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(RP) The Gun-Metal Blues.
February 12, 2014 03:05AM
The Gun-Metal Blues



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.


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.
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.