“Little China Girl” – The Gun-Metal Blues (Part Four.)

Tags

Action., adventure, china town, explosives, gun play, Kill bill, music, Natasha, role play., Sam, shooting, story, SWAT, The Gun-Metal Blues, writing

The Gun-Metal Blues

Chapter Four

Little China Girl

 

Writers
T1Legend
CharlotteCarrendar

T1Legend – Sam’s nose was immediately assaulted by the smell of the place. It was a scent that was heavy on basil, fried chicken, and egg drop soup. There was the constant clatter of glassware—distant and muffled by the walls. He nodded to the woman that pointed to the stairwell. Something about her raised his hackles, though he didn’t know why.

Soaked to the bone, Sam followed Natasha into her apartment. The family living in the room below hers had the television turned up too loud—it was a news anchor bemoaning the rise of the liberal media. He could hear their voices coming up out of the floor; they sounded angry. Somewhere, a baby cried.

The place didn’t look like it was lived in—but it was more than the sheets that covered the furniture. It didn’t feel like it was lived in. There were no personal effects. There were no pictures hanging on the wall, no magnets hanging on the fridge, and the apartment smelled vaguely of mothballs.

Sam closed the door shut behind him, but didn’t step much further inside. He watched Natasha approach the window and the blinds lit up with alternating tints of red and blue as the patrol cars passed.

“I owe a guy some money I probably shouldn’t. Hard to pay him when there hasn’t been any work.” He said, shrugging cautiously. He had questions of his own—like ‘Who the fuck blows up an entire club’, for instance…but he knew when not to press his luck.

“Look, I’m going to go downstairs and get us something to eat. I have a few questions for you, too. We can talk over Chinese.” Sam turned the knob and stepped out. He considered that now would be a good time to get lost while the going was good. He could just walk down the stairs and forget he ever saw the crazy—and quite lethal—Russian girl. He could just—

That was when Sam looked up and Saw a man rounding the corner with an Uzi in his hand. The man was Chinese—dressed sharp in that businessman sort of way with dark shades—and Sam would have bumped into him were he not paying attention. There was a moment when neither of them did anything.

And then they both reacted at once. Sam reached for the man’s gun and grabbed it by the barrel. It went off, spraying a line of bullet holes in the floor. He heard a commotion coming around the corner. There wasn’t much time left. Sam reached back around behind him and pulled out his pistol. He thrust it beneath the man’s chin and fired once. The Chinese man’s black hair puffed upward as though blown by a strong wind.

The Uzi fell from the man’s hand and Sam grabbed it before it hit the floor. A trio of similarly dressed Asians rounded the corner, but Sam was ready for them with the Uzi. He squeezed the trigger and motioned the gun gently from left to right, painting the general vicinity with gunfire. The men tumbled over on top of themselves and Sam decided that now was a good time to get going. He took off running down the hall and rounded the corner to take the stairs.

Something rushes past Sam’s face so fast that he can’t see it; so near that his beard stubble prickles with the phantom touch of bullets that are too close for comfort. Wall plaster explodes in a puff of dust against Sam’s cheek, coating it in white powder that looks likes flour. His natural instinct is to dodge away from the gunfire even though the projectiles have already missed; he leans back at the waist while twisting both hip and shoulder—his momentum goes out from beneath his feet. The woman in the red dress is standing ten steps below him with a snub-nose in her hand—the kind that fits snug in a garter.

He had stopped too quickly and leaned too far; Sam has a moment of vertigo at the height of the stairs

(Should have taken the elevator, Sammy-boy. Mind that last step, it’s a doozey!)

where it is all too easy to imagine his body lying across that last step, crumpled and broken. Sam knows that he is going to fall—he is falling—there is nothing he can do to keep from tumbling backward as his momentum carries him forward.

And so he doesn’t fight it. He falls and his back slams against the rail. Laying against the railing for support, Sam’s back slides along the staircase while his legs high-step their way down. The gunfire continues—it had never stopped—but everyone was aiming at where he had been standing. With a gun in each hand, Sam stretches out his arms.

The left index holds the Uzi’s trigger down—it sprays bullets generously—while the right squeezes the 1911 in time to a rhythmic beat so that it discharges to the pace of an up-tempo metronome. Wood bursts into splintering fragments all around him, the sound of ricochets ring in Sam’s ears.

