of embarrassment.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I thought you knew; Johnny and I worked for the same guy during the Cigar wars. For Cigar that is.”
“Oh, that. Yeah. I knew John had some Syndicate ties, but I never asked and he never told. I’d guess that he was the same guy back then, just, you know, younger.”
“Maybe,” Cutey replies, “ but then again, back then he was a Syndicate hitman killing every Angel he could find then bringing their head back to the big dog. Then when the war’s over he decides he has a conscience and joins the other side? You don’t do that without changing something about yourself. Or having something or someone to change for.”
Jill checks her gun.
“I guess,” she says, “he couldn’t have been that bad though.”
The sentence is more of a question then a statement and Cutey seems to know it.
“Oh, we were all pretty bad in those days. Angels and Syndicate. There wasn’t much of a difference. But I can’t really tell you about how bad John was exactly; I knew he and Cobra had a running bet over who had the most contracted heads. They didn’t literally collect heads, but that’s what they called it. Sheila hated them both so we never worked together. I only saw him at the water cooler, so to speak.”
Jill looks towards the floor.
“You seem to know a lot about him. Did you two ever, well,”
“Sheila threatened to tan his hide if he ever tried to touch one of us. Seriously, she said she would skin him and tan his hide. Not that that stopped him from trying once or twice; that was the other thing Johnny Boy was famous for. His revolver. I almost said yes once, but I was still getting over Big Lou. My Big Lou. There was a great guy; until Tony shot him that is… what about you two, what’s the deal”
“It’s complicated. I mean it was always complicated, but even more so now.”
“Because he turned evil?”
“Well yeah, that too I guess.”
“What do you mean?”
Cutey never gets a fuller answer. Jill turns her head as she hears the sound of wheels rolling on parking lot near them. The fog descending over the earth conceals the cars so only a twin pair of headlights and vague outlines are visible.
“Hey Jack, put me online with Conspiracist.”
Jill hears the ring of a phone in her head. Someone on the other line picks up.
“Hey, its me,” Jill says, “Why did you guys move the vehicles? We still need you at the loading docks.”
“What are you talking about,” Conspiracist asks, “We haven’t gone anywhere.”
“Shit. Then that means. Shit. Be ready to roll us out of here quick. We’ve got unexpected company.”
Jill takes cover behind the wall and pulls up her rifle. She turns to Cutey.
Those dolphins curve into a wicked smile as she kisses the barrel of the sub-machine gun.
“Hell f*cking yes.”
“So this is Jammer?” Talon asks.
He looks at the device sitting in the back corner of the warehouse, then towards Sheila.
“How the f*ck should I know,” she says, “ do I look like f*cking electrician?”
Her cell rings. She checks the number, doesn’t recognize it, but picks it up anyway.
“Who the f*ck is this?”
:Do you kiss your mother with that mouth? And I thought Jill was a vulgar little strumpet.
:Never mind. It’s Jack, you’ve got armed thugs heading your way. Jill and the other one can hold them back for awhile but not forever. Have you and Boris found the comms jammer yet?
“We think so. What does it look like?”
:It’s two point six meters tall, with a one meter antennae and reinforced cylindrical CPU housing. Do you see it?
“I see something that looks like a satellite dish had sex with a scuba-tank.”
:Yeah, that’s it. The cars are out by the loading dock.
Sheila looks towards Talon and nods towards the machine. He gives her an overly enthusiastic thumbs-up, then begins to vibrate. His body rattles faster and faster, and the high-pitched screech emitting from him climbs higher and higher in pitch. His form shakes so rapidly that his outline blurs into little more than a purple smudge. Then the smudge divides like a mammoth amoeba. From one to two, then two to four. The smudges begin to slow and the rapid rattle lessens. As the blurring stops Sheila is left with four separate Talons.
“Da,” says one as he motions to the giant communications jammer, “You two grab by butt, you by the head. I will supervise.”
“My fat android ass you will ‘supervise’,” shouts another.
A window breaks as a grenade is thrown through it. Sheila jumps for cover behind a stack of wooden pallets before it goes off and demolishes a section of the warehouse along with the supervising Talon. The other three look to each other.
“Da,” they say in unison, “ pick up on 3. Odin, dva, tri!”
The three Talons lift the Comms Jammer with relative ease. A small squad of Atlas Initiative paramilitary men swarm near the broken window. One pokes in to shoot at them, only to have Sheila paint the outsides of his squadmate’s clothes with the insides of his brain. Sheila fires more covering shots out the window as she and the Talons make for the exit. The Atlas thugs spray bullets in their direction as they flee.
Jill and Cutey lay heavy fire on the pack of Atlas men taking cover behind their vehicle. Jill uses her Reaper assault rifle to put constant suppressing fire in the general area of the vehicles, while Cutey puts down anyone who tries to escape with a quick barrage from her machine gun. The bad guys were pinned down, but the ones pursuing Sheila had already made it past them.
