#analdrain

[lukebygrace]

Among Us Mystery

Hey, I wrote a working one-shot short mystery. I wanted to write this as I had the idea, but also wanted to explore what it’d actually be like in the ship, and how it would work. And I’ve got plenty of great ideas, if I ever decide to write a small mini series on this! Comment if you can guess who the killer is, or message me! ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- The cafeteria laid bland, and cold. The brown linoleum floors reminded them all of a sterile hospital, the bolted down sleek aluminum tables and benches gleamed with a surprisingly clean reflection. And in the middle of the cafeteria, on the middle desk. The 3 astronauts stood, all opposing each other. They each had a color badge on their right shoulder, with a rank and insignia on the left. The suits they wore fit to their body strictly, with many folds and crinkles along each line of fabric and metal. A classic space suit, with a big clear glass visor over their face.The three of them stood there, and didn’t say a thing. Their eyes would turn to one another briefly, glaring at the glass and peering through, hoping to see something that would solve their problem.The silence in the air was thick, and suffocating. It was harshly cold on their skin, hairs would prick up, and their gloves would drip full with sweat. Their lips were shut, but their eyes were wide open. The metal of the ship casted a loud, low creak. In the distance of the cafeteria, a panel hung loose off the wall by a single screw. Inside were a set of 6 wires, with one labelled “O2” snipped. A loose tangled cord of copper made a bridge from either end of the broken “O2” wire. A temporary solution, for a permanent problem. The reality of their situation dawned upon them, guilt and shame washed through their bodies, like the dawn of a lunar eclipse. Pink had died last night, after they had ejected Red.And that only left the three of them. Brown stood the closest to the table. The bench strained against the back of their knees, the table dug into their waist harshly. Yet they stood tall, and unmoving, despite the pain. They were the first in the meeting, and when the rest of them didn’t sit down, they stood right where they were. Trapped between bench and table, and morally trapped between which of the ones they stared at were the killer. Green stood across from Brown. His hands leaned against the table, and his legs were stretched out behind him. Brown thought he looked ready to sprint. While Blue thought he looked ready to be pat down and arrested. Green seemed to take it the worst, sweat would frequently run down his face, his lips would twitch and his teeth would bare, like a cornered wild animal. Green knew that in the mess of words that’d fly out soon enough, 50% of them would be lies. That’s just statistics, he thought. Blue stood in the middle of all of them, looking to Green, and looking at the ‘ADMIN DEPT’ insignia over his other shoulder. Blue stood half on her side, her arms were barred across her body, creating a prison cell for herself, in her own suit. Green thought she looked helpless, a victim lost in the murders, and thrown to the wolves to defend herself. Brown thought she looked remorseful, standing in regret of the lives that could’ve been saved, the people that could still be walking around.

They all knew a single sentence could be the first step to a judgement call, by the all too eager executors, innocent by job, murderous by nature, and hopefully not vice versa.

Green stared at Brown, eager to look at their face. Though the broad, luminescent lights above glared right at their visor, and shined right back into Green’s. Green ducked his head, down, and around, trying desperately to look into their face.

Blue’s eyes darted along to Green. She was in no sense to say anything, she was one of the most suspicious when Pink was found. She had told and pleaded with them, she was only in O2 to check on Pink, and that's where she found her dead, half crammed into a ventilation shaft. The insignia on her left shoulder read “REACTOR DEPT”

Brown stared at Green. Their eyes darted from Green, to Blue, attempting to look like crude arrows. Though Green never saw them. Their eyes ached, and their fists started to clench. Why can’t he see me? They thought. They had never found Brown suspicious before, they completed their tasks all across the ship. It was a funny case, being apart of the electrical department. Wires were all over the ship, they could be anywhere and fix something.

Green pressed his head closer to the bench, his brows furrowing as he stalked Brown with his eyes. Just fucking move. Just fucking say something. He thought. Usually, we’d find whoever was last to the meeting suspicious. We know the traitors use the vents, we know there’s nothing that ever has to be fixed in there. He thought. No person could kill and not hide themself in a vent out of shame, it’s a brief respite from the pain. A nervous chatter came out from his lips, as he thought to himself. You’d have to be a stubborn bastard to not vent.

Blue’s hand ran up her arm anxiously, her fingers clawing like spiders up along the suit, just to feel something other than the mental pressure. Her eyes looked along to the wire panel again, and it’s scrappy copper wire fix. Before she looked to Green, and read his insignia once more.

