Description: There's a new gang in town, that town being Metro City. A bunch of misfits, monsters, and mutants, their presence can only spell trouble for the good citizens. And the bad ones. And anyone who happens to cross their path!
The sun slowly sinks below the horizon, its feeble red rays struggling to cut through the pall of thick black smog that shrouds the whole of Metro City. All throughout the west side, honest men and women are locking their doors, turning out lights, and unwinding after a long day's work. it is so, so hard for them to keep their heads above the water, but they're managing. But while they prepare to bed down, dreading the alarm that will rouse them for the start of tomorrow's work day, the less scrupulous denizens of this fine city are coming awake.
Above a dirty brick storefront, a neon sign sputters and glows. Flickering green letters cast their wavering light out across the parking lot, illuminating a few scattered cars, a truck or two, and over 20 brutally twisted motorcycles clustered together in one corner, their shadowed silhouettes jagged and ominous.
'Hank's All Night Diner'
The tiny restaurant is nothing special. The walls are grimy, parking lot rough and cracked in many places. Misty yellow light pours through two large glass windows set in the front, though they are so fogged with smoke as to render them impenetrable to the naked eye. Faint music can be heard faintly from within, though the walls do a good job of insolating the noise.
That is, the noise is contained right up until a shadow appears in the left most window, growing quickly larger, and larger, until the window explodes outward in a spray of twinkling glass shards. An anonymous man's large body tumbles limply through the air, impacting the ground with a meaty 'thwump' amidst a carpet of glittering stars. The grinding grungy growl of a Tom Waits song follows him out, the concrete gargle of the devilish musician proclaiming his intent to 'go out west'.
"Fuckin' pansy ass little shit drip," comes the grunted mutter of a smokey male baritone, voice rough and full of devastating apathy.
The man that utters these words is not the one who currently lies crumpled on the pavement outside. The owner of the voice is perhaps 6 inches shorter and a hundred pounds lighter, cigarette glowing cherry red as it dangles from between clenched teeth. His shaggy grey hair and ragged beard can't quite hide the savage scars that are cut into his face, given depth and outline by the reflected light of his smoke.
"What the fuck did he call me?" There is no real heat in the question, only a casual sort of interest. An honest desire to know why he just hucked this man through a window. The question is posed to someone out of sight over his right shoulder as the aging barbarian steps through the now mostly open window frame. Glass crunches under his boots, punctuating the grinding lyrics of good old Tom as he strolls lazily toward his downed victim, one tattooed hand lifting to scratch at his hairy chest.
"Oh, ooooh! I know this one, don't tell me!"
The voice that answers the dusty old biker's question is practically the exact opposite of his gravely rumble, that of an excited and chirpy female. There is a tone of almost maniac glee that accompanies every word as if she can't wait to get them out and the pitch of her voice shifts from that of gargling concrete to nails on a chalkboard. At the moment, she's somewhere in the middle.
The owner of the voice appears hot on Rae's heels. Standing a little over five feet tall, Sorcha is nevertheless the kind of person who stands out in a crowd. Decked from head to toe in dull orange and black, rocking a hat that looks like it was taken out of a Halloween catalog, and sporting a second pair of arms just below the one that most people tend to have, it's nearly impossible to /not/ notice the little mutant. She scampers fearlessly over the shattered window frame and carpet of broken glass despite being barefoot and runs to stand over the fallen bear of a man that has just gotten a free ride on the pain train peering down at him with mismatched eyes both gleaming brightly. The mismatched fingers of her various hands wiggle in the air at him in anticipation of picking apart what's left for things that might catch her interest.
"It was 'washed up mangey old fart-basket that probably needs training wheels on his dick to keep from falling over in the bathroom'!" Her voice drops to a low pitch mocking that of the man on the ground. "Ahaha...haha! That's what he said! I heard it!"
A cloud of acrid smoke swirls out from between Rae's lips with the grunted syllable, swirling about his head as he crunches his way unhurriedly across the glass to join his scampering companion. behind the pair, the light that streams through the shattered window is eclipsed by several bulky forms. Lumbering and indistinct, they loom, backlit and grumbling as they wait to see what will happen next. Around them are scattered the remains of the booths that once rested beside the window, now nothing more than scraps of wood and vinyl.
"Don't seem like he'd be that smart to me." The old biker drawls impassively. The words are pushed out between his yellowish teeth as they remain clamped about the end of his cigarette, gleaming faintly in the dim light. Coming to a halt beside the twisted young mutant, he attempts to casually drape his muscular right forearm across her shoulders, seeming unperturbed by her freakish appearance.
