farcry11
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Post by farcry11 on Jun 4, 2014 14:27:04 GMT
The drop ship rocked heavily, and the squad of clones all shook in their harnesses. Omega looked around, his breathing irregular. Four other men in his row, five in the row across from him. Ten clones in the squad. They had begun taking AA fire from the surface of the planet below, and the ship's shields were doing all they could. The ship rocked again, jerking Omega's head forward.
"Listen up," the squad leader, Morlock, said suddenly. "Remember the mission? We hit the ground, and we kill as many of those Marxies as we can. We can't let 'em hold the city any longer. Now, I know what you're thinking. This is a suicide mission, right? Well, it is. But the big brass didn't give us life so we could all fuckin' live happily ever after. We get down there, we do our jobs, and if we die, the next batch takes our place." Morlock stopped his speech, looking around at his fellow soldiers.
"But we won't fuckin' die. We're the baddest motherfuckers in this army! Now let's show those commie fucks what we're made of, huh?!"
The squad stamped their feet and shouted in affirmation. Omega could see Morlock grinning through his helmet's bulletproof glass visor. The soldier gripped his harness tightly, as an intercom stated that they were to HALO drop in 30 seconds. That announcement, however, was interrupted by a shrill alarm- the shields had failed.
Suddenly, the floor disappeared in a flash of light, flame, and twisted metal. The drop harnesses disengaged automatically, and everyone started free-falling. Omega twisted in the air, screaming, flailing. He tried to focus, had to focus. He maneuvered his body so that he was looking down, down at the burning urbania of Pineridge City. Smoke drifted up in huge plumes, clouds of ash obstructing swathes of the cityscape. Explosions popped up throughout the city, and he could see EMP blasts appearing and disappearing at different points.
Omega gritted his teeth, twisting his head and looking back up. The team's dropship was gone now, and there weren't many left in the sky besides. He could see other squads falling, over two hundred men plummeting at least. He gritted his teeth, the ground coming at him faster and faster, the fire and brimstone of the battlefield seeming to draw him ever closer. He closed his eyes as he plummeted past the roof of a nearby skyscraper, and fired the jumpjets on his back. The jets slowed his fall, and he began drifting to the ground at a safe pace. He drifted down slowly, until he was about fifty feet from the city street below him. That's when the jets failed, and he went plummeting.
The soldier gasped as he hit the ground, the HUD of his helmet flashing with warning signs. His suit automatically injected nanites in to his system, mending any broken bones and other wounds, as he dragged himself behind a burnt out car. Breathing heavily, he looked around for his rifle, but cursed when he realized it had been lost in the explosion. He drew the laser pistol attached to the chest of his suit instead, before looking up. He couldn't see any squad members approaching. He was totally alone down here...
"Fuck," he said to himself. He let loose a stream of expletives, only stopping when he heard a loud, mechanical stomping. Very slowly, he peeked his head over the hood of the car. Approaching him was a massive mech- a Proletariat Enforcer Assault Suit, if he remembered correctly. It was short and wide, painted red and gold. It's left arm was mostly a high caliber machine gun, and it's right arm ended in a massive, three-fingered hand. Studying it more closely, he could see a small viewing port on the front. That had to be where the cockpit was.
Suddenly, his suit chirped and said, in a soothing female voice, "revitalization complete". The mech stopped moving. Omega took cover and cursed, then peeked around the car again. The viewing port was aimed right at him. The machine gun started to whirr, it's triple-barrel spinning faster and faster.
"SHIT!", Omega yelled, bolting from cover as the machine gun tore the car to pieces. He dashed to the sidewalk, keeping to the wall and trying to get behind the P.E.A.S. The mech turned slowly, the barrels of the machine gun still whirring, and opened fire again. The clone just barely avoided the hail of gunfire, and began to tighten the circle he was running around the mech. He had to get close to it, had to find a weakness.
He ran five circles around the machine, getting closer to it on each revolution, until finally he was near enough. He lunged at it as it turned clumsily to shoot at him, and he managed to grab on to it's chassis. He clung there for a second, gripping his pistol tightly, until he felt something grab him. The hand...
He was flung in to a nearby storefront, flying through the window and smashing his head on a pillar. He blacked out.