[lukebygrace]

Merc; Urban Warefare

The bald headed male squatted behind the metal, blue trash can, his eyes drawn into a squint as he held the fore grip of his weapon in his right hand, his spare hand guiding a magazine to the port. “SMITH! This is scaring the shit out of me!” Renayl yelled, taking cover beside him, against a brick wall. Smith looked up to his friend, the echoing rip of bullets flaying the air and screeching through the bricks, cracking and chipping off the corner.

Renayl, black hair swept back with blue eyes wide stumbled onto his ass, crawling back, kicking his legs and placing his hands on the side walk to move away from the bullets, his right hand clutching the now damp grip of a pistol. “Get the fuck out from there! You’re gonna get shot dipshit!” Renayl barked, growing a frown.

Smith drew back to his gun, a roaring snap cracking in the air as the metal popped beneath smiths chest, the hot singe of a close call radiating over his chest, he bared his teeth and kept his head ducked down, crawling across to the solid brick wall.

“Fuck!” Renayl frowned, growing to rise into a squat, wearing a flannel, plaid jacket with a black shirt underneath, a set of grey sweatpants too. A series of stubble was over his jawline, his black eyebrows furrowing as he stared at his bald friend. “Why the fuck did you do that!?” He yelled.

Smith turned his head up to look at him, his brown eyes half lidded, a red jacket over a white singlet, a set of light pale blue jeans, slightly faded straining against his legs. He turned his head back down to his gun, grasping the pistol like grip tensely. “You’re a retard!” Renayl snapped once more.

“You should’ve just fuckin-“ Renayl went on again before the loud scream of sirens rang into the air. “James, shut it.” Smith grumbled under his breath and turned back to the street, the blaring streetlight was their only source of light, the crooked, crack like moon didn’t offer its luminescent guide tonight.

Turning back, he drew up to his feet, stepping to the side of Ren and grabbing his arm, attempting to lift him up. Ren was drug off the ground before he snarled, jabbing the barrel of his gun into the back of his comrades knee, “No no! You’re gonna tell me what the fuck that was!” He bickered.

Smiths foot halted against the ground, the bald headed mercenary turning down to his unfortunate partner. His eyes rolled, his arm moving up to press his rifle up to Ren. Ren’s eyes widen the minute the barrel starts to peak up, he instantly drops down to the ground, hands in front of him. “Fuck! Don’t wave that fucking thing around!”

Smith let go of his cowering friends arm and began to creep his way along the back streets.

[lukebygrace]

Merc; The Van

One of the men chuckled coming from the driver's seat, a brown hand resting on the steering wheel, the other fidgeting with the centre console. A chapped lip quirked up, revealing a white teethed smile, his sneakered foot pressuring the gas, the van rolling through the side streets of the city, strangely vacant, the passerby’s of pedestrians were nil, the drone of another engines hum, or the melody of another's music, nothing was seen.

“Looks like clear skies huh?” he spoke, a small off kilter comment, casual and stagnant. Dressed in a plaid button up and simple denim jeans, he wasn’t like the rest.

The men in the back of the van brooded easily, 4 of them, in different corners of the van. There on one of the faux leather seats sat one, short black hair, faded to the side, an angled jaw line covered in scruffy stubble, a dirtied face, a cut lip, a scar across the right brow, and a smirk that rivaled life. A slanted, quiet nose, thick dry lips and eyes that bagged with the likes of withdrawal.

Faded grey eyes proved a fading view of life, yet a spark lit inside them, one of vicious energy. “That fuckin mask man.” His voice proved fiery, with a certain bark to it, one full of youth and rebellion, an angsty chuckle gurgling in his words, subtly imposing, brutefully mocking. A layer of complexity, all within the young mans voice. His chapped lips perked into the corners of his narrow cheeks, shady, yellow glinted teeth, darkened by the likes of drugs. His head shook casually, leaning back into the faux black leather seats, the seatbelt beside him, dangling anxiously.

Dressed head to toe in thick, rough black over alls, covering from ankle to wrist, a thick sturdy collar. Small pockets and pouches laid on hip and chest, chains of synthetic fibre and plastic clasps proving room for weapon holsters, an intimidating, darkened pistol fashioned by his hip.

A man stood next to him, imposing and brutish. A mockery of charisma, standing with thick arms crossed, one leg tucked over the other, feet sturdily, yet anxiously planted. Another set of deep dark over alls, casted with weaponry holding more tallies than he ate breakfast, his rifle hanging by his chest. Broad shoulders, a thick, sturdy frame, hiding an anxious and fringed personality, hidden by a round bald head, a slack, strong jaw, clean cut face and a set of dark brown eyes, rotten with the sights of his murderous life style.

