Hikari Shizume
The elevator was not cramped precisely, but the two civilians riding with you made it seem that way. The six hundred dollar suit you're wearing isn't your general style, but it allows both concealment for weapons and the ability to fit in with the scenery. It is also surprisingly warm. You try to bring your thoughts to order in the elevator, trying to achieve inner piece while sweating and listening to music that went out of fashion decades ago.
Your mark is in the thirty-second floor of the building, the building itself is leased out floor by floor. Your mark owns several 'office' floors like this throughout the city; easy to use safehouses in case someone came after him, someone like you.
The elevator pings as it hits twenty-nine, letting a woman holding a beer out onto a fairly generic office setting. The doors close and the crappy music resumes before stopping again on floor thirty, the doors opening to admit new passengers. Time holds for a long moment when the doors open, three guys holding vending machine food stand in front of the elevator, talking and laughing amongst eachother. When they turn to walk into the elevator you recognize two of them as rent-a-guards owned by the mark, and they definitely recognize you.
The drinks and the bags of chips start falling, the guards start drawing small arms from inside coats, and you grab the other passenger by the scruff of his neck and throw him into the gunmen, drawing your own weapon from the reversed sheath on your back.
The passenger collides with the guards, staggering two of them while the third wrestles a heavy revolver free of his coat. Stepping sideways you remove his hand at the wrist and kick him out of the way, flowing out of the cramped confines of the elevator. Shoving the civilian you tossed at them aside one of the guards runs -making for the stairs to warn the mark undoubtedly- while the other levels a machine pistol at your chest. Twisting sideways you grab the gunners wrist with your free hand and pull him forwards, spinning into him in a parody of dance in order to slam your blade into the gap between his third and fourth ribs. He tenses as he dies and you twist his arm sideways to point the pistol mostly at his fleeing companion, the guards own death throes spray bullets across the floor, ripping holes in walls, furniture, bystanders, and his own ally as he spasms.
A comparative silence falls as the machine pistol's magazine runs empty, the soft moans of the wounded and dying no more than a whisper to your ears as you take the time to put the first guard out of his misery before taking the 'kerchief from his pocket and cleaning Raijin with it. You walk towards the wounded guard, noting the bleeding civilians crouching down behind anything they considered cover as you approach the wounded man. Taking only the time to take the mans pistol you continue past the bloody guard, firing three shots into the window by the fire escape and kicking glass out until the hole is large enough for you to slip through.
You climb the escape stairs with agility, the other guards were probably already swarming the other entrances to the floor, and the longer you take the larger the chance this would turn into a police matter. As you reach the window to the thirty-second floor you fire another three shots into it and spring through, breaking the glass feet first. You roll as you hit the floor, coming up ready.
The room however is empty, or nearly so. A tall man in a navy suit-jacket and tie is regarding you quizzically, a short barrel semi-auto shotgun in one hand and a paper cup of water in the other. "Difficulties?" He inquires politely, setting the cup back down on the water cooler. You stare at him, assessing him... He doesn't seem panicked, he doesn't seem ready to use that gun, and he doesn't seem particularly concerned with you. You return his question with a flat stare. He smiles slightly, barely perking the corners of his mouth up at all. "Only asking because I would like to know how many extra deaths I'm going to have to charge dear Mr. Greal for..." He pauses for a moment, taking another sip of water. "I know you're here to kill him." The man still doesn't offer any aggression, but the only reason for him not to would be if he was already in a superior situation, or if he was very arrogant indeed. Well, one easy way to find out whether he needed to be killed or not. "Are you here to stop me?" You say, making the question as calm as possible. To your surprise the man laughs for a moment before giving you a cold grin. "My friend, I stopped you thirty-seconds ago when you broke through that window."
The timers on six shaped charges tick down, hitting zero as you try and bring the pistol up for a shot at the stranger. Fire and stone mixed with burning metal blast you and the wall behind you out of the building, for a moment your burning form flies over the street below, then you begin to plummet three-hundred and twenty feet with the rest of the debris.
It's a mercy you're already dead.
Tarran Smith
You feel... not excited... Elated is the word. In three days you're going to be taking a two-week trip, a two-week trip of decadence and hedonistic delight, a trip for two weeks without work. Something you haven't done before in your life, but after this long you deserve it. Not even the abysmal traffic can effect you as you ponder what you're going to do... Island romance, night swimming, diving, sleep... lot's of blissful rest... You've gone so far as to rent an entire house on the island instead of a hotel room, why not spend a little when you can afford to?
The light changes and you start to scoot forwards, the only thing the traffic is good for is keeping car accidents down, little chance to need medical attention if you crash at five miles per hour. Like close thunder you hear a rumbling roar from overhead, craning your head sideways out of the car you look up in time to see a flaming section of building rushing down to meet you. Unthinkingly you gun the engine of your car, moving about three feet before hitting the person in front of you.
You last thought was "Well that figures." as you car gets pummeled by a ton of flaming debris as well as various pieces of a sword wielding man in a suit.