:Jill, it seems like Bang Bang’s over her head.
“Got it. Hey Cutey, need you to back up Sheila and the Purple Russian. I’ll cover from here.”
“I’m on it.”
Cutey carefully retreats into the warehouse as Jill reloads.
:You know you can’t hold off this location with just one gun. Especially if you’re the one aiming it.
“Yeah I know, but I was hoping you had another brilliantly stupid plan.”
:Oh, of course I do, it involves you being bait.
“I like it already,” Jill remarks between bursts of fire.
:Good. I need you to get they’re attention and start moving east of the warehouse. Good luck, babe.
Jill grits her teeth and nods. She springs from behind her cover and starts dashing across the parking lot whilst spraying her opponent’s vehicles with bullets. They see her fleeing and fire back towards her; bullets ricochet off her armor, no more dangerous then pellets. The engine of one of the pickup trucks growls to life. The militia men leave the more bullet strewn vehicle along with their more bullet strewn comrades in the center of the parking lot. The tires on the pick-up squeals as the pick-up charges after her.
:Fence ahead, jump it. They’ll have to go around to the street exit.
Jill takes a running jump and attempts to vault over the chain-link fence. She lands halfway to the top, bullets still whizzing by all the while. She scales the fence and pushes herself over the top and to the ground on the other side.
:That aught to slow them down.
The pickup speeds through the fence. The chainlink clatters away as they collide and a section is left snared on the pickup’s grill. The car swerves across the road, aiming back towards Jill’s direction
It accelerates once more, bearing down on her. Jill starts sprinting down the road as the glare of the headlights behind her grow brighter and brighter. More bullets tap against the armor, but they’ll need more than that to take her down. The pickup races up to Jill, she jumps to her left, but the pickup slams into her right side as she dodges.
Jill tumbles to the ground ungracefully and the pickup charges past her.
:You okay babe?
“Yeah, just a knick.”
She tries standing, an immediate pain in her side erupts from within.
“Or maybe a broken rib. So much for the super armor.”
:It was designed to be shot at, not hit with trucks. Granted, you’d still be dead if you weren’t wearing it.
The pickup tires squeal once more as the vehicle does a wild U-turn and pulls itself back around
“You think they know they’re supposed to take us alive?”
:Don’t think they got cc’d on that one. Just hold on babe, help’s on the way.”
As the pickup lumbers towards her, the grumble of its engine must compete with the high roar of another one drawing nearer. A girl on a midnight black motorcycle flies through the open section of fence and rockets towards Jill. It then comes to sudden stop at her side. The pickup is getting closer every second and both Sarah and Jill know it.
“Get on,” Sarah says.
No other into is needed; Jill hops on the back and they take off with the truck in close pursuit. Predator and prey swerve through blackened streets. Sarah weaves the bike into a shortcut through the empty space between the pumps of a gas station. The pickup barely manages to pass through, and sparks fly as it scrapes the pumps on either side. Now back on the road, Sarah accelerates. Up ahead, an aged Cadillac is doing fifteen in a twenty-five. Sarah swerves to avoid collision; the pickup simply smashes its way through. The men start firing potshots towards the bike. Jill attempts to position herself on the bike in order to fire backwards. Sarah begins to take a weaving serpentine pattern. Jill’s bursts spray around wildly, hitting mailboxes, light posts, asphalt, everything but their intended target.
“Damn, would you drive straight PLEASE!” Jill yells.
“Hey, I don’t have body armor and I don’t want to get shot,” Sarah responds, “I’d take care of them myself if I didn’t have to drive at the same time.”
“Well I can hardly shoot from the bitch seat, especially if I have to do it while looking backwards while you jerk me around like a ragdoll.”
“Well maybe you could hit the giant pickup truck that was gaining on us if we were headed towards it!”
Sarah throws the bike into a tight donut. Now speeding the other way they charge towards their pursuers. Jill fires over Sarah’s shoulder; bullets crash through the windshield and shred the driver with dozens of rounds. The bike zooms past the driverless truck as it begins to careen to the side. Sarah and Jill make it to safety as the car slams into a storefront with metal-crunching force. A single second passes. Then it ruptures in flame with a colossal boom.
The pair ride off into safety. Once they put the crash far behind them Jill taps Sarah on the shoulder. She slows the bike down and pops open the visor on her helmet.
“Oh, just thanks for the rescue and all.”
“What did you just say?” Sarah says, “I can’t hear anything; because someone just fired an assault rifle right next to my ear.”
Jill sighs. She speaks slower and louder.
“THANK YOU FOR SAVING MY ASS.”
“Oh no problem. Jack said you needed it, and I was getting bored waiting with Merci and mask-face. Let's regroup with the others.”