Stood there watching, the bald headed pack of muscle aided the contrast of the group. Hot headed and yet without a voice to speak it, self assured, though not a morsel of dignity to stand up for it. Experienced, yet too suicidal to show it.

Just opposite the first drug addict was the most innocent man there.

Clean shaven, weak jaw, long face. Medium black hair furled off in jagged cut edges to the side, gleaming, light blue eyes that refused to admit his lack of innocence, his iris tucked behind the thin, blackened veil of his eyelid, bruised and ailing.

Paranoid, fidgety hands clasped together, fingers tickling and intermitting, caressing and snuggling, rubbing against each other like a sensitive couple, his hands laying on the carbon grip of his own assault rifle, rattling with each bump of the van. The rifle laid dormant, steady and focused, while it’s owner couldn’t be more the contrary.

A weak slim frame adorned with tiny fragments of the occasional toned muscle, a body left behind compared to the wit and snap of his battle-hardened mind, tactical and thoughtful, you wouldn’t have thought of it. Though frail and uncalm, his hands held stiffer against the rifles grip, his dormant calluses would shun against the guns harsh recoil, his elbows would lock and hold--His brain wouldn’t care to think about the poor soul in front of his sights, and before he knew it, he’d be back in the van again, extorted and unwilling, yet all the military experience backing his employment.

His thin lips slowly pulled open into an uneasy, quiet chuckle, white teeth clattering quietly and stiffly, seatbelt wrapped tightly around his torso.

And the last sat next to him.

Chubby frame bulging out the likes of his similar over alls, rifle clinging to his body, pushed out by his own body weight. Slouched over, held back by the tight fibre elastic of the seatbelt, meaty elbows pressing into his thick knee’s, one hand lazily clasping the edge of a white plastic mask, a simple and sleek design, rounded flat to fit the face, nose holes for breathing, a simple, practical, yet all the more cruel design on the front. A small, painted black smiley face, beady black eyes with a crooked smile no bigger than a tube of toothpaste.

A smile over his chubby, aged face, he looked down to the mask, his other hand rubbing over the edge. Thick lips parted and a gleam of grey, whitening teeth revealed, a long overdue attempt of personal hygiene proven, a thick set of scruffy, dark brown hair hanging from his jaw, neck and upper lip. Wide nosed, a thick oval face framed by a set of shaggy, rag like brown hair, falling down to just below his jaw line in an tangled unkempt jungley mess. Wrinkles and bags underneath a set of dull brown eyes, a stern wrinkle over both of his thick brows.

“Heh, well, it’s been follow’in me for awhile, now.” His voice was croaky and phlegmy, something deep, it had a rumble to it, a loose rumble that sounded like the warm cozy hum of a fire--Enlightened by the tone of a rural southern accent, his voice connotations and annotations deemed him fatherly. “Got’a bit of an err...Y’know, story tew it.” His hands fumbled with the mask, flipping it onto it’s side.

The group of misfits and miscreants were a small band of friends, apart of something bigger, henchmen and peons, among side each other, fighting for the purpose of another grand in their pocket. Though they’re motivations differ, personalities, skill and enthusiasm, one thing was for sure.

They were going to be working along side each other, for a long...Long time.

[lukebygrace]

Merc | Foreclex Office (Part 3)