As he floated in and out of consciousness... Faded fragments of memories. A robotic hand. A grim man clad in blue with beady, metal eyes. A beautiful woman, holding him close. A child that looked just like him. A silenced pistol. A hoverbike. A fall. Rain. The fluid of a cryo-pod...
He jerked awake, his vision bleary. It was cold. His armor and suit, gone. His helmet, gone. His gun, too. He began to panic as his vision came in to focus. Concrete. Metal bars. A cage? He looked to his side. More bars, definitely a cage. Beyond the bars, two men in Ushankas sat by a barrel fire, smoking. Omega looked around again. Two other men in his cage, but they didn't look like him. Not clones. Not part of his squad. They were still unconscious, it seemed. Omega cast another glance around. More men outside the cage, smoking, drinking, patrolling. This was a camp.
He had been taken prisoner.
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Post by Rusty Shackleford on Jun 4, 2014 19:28:07 GMT
So Dean is now a clone soldier. Awesome.
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Post by halorocks22 on Jun 4, 2014 20:06:14 GMT
kan u maek klones of felix?? pls
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farcry11
Moderator
God Emperor of Pleb Kind
Strictly Platonic
Posts: 1,347
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Post by farcry11 on Jun 4, 2014 22:42:05 GMT
kan u maek klones of felix?? pls best clune solder
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Post by subdigital on Jun 5, 2014 0:01:20 GMT
Soooo...it is possible Dean and Emilia could meet again?
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Post by Rusty Shackleford on Jun 5, 2014 0:28:39 GMT
Are you thinking what I'm thinking?
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Post by subdigital on Jun 5, 2014 0:39:48 GMT
I WAS ACTUALLY THINKING JUST THIS! xD
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farcry11
Moderator
God Emperor of Pleb Kind
Strictly Platonic
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Post by farcry11 on Jun 5, 2014 1:45:16 GMT
-PART 2: Blood and Water-
"Get him, Strelok! Get him!"
Omega grunted as he dealt a crushing right hook to his opponent's cheek, snapping the man's head to the side and eliciting a roar of approval from the crowd of Russians. The clone soldier pushed his advantage, delivering two quick punches to the other fighter's stomach and kneeing him in the face when he doubled over. The man stumbled back, hitting the edge of the human circle formed by their captors. They pushed him back in to the fight, bleeding and dazed. He stumbled at Omega, throwing a clumsy left hook which the clone easily sidestepped before counter attacking with a quick jab to the nose. It cracked, spurting blood, and the fighter went down. Omega raised a combat booted foot and brought it down on the man's head again, and again, and again, until all he heard was a wet squelching. He stepped back, sat down on the ground, and looked at what was left of the poor bastard's skull.
His brutality would get him two extra bowls of soup tonight, and maybe even a bit of stewed meat, like the Marxies ate. As he left the ring, the soldiers clapped him on the back, calling him names like "Strelok"(soldier), and "Leesah"(fox). He laughed a little bit, joked with them, got friendly. It made it so much easier, he'd learned that soon after getting captured. The other prisoners, remnants of the failed attack, most of them didn't get it. Most of them thought NanoTrasen special ops would whisk them away in a daring escape, or better yet, that the big guns would roll in and wipe out the Commies. But Omega saw it how it was, knew that if he was going to survive in this pit, he needed to be what the Russians wanted. And they wanted entertainment, and a drinking buddy, and an obedient prisoner.
The clone walked back to his barracks unguarded. He'd earned their trust in the months that he had lived as their prisoner, and now, he was mostly free to do as he pleased. As Omega settled in to his bed (the comfiest in the prison barracks, thanks to his good attitude), he ran a hand over the scar on the back of his neck. They'd cut out his loyalty implant on day three. It'd hurt like a bitch, but he'd endured, suffering from shaking and vomiting fits for days after as the loyalty drugs left his system. He had told his Russian interrogators what little he knew, avoiding torture.
With the loyalty implant gone, there was a sort of missing space in Omega's mind, in his heart. From the moment he had come in to existence, stripped of all his memories except for those that allowed him to keep his combat prowess, he had thought that NanoTrasen could do no wrong. Every day of his short life, he had trained rigorously in an enclosed facility, practicing combat and learning to practically worship his 'creators'. The loyalty implant did most of the work on that front.