The Comms jammer was tucked into the back of the Bottom Girls’ van. As they drive, the Conspiracist, Merci, and Talon (now back in the singular), follow in the Mustang. The streets are empty and it seems that the Atlas Initiative thugs who were left alive hadn’t followed them. The two vehicles enter Lowtown. In not too long the Bottom Girls’ hideout would be in view.
Merci casually looks into the side mirror. Red and blue lights were flashing in the distance, and they were getting closer.
“Hey bub, looks like we got company.”
The Conspiracist nods.
“Yeah, I see them. Hold on.”
He punches it and zooms alongside the van. Georgia Girl sees him do so and throws her van into gear as well. As the police cruisers get closer the sirens turn on. Merci counts three in the rearview.
“Attention vehicles:” called out the voice on the lead car’s megaphone, “This is Detective Harper with the KPD. Pull over now.”
They do not oblige. A new voice comes from the cruiser.
“Annnngels, Annnngels, come out to plaaaaaay”.
In the lead car Jesse Harper turns to her passenger.
Reynolds shrugs with a sly smile.
“Oh come on, gotta be willing to have a little fun,” he says. He holds the car’s microphone in one hand and a revolver in the other. He presses down on the microphone once more,
“Come on Conspiracist, pull the Mustang and that other little shit stain over and we can end this without firing any shots.”
A machine gun barks in the night and the cruiser’s windshield cracks as half a dozen bullets smash into it. Jesse tries to steer the car out of the line of fire.
“Did they just shoot at a cop car?”
John nods. He drops the microphone, pulls out his other revolver and begins loading it.
“Yup, it would appear so. That glass is bullet-proof right?”
“Yeah, there’s no danger there,” Harper says. A single loud shot pierces the windshield dead center and hits the back seat.
“But not against anything bigger than a .45,” she adds.
Back in the Mustang, Conspiracist and Merci watch the commotion. Cutey and Sheila have opened the back doors of the van and are firing towards the cops. Return fire from the police vehicles comes their way. Conspiracist grips the wheel tighter.
“Those stupid… Hold on.”
He stomps on the brake and the Mustang falls back amongst the pursuers. He turns the wheel hard and re-accelerates into the side of one of the cop cars. It smashes against its side, sending it skittering into a brick wall.
The Bottom Girls’ van turns onto the freeway. The other cars follow close behind and soon the whole caravan is dodging around the three-lane highway. Detective Harper watches her odometer needle climb past 120. She picks up the radio transceiver from the dash.
“This is car 358 and we’re in a high speed pursuit with two fleeing vehicles, I need a roadblock on the Lowtown 18. Dispatch do you read?”
She lets go of the radio and is greeted by static.
“f*ck, its not working.”
“What do you mean its not working?” John asks.
She sneers at him while returning both hands to the wheel.
“I mean that it is not-f*cking-working!”
Another high caliber bullet cuts through the windshield, dangerously close to Jesse. Machine gun fire cuts across the other remaining police vehicle and blows out a tire. The car goes askew and falls behind. Jesse watches it stop just as she feels her head whip forward. The Mustang was behind her now, and was busy ramming them from behind. John sighs.
John lifts a revolver in both hands and pokes out of the window. The wind brushes against his face as the car speeds down the highway. Ahead of him the Bottom Girls are still spraying lead across the highway, and behind him the Conspiracist is speeding up for another ramming attack. He aims a revolver in each direction. Three shots are fired in three seconds and each hits its mark. Sheila and Cutey are both hit in the torso and fall down inside the van. The Conspiracist’s throat is torn open by the third bullet; blood sprays across the windshield, his hands go limp at the wheel and his body weight slips down onto the pedal. The Mustang speeds even faster, Merci dives for the wheel and struggles to steer. The rush of wind whips around the car as Talon opens the back door. She glares back at him.
“What are you doing?”
“I think this is maybe what English calls the “Oh Shit” moment. It is time I should get out of car now. Great to know you, da?”
With that he tucks and rolls out of the car. Merci whips her eyes back to the road as the Mustang begins to push into the cruiser at increasing speed. Reynolds, still flailing out the window, sees what’s happening.
He darts back inside the vehicle and jams his seatbelt back on. Jesse just barely glimpses the problem in her rearview before the Mustang pushes her into the divider wall. Metal meets stone with the speed of lightning as the momentum of both cars collide against the hard barrier. Glass shatters, steel bends and a few bones break. The whole chase ends in one final fantastic smash. The Mustang and Jesse’s cruiser are wrapped around each other like tangled rubber bands. The Bottom Girls’ van is long gone.
From behind the crash a lone, purple, Russian android staggers towards the scene. He has a tiny limp, but comparatively he’s fine. He manages to reach the side door of the Mustang and peers in. Merci is motionless and slumped over the dash, the Conspiracist lies next to her, his head lying against the blood-stained headrest. He isn’t doing that much moving either.