Then, a loud, metallic CLANG rung out into the warehouse, shrill and shallow, the sounds of metal breaking. Repeated yells flushed out into the warehouse. “GO!” Was the most common word, spouted time and time again, James’s eyes grew wide, a flush of color sprinting past his eyes, his body twitched and his finger slammed against the trigger, his throat opening into a wild, anxious cry. The shotgun stock kicked harsh against his shoulder and he stumbled back, “FUCK, FUCK!” James yelled out. The yells of both criminal and operatives filled the warehouse. “WE’VE GOT 2!” A harsh yelling man yelled, and James anxiously stumbled back, letting out a nervous cry, before he cocked his shotgun back, his back slamming up against the metal of the next shelf rung, he turned and kicked one of the cardboard boxes out from the shelf, before diving under the shelf, rushing underneath it to escape. “WE’VE GOT--THEY’RE IN!” James’ voice echoed through the warehouse, a firey roar with a dangerous bark, paired with an anxious cry. A war cry, evident to only James. Laina’s skin grew cold, her hairs raising, her rifle quickly raised by it’s self, digging stock into her shoulder as she found her barrel circling over the end of the first shelf, watching, waiting, her joints growing stiff. “Oh FUCK!” Smith grunted out, he spun his head around to the visage of the military personnel, head to toe in ballistic gear, guns at the ready. “E-1!” A harsher, shriller military voice cried before Smith dashed off to the 2nd shelf, his feet slamming quick and hard onto the concrete, his sneakers slipping, he shoved his head down, feeling the wind breeze against his body as he shoulder charged into the end of the 2nd shelf, a loud metallic BANG entering the ware house. Sam snapped her head back to Smith as he started to dash, the loud, aggressive bang of gunshots snapping through the air, the gunshots were loud and harsh, exploding around the warehouse and snapping into their ears, Sam could feel the bones in her skull come alive, as if rattling those gunshots in her head. Her eyes widened, her arms stuck in the shelf, her face twisted in a frown of horror. She opened her mouth into a shrill, high scream as she tried to wrench her arms out, yanking at the metal, feeling her arms bang up against the poles, her eyes widened and her face went red hot, feeling the wind strike against her, trying to cool her. She yanked her arms again, banging her gun side ways against the shelf as she wiggled her arms out. “FUCK FUCK, COME ON---COME ONNN!” James yelled in a panic, with a loud stomp on the concrete echoing out across the warehouse. Laina’s ears grew stiff, and her eyes felt frozen in place as she dug her teeth down into the side of her tongue, her eyes swapping from Sam, back to the 1st shelf, watching her poor blonde struggle. Smith shoved himself into the 2nd row of shelves, just around the corner, back to the metal poling, he glared to Sam, gun at the ready. “OH YOU’RE FUCKING KIDDING ME!” He yelled out, as fierce and deep as a lions roar. “ALL T, 3, WE HAVE 3!” Another military voice yelled. “Fuck! I missed the bastard!” Another shouted. Sam nervously whined to herself, before planting her feet and throwing herself back, compacting her arms, she let out a nervous shout as she felt herself drop to the floor, her arm grazing along the sharp metal siding, before she fell to the hard concrete floor, her back planted straight onto the floor with a loud THUD, her head throwing it's self back in the action, she quickly pulled herself onto her knee’s, yanking her head up with her gun in hands. “GOT E-2!” Another operative yelled. A man dressed in dark brown and murky green shoved himself around the corner of the first shelving. He stood tall and menacing, maneuvering from a full sprint into dropping down to a kneel, raising his gun straight up, aligning the gun’s barrel with the blonde on the floors chest. A dark grey helmet strapped to his head, a thin cloth balaclava over his face, a set of green eyes staring at Sam. Gloved fingers held his gun still, with his finger on the trigger. Sam glared at the man straight ahead, her eyes grew wide and she yanked her gun in front of her, before one massive, loud CAW entered the warehouse. A vicious snap of bullet, a rippling crack like sound bouncing along the warehouse. And the man was thrown to the floor, a fierce gush of blood spraying into the air from his head, his head slammed into the pavement, his body following, drooping morbidly as it laid sprawled along the concrete, his gun dropped from his hand and clattered along the floor. “WOAH!” “SHIT!” “GOD!” “FUCK!” the remaining operatives yelled out in one shocking remark. Sam hurried herself to her feet, stumbling around the set of oddly placed shelves and quickly scuttering behind them, her breaths heavy and panting. Laina’s gun let out a faint, transparent set of grey smoke out from the barrel, and Laina let out a coarse shuddering exhale, her trigger hand moving up to the gun to pull back the bolt, and click it back into place, like routine, loading the next bullet, her sights crossed on the man’s dead body, slumped against the floor, a trickling, small puddle of red growing onto the floor. “...Fuuck…” She quietly