The Chinese woman’s body jerks with each gunshot so that she appears to be doing some strange, epileptic dance. Her red dress turns a darker hue and she teeters backward on her heel, tumbling backward with the gravitas of a falling oak tree. She bounces down the stairs like a ragdoll, bowling over the person next in line and setting off a domino reaction.

A man spills over the edge and holds his arms out, flapping them as though he might fly. Wind ripples along the fabric of his expensive pants and his tie hovers before his face, defying gravity. But he and his tie only defy gravity for so long before he splatters against the ground the crunch of snapping bones, the front of his skull flat and caved in with his body and limbs twisted in a shape that looks like a pretzel.

Most of the others die in a less spectacular way—clutching the wounds in their chest and simply sagging to one side or the other—but one gentleman in particular followed after his swan-diving compatriot, except he landed neck first on the rung of rails two stories below, ping-ponging back in forth head over heels until he too joined the pile of bodies at the bottom.

Sam never stops squeezing the triggers—not even after the Uzi has jammed and the 1911 is spent. He has both guns in a death grip, and by the time he gets to the bottom his legs are numb and there is a dull ache in his back. He just lays there, sprawled out on the rail with his guns pointed out before him. A sliver of blue smoke seeps out of both barrels, smelling like gunpowder and lead.

“Christ!” He said, slumping to the floor. He viewed the unreliable Uzi and his old standby with a dubious expression, twisting them this way and that.

“I need to get a bigger gun,” He said, only to be interrupted by a new squad of goon-replacements that came bursting through the door. Only these were wearing SWAT style body armor and he was out of ammo. Sam dropped his guns and lifted his hands into the air. The police pointed their hardware at him with a single loud, synchronized hammer cock.

Sam said, “If you surrender now, I’ll see what I can do about getting my partner to take it easy on you.”

CharlotteCarrendar: – Natasha toyed with the zippo lighter in her left hand, while peering out of the shutter blinds at the passing traffic. For now it seemed that the immediate danger of being detected by the corporation had passed. The Russian lowered her head a touch, releasing the blind from the pinch of her fingers. This would be the last place they would think to look, right? I mean, the district was more famous for its egg fu young, than a runaway agent. Taking a step away from the window, Natasha pulled out a drawer from one of the uncovered pieces of furniture – a bureau. Inside, a packet of cigarettes, that wasn’t water damaged. She moved to tuck the packet into the pocket of her jacket, when her new companion had an attack of the munchies.

“Look, I’m going to go downstairs and get us something to eat. I have a few questions for you, too. We can talk over Chinese.”

Just as Sam turned to leave, Natasha blurted with a disgruntled expression; ”I hatez chineze.” But it went unheard, as outside the apartment, someone was coming up to greet them. It was then she heard it. The electric sound of gunfire, and not just single shot weapons, one of them sounded like a Uzi. Who the hell did this Sam piss off? The Russian didn’t wait around to find out the answer. Tearing down the blind which landed on the floor bent and broken, she snapped the lock on the sliding window panel and slid it back. Leaping out the window onto the fire escape, she could see the red glow of gunfire, as Sam went on the offensive. The sounds changing momentarily, before the rat-a-tat started once again in earnest. Was he taking on the triad in one sad rundown Chinese restaurant. This couldn’t be happening, not just after what happened in the club. The Russian wasn’t stupid, she knew that this was going to attract a lot of attention and possibly get them both taken in. She didn’t doubt for a second his prowess with firearms, but the odds were stacked, and it wasn’t looking pretty.

Inhaling sharply through gritted teeth, as she flicked at the zippo lighter, she spotted something that suddenly made her bare a malicious grin. The gaudy fluorescent lights that were on the warehouse across the street happened to be that of the Lucky Dragon Fireworks Factory. A silver fleck was set off in the Russian’s irises, a reflection from the steel construct of the Factory.

”Perfectz.”

What was going through the Russian’s mind you might ask? Well, let’s just say that the fourth of july was going to have nothing on this. As she was about to reach for a clothesline rope that ran between buildings, and was on a downward angle to the house across the street, that was when she spotted the oncoming of SWAT team trucks. Great, it was the Calvary. This meant she didn’t have a hell of a lot of time. Sam sounded to be mowing down the Chinese like it was barrel shooting game, but he couldn’t hold on in there forever.