Ever since they'd cut out the chip, he'd been having dreams- dreams reminiscent of his jumbled thoughts during his capture. In one recurring nightmare, the man with the metal eyes approached him, his ocular prosthetics glowing a deep red. When Omega tried to run, he realized he could not move. The outcome was always the same- the metal eyed man grabbed his face with one hand and gouged his eyes out with the fingers of the other, staying grim and straight faced the entire time.
In another recurring dream, Omega was engaged in passionate lovemaking with the beautiful woman when suddenly he began falling. He screamed, but no noise came out, and he landed in a dark alleyway. As he lay there in agony, his bones shattered, men gathered around him and shot him over and over again, until he was nothing but a bloodstain on the wet asphalt.
In yet another, he sat with the boy that looked like him in a green field, a city visible in the distance. The child was reading a book, and Omega was drinking slowly from a bottle of beer, when suddenly the city in the distance disappeared in a massive explosion. The clone always woke up with the screams of the child ringing in his ears.
He tried to no end to brush them off as mere after-effects of losing his implant, but something about them was... Wrong. They horrified yet enthralled him, like they had some kind of special... Substance. Weight. What it was about them, he could not be sure, but they were maddening. He'd no idea what to do about them, and so he merely endured.
The clone lay in his bed, staring up at the wood and metal ceiling of his barracks, before drifting off to sleep. A nightmare again, this time the one with metal-eyes. Omega woke with a start to the dinner bell ringing, and groggily got up. All the other prisoners had already left. Pulling on his sweater and coat, he headed out in to the cold night air.
He waited in the prisoner food line for a few minutes, and when he got to the front, started haggling with the cook in broken Russian.
"I kill NT-man Joshua in ring today, much blood, make friends very happy. Alyoshka tell you, no? I get two extra bowls soup, and meat, quarter-can of meat."
The cook argued with him for a bit, but eventually Omega's haggling won out. He walked away from the line with two extra bowls of watery soup, and half a can of meat. He sat down at one of the prisoner's barrel fires and tore in to his food voraciously. Some of the other prisoners threw him looks- fear, anger, ad envy all in one. He ignored them- they were screwed anyways, so what did he care? He kept to himself.
That night, he went to his barracks well-fed and happy. It didn't matter that he'd had to kill a fellow to get his meal, because he was alive, he was staying strong. He'd outlast all the idiots and thickheaded believers, he'd get out of there alive and in one piece. One thought raged in his mind as he drifted in to a sleep full of nightmares.
He'd get answers.
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farcry11
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Post by farcry11 on Jun 5, 2014 2:46:29 GMT
(P.S, Dean is 2X as kill as StarKiller)
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Post by Rusty Shackleford on Jun 5, 2014 11:14:48 GMT
See, everyone? Space Russians aren't that bad. All you have to do is kill your fellow POWs in deathmatches and you get extra food!
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farcry11
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God Emperor of Pleb Kind
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Post by farcry11 on Jun 9, 2014 3:54:25 GMT
-PART 3: Questions-
Omega stared down in to the sink as he shaved his hair, clumps falling in to the basin and washing away in to the drain. He let out a long, slow breath, and ran his hand across his head- a very short Mohawk ran down the center, and the rest was a close shave. He felt his chin- a slight beard had sprung up around his mouth. It'd help the disguise, surely.
He took the ID out of his jacket pocket- a good forgery. Jean Moriarity was his alias. He squinted at it before tucking it away, before turning to the body slumped against the door of the bathroom. A short, squat man, clad in a white suit- now stained liberally with blood. His head had been crushed in by the claw hammer Omega favored, and he was stone-cold dead. Before the man had died, he'd provided some valuable information.