whispered among herself. “WOOO! FEEL THAT YOU FUCKS?” James yelled out loud from behind the 2nd shelf, anxiously peeking out around his cover, watching the open fire exit, his hands lowered, gun half ready, aimed by his hip as he let out a loud, cocky laugh. Smith growled out underneath his breath, staring out through the cracks between the card board boxes, trying to find them. “THEY’RE BEHIND THE FIRST SHELF, THEY’RE FUCKIN PUSSIES!” James yelled out, before letting out a sadistic, exaggerated chuckle, the unnerving cackle bouncing along the warehouse walls. Sam gulped, swallowing her harsh breaths and jammed her gun in the shelf again, this time, from behind the shelf, watching the set of 1st shelves. The quiet, metallic ‘tink’ of a bullet casing rattled into the air, the casing from Laina’s rifle slowly dropping itself down the long set of stairs… And Smith grew another squint, pulling himself back behind the metal pole from the shelving, granting himself cover once more. The quiet rustling of ballistic uniforms echoed from behind the 1st shelf, the quiet set of slow footsteps, pacing themselves around, quiet whispers bounding from ear to ear. Then, the power dynamic was rebalanced. The two factions had no idea of each other's strength, or arms, with one faction down a unit. And suddenly, the two were reminded of one gruesome factor in these trifling terms of combat. One lapse of critical thinking would be their end. And James started tapping his foot again, slamming his toes on the concrete again and again. “HUH, HUH! COME ON, FUCKING DO SOMETHING!” He snapped out, a frown growing over his face, his hairs rising, he shook his head again and again. He knew this isn’t what he was made for. He was never good at thinking, a good case of it could leave him out smarted. All he knew was to act fast. Then, a voice out of the Milatas, shouted back. “YEAH? PUSH BACK RETARD!” Young, and naive. Cocky and high. James heard the retort and a grin crossed his face, a quiet scoff underneath his breath. Laina waited patiently, staring at the mans dead body, sights crossed, watching that pool of blood slowly grow, watching the black of his uniform slowly tint red. Hearing those echoing yells from James. “GO ON, TRY IT DICK HEAD!” He yelled, echoing all the way from there, to her peaceful little sniper spot. Sam stared past the body, watching the ending of the 1st shelf, her eyes locked onto the body, deciphering more and more of the morbid view of death as she glared, unable to look away from death’s solid grasp. It laid there limp, without a single move, his helmet strapped tightly on, now shoved ajar from the bullet, 2 chunks of hair and flesh scattered along the outside, bordering just around his neck. She could only imagine how the Milatas must feel now. Her skin never seemed to lack heat, her skin constantly burning, tingling and itching in moments like this. Brushed firmly with death, though in her favour. “YEAH? TELL YOUR PUSSY SNIPER TO FUCK OFF!” The young voice yelled again, the banter only served as a temporary break to humanize each other, used to insult instead. “WE DON’T EVEN FUCKIN’ NEED HER, COME ON, GET ME PUSSY THAT’S A FUCKING DEMAND!” James voice grew more jovial and cocky, confident in his brags, and soon the crew was reminded of the sadistic way James hunted, luring them in like prey. “KISS MY ASS!” The Milatas yelled back. The warehouse started to grow impatient, both at a loss. Any move made on either side might be a mistake. And James went quiet, his face locked into a down turned frown, he raised his gun. He looked down to the concrete, and licked over his lips  nervously, before he turned sideways, planting one left past the next, as he quietly started to move outside of his cover, and along to the 1st shelf. Entering into the no man's land between the two shelves, his head went side to side, up and down, trying to look past those cardboard boxes, before he stopped dead in the middle of shelf 1 and 2, feeling the wind gush from the fire exit, he frowned, and raised his shotgun to the set of cardboard boxes. He aimed against those cardboard boxes, before his finger slowly steadied against the trigger and clicked it back, such a slow movement, combated by the loud BANG that followed, the harsh snap of the stock against his shoulder, and the kick back into his wrist. The loud “OUH!” that followed from one of the men, and the sadistic giggle that followed from James. “SURE BUDDY!” He yelled after. The yelling voices contrasted with an even bigger boom from the shotgun, with the pained grunt after, a shudder ran down Sam’s back. “OH FUCK-” “GET HIM!” 2 voices yelled after, and James quickly turned around, looking to his former cover and sprinting to his spot before. Then, a loud spray of gunshots, and a pained, high, “OOOH!” from James. A loud thud as James skidded onto the floor, and a metallic ‘BANG’ as something hit metal. Eyes of the crew went wide all around. “JAMES!?” Sam yelled out, and Smith snapped, turning to the set of shelves James was at, his head snapping left and right, trying to look through the cardboard. “HAHA, EAT SHIT DICK HEAD!” The young voice yelled out. Laina’s eyes widened, and she sat up off of her set of stairs, raising her