Gripping the rope, she sailed down between the two buildings, and over the top of the SWAT team truck undetected. Landing on the balcony on the other side of the road, she climbed up to the roof, and then made a run across, the dark of night creating a cloak for her movements. One of the top wind air vents was rusted on the Fireworks factory, and Natasha gripped the sides of it, teetering it back and forth until it snapped free. She set it down to her right, then gazed through the gaping hole. This factory was loaded. Every kind of firework and rocket imaginable, as well as drums of gunpowder, explosive charges. It was every kid’s dream, and right now, it was going to be Sam’s salvation.

Natasha dropped down through the air vent hole, and onto a top walk way, where she could see a lot better inside the factory. There was a truck filled with a load of fireworks parked just inside the roller door. Running down the metal framed gangplank, she took the stairs and slid down till reaching the bottom. The truck just so happened to have the keys in the ignition. Another lucky moment for sure. Time was now going to be critical, as the Russian set her plan into action. She picked up a small drum of gunpowder, punching a hole into it and then resting it on the back of the truck, after making a long line that led to the major holding of fireworks. That done she went to the roller door, and pressed the button for the roller door to open. Running back, she got into the truck – starting her up, she put it in gear, and jumped out of it as it started to slowly move on its own as she had placed a wheel lock brick on the gas. The truck was heading right for the SWAT team van, as the Russian raced across the road, only to come in behind the SWAT team, that were all armed and pointed at the man known as Sam.

“If you surrender now, I’ll see what I can do about getting my partner to take it easy on you.”

As they would turn around, the fireworks truck hits the SWAT team van, and there is a few seconds pause as a fuel line breaks under the truck. Fuel is pouring out under the vehicle as Natasha lights a cigarette.

”I never takez prizonerz.”

She flicks the cigarette back at the truck and that was when it the fuel caught fire, the fire tearing along to the falling gunpowder that was still pouring from the back of the truck. No doubt the severity of what was about to happen, was not lost on the SWAT team who were now all running for their lives as China town was about to have its biggest bang of the year.

~KABOOM!~

In behind Natasha, it was like a massive array of fire and explosions – massive rockets going off, the truck and the SWAT van being blown sky high by the force of the fireworks pay load that was on the delivery truck. Natasha ran through the Chinese shop, leaping over bodies as she reached for her companion’s hand.

”NO TIMEZ…RUN!”

She had never been more serious in her life.

The fireworks factory then erupted in a blast that was akin to a small nuclear explosion, with radiant colours filling the night sky. The ground shook and tremored from the blasts, that continued to go off without stopping. Townspeople and pedestrians were blown off their feet, windows were blown out of cars, and alarms were going off at a dizzying rate.

It was apocalyptic.

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“Bar-Room Blitz” – The Gun-Metal Blues. (Part Three)

Tags

Action., adventure, CharlotteCarrendar, combat, gun play, Gun-Metal Blues, music, Natasha, role play., Sam, story, T1Legend, writing

The Gun-Metal Blues

Part Three

”Bar-Room Blitz”

T1Legend

Bar-Room Blitz [sic]

Oh I see a man in the back,
As a matter of fact his
Eyes are as red as the sun.
And the girl in the corner
Let no-one ignore her
Because she thinks she’s
The passionate one!
Oh, yeah! It was like lightning!
Everybody was frightening!

Water poured from the fire-sprinklers in a jet-stream of heavy rain. The siren is loud and jagged—it is a high-pitched blare that rattles teeth and penetrates eardrums. The long sleeves of Sam’s white shirt were damp and heavy, the fabric soaked and nearly translucent with moisture. All else is completely saturated; a shallow pool has formed on the floor that is deep enough to seep through shoe-soles.

Sam slides across the floor on his knees and lashes out for his gun with one hand. He has time to wonder why the shooting has stopped, and when he turns to look down the barrel he sees the table. It is marred by scorch marks that streak across in wide, black smudges. The men that had been shooting at him before were occupied by a curious sort of dance—they hop around while stripping off their jackets, patting themselves down and blinking shards of glass out of their eyes.
Despite the siren, a strange silence creeps across the bar. Except that it is not a quiet silence, but rather the silence of stillness. It is a loud, calm and motionless silence overwhelmed by the caterwaul of alarm bells. And then the still-frame is broken by movement at every turn that is both instantaneous and simultaneous, such that what happened next appeared to have been synchronized.