Dean Sinclair had been his former name. A hitman by trade, and an employee aboard NanoTrasen's Aurora Research Station. He'd met his end in a botched assasination due to multiple gunshot wounds- that had been all the man had told him after brief coercion, but two broken wrists and one severed toe later, and he'd started talking. NanoTrasen, noting Sinclair's significant combat prowess, had recovered the body from the Lowell City morgue where it was being kept, made a genetic backup, and returned the corpse discreetly. After that, they began producing batches of clones, using selective memory processing to keep the combat readiness but remove all personal memories. Organic killing machines, in short- five thousand and counting. That was where the official had stopped talking.
A shattered kneecap and two severed pinkies later, and he'd relinquished a choice piece of info- personal contacts. Selvion Renworth, lifelong friend. Emilia Denevarcus, fiancée. Jeremy Sinclair, son. Other names were forthcoming- Lysanuh Dilgan and Adrianna Cross were persons of interest. A woman named Joan Steincross was mentioned briefly. After regurgitating that particular info, the man had passed out from pain. Omega had crushed his skull shortly afterwards, and dragged him in to the motel's bathroom to stow the corpse.
Five minutes after his shave, he checked out. He walked outside in to the smoggy, grimy slums of Lowell, and climbed aboard his stolen Hovercycle. The vehicle felt familiar to him, controlled well- he supposed Dean had ridden them in the past. Maybe he'd know for sure, soon.
This was his largest burst of progress since his escape from the Marxist P.O.W camp three months prior. He'd managed to make his way to Lowell, and had subsequently found the unlucky N.T official outside a nightclub near his motel, boasting about his high ranking in a drunken stupor. Omega had trailed him to his car a block away, dispatched his bodyguard, and kidnapped the official under cover of darkness. That had been last night.
"On the right track," he thought, as he zipped through traffic. The claw hammer was heavy underneath his jacket. He was looking for a mansion, likely on the outskirts...
He flew high, past some of the taller towers, where traffic thinned. Wind whipped at his clothes as he looked out over the massive cityscape, to the outskirts. The houses were bigger there. He dived, wind whistling past his ears, and flew at breakneck speed towards the edge of the city.
He touched down across the street from the mansion two hours later, outside of an apartment building. A large man with golden earrings, long orange hair, and an eyepatch sat on a bench with a smaller, somewhat nervous looking woman. They held hands, looking up at the same time as Omega climbed off his bike. He approached them purposefully.
"Do either of you know who lives in that house across the way?", he asked, gesturing at the mansion with a large "R" on it's gate. The man with the eyepatch stared at him for a moment before replying.
"Yeh, thas' Cap'n Renworth's place, ye know? He's a bit of a cunt, though- don't know what ye'd want with him."
Omega nodded, thanking Eyepatch. He walked across the street, a wind rustling the leaves of the trees around him, and walked up to the gate.
That bastard was in there, and he was going to give him what he wanted- one way or another.
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Post by Rusty Shackleford on Jun 9, 2014 13:37:46 GMT
THAT'S RIGHT
BREAK SELVION'S FINGERS
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bluesp34r
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Tsundere
Such a tsundere
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Post by bluesp34r on Jun 9, 2014 15:54:17 GMT
But then he can't pleasure Jen...
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farcry11
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Post by farcry11 on Jun 9, 2014 16:04:55 GMT
But then he can't pleasure Jen... All according to plan...
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bluesp34r
Moderator
Tsundere
Such a tsundere
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Post by bluesp34r on Jun 9, 2014 16:58:00 GMT
But then he can't pleasure Jen... All according to plan... I'll never forgive you!
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farcry11
Moderator
God Emperor of Pleb Kind
Strictly Platonic
Posts: 1,347
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Post by farcry11 on Jun 10, 2014 4:12:34 GMT
-PART 4: Answers-
"Tea... Tea would be nice," Omega mumbled, staring at the fire burning in the hearth. It was dark outside- a storm had rolled in, and rain pattered at the window. Adrianna moved out of the sitting room to get the tea, leaving Omega and Selvion seated across from each other in armchairs. The security cyborg, N.E.C.R.O.N, stood by the door leading out. It's visor was cold and merciless, somewhat akin to Renworth's eyes. Selvion noticed the clone staring at the cyborg, and smiled thinly.
"I am sorry, mon ami," he spoke eloquently in Tradeband, "but you must admit- he did his job rather well. A long dead friend of mine charges at me with a hammer, and he is there to protect me- a faithful companion, no?"