"Perdy sure you were lyin' last time. I kicked the shit out of that wet back and his buddies for no good reason. You yankin' my chain, kid?" The question is calm and indifferent, as loose as the brutal biker's posture. However, while he speaks he reaches up with his other hand to pluck his smoke from between his teeth, ashing it carelessly onto the body of the unconscious man before them. His grey eyes gleam emptily, flat and dead as a shark as he studies the stupid sack of meat at his feet.
Sorcha lets out a soft grunt as the weight of Rae's arm settles onto her back and across the upper set of shoulders in her brace of arms. She gives him a fish-eyed look from under the brim of her hat but the thick scarf wrapped around her nose and mouth makes it impossible to see whatever expression she might be wielding in response to his familiarity. There is a pause of a few seconds and her lower hands come together, palms touching as she taps her index fingers against one another.
"Uuuuumm.. nope! Nopenopenope! He said it! I heard it! They heard it! I heard them hear it!"
The girl points with one of her free arms towards the gaggle of leather-clad bodies clustered around the open gap, likely more bikers judging by the sheer number of motorcycles parked nearby. Several grimaces meet her call for support. No one wants to get involved when these two are up to their usual sport. No one smart, anyways.
Frowning at the usual lack of spine being displayed, Sorcha ducks out from under the friendly arm wrap and scuttles to the other side of the body, immediately beginning to rifle through his pockets for treasure rather than continue that line of conversation. A wallet is produced quickly enough and she unfolds it, flipping through the various cards and bills with a speed that suggests she isn't actually looking at them very hard. Credit card, driver's liscence, gun permit, library card. She tosses each of these over her shoulder with disdain littering the pavement with plastic squares.
"Junk. Junk! Junk junk junkjunkjunk!"
A couple of twenty dollar bills vanish into her satchel and she tosses the mostly empty wallet to Rae. Her arms cross and she flops down to sit Indian-style with an annoyed thump.
"These stupid jerks never have anything GOOD! My sooooul longs for some phat loot!" She pauses then jabs a pointy finger down at the unconscious lump. "Can I eat him?"
There is a stretch of silence on the old biker's part as Rae allows Sorcha's flood of protestations and accusations to flow past him. His scarred face is turned down toward hers, dead grey eyes meeting her mismatched set squarely. However, at her wild gesture back toward their fellow bikers clustered in the window, he lifts his gaze from hers to cast a brief glance in their direction.
There is a sudden increased alertness as the entire group attempts to gauge the old man's mood. In return, he studies them with a mild sort of interest, as if mentally assessing their value as human beings.
"Bunch of limp dicked goat turds." Rae's pronouncement is dismissive, the grey-haired savage barely noticing as Sorcha slips from beneath his arm in search of wealth and glory untold.
In quiet contemplation he stands and smokes, having worked his cigarette down to a smoldering butt by the time the arcing wallet snags his attention. Turning, he catches the leather billfold and squeezes the sides, opening the mouth into a neat O in which to deposit his still burning cig.
"Don't give a fuck." Is his simple reply to whether or not the twisted young girl can eat the man between them. He punctuates this statement by dropping the now smoking wallet onto the face of the unconscious man with a quiet 'whap.'
"Figure it's about time we raise some hell." Rae grumbles, stepping away from the body to make his way back toward the opening of the bar. He does not quite inter yet, but props his left boot on the window sill and leans in past the figures still clustered there to get a good look at the rest of the interior.
A few slumped drunks, a few smashed tables, but all in all the place could do with a little more carnage.
"Was supposed to be some sort of crazy shit went down here, Back a year or so. Fucked up the bridge, got a lot of people scared. Lost a chunk of the city for a while. Don't mean anythin' to me though. There's a gang here. Mad Gear or somethin' like that. Might be fun to break some necks." Having leant back out of the window, the shaggy-haired old man half turns to cast a glance over one leather-clad shoulder, eyeing Sorcha over the spikes that stud it.
"Reckon we'll find out."
Sorcha looks up when she feels eyes upon her again, meeting the old biker's look with a wide-eyed stare. The scarf that usually covers her face is down, bunched up around her neck, and she has an entire one of the unconscious man's hands stuffed into her mouth. She makes a couple of chewing motions and the muffled sound of garbled speech leaks out. Frowning, she spits the limb out with a sharp hacking noise leaving several tiny nicks in a circle around the wrist and a whole lot of slobber.