rifle up high along the shelves, scanning through the cardboard boxes, before looking down the stairs, and starting to make a hurried descent down, head snapping from shelf, to stairs, trying to find James. Smith could hear pained, rapid breaths through gritted teeth, from James’ shelf, before the slow sounds of his gun cocking. Then, with one set of footsteps. And one more bang rippled through the warehouse once more, and a loud THUNK on the concrete. “FUCK...OFF!” James yelled in between pants. He laid on the concrete floor, back on the floor, shotgun held in his hands. He could feel his back ache, stinging pain, rapid shocks of thumping pain that riddled against his system. Three spots in particular along his back, every thump of his heart, he could feel his nerves kick, a searing red hot tingling following soon after the pain. James let out repeated, grunting pants, sliding his guns foregrip back, loading the next bullet with another cock of his gun. “JAAAMES!” Sam yelled back out from her shelf. “WHERE ARE YOU!” She yelled again, pulling her gun free from the shelf, easier from this end as she peered through her cover to look along the shelving. Laina jumped from the last stair onto the concrete with a loud skid, before she looked along the set of shelves, and held her gun with her forehand, giving a slight jog to the set of metal desks and computers, all the way at the end of the shelves. “SEC--ARGH, FUCK THESE SHELVES!” James yelled out, and Smith looked to where the sound was coming from, before looking back to the 1st set of shelves, holding his gun down, he ran up to the mans body, pushing himself up against the shelving for cover, before he held his gun up and peered down the line of 1st shelves. Huddling along the cardboard boxes were 2 men in a kneeled position, one faced the fire exit, gun held at the ready to spray at James, while the other kneeled in the middle, head huddled between cardboard boxes, trying to spy on the MERCs. Along the floor was another man, huddled and on the floor, his gun beside him, he held his hands along his chest, a trickle of red, dirty blood on the floor. Hearing Smith, the man between the cardboard boxes quickly set to yank his head out. Smith yanked his gun up, quickly aligning the barrel with the poor mans head, just as he turned to face Smith. 1, 4, 6, 8...Sets of gun shots rattled out into the building, 8 shells flying out of Smiths gun in no time. The mans face was no longer, after the first few the man grew limp, a squirt of blood spewing out from around the entrance of the bullet, before the next few only seemed to push out more, a geyser of the red, life liquid danced out from the mans face, his nose and upper jaw quickly caved in, before Smith quickly shoved his gun up to the next man, his gun rattling in his hands, the shots snapped out beside the man, before Smith pulled back into his cover. “AH!--AHHHH, OH GOD!” One of the men yelled, and Sam peered around her cover, before she sprinted out to the 3rd set of shelves, running along them, “JAMES! JAMES!” She yelled out, again and again, her voice bouncing along the wall. Laina settled at the ending desk, being able to peer down the line and view the fire escape from here, she could spy James on the floor, in between the 1st shelf and the 2nd shelf, laying on his back, his shotgun ready and cast up. Just 2 meters from his feet, at the start of the 1st shelf was another dead body. Laid out and limp like a starfish, with another pool of that essential blood hanging beneath him. She settled her rifles barrel on the end of the 1st shelf, above James, watching and waiting, with her arms starting to ache as she held them up. “ONE LEFT!” Smith yelled out from behind his set of cover, voice brutish and loud. James grunted beneath his breath, “HERE!” he shouted out to Sam. Sam pointed her head along the end of the 3rd shelf to look at the fire exit, spying James on the floor, and the dead man just meters away from his feet, his face a mess of blood red mush, her fingers and feet tingled just from the sigh, before she quickly turned her head to James, taking a quick few set of ushered steps out to James. Laina watched Sam move in front of James, moving in front of her view. Laina’s breath pushed past her lips, and she stepped to the side a few times, moving her head and gun off to the side, enabling herself to see past Sam. Sam bent down, her hands quickly finding the collar of James’ hoodie, before she started to drag him back to the shelves, she heard just 2 loud footsteps from the shelf in front of her, before a loud CAW, with a snapping whistle of air following after. “GUH!” A loud grunt echoed into the warehouse. Laina let out a shuddering exhale again, watching the man in her sights drop down, falling onto his back, before her hand grabbed the bolt and pulled it back, loading the next bullet, feeling the stinging sensation in her shoulder. Smith shoved himself out around the corner again, gun raised, viewing the new scene; A line of men, draped out and cast along the floor, bodies limp, with pools of thin, gushing blood painting underneath them. Smith frowned, and took a few steps back, trampling onto the wrist of the dead man behind him. “WE’RE DONE.” He yelled out.