Talon pops the door open. He leans Merci up from her seat. A bruise between purple and pink covers her forehead, her eyes are shut. Talon waves his hand in front of Merci’s face; nothing. He flicks her nose. She shakes her head faintly and lets out a barely audible groan. Talon leaves her alone. His hand descends down, towards her purse. He gingerly removes her wallet from the bag without being too brazen.
There’s a gunshot, a hole appears in his head, the purse falls from his hand, and he drops face first over the side of the car.
A figure emerges from the police car and lurches towards the Mustang, a revolver placed tight in his good hand. His other one is painted in crimson and seems broken at the wrist. John reaches the side of Mustang in an even longer amount of time then it took Talon. Thanks to a burst blood vessel his right eye has the appearance of a rose trapped in a marble. He reaches down to Talon with his good hand and pushes his limp mechanical corpse off of the car and back onto the pavement.
“Asshole,” John mutters.
He looks over the Mustang. The front end is damaged but the engine still lets out little growls of life. Most of the damage is centered on the driver’s side doors. They only seem to be staying upright because the divider wall gives them something to lean against. The passenger side is less damaged, but the same can’t be said of the passenger. John looks her over and sees all that Talon did. He presses two fingers to Merci’s neck. We waits, then smiles.
He pushes away from the car and slowly stumbles back to Jesse’s cruiser. While the Mustang was merely against the divider wall, the cruiser has gone through it. The front end is accordion-crushed like a weak soda can. John steps on bits of the axle and broken glass as he approaches the driver’s door. He soon finds it won’t open; he leans through the shattered window. Jesse’s face is red from scattered cuts. She begins to stir weakly.
“John… I can’t move… my leg…”
Her right thigh is impaled by the folding metal of the car. Blood seeps out to paint the floor mats red. John reaches down towards her leg, but then moves away towards her waist. He grasps her handcuffs and yanks them out.
“John,” she says, “I need… ambulance… you have to… hospital…”
He presses a finger to her lips.
“Shhhhhhh. Don’t you worry about that. Because I’m not going to do it. You know Ouroboros’ whole mantra; survival of the strong, devour the weak. It wouldn’t be right for me to save you… well that and I really don’t have the time.”
“You… you said that you…me?”
“Oh, that,” he says, “well, about that. I’m just a lying son of a bitch I guess. But it was fun while it lasted. So there’s always that, which is good because by the look of you, it isn’t gonna last much longer. ”
With the handcuffs in hand he limps away from the vehicle and makes his way back to the Mustang. He opens the door and brings the unconscious Merci closer to him. He slips one cuff on her wrist and she doesn’t complain. He maneuvers the other one around the door handle and then snaps it around her other wrist. He looks over to Conspiracist.
“Sorry buddy, I need your seat.”
John reaches across the car with his one good arm and grabs Conspiracist by the collar of his trenchcoat and slowly tugs the limp man out of the vehicle. He lays him against the pavement then kneels over him. The Conspiracist’s mask is bloody evidence of the trauma he’s endured. The neck wound is still bleeding. John reaches down and digs his fingers under the bottom of the mask.
“I’ve waited a real long time for this.”
He slowly peels the mask over the Conspiracist’s head, revealing his face inch by inch. When he’s done John looks over him.
“Huh, was not expecting that. Granted it probably looks better when its not covered in your blood. But still, I gotta say, I see you really differently now. In fact I think I feel a little bad for you.”
He rises to his feet.
“So tell you what, this may be the concussion talking, but I’m not going to splatter that ugly face of yours all over the pavement. No. I’m going to do the humane thing and leave you in the middle of this highway to slowly bleed to death in wretched agony. Assuming I’m not already talking to a corpse.”
He slowly walks to the Mustang and climbs into the driver’s side.
“Which is possible, and in that case I’d look pretty stupid right now. But you know, giant concussion and all, so I’m surprised I’m even this functional.”
He throws the car into reverse and the machine unjoints itself from the scene. John manhandles the bloodily sticky gearstick until the car reverts to drive. He pushes down on the gas. It’s barely able to run and its driver can only steer with one hand, but even then, he and his captive are the only ones able to escape the crash. They drive off down the highway, leaving three bodies sprawled across the pavement.
Posted 04 July 2012 - 01:09 AM
Posted 04 July 2012 - 09:42 AM
Also, laughing out loud at damn near everything Talon did.
Posted 04 July 2012 - 11:17 AM
Real good ch 2, shit really went down. To build on Pseudo's comments, the Rob/Slag fight was really well paced, for what i said earlier, I felt worried for her. Nice to know Rob can still be scary heh. The chase took it though, I could tell what was going on and the conclusion left me real worried for what happens next to (whats left) of our heroes. Keep up the real good work Deo.
Posted 04 July 2012 - 09:48 PM
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