Setting
After only a few minutes, no more than five, the glow had intensified to that of a forge's furnace, the golden orange hues mixing with deep reds. Along with the glorious light came heat. It was overbearing and unpleasant, but like fire itself, had comforting feeling along with it. Several onlookers had stopped and now stared, struck dumb by the sight before them, as the glow died away and the heat lessened, leaving an egg the size of three men in the street, the shell being the color of cinders with glowing embers hidden within.
One man, either brave or stupid, walked up to it and reached out a hand, but as his hand came within inches of the hard, textured surface, a long crack circled around the egg horizontally. He paused and went to reach forward again, only this time he was knocked backwards as the egg shattered and burned away into nothingness, leaving a swarthy-skinned man, clothed in rather fine attire, standing strongly where the egg had rested. he looked at the prone man, his golden, slit-pupiled eyes shimmering for a moment before dilating and turning vibrantly green.
Yawning, the Night Dragon moved from the window and sat down behind one of his many desk, a glass of wine beside him, resting cautiously on top of a pile of tomes and trinkets. Today might be productive afterall.
He spun the blade around before him, marveling at it in the dying light of day, before wondering where to put it so it would not be stolen. As if one cue, the blade crumpled and passed through his glove, sinking through the palm of his hand and residing in every fiber of his being. A warmth spread through him, as well as the last thing he had been able to think before arriving here. He'd been burning away...and he'd been much, much larger. And wings, with talons, and scales. He stopped that line of thinking, figuring it not to be true, but rather the delirious dreams from being knocked in the head sharply during training.
He grinned again and stuck a hand in his pocket, finding a small, black business card. Written upon it, in a silvery ink, was simply the phrase:
Miracle Antiques- Something for everyone. Yes, even you, Xyphos.
He ogled it for a moment and then looked at the building behind him. On a simple wooden sign was written the same message, though without the personal touch, in the same silvery script. He looked down from the sign to the door and stepped forward, more than curious enough to see what this was all about.
"How do you know who I am, and why is it that you've called me here, wherever this is, anyways?" His voice was rough, that voice of a man who'd worked hard all his life to do his job, put it held a slightly deeper rumble that he didn't seem to be aware of. He was about to reach for his blade again, but instead of the motion, his blade whooshed out of his palm again, setting itself perfectly in his grip.
"I'm afraid I don't understand. You speak of dragons and battle, but unless you're delusional, I only know the second of those to be real. The former is no more than a myth, though I approve of the strength held by the creatures spoken of in them." He seated himself roughly, then, his mail jingling ever so slightly as he moved and shifted his weight.
"You still haven't explained why you brought me here, and I'm rather inclined to know why strange men, crazy or not, call upon me and force me to appear, without memory, at their doorsteps."
"So...According to you, I'm a dragon that doesn't actually die? And, once more by your words, you've woken me up early from, what, some kind of break between times when I'm alive? I find that hard to believe, to be honest. Have any proof beyond a simple portrait and some notes?" His skepticism was evident enough in his tone, but he couldn't help but be curious about what this man truly meant.
Jackson nodded, "Okay, Adrianna. Lead the way." The man said, putting the shoes back where he found them. The two were flanked by several men in suits, most of them Asian, a few of Hispanic or African descent, donning red ties or red dress shirts with their suits. It was clear they had a specific color scheme going on.
Even Jackson and Adrianna got in on it. Jackson wearing a black suit with a red tie, Adrianna in a red dress with a black trenchcoat to shield her from the cold.
Adrianna gestured for the group to follow her, heading off towards the entrance of the promenade. Jackson slowed down in following the woman, putting some distance between himself and her.
He gestured a few of the men with him over, beckoning them to lean close. "My phone keeps buzzing, I told my sister no business, but... I'm curious." The Yakuza boss told his men, "Juan, Lyoto, Serrano, stay close to her. Keep her busy." Jackson ordered.
"You got it." One of the men said, he and the others heading towards Adrianna to play their role in her distraction.
Jackson slipped a hand into his suit jacket, slowly pulling his cellphone out and checking the caller ID. "Restricted, eh?" He asked himself, "Okay, I'll bite." He said, answering the phone and putting it to his ear.