Sam didn’t understand why it happened—or how—maybe all the guys that come to a joint like this were spoiling for a fight and just looking for an excuse.
There was a man in a bowler hat sitting at a booth by himself; he reached into his vest to pull out a machine-pistol. At the same time, a woman at a table facing his stood up and upended the table she sat at. She wore a red sideswipe dress that matched the color of her ruby lipstick—her mascara was running down her face in blue rivulets like watered down dye. She was reaching for the pistol that was tucked away beneath her garter.

Joe came bursting through the swinging door that lead to the kitchen. He held an old-fashioned double-barreled shotgun in his hands—and antique by the look of it—and a roll of dimes had been poured down both barrels. He aimed the monster at no-one in particular and at the room in general. He squeezed both triggers and the hammers started to fall.

At the jukebox, the man in the baseball cap holds a grenade in each hand. The pins are pulled and his pitch goes wide, so that they are sent sailing toward the business men in the corner. They are mid-arch as Joe pulls the trigger, as the man in the bowler hat pulls out his pistol, as the woman in the red dress reaches for her garter, as the businessmen rise with their company issued submachine guns.

The hammers fall, triggers are pulled and there is busting glass and shattered wood; the sharp fire-cracker bang of gunfire and the whizz of ricochets. Dimes glitter in the air, shimmering in the sparkle of neon—bullets spray in a torrent that is consistent with the jet from the fire-sprinklers. There is the overpowering THAWUMP of grenades cooking off. A table and a set of chairs fly in the air, so does a hand.

Wordless, Sam looked to Natasha. She had been screaming for him to

COME ON

But he had not realized it until now. His hand is grabbed by hers and through the exit they go.

CharlotteCarrendar: – Doors burst outwards with Natasha practically dragging a bedraggled Sam with her out into the dark alley. A blinking overhead street light offers an ominous glow to the unlikely pair that had just escaped a gun battle, the likes of which were reminiscent of the old western movies. It was not exactly what Natasha had expected on meeting her contact, but the city had long lost its innocence years ago.

The swirl of cool night air tossed about newspapers and rubbish, while an alley cat cleaned itself atop a dumpster, totally oblivious to the death and destruction happening within the small bar. No doubt few would survive to speak of the events of this night. Perhaps only corporation investigators would pick up any clues. Natasha simply couldn’t afford that to happen, and reached within her jacket, taking out a small sphere, which she simply slid back a switch and then tossed it through the open doors. There would be but a few seconds, but she made sure she got a good head start with Sam in tow. There was a loud click, then the vacuum of sound, like a jet engine in reverse as a pulse of sheer energy erupted into a blue fireball, that completely wiped out what was left of the bar, and much of the building above it. A warehouse. Thankfully empty.

As the pair ran from the crime scene, the distant wail of sirens alerted her that the Calvary was coming. Did nothing escape the watch of the corporate satellite eyes?

Running out onto the main strip, towering columns showed cheesy advertisements for products condoned by the corporation. Soda, cell phones, scantily clad women from the lavish fight clubs – their bodies perfectly sculpted and large neon letters enticing you to want to find out more about it. This was how the corporation did much of its propaganda; luring the unsuspecting on false promises of gratuitous sexual pursuits mixed with sports.

The streets were still teeming with pedestrians in a town that never sleeps. In a crowd like this it is easy to blend in, and this was when Natasha slowed her running, finally releasing Sam’s hand. She turned the corner and came to the back alley entrance of a Chinese restaurant, with a gawdy looking lion statue just outside its doors.

”In here.” She urged her companion, pushing through the gold lame string tassle curtain, only to see a small Chinese lady in a red ceremonial dress bow to the Russian. She pointed to the stair well, that went up, and Natasha wordless acknowledged her, before leading Sam up the stairs. There was a long corridor with rooms marked in gold lettering. Coming to the one marked 13A, she took out a keyring, and flicked through them, till finding the right one, and pushed it in the lock, while checking up and down the corridor for anyone coming. Thankfully, this place was off the radar. The lock turned, and she pushed the door open, motioning for Sam to enter.

