for: @ricardoperezesq··
location: abandoned warehouse/ravi’s 29th
date: february 13
The warehouse is a cacophony of loud noise, each grating against each other. Music is still thrumming through the large, cavernous space, hitting a discordant note against the screams and sound of people rushing and racing, in an attempt to get to safety as gunshots fire off, one after the other. The non lights are still aglow, and the glittering refracting light cast by the disco balls still dances against the walls, but it’s not enough to take away from the chaos. From the percussive din of violence gradually filling the space, threatening to overwhelm every other sense. But Kyung-Soon is sober minded and clear headed as she sets down the untouched flute of champagne she’d been carrying the entire night to servers to stop offering her a drink.
Her heart flutters in her chest and she tells it to be still, to steel her nerves against any panic that threatens to settle in and make a home in her. She makes a plan, quick and haphazardly thrown together though it may be, and she begins to make her way down the steps from the small balcony-like area she’s been occupying above the scene for a bit. The warehouse may have been abandoned but the bones were still there – the sides full of railed ledges and balconies – catwalks of sort that she assumes were used to access massive ships or machinery once upon a time.
But as Ky starts her way down, there’s a loud bang of a gun shot too close or comfort and she presses her back to the wall as a cry sounds from below. And then another shot sounds off and she balls her hands into fists, sharp nails digging into palms as she eyes the steps leading to the first floor, one step closer to the exit. But then she hears the weapon discharge again and her eyes are drawn to the next flight of metal steps leading to a level higher.
She struggles for a minute, lips pressed together as she squeezes her eyes shut, everything going silent for one single moment of concentration. Are you really going to do this? She asks herself. She wrestles with the answer for a beat, the desire to say no and turn on her heels threatens to overwhelm her but Kyung-Soon’s discipline over self is something she prides herself in. Letting out a sharp hiss of breath between teeth. Are you really going to do this? She repeats the question to herself before starting up the steps, quiet as a fox on the hunt.
It takes an iron will not to jump at the sight of the body behind one of the columns running directly from the ceiling of the warehouse through each consecutive balcony to the concrete floor. His attire says he’s a waiter, and the package of cigarettes discarded beside him say that he hadn’t even been able to light one before whatever happened to him happened. Some unbidden knowledge prompts her to press two fingers to his throat, searching for a pulse and, only when she finds it, does she taking another breath. Kyung-Soon peers out from behind the column, seeing the back of a man firing into the crowd like he was a god casting down judgement.
She feels her heartbeat pick up again as she quells the slight tremor in her hands. Hands that are as steady as a surgeons, ones that have never betrayed her. She won’t let them now. Balling them into fists once more, she opens them to slips off one red-soled heel and then another. Even in the face of danger, Kyung-Soon is practical, she’s cunning and the grates lining the path between her and the man spell disaster. That’s as much planning as she allows herself, knowing full well that what she’s about to do is the definition of everything she rejects: impulsive, reckless, unplanned. No certainty of outcome.
Her feet want to run to safety or at the very least stay planted where they are, but Ky is the master of her mind, her body, her spirit –– and nothing else determines her actions but herself. She slams the door shut on fear and tosses the key before she can stop herself. Ky throws herself from behind the column, launching herself at the sniper-like figure as he raises his gun to fire again. She doesn’t know if a sound leaves her mouth as she latches onto his back, velvet-clad arms and legs wrapping around him, one arm going around his neck, the other going for the gun in his hand. The only things she hears is the beat of her heart, the blood rushing past her ears in a steady rhythm, both seeming to say survive, survive, survive.
The heavy brocade of his costume jacket provides some comfort, a grounding counterweight to the rising adrenaline as time slips forward. They’d been told to blend in, not to draw attention to themselves until it was time, and Ricardo listens carefully for any sign that he or his compatriots had been found out. Most of the crowd is stupidly drunk, making it a little easier to make his way through the masses of people unnoticed. At one point a woman stumbles into him, laughing and exuberant and telling him loudly to dance with her, but she is easily removed with an indulgent twirl and fast escape.
He makes his way up the metal stairs to the next level carefully, eyes and ears on high alert for any sign of another person. Halfway across the platform is a waiter, eyes fixed on his cell phone with a cigarette paused halfway to his mouth. Ricardo slinks toward him, though the sound of the music and crowd below would likely drown out any noise he could make. It’s a simple matter of one hand on his shoulder, turning the waiter to take a punch to the chin that sends him stumbling backward and unconscious to the floor.
From here, he can see the whole party laid out before him, completely unaware of what was about to happen. He checked the locations of the other members of Pestilence to be certain everyone was in position before settling into a comfortable crouch. His earplugs go in, ready to dampen the noise of gunfire and screams, and he takes a deep breath. “Three, two, one,” he mumbles softly, steadying his hands and breath before letting loose the first shot.
For a moment it’s as if the whole room stops breathing, as if with the press of a trigger he has sucked out the oxygen. Then more shots come, and the screaming starts. He ignores most of the partiers, keeping his sights focused on guards and anyone else who appears armed. The whole world narrows down into sharp focus until something impacts his back, sending him stumbling forward and into the metal bars of the platform.
Even the most battle-ready person needs oxygen, and the arm around his neck sends him panicking. He maintains his grip on the gun and grabs for the arm holding him tight. The first attempt to pull away is useless and instead he grabs it tighter and manages to pull himself to his feet with his free hand. In a dark reflection of a piggy-back ride, he keeps his fingers clasped on his assailant’s arm to hold them in place and staggers backward, slamming into a wall. There is the sound of a harsh impact and he can feel it echo through to his own body. Again he throws himself back, trying to crush or shake them loose.
His gun is still in his hand, and his brain works overtime considering how he can shoot his attacker without risking hitting himself as well. Shoot backwards, no guarantee the bullet doesn’t ricochet, no guarantee his arm isn’t pushed at the last moment and slide the barrel between his own ribs. He swallows, and his ear plugs shift for just a moment long enough to give him an idea. The gun goes up, pointing at the high warehouse ceiling, and settles next to both their ears. In an instant he is tilting his head away as far as he can and pulling the trigger. The sharp retort echoes, still piercing even through the layers of ear protection.