"Blech! Tastes like old boots."
Why exactly she knows what that tastes like is a question better left alone. The scarf is lifted once more as she pushes to her feet covering a face that looks remarkably like that of a normal teenaged girl save for the black splotches and shark teeth. She wanders back over to the window in no particular hurry which causes a few of the bikers there to step back and give her space. Not many members of their little gang share his casual disregard for her mutated appearance and even fewer are comfortable with the unstable personality. Atleast Rae has moments of relative peace in between the bouts of rage and tells that indicate which mood he might be in.
If Sorcha notices the shifts in posture she pays them no mind, distracted by the bit of history brought up. There are few things that can keep her attention for long but anything weird or crazy like that demon shit that went down is certainly among her list.
"You mean when that spiky pimp SHREDDED the sky and it went all red and stuff? Hahaha! I remember that! SHUT UP, I DO!"
She turns to yell at someone nearby though who exactly she's directing her vehemence at is not entirely clear. Eyeing several likely suspects, she eventually turns back to Rae.
"Mad Gear? Maaad Gear! Madgear! Maaaaaaaad Geeeeeeear!" Her head tilts back and forth as she tries out the name with different inflections and enthusiasm, throwing out the last with a wide maniacal sweep of her arms. "... who's that?"
"Crime empire." Rae responds with typical indifference, his solid frame remaining hunched in the window as the rest of the gang stomp off to loot and pillage, busting open the register and clubbing down any staff that decide to get in their way. He seems, very unsurprised at Sorcha's erratic behavior, but they've known each other for a time now, and it's difficult to really get under his skin when he's mellowed out like this.
The Juke box in the corner has continued onto the next track, and a pounding bass drum rings out alongside a cowbell and catchy rift. Soon after, high and raspy male vocals join the tune.
"Drugs, extortion, the usual shit. Pretty big. But fuck em all. I like a challenge."
Rae's lips pull back and he spits onto the ground, the thick glob of saliva coming very close to striking one of Sorcha's dagger-like toenails. As it splatters across the tile, the brutal old man pushes himself back from the window and turns away to begin striding across the glass toward the dim corner of the parking lot, where the cluster of wicked-looking motorcycles are parked.
"I'm done eatin'. We'll see about pullin' one of these Mad Gear fucks out by the tail tomorrow. Might even see 'bout trackin' down one of them camera crews what broadcast the fights. I always wanted my fifteen minutes. May be time I took em."
Pausing in his stride just long enough to land a vicious kick to the side of the downed man's head, Rae continues on across the parking lot. Glass grinds and shatters under his boots, the sound of sirens growing louder in the distance while the song blaring from the Juke box finally reaches it's oh so appropriate climax.
'Now you're messin' with a, A son of a BiiIIIItch!'
Sorcha ignores the gang, not interested in looting the small diner. She's already got a pocket full of plates she stole from the bar, though she had to break them in half to fit them in said pocket. Someone should make more convenient to steal plates. She adds a piece of glass from the broken window just for good measure though. Never know when it'll come in handy.
Her unusually succinct answer comes in a drawn out bored tone. She doesn't really care about Mad Gear. They have a silly name. They probably don't even have any gears! Ofcourse, she could go find out. That would be funny. Where would they keep them? WHY DO THEY HAVE THEM? These are questions that must be answered. Maybe.
"Whatever, you da boss!"
The girl raises her arms as she steps out of the window to follow after Rae. Her fingers weave and wiggle in strange gestures, bridging together to create shapes which she flows through with casual ease at breakneck speed. Shimmering dark energy begins to gather in her palms and the faintly glowing red eyes embedded there begin to open wider in anticipation. Spinning jovially on her heel, Sorcha whirls to face the diner and thrusts her hands forward in unison, unleashing a massive ball of black fire at the side of the building.
"Keep the change!"
The sorcerous energy impacts against the wall with an air-rippling explosion tearing a fresh hole in the already defiled structure that sends brick shrapnel flying in every direction. The dark fire clings to the red stone and begins to spread at an unnatural rate, almost as if it were alive like some kind of rapidly replicating fungus.
Sorcha blasts past the old biker like a bat out of hell and leaps atop her own steed like some kind of action hero, revving the engine to proud load roars only instants after the key fires the ignition.
"It's just you and me, pilgrim. Let's get out there and show em what we're made of."
Log created on 20:27:54 07/13/2016 by Sorcha, and last modified on 13:09:23 07/14/2016.