Inside was a small apartment, much of which had white sheets covering the furniture, and at the far end a window with old style venation blinds. Natasha went across and peered between the slats at the street below. Sure enough, two patrol cars whizzed past on their way to the ruins of the club. The Russian released the blind with a snap, and turned on her heel, leaning back against the window frame. She took out her packet of cigarettes, only to tip the packet and have water dribble out onto the carpet.

”Shitz.”

She tossed the sodden packet in a nearby waste paper bin, and then folded her arms, staring at Sam. It was clear to see, she was riled about what took place at the bar.

”Carez to…er.. explainz about your…friendz?”

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“From Russia with Love.” : The Gun-Metal Blues – Part Two.

Tags

Action., adventure, bar, CharlotteCarrrendar, fight., From Russia with love, murder, Natasha, role play., T1Legend, writing, zippo lighter

 

“From Russia with Love”

The Gun-Metal Blues. 

Part two

Writers
T1Legend
CharlotteCarrendar

T1Legend: – He had given her instructions on the phone. Find the guy sitting at the bar, he had said. And just how was she to know which guy that was? If his good looks didn’t give it away, he’d be sitting alone with his jacket folded over the chair. There would be a pack of Japo-style cigarettes on the counter. She was supposed to bring a lighter and lay it beside him. She had followed his instructions to the letter, all except for one thing.

“You’re late,” he said, more observational than irate.

Sam reached for the zippo and flipped it open with the snap of his wrist. He held it to his mouth and lit another cigarette. He had dark, messy hair that was long enough to get in his eyes. Sam looked over at her and slides the pack of cigarettes in her direction—zippo on top.
“And wet.” She wasn’t how he had imagined her when they had spoken over the phone. In his mind, he saw with black hair—short, clipped black hair—and brown eyes, with a round face and a hawkish nose. The woman sitting next to him was classically beautiful. She wasn’t how he had imagined, but the voice matched the face.

Sam lifted his arm to wipe away his face with his sleeve, wearing the expression of a man who has just been splattered by a shaggy dog. Funny, it was always sexy when women did that in the vids. In real life, it was only awkward.

“So, tell me the details of this job that couldn’t be said on the phone.” Sam’s voice is low and cool, smooth in the way that aged bourbon is. He looked over to the bartender to order another glass of scotch—something about the way the bartender kept glancing to the door made Sam uneasy. Joe was normally pretty attentive to his customers, the guy worked for tips after all.

Usually it was, “another round, Sam? Can I get you anything else, Sam? Looking tired tonight, Sam. Got yourself a steady girl yet, Sam? Did’ja call ya’ mother, Sam?”

But not tonight.

Joe was sweating, too. A lot. And it wasn’t that hot—as a matter of fact, the temperature was on the chilly side of cool. But Joe’s shirt was damp beneath his arm pits and the gel from his slicked-back hairdo was starting to run down his brow. But the bartender didn’t notice. As a matter of fact, he made a show of /not/ noticing. Sam knew Joe was polishing a glass that had been polished at least three times already—Joe had his entire fist in the thing, spinning the glass round and round fast enough that it squeaked. When the bartender excused himself to the kitchen without pouring a glass of vodka for the girl, Sam knew something was bad was going to happen.

And, because trouble usually had a way of finding him (or he it), Sam was under the distinct impression that something bad was about to happen to /him/ in particular. He reached for his gun and turned his head to look at the door when a firm hand placed itself on his shoulder. From the corner of his eye, he had caught a flash of what had disturbed Joe. The men playing cards weren’t really playing at all; they had suddenly developed an unusual interest in him.

The hand on Sam’s shoulder tightened. But it was the sharp, metal point pressed into his neck that arrested attention. “Put the gun on the table, Sam. Nice and slow like, nobody gets hurt.”

“Sure, sure—mind telling me what this is about?” Sam’s fingers moved delicately across his holster, unfastening his weapon. When it was undone, he began to pull the gun out by the barrel.

“The money you owe our boss. Or have you forgotten about that? Because we sure didn’t.” The knife dug deeper, pricking the skin.