"Hello." Jackson said into the phone, "Who's calling me privately?" He asked, "I ask you to sell Elysium for me out of your teahouse. You refuse me based on some morals you pretend to have. You insult me." The man on the other end of the line said to Jackson. The man's accent was distinctly Russian, but some of his pronunciation indicated that he might been living in the UK for some time.
"Ah, you again? I told you before. I'm not going to peddle your poison to people who aren't like you. I'm not like you, you bigot. We're not negotiating, I'm not apologizing. It's just business, it's not personal." Jackson told the man, shrugging as if the man could see him.
"I feel slighted. It's personal to me. You should get to your sister before she has an accident. That's a threat, chink." The man said, abruptly hanging up on the Yakuza boss.
"Motherfucker." Jackson shot off in a sprint towards where he last saw his sister go, his men quick to following their leader as he pushed through the crowds of people still enjoying their days. He even shoved a few police officers aside, the lawmen now chasing after Jackson as well.
"Adrianna!" He shouted, laying eyes on the young woman as she stood at a booth holding a dress. "What?" She asked, turning to see her brother charging her. "What the hell, Jack?" She asked as the Yakuza capo came to a stop, her eyes finding the police officers and other gangsters in tow.
"What did you do? Who's trying to kill you now?" Adrianna asked, letting out a deep sigh. "We have to go. Something's come up." Jackson said, "Can I least buy my dress?" Adrianna asked her brother, "Yeah, make it quick." Jackson answered, one of the police officers putting a hand on his shoulder.
Jackson's escorts advanced on the cop, the others with him raising their weapons at the group of gangsters. "Hey! Back off!" A police officer ordered, keeping the weapon trained on the men.
"Let's not do this." Jackson said, turning towards the police officers. As he tried to diffuse the situation Adrianna paid for her dress, holding a couple of bills out towards the merchant manning the booth. "Let me get you a bag." The merchant said to her, turning away from her to reach down towards a shelf.
When the man stood back up he turned quickly, a sawed-off shotgun in hand being immediately aimed at Jackson's back. One of Jackson's men spotted the weapon, lunging out to snatch it. A single blast ruptured the peace of the promenade, dropping the Yakuza gangster that had just saved his boss' life.
Without hesitation Jackson turned and grabbed his sister, pulling her far away from the gunman. The other Yakuza drawing their guns and opening fire on the would-be assassin, the police officers doing the same.
Seconds later more shots rang out, innocents dropping like flies as they ran for safety. The now dead assassin didn't come alone. It was a party now.
"Shit! Let's go!" Jackson said, grabbing his sister's wrist to pull her along towards the exit. Jackson drew his own pistol from his suit jacket, a heavily modified Glock-19, using it to fire at any gunmen he could see coming at him and his sister.
"It'll be fine." Jackson told his sister as they hit the street, waving towards a limousine and it's driver. "What the fuck is going on?" The driver asked, getting out of the limo to aid his boss. "Russians." Jackson said, "The fuck do they want?" The driver asked Jackson.
"Does it matter? They're killing people. Our people." Jackson answered, gesturing back towards the gunfire and people fleeing the promenade. "Let's go now." He continued.
It was at that moment a blue sedan crept down the road, assault rifles soon being aimed out of the vehicle's windows. "Get down!" Jackson said, pushing his sister towards a food truck. The gunmen in the sedan opened fire, Jackson dropping to the ground in time to keep himself from getting hit. His driver wasn't so lucky.
In seconds he was riddled with bullets and the car stopped, two gun men climbing out to make sure their target was dead. Jackson rolled along the ground towards the limo, using it to stay hidden from the men who would probably bring his life to an end.
"Deep breaths..." He muttered to himself, inhaling and then exhaling slowly and carefully. Quickly the Afro-Japanese gangster stood, firing off two rounds at one gunmen and then two at the other. Both men were felled by the shots from the handgun, Jackson then turned his sights on the car they arrived in.
He left off shot after shot until he struck the driver dead, the man's foot falling limp and heavy on the gas and sending the car careening into a parked pickup truck.