[lukebygrace]

Merc | Foreclex Office (Part 2)

The 4 of them stood out front of the warehouse, standing in the barren, concrete car park, not a car to be seen. The massive garage doors gave a contrast to the tiny, human sized door beside them, the walls were painted white, scraped after long years of wear and tear. Smith stood beside the human sized door, leaning up against the wall, with his arms crossed, his gun held in one hand, the stagnant, stubborn frown looking over to the group. “So...We have 12 minutes to defend for, or...They’re coming in 12 minutes?” Laina asked, standing beside a faded yellow pole, resting one hand on the pole, one leg crossed over the other as she bleakly looked to James, holding the gun at it’s most forward grip in her spare hand. Sam stood about 6 meters away from the door, glaring at it, one arm crossed, one leg crossed over the other, one hand up against her lips, her teeth scraping along her thumb, her other arm holding her gun, akin to Smith’s. James stood just beside Sam, though directed at Laina, he placed his hands on his hips and licked over his lips looking to the door, his gun shoved up against his hip with his right hand. “Ahh…” He stammered out, confused, before looking to her. “Probably...Coming in 12?” He asked, a querying tone in his voice, balanced with uncertainty, yet an eager expression nonetheless. “Lets get it done then.” Sam snided, letting out an uneasy sigh before she stormed to the door, grabbing it’s cold metal handle with one hand. The crew’s eyes trailed her, watching her pause at the front of that door, before giving it a tight push down, hearing the mechanisms click, and the hinges start to whine. “Did you check for hostiles?” Smith advises coldly, his eyes half lidded in an angered, disappointed frown. And Sam stood still, scared to the bone, as she held the door knob in her hand, she anxiously, slowly creaked her head back around to look at James and Laina, her eyes wide, and her lips held stiff, she glared at Laina, before settling back to James. “..do you--wanna, maybe.” Sam meekly whispered to James, her finger clutching at her guns polyester handle, her thumb anxiously resting on the safety, slowly and carefully pressuring against the safety, feeling the tension in her thumb build as she slowly clicked the gun off of safe, to fully auto. James’s lips turned to a wide smile, and he let out a cocky chuckle, before he pulled his shotgun hold, clenching the wooden grips with both hands, his forehand fingers lightly dragging against the wooden ribs of the pump action on the gun. “Yeah, lets go.” He vibed aloud, not a sense shocked as he stormed to Sam in a fast, cocky gait, she glared down to the floor, moving her body off to the side, her hand still on the door knob, before James’ brought his forehand to the door knob, their fingers grazing for a minute before Sam plucked her skin away from the warming  metal, and she took a jolt back, staring up at the door with wide eyes and tiny pupils, raising her gun to the door. James let out a high, slow whistle as he pulled the door slightly ajar, leaving an inch of space to peek through, before he tilted his head to the side, glaring through the slight peephole. The lighting inside was meek and low, the faint silhouette of jagged bits of random trash were raised high, above head level, what could be a set of shelves was placed daintily just in front of the door. James took a slow breath in, feeling his spit dry up in his mouth, before he looked down to the bottom of the door, his left sneaker jamming inside the peephole, before he looked back up and he cleared his throat, letting go of the doorknob to grasp his gun with both hands. “YO!” He yelled aloud, as he pulled the door open with his foot, quickly taking 3 stomping steps inside, his head locked from side to side, looking over at every place inside. His voice echoed inside the warehouse, a long drafty echo, carried by the wind of industrial fans stirring. “Mother fuckers.” James casually shouted aloud again, hearing his voice echo. Smith let out a quiet, disappointed huff of air from his nostrils, as he pushed himself off the wall, and followed James inside. The scuttling of their shoes could be heard, as Laina and Sam watched from outside, their sneakers danced on the concrete, and James let out a quick gasp, with a sudden frantic dash of short footsteps, before a loud grunt was heard, and an anxious scoff. “You big fuck. Don’t scare me.” James snided from inside. Sam tilted her head away from the door to look back to Laina with a worried, upturned brow, big baby blue eyes gleaming with shock. Laina’s brown eyes dully drifted from the door, to look at Sam, her shoulders raising in a lazy shrug. Sam quickly turned her head back to the door, “Are you guys being babies, what’s in there?” Sam said loudly, her voice carrying into the warehouse even from outside. James let out a confused grunt, before Smith moved from the dark warehouse back to the door, his eyes glaring at both of the girls as he stood in front of the door way stoicly. “It’s fine. Hurry in.” He commanded, 4 simple words that led to another realisation to them all. They were going to be killing again. Smith ducked back inside, and Sam anxiously jogged inside, her medical bag bouncing along her hip with her running steps, hair swaying as she ran inside. Laina stood outside and stared, giving herself one second to breathe. Feeling the wind brush along her skin, waving against her thick mounds of hair. The cold metal of the pole she leaned on, compared to the grainy, warm wood of her rifle. The warehouse was tall, and big. It had no shame in it's blocky shape, mass produced like everything the warehouse would make. She pulled her hand off the