“Oh, /that/ money. I was just about to go see, Vincent, too. The money is in my pock—”

“Don’t even try it, schmuck.” Sam now held his gun in one hand, with the barrel pointed down and the stock facing the man behind him.

“Sure, not trying anything. Here, I’ll just switch the safety on and—”

There is the thunderous boom of gunfire—the safety was not a toggle switch at all. Rather, it was the trigger to a hidden barrel concealed in the butt of the .45; the butt of which was presently facing the knife-wielding man behind Sam. The lightning crack of gunfire is deafening in the enclosed quarters, and it is followed by the much less impressive thump of a full-metal jacket slamming into human flesh at point-blank range. Sam is already falling out of his chair—there is the clang of metal as a knife hits the ground and the groaning OOOF! Of surprise as Sam’s assailant experiences what it is like to have his chest cavity collapse. There is a second clang—this one the sound of Sam’s gun being dropped beside the knife.

“Shit.” No sooner had he uttered the words, the chair he had previously been sitting in disintegrated into wood-pulp and splinters.

 

CharlotteCarrendar: : Sam was attractive, even in his tousled state, the loosened tie and lipstick stained collar. God knows how long he had been sitting there; however it was safe to say he was annoyed at her tardiness. The clatter of the zippo lighter on the polished wooden bar top alerted him to her presence. The signal given that she was his contact. Still drenched from her trip to the bar, she unceremoniously showered Sam’s side when she gave her head a light flick.

“You’re late,” Course she was late. Natasha had to dispose of two of Nagarda’s agents. With a light shrug of her shoulders, Natasha offered; ”I had zome..unexpected company.” The Russian gestured with her right hand, which had a large scratch mark across her knuckles. Only think was, the graze was not red in colour, but a metallic black. Like her skin had been burnt and metallic residue dribbled across it.

“And wet.” Yeah, he was pissed. But Natasha countered simply with. ”Don’t zay dat too loud. Other menz ‘ere getz ideas, no?” The blonde Russian seemed to have a sense of humor, which was surprising considering she looked like the kinda gal that didn’t pull punches. With contact made, it was time to give out the details for the job.

“So, tell me the details of this job that couldn’t be said on the phone.” 
Natasha licked her top lip as she inhaled a breath, before speaking to Sam, but not actually looking at him.

”There is a man, very well known in the science community. Doctor Wielham Steincroft. He is being held in an underground laboratory. Dhey are…..uhm..making him do…the unthinkable.”
Natasha was about to pull a photograph out from beneath her wet jacket, when she noticed that the barmen didn’t appear to be in a hurry to serve her a shot of vodka. In fact, he was still cleaning out the same glass, and looking past the pair as they sat at the bar. Natasha shot a look over her shoulder and quirked her brow. Something was not right about this. Grey steel eyes then went back to the barmen, as he suddenly walked from behind the bar, and into the kitchen.

”My drinkz? ‘ello?” Natasha’s voice rose slightly, before she did something rather bold, and reached for a bottle of vodka that was just within her reach from behind the bar. There was a stack of napkins to her left, and a bowl of nuts. Typical items you find on any bar top really. Another fumble with her hand over the bar top, and she picked at a shot glass, when there was a gruff voice that came from behind her contact.

. “Put the gun on the table, Sam. Nice and slow like, nobody gets hurt.”

~Great~ The Russian thought to herself. She has hired a man who already is marked as she is. Sam and his assailant start to have a conversation, as the Russian starts to grumble in her own native language, reaching for a napkin and twirling it around in her hand, kinda like twisting it. Maybe she was going to use it to wipe her brow. But…she wasn’t. Keeping one eye on Sam, she takes a swig straight from the bottle, then rests it between her and the counter. A slight of hand, and she stuffs the napkin into the bottle, just enough so the tip of the napkin meets with the clear alcohol. Behind them, is a group of men, that are now getting edgy in their seats, as Sam plays Mr Innocent.

“The money you owe our boss. Or have you forgotten about that? Because we sure didn’t.”

~We? One..two..three.~ Natasha counts the men in her mind, as she reaches for her zippo lighter and plays with the top, flicking it. The tension in the room building.

“Oh, /that/ money. I was just about to go see, Vincent, too. The money is in my pock—”

Natasha lit the flame on the zippo lighter, as a wry grin formed on her pale pink lips.