"Brazil, bitch." Jackson taunted, turning towards the food truck he had his sister hide behind. "Adrianna, we have to go now." He said, the wail of police sirens growing closer. He didn't want to be near the scene of a gun battle and a lot of dead innocents. At least not while his sister was still in harms way.
The Yakuza boss approached the food truck to get to his sister, when he was nearly a foot away several gunshots rang out. They were fired from inside the truck, two striking Jackson in the gut and flooring him.
The back doors to the food truck flew open, a young white man dressed in a nice suit with a red tie and wearing a pair of equally nice glasses stepping out slowly. He began his approach on Jackson, circling the man like a vulture.
"What a death. It's not grand. Not some bullshit sword battle, martial arts fight, or something else like you see in the movies." The assassin said, "I would have preferred to use piano wire and more finesse for this job, but my employer likes it to be grand and violent." He continued, raising his pistol towards Jackson.
The assassin stepped closer to the man, pulling the hammer back on his pistol with a thumb. "Unceremonious, isn't it?" The assassin asked, finger drawing near to the trigger. Before he could finish off the Yakuza boss he found himself, and his head, growing very intimate with a tire iron.
The assassin dropped, Adrianna standing over him with the tire iron. "Favela, bitch." She said, nearly echoing her brother before dropping the tire iron to tend to him. "The police will be here soon, they'll be bringing ambulances." Adrianna told her brother, kneeling down at his side.
"They should have been here by now. Something's wrong." Jackson said, lying down on his back as he succumbed to his wounds. "I'm passing out." He told his sister, closing his eyes for a second.
When he opened them he saw the assassin looming over Adrianna, the tire iron used on him moments before now in hand.
"No! Don't fuckin-..."
Before Jackson could finish speaking the tire iron slammed into his sister's head, sending her skidding into the street beside her brother.
The assassin advanced on the young woman, repeatedly striking her body. "You. Broke. My. Glasses. Bitch!" He said with each hit, stopping only after the Yakuza princess was devoid of life. The wail of sirens and the growing infrequency of gunfire within the promenade prompting the murderer to begin fleeing the scene.
Jackson turned over on his stomach, screaming at the top of his lungs as he wept for his sister. He crawled as best he could, pulling himself inch by inch towards his sister's lifeless form.
He didn't make it far before he passed out, several bullet riddled police vehicles arriving soon after to find the unconscious gangster barely alive.
"Step away from them," he growled, his grip tightening, "WCPD. You're under arrest." He took aim at the killer from behind his car door.
Just outside a nearby convenience store a beverage truck came to a halt; the air lock brakes screeched and gave the bustling scene of stores and restaurants a faint hiss of escaping air that was quickly drowned out by the ambient noise. On the sides of the trucks was a large name fashioned in bold red and black colored letters and a wolfish evil looking creature in the background, the name printed on the side was HellHound. A popular energy drink that was selling off the shelves in countless gas stations, stores, and bars all over the nation and in many other parts of the world.
Inside the truck sat a very odd and scrawny man with a crooked nose that caused his glasses to sit very precariously on his face, wire thin frames that he paid cheap for and were made even cheaper. His facial hair was wiry and sat awkwardly on his gaunt chin at best with it growing in patches. And he wore his company appointed black HellHound Energy Drink polo that was neatly tucked into his cheap pair of faded jeans with a thin five dollar belt. This man pulled on a few levers to brake the truck into place and locked the air brake pulley into position.
The scraggly young man pushed up on his glasses and unbuckled himself from his chair. He leaned over and opened his glove compartment; what he pulled out was a clipboard and a bluetooth headset. He placed the bluetooth in his ear and the clipboard on his lap while his now free hand reached for one of his pens in his shirt pocket. There was a click from the pen and suddenly he began writing down everything he had too, and when he was done he placed the clipboard down in the passenger seat.
The truck door opened and the young man’s long lanky legs caught the rest of his light little body as he threw himself out of the door. He pulled on his large set of workkeys attached to a thin black elastic wire, which stretched out from a small plastic spool attached to belt. He walked over to one of the many side doors on the beverage truck and unlocked it with one of the many keys in hand. He pushed up on the door and found inside both his dolly and several blue crates of HellHound energy drink.