Adrian Leroe
You sit across from a younger man, proof-reading a sample document. The other man is sweating profusely in his suit as you scan the document that determines whether he'll enter this firm or not. Every so often you take a highlighter and stab the paper vigorously, making the other man jump and clench his teeth together.
You set the paper down, staring at the applicant for a moment before tapping you finger against your chin thoughtfully. Henry, wasn't it?" You inquire, just to make the man lose his train of thought.
It has the desired effect and the man looks confused for a moment at the unexpected question. "Err, yes sir."
You nod slowly, pulling up a corner of the paper and pretending to read a passage again. Well Henry, you asked me to mark whatever parts REALLY needed revision, right?
"Yes sir." Henry replies, looking at the marks you've already put on the paper and then back at you timidly.
Nodding you slip your phone out and speed dial your secretary. "Agatha, yes, I need you to send up two cans of yellow spray paint and a roll of masking tape please, thank you." Snapping the phone shut you stare back at Henry.
He seems stunned, getting up the courage to form a question only after a minute of silence. "Sir, what is the, um, spray paint for?"
You smile as if this was the most natural question in the world. "Well I find it best if someone corrects their own mistakes instead of someone correcting it for them, so tell you what, when Agatha brings the spray paint and masking tape up here you're going to take a bit of tape, pop it over the page numbers, and then spray paint the entire thing. Wait a couple of minutes and peel the tape off the page numbers, everything that's covered in spray paint needs to be fixed, alright?" You give the young lawyer your best shark toothed grin as you finish.
His mouth opens and closes several times as he processes exactly what you're asking him to do. Flustered he wrings his hands when he manages to put words together. "Sir, perhaps you could just tell me what's wrong with it, then I-"
"What's WRONG with it!?" you interrupt, standing up out of you chair and brandishing the papers at their cringing owner. "What isn't wrong with it? It's a mass off Ad hominem logical fallacies strong along with Morde lologenum, capped off with a lot of Coitus Interruptus BS, while simultaneously ignoring Plena anguillis est navis volans mea!"
Henry looks horrified beyond words, making slightly pleading sounds instead of real worlds. He looks like he's a short step from either crying or throwing himself out a window.
You sit back down in your chair with a sigh, shaking your head in amusement and pity. "Calm down kid, you're going to hyperventilate and die. No, you don't get the Job, but not" you brandish the papers again, less vigorously "because of these." You steeple your fingers and look over at the slowly recovering man when Agatha walks in, and sets a beer next to Henry's trembling hand. You smile and thank Agatha as she leaves.
Henry stares at the beer as if it was venomous. "What's it for?
You give him a raised eyebrow. "Well I suppose if you're really upset you could bash your brains out with it, but it's really for drinking."
He looks at you, he looks at the bottle. "Why do I have it?"
You roll your eyes. "Because that's what my secretary brings in everytime I ask her for a roll of masking tape and some spraypaint, it's a sign that the interview is going badly. You lost your shot at the job because A. You couldn't hold out under pressure, and B. You're easily flustered by people yelling at you in Latin. Neither are desirable traits in our profession. Now drink."
Henry takes the beer on command, having a second to hold it in his hands before the rythmic thunder of an automatic weapon assaults your ears, with puffs of dust holes rip open in the thin walls separating this room from the main one. The beer bottle in Henry's hand seems to shatter of it's own accord as the bullets rip through the room in the space of a second.
You're about to think how lucky it was that you weren't harmed when you feel something warm spreading across your chest and back... Uh, not so lucky after all. You fall forwards onto the table, staining Henry's document red.
Kaguro Draven
You stare at your computer in anguish, the AI that you worked lovingly on for months decided that life wasn't worth it and it overloaded it's CPU, setting itself (and your former home) on fire. Then your girlfriend announced she was leaving you for your uncle, their wedding invitation is somewhere in the trash.
The long knife in your hands is looking mighty pretty as you consider life, and more importantly death. If this is life, and death is supposed to be the great change, well hell, great change sounded pretty good right now. Maybe your mom would feel bad about disowning you because she thought you were gay now.
Good-bye cruel world! You stab yourself in the chest with the knife.
"HOLY F-" Apparently you hadn't fully considered just how painfully putting a knife through your sternum is, you spend five minutes thrashing around and swearing reedily before you succumb to a ruptured lung.
All
Warmth...
After the pain ends warmth is your first sensation.
You feel something covering you, something elastic and glowing. It covers you completely, and you feel as if you are immersed in water, to the point that you try to hold your breath, until you realize that you no longer breathe. Through the strange covering you can see a patch of brighter light, and the light draws you to it like a moth to a flame.
By degrees you become aware of shadows moving against the light, voices distorted as if by water... The voices make you uneasy for a reason you can't quite name in your dreamlike state.
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Topic: Wraith: RTD from beyond the veil. That's why you should avoid skinfreak clubs. (Read 41202 times)