Omega rubbed the taser burns and baton bruises on his chest- they had been salved and iced, the whole mess strapped to his chest with gauze. Mrs. Cross-Renworth was a talented medic, to be sure. The clone looked up at Renworth from his hunched position, his eyes pleading.
"Mon ami," he said in Tradeband- a language he remembered from his past life, "I am not here to harm you. I merely want... I want...-"
At that moment, Adrianna came in, bearing a tray laden with a teapot and three cups. She set it down on the coffee table between the chairs, and poured for each member of the gathering. A sweet scent of cinnamon wafted off the tea, and Omega mumbled his thanks as he lifted his cup to his lips.
"You want your life back?" Selvion suggested, his eyes glowing a melancholy shade of grey.
"Well... Yes. I want my memories. I want my fiancee, and my child, and my house, and whatever else I had. I want it all back. I need it."
Omega gripped his teacup tightly, staring at Selvion beseechingly. The regal man, gaunt-faced and clad in a dark fur coat, regarded him sadly. His wife stared out the window, clearly very uncomfortable in the clone's presence- for what reasons Omega could only guess.
"Supposing I can retrieve your memories, my friend... Do you believe your life will truly be alright from there on out? That things will go back to normal?"
"No. But no matter what happens, I'll have my life back, at least. A man is nothing without his experiences."
"... Well spoken, I suppose. While this whole... Affair... With your body was performed unbeknownst to me, you are still part of the NanoTrasen Genetic Revitalization program- military class, subsection B. I have access to almost all levels of that program, including yours. I can retrieve what you want, and for you, I would do it a thousand times over. I simply ask that you be aware of the consequences."
"I'm aware. How soon can you get them?"
"Two days. You'll have to lay low, and stay here. I'll sort everything out that I can for you, try to make things... Normal. Just remember that nothing works out perfectly."
Omega stood up. He straightened out his jacket (now slightly singed on the front) as best he could, and set down his tea.
"How could I forget? We'll just have to see what happens."
He moved towards the door. N.E.C.R.O.N moved to block him, but Selvion waved him out of the way, looking weary.
"Where are you going?", he asked.
The clone turned as he reached the doorway, staring at both Adrianna and Selvion for a moment.
"I'm going to go talk to Emilia."
He trotted down the hallway to the front door, opened it, let the wind whip at his clothes and let the rain wet his face. He dashed to his Hovercycle, over the mansion's extensive lawn, out the gate, across the street. As he rose up in to the stormy night sky, one feeling drove him.
Hope.
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farcry11
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Post by farcry11 on Jun 10, 2014 4:30:06 GMT
No fingers were shattered in the encounter. Jen will remain satisfied for the foreseeable future.
You're welcome fggt.
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bluesp34r
Moderator
Tsundere
Such a tsundere
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Post by bluesp34r on Jun 10, 2014 17:48:31 GMT
Phew. My ovaries are relieved.
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Post by PumpkingSlice on Jun 10, 2014 21:32:08 GMT
Does this mean Tiffany Kim will have to suicide herself because of Dean D:
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farcry11
Moderator
God Emperor of Pleb Kind
Strictly Platonic
Posts: 1,347
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Post by farcry11 on Jul 6, 2014 10:00:33 GMT
-PART 5: AFTERGLOW-
Dean rolled off of the woman, keeping a hand splayed out across her firm stomach. He panted slightly, beads of sweat cooling across his naked body in the chill air of the hotel room. The hooker lit a cigarette, inhaling, and then blowing smoke out of her nose. Dean stared up at the ceiling, bags under his eyes. Outside, the sun was setting over the Lowell cityscape, the sky a pleasant shade of deep reminiscent orange. He gazed out of the window for the moment, before climbing out of bed and tugging on his clothes. He sat on the bedside to pull on his combat boots, and looked back at the prostitute, who was under the covers now. She stared right back at him- a pretty little thing, about four years his junior. She smiled faintly, and he had an inkling that it wasn't because she was payed to. Dean stopped at the door before leaving, turning to her.
"Thanks," was all he said. He tossed a gleaming cred-chit on the table by the door, and walked out.