He went straight to work with a blank expression on his face that only showed signs of distress when he picked up a crate and placed it on his dolley. Once the dolley was full he kicked it onto its wheels and pulled it backwards into the store. The door being held open by a chubby friendly faced store clerk wearing the same looking faded jeans and five dollar belt that the delivery driver was wearing, but with a red colored polo tucked in and with the white colored letters GT on his right breast.
“Hey Skylar!” The store clerk said.
“H-hey Roy.” Skylar said as he struggled to pull the dolley over the door bump.
“Got some more of that gold in a can for me, huh?” Roy said following Skylar over to the section of refrigerators containing a large assortment of drinks.
“This stuff really is pretty popular.” Skylar said stopping the dolley by the section of energy drinks. “I’m having to make all kinds of delivers lately to all kinds of stores today. Places that didn’t even use to sell energy drinks are requesting this stuff.”
“Stuff is crack in a can, dude.” Roy said. “I drink perhaps 3 cans a day myself.”
Skylar was already loading in the HellHound drink into its appropriate slots of the refrigerator and just letting his friend Roy talk for the most part about his favorite flavors of the drink, how the 32 oz cans sell faster than the smaller sizes, and which flavors the company should come out with next.
“I wouldn’t know. I don’t drink the stuff I just deliver it and keep it at that, and speaking of which maybe you should stick to selling it rather than drinking so much of it yourself.” Skylar patted Roy’s belly and had his hand slapped away rather quickly.
Roy glared at Skylar for a hot second and then gave a quick smirk back in his direction after he finished the delivery. “So you coming over thursday for the game of Dungeons and Dragons? Robert’s story is getting pretty tense and we could use some help slaying this frost giant we’ve been running into a lot.”
“I don’t know.”
“Come on, Skylar, you’ve been cooped up in your apartment ever since Megan dumped you. Come hang out with the gang and drink a few beers and partake in the Dungeons and Drrraagons!”
Skylar’s upper lip bulged as his tongue rubbed his upper row of front teeth while he gave his friend’s offer some thought; each wiry whisker accentuated without his knowledge of how much more awkward it made his facial hair look. He was on the verge of giving his friend a smile and quick nod that would confirm his acceptance of the invitation, but it was quickly forgotten as he saw just beyond his friend that outside the glass doors his work truck was making a beeline away from the store with someone else in the driver seat.
“No! Nonononono!” Skylar said pushing his friend down as he ran past him and out the doors. “Fuck no!” Skylar said. He watched as his beverage truck drove off down the road until it was no longer visible. His hands clenching his hair and nearly tearing it out strand by strand.
Roy came jogging out of the store and to Skylar’s side and saw only a glimpse of the back end of the HellHound truck driving away like a bad dog running away and out of sight of his master after being let off the leash. “Oh, Skylar, buddy you have to be shitting me. Are you ok?”
“Am I ok? My fucking work truck was just stolen, Roy! That is two stolen trucks in one month both under my clock and your asking if I’m fucking ok? No, Roy, I’m not fucking ok in fact I’m the opposite of ok!” Skylar pushed Roy away from him and would have knocked him down if it wasn’t for the fact that Roy was three times the weight of Skylar.
“Whoa, Skylar!” Roy said pushing Skylar back and successfully knocked him on his ass. Skylar hit his ass hard against the sidewalk and only managed to alleviate what could have been worse when he caught some of the fall with the palm of his hands, but that did scrap them up good and made them turn red fast. “I’m not the one that stole the truck, Skylar, so don’t take this out on your best friend.”
Skylar only glared up at Roy as he picked himself off the ground, and of course Roy tried to help his friend back up but Skylar jerked his body and hit Roy’s hands away. After picking himself up he looked at the palms of his hands and noticed the little loose flaps of peeled skin and the stinging hot red of the patches and began rubbing his hands on his jeans.
Roy shook his head and gave a loud sigh at Skylar. “Come on, buddy, let me get you a ride back to the plant.” he said walking over to the store and popping in quickly to tell his work partner that he was going to be gone for a bit and be right back. When he got back he got into his car while Skylar followed suit and sat shotgun beside his friend.