“Sure, not trying anything. Here, I’ll just switch the safety on and—”

That was when it happened, the thunderous sound of gunfire, and Natasha lit the napkin on the vodka bottle, spinning around as Sam’s chair exploded in a shower of splintered wood. With marksmanship like aim, she hurled the Molotov cocktail at the table of three men, which erupted in a fire ball as it smashed onto the table, lighting up not only their drinks, but the splattered flaming alcohol set them on fire. There was no time to lose, as there may have been more in the bar that were part of the assailant’s gang. Natasha reached for Sam’s hand and screamed at him.

”COME ON!”

Trying to get him off the floor and out the nearest exit, as the fire sprinklers came on, hosing everyone and everything in the bar. Natasha was not going to be getting dry anytime soon.

<3>

 

The Gun-Metal Blues.

Tags

Action., adventure, bar, Billy Joel, CharlotteCarrendar, combat, cyborgs, faceless men, fighting, music, role play., Sci fi, T1Legend, writing

CharlotteCarrendar

844

(RP) The Gun-Metal Blues.

February 12, 2014 03:05AM

The Gun-Metal Blues

Writers:
CharlotteCarrendar
T1Legend

CharlotteCarrendar: Slivers of steel, glass and light. Littering the skyline with balls of fire emitting from gas pipes that shoot up ever skyward, in a display that is constant throughout the early eve. Flashing neon signs reflect against the dark panes of glass that are streaked by the constant smatter of rain. The moon does not shine, for its rays are blocked by sickening gray clouds that hang over the city; blanketing it as though it was a death shroud. Darting sphere shaped vehicles spirit in a procession past the glittering towers; all following the same set paths, pre-programmed by the manufacturing giant Halesco.

Watching from the tower, that has the orchid symbol upon its tallest peak is the head of the world’s largest conglomerate. In his hand, a glass of whiskey which he holds with just three fingers. The wafting cloud of cigar smoke, curls and dances about his head, while in the back ground, the haunting refrain of Pavarotti’s Nessun dorma is playing through the board room’s speakers. It brings him no solace this night, as two rows of faceless men in grey suits sit and wait for the CEO to have his moment. ~I did all this….so that humanity may go on.~ He thinks to himself, as a light tremor hits his right hand. He dare not let them see, and brings the glass around to be in line with his stomach, as he continues to watch the rain. In the dimly lit conference room, it is hard for one to see tears in the rain. It is good, that he has his back to them.

A few of the faceless men cough, as the song comes to its climactic end, and he knows he must turn to face them. A deal with the devil, and done with such good intent. He releases a light laugh, though almost strangled as it departs his lips. Head bowed, the moment had come. Slowly he pivots, and takes his place at the head of the table, sitting down with two large enforcers standing in behind him. The orchid illuminates the wall under which he sits. Face rising, the sea of suits stare with eyes black…have they no souls?

Setting down his glass, and resting his cigar in the crystal ashtray, he clears his throat, and then speaks; loud enough for all to hear.

“The latest reports are in. Testing on batch 549 – CDK have concluded that the new strain is effective. Doctor Seincroft’s findings after working in our labs has made history. The new era…is about to begin.” At this he holds up what looks to be a microchip, one that is usually put in animals or people. “We commence dispersion at first light.”

Around the table, the faceless men all applauded. It was what they wanted to hear. Of course it was, for they were the ones that commissioned it. The CEO leaned back in his leather high back chair, and simply smiled, but little could they see, the tear that had fallen.

Intro : The Stranger.

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T1Legend: – How the hell did a guy like me end up getting involved in an outfit like this, you ask? I guess that’s a fair question. It sure as hell wasn’t a case of bleeding-heart idealism, I can tell you that. Truth be told, I’m not exactly what you’d call the hero type. I spent my entire life avoiding noble causes. No, my code was pretty simple—look out for numero uno. So how did a guy like me get involved? The answer to that is pretty simple, too.

It all started with a girl. Stories like mine always do.

Long legs and tight black pants, golden hair and gun-metal eyes. She wore a leather jacket, and you could tell by looking at her that she was the sort of girl that drank whiskey. A real firecracker that girl—you know the type. I knew she was trouble from the moment I laid eyes on her. And if there’s one thing I never could say no to, well, it’s blue-eyed trouble with an hour glass waist.