By the time Dean arrived at his target's location, night had fallen. The tenements he had landed at were dimly lit, shadows encroaching all around him. He felt a cockroach crunch under his boot as he stepped in to the entry hall, and grimaced. He checked his weapon one more time, pulling the contraption out of his jacket pocket.
"Cobra," was all the aged dealer had said when he had sold the weapon to Dean the day prior. It was some sort of telescopic whip- a handle made of stainless steel, with a bronze pyramid at the end. When you pressed down on a button and gave it a flick, three flexible telescoping segments came out of the griptube, the pyramid at the end, giving the weapon reach. A brutal, lethal flail, and good for silent takeouts.
The job was simple enough- a ganger and his lackeys had taken up residence in this tenement block, shaking down the locals. The impoverished victims had pooled their resources to pay for the man's death, and Dean had accepted the job with something akin to gusto. One of his more "noble" jobs- a sort of community service. Dean grimaced at the thought, gripping the Cobra tightly, and entered the nearest elevator.
Emilia had rejected him. He'd shown up at her door, and when she answered, she pulled a gun- told him to go far , far away. Tears had welled in her eyes, but her anger had overridden her grief. She had been ready to blow his brains all over the concrete, and so he'd left. He got his full memories back two days later, and the agony, both emotional and physical, was unbearable. He became reclusive for two weeks after that, hiding out in one of the various rooms in Selvion's mansion.
But now he was back, body if not soul- and he had a reputation to uphold. He watched the number climb on the grimy glass of the floor-counter: 4, 6, 10. Finally it reached 20- his target's location. The door slid open, and he stepped in to the filthy hallway, inhaling the familiar scents of piss, blood, and ambrosia. Graffiti of gang symbols and obscenities lined the walls, and Dean read them disinterestedly as he stalked down the hall to his target's apartment. A light flickered overhead, clearly on it's last legs, as Dean knocked on the door heavily.
"Fuck you want?", was the response. "I told those motherfuckers the deal's off."
"I'm just here to talk, chum. Come on out."
Dean listened for a moment, then heard the distinctive noise of a ballistic being cocked back. He cursed, and dove to the side as a hail of bullets ripped through the door. The fire continued until the clip seemingly ran out, and Dean edged along the wall. He could hear men arguing hurriedly inside, apparently distracted- he took his chance, and swiftly kicked in the ruin of the door. He extended the Cobra as the men inside turned, apparently surprised that he had lived. He counted three- not sure which was the leader, so he'd kill all of them to make sure.
Taking advantage of their surprise, he leapt forward in to the living room where the men stood- swinging out with the cobra in the same motion. The sharp pyramid took one of the gangers- the one who had fired the Uzi- in the temple, tearing through it and destroying the man's skull. Dean yanked the thing out swiftly, brutally, and flicked it to get rid of any excess flesh or bone stuck to it. The remaining two men cursed as their friend slumped to the floor, gun falling from his hand.
"Should've come out," he said, eyes gleaming dangerously in the half-light of the apartment. One of the men reached for a machete on the nearby coffee table, but Dean lashed out with the Cobra again, tearing in to the ganger's wrist. He followed up with a kick to the head, knocking the man out- but the assault had given the remaining target time to grasp the nearest weapon: a sturdy chair leg. Dean grunted as the piece of wood smashed across his back, shattering, and dropped his Cobra. He turned to face his attacker, and leapt at him, slamming in to the bastard and propelling the two of them across the room. Dean dragged the man to his feet, then smashed his head through a nearby window. He followed up by forcing the ganger's neck down on to a shard of glass left in the frame, and left him there, gurgling and choking as blood spurted from his neck freely.
Dean limped back across the room, leaning down and picking up the Cobra. He smashed in the final ganger's head, then left quickly. In the hall outside, a neighbor peeked out of his door, saw Dean exiting the ganger's apartment, and mouthed the words "thank you". Dean nodded in return, and walked down the hall in to a waiting elevator.
Hours later, he stood on the balcony of the ritzy hotel, the hooker from earlier long gone. The city spread out before him, a labyrinth of neon and steel full of filth and criminals and greedy rich bastards. Life here was what you made of it...
And what Dean made of it was death.
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