“Sorry, Roy.”
“Nah, nothing to be sorry about.”
There were no witness other than himself, dead girls and dying gangsters couldn't tell the truth of the situation. That was good for Bachmann.
"They were Eastern European, or Russian, I don't know. I know they were gangsters. I have a lot of experience with them from back home. Check their arms for tattoos." Bachmann suggested, gesturing to the few dead gunmen Jackson had laid out moments before.
"This wasn't me."
"Contact, I need a med team at my location," he grumbled into the comm link on his wrist. The squawking reply in his ear deepened his frown. All paramedics in the area were already occupied. Randin would need to administer medical attention himself or risk losing a life.
Assuming Bachmann was willing to follow directions, the assassin would be a good distance from Machida and his daughter, hopefully on the ground in the position Randin had instructed. The detective wanted to cuff the man himself, but he simply had no time. Jackie needed help NOW.
"Y'wanna prove your innocence?" Randin reached into his belt and removed his cuffs, tossing them to him, "put these on yourself and stay where you are. Keep your hands behind your back when you do it." He snarled, his tone a low, minacious rumble. "Try and run n'I'll put a shock charge in your back before you make three steps."
A quick pass over Adrianna easily told Randin that she was no longer alive. He moved to Jackie, position himself so that Bachmann was still in his line of sight. He knelt down and removed several small capsules from his belt, setting them beside the near-death gangster. He paused for a moment before snapping out a small sphere-like device and setting it beside the other capsules. Removing his Caddy from his belt, he flipped to 'medscan' and passed the device over Jackie's body. A biofeed lit up the screen a moment later, illuminating the gangster's muscle tissues, intestinal layout and skeleton. Three shattered ribs. Punctured organs. Considerable blood-loss. Weakening heartbeat and failed respiration.
There was no hesitation in Randin's movements, his hands a speedy blur as they passed between capsule and almost-corpse. Biofoam squirted into Jackie's wounds, sealing and sterilizing the craters in the man's skin. He very carefully turned Jackie over on his back, cautious of the bone shards trapped between his fragile intestines. This wasn't Kaye's first rodeo.
With his wounds sealed, Jackie was saved from death by blood loss. There was still the matter of his circulation and breathing, of course. Just Randin's luck that he didn't have a defibrillator on him. He'd have to do this the old fashioned way. Throwing open Jackie's shirt, the detective laced his hands together and knotted them at the man's sternum. He began administering CPR with a carefully measured cadence.
"C'mon you sonuva bitch..." he growled, pausing only to offer the gangster the kiss of life and press his ear to man's mouth and chest, looking for either breathing or a heartbeat.
As he worked, Randin looped his Caddy into the back of his belt, setting it to 'Scout'. The device emitted a series of ultrasonic waves over a broad distance, quickly alerting the detective to any people coming from behind. He checked his surroundings as he pumped, vigilant eyes passing over every crack and corner. Randin knew the dangers of a solo cop in a hostile environment only all too well.
It was to the side of the promenade, on a grassy ledge just outside the gardens, that Rune was sat cross-legged in the shade of a tree. It was quite difficult to make him out clearly, something about his unnaturally pale form that blurred in with the dark. His cloak was wrapped about him, and he appeared to be hunched over a card game of some sort.
The odd thing was that though the cards were laid out in what appeared to be the setup for Texas Hold 'Em, or a similar poker-based game, his opponent was nowhere to be seen. Their pair of cards were visible laid out on the opposite side of the flop cards to Rune, but they themselves were conspicuous in their absence.
In the meantime, a short way down the street, a little weasel darted from shadow to shadow as it approached a burger stand. When the attendant was distracted speaking with a customer, the weasel made its move. It nimbly scurried up the side of the stand, settling itself beside where the food was laid out, and started to quickly shovel various burgers, sausages and buns into what appeared to be a tiny backpack it wore.
It wasn't to last, though, and after only a few seconds of looting, the attendant laid eyes on it. "Oi! Stop that you little fuck!" he yelled, prompting the weasel to leap off the stand and dash away into the night with the man in hot pursuit.