pole, and grabbed her rifle, clicking that small lever of safety off, with a satisfying ‘click’ She took slow steps to the warehouse door, as the flights flicked on. Dead in front of the door were 2 oddly placed metal shelves, lined and stacked with bits of furniture trash. Broken wooden doors, old washing machines and computer bits, hiding the rest of the warehouse from the doorway, a nice set up for an ambush already. The ceiling was high, ending up in a rusting sheet metal roof, bolted all together, with a set of fancy skylights above, industrial glass smogged and dirtied with the likes of dust and dirt, rarely seeing a clean. The concrete floor was lined with little chips and cracks from the misuse of heavy machinery, the whole warehouse gave a residual coldness to it, a freezing aura leered off of the walls and the floor, from the metal shelves and all furniture inside. The smell was faintly metallic, with a hint of grease. The air felt polluted by industrial grade oil and lubricant, you could feel it hang thinly on your skin, threatening to condense it's self. The aura in the warehouse was unforgiving and cold, what would be a work place filled with coworkers, with crude jokes from blue collar workers, turned to an empty slaughter house today, it’s products would be mass produced death, sold to the highest bidder. Laina walked around the 2 metal shelves, and saw the full warehouse. Lines and lines of metallic shelves, placed side by side, then a big spacing for machinery to go through, then it would repeat. The shelves repeated like this, making up a total of 8 lines of shelves, stacked up to the ceiling. In the middle of the line of shelves, there was a large gap, where a set of conveyor belts and work tables were placed, old tape guns laid haphazardly on the sheet metal tables, unmade cardboard cutouts stacked on each other, wooden pallets laid messily across the floor, thrown underneath each other to make room for forklifts to pass. 3 forklifts messily scattered across the warehouse, left in a hurry, some with the keys still in. To the right of the building, the lining of shelves stopped, giving space for a shoddily made set of computers, for supervisors and package trackers, and a long set of cold sheet metal stairs lead up to supposedly the office, with a large washing machine in the way of the door to the office. Boxes of materials and fabrics were stacked on the shelves, everything from faux leather to vinyl, cloth to silk. Foreclex, a major fabric shipper. The crew spotted themself around the warehouse, looking around and investigating, finding the entrance points and places of cover. Smith closed the door, and the tight sound of a lock snapped into a place, echoing throughout the facility. James walked around the perimeter, mumbling to himself, the echoes carrying his voice to the crew, yet undecipherable what he was saying. Laina took one look at the warehouse, and shrugged, moving herself to the set of stairs as she calmly climbed them, mumbling a theme to a song as she climbed up to the washing machine. Sam stood at the front most set of shelves, inspecting the boxes, one hand anxiously on her gun, the other pushing at the cardboard boxes, discovering their weight, trying to see if they were easily pushed or not. Beside the front most set of shelves were 2 large doors, a fire escape, painted in cob webs and rusted hinges. Sam took one look to the door, and her mouth opened, before she turned around, looking for anyone else in the ware house. “Uhh...Fire escape, over here.” She spoke aloud to the warehouse, letting her echoing voice carry it to the rest of them. Smith stayed at the front door, feet planted and dug into the slippery concrete as he shoved his palm roughly into the door, hearing the inch thick wood creak and groan at his solid pushes, before he squinted and stood up properly with a sigh of breath. “This one’s weak.” He mumbled out quietly, though his voice was unheard, as he typically went. James walked along the series of computers, taking long, exaggerated, bored steps as he clicked his tongue, inspecting the walls. “Man I got nothing over here.” He replied outloud, before turning around to find Smith, only instead, staring at the big garage doors opposite him, the same ones next to the door. “Could they get through that?” James yelled aloud, pointing his finger at the garage doors. “What?” Sam yelled back, turning her head around, trying to find James, before she started to walk out between the set of first most shelves. “The doors. The garage ones.” He followed up with, as Smith walked around the corner from the oddly placed shelves in front of the front door, looking to the garage doors beside him, he frowned. Sam stood at the end of the metal shelves, now closer to Smith, she looked to the collosal doors. “Uhhh...What, they’re gonna blow it up?” She chided, though, a very real set of confusion in her voice. It could very well be possible. Laina sat at the top of the stairs, sat firmly atop of the laundry machine, watching her coworkers move around like ants, she could see most things from up here, save for anything behind a shelf. The cardboard boxes that were stacked on the shelves get Laina little view of anything beyond the shelves, but anything else looked fair game. Laina mumbled quietly to herself, mumbling the theme of some song underneath her breath.

“You could charge that with a vehicle.” Smith spoke coldly to himself, before he turned to look at Sam, then James off in the opposite corner. “IT CAN BREAK.” Smith yelled out, his voice boomed along the walls, that constant hint of fierceness buried in his voice. Sam placed a finger on her chin, looking between James and Smith. “SO...WHAT ARE WE DOING THEN?” James yelled