And let’s just be clear on one thing. I’m no hero—I ain’t no nice guy.
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The bar was crowded but Sam found a place at the counter by his lonesome all the same. There is a crumpled package of Bazun cigarettes next to his glass of whiskey. The cardboard is wet from the rain and the fishing rod emblem has begun to peel. A crooked cancer-stick juts out of the corner of his mouth, lit and glowering angrily in a room that is dimly lit by smoke-clouded neon.

Outside, the dull roar of traffic noise is loud enough to challenge the collective sound of simultaneous conversation—the clink of glass, crude laughs, the whisper that the cocktail waitress’ skirt makes, and the crack of a billiards game. There’s a card game in the center of the room—a man in a baseball cap leans against a jukebox that won’t play and men in suits converse amongst themselves in the corner.

Sam’s cheeks are rough with the prickle of five o’clock shadow; he is hunched over his whiskey and ashtray with his jacket draped the back of his chair. There isn’t a band, but there is a piano in the corner—its notes are light and lilting, like the blue haze that wafts throughout the room. Sam’s tie is undone and his white-button up has lipstick stain on the collar. There is a leather holster beneath his right shoulder, but his .45 doesn’t draw concern in a place like this.

CharlotteCarrendar: – Running. Always running. The statuesque blonde runs out between the bustling city crowds, her arms pumping and pushing people aside as she darts up a back alley. Two foot patrol men; hot on her heel. An over shoulder glance as she rounds the bend. Few venture to this end of town unless desperate to score, or down on their luck. You’d think she would be out of breath by now, but not this girl. She had outrun them before and would do it again. Leaping over piled garbage, and then comes to a dead end. Running up to the steel gates that are pad locked, with two guard dogs on the other side, barking ferociously as the blonde pivots around and faces her enemy. Both have orchid symbols on their lapels. The one on the right sneers, his face barely visible from the dull light of a street lamp. He withdraws a baton and snaps it open, warily starting to approach her, as he utters; “Now we can do this the hard way…or the easy way. Boss doesn’t like to lose his property.” The man on the left reaches for his walkie talkie and then presses the button to communicate with base. “This is Rogue Seven. Yeah, we got her, just bringing her in.” So sure they were that she would simply just give herself up. Steel silver blue hues lock on the guard coming forward, his right hand holding the baton, which he is using as a defensive tactic, as he tries to beckon her with his left. “Come on, just get on your knees, hands behind your back.”

Pink lips slightly parted as she releases a breath, she simply goes. “Fock youz,” The armed guard lunges with his right arm swinging out so as to strike her mid section, but as he does so she goes for a left hand grab of his wrist, spinning so he is caught behind her and she flips him up and over her body so he lands down at her feet awkwardly in front of her. Right hand comes out and rips back the man’s scalp as she takes out a pocket knife, engaging the blade and then slicing it across his throat, blood spilling out on the sidewalk, as he starts to drown in his own blood. Releasing the first guard, she spins back to the second, and grins. Gesturing with her blooded hand she says. “I do youz to, Comrade.” Seeing his partner murdered right before his eyes, he drops the walkie talkie and goes to pull out his service revolver. As he fumbles, the blonde charges at him, lunging as he tries to raises his right arm to fire, but is only knocked off his feet, his gun falling from his grip and discharging. Winded on his back, the blonde leaps onto his chest, and then with a forceful heel stomp, drives her boot heel into his throat, as he flails on the ground, screaming. Damage done, she then jumps off, and makes a run for it, back out of the alley.

Flicking her knife back, though covered in blood, she pockets it. She’s late. The blonde hadn’t expected company, but that was the risk she took. Finally making it to the club, she goes down the dimly lit stairs, and into the underground bar. Stale smoke, urine and booze meets her as she pushes open the frosted glass door. Wiping a streak of blood off her face, she makes her way to the bar, straddling the bar stool as though about to ride off into the sunset. The blonde taps the bar and the bartender wanders over. “Vodka…” She says simply, before glancing sideways at the disheveled stranger. She notices the packet of cigarettes and pulls out a collector zippo lighter, dropping it on the bar. She is still dripping, from running in the rain, and she flicks her hair, which causes a spray of water droplets to fall on our hapless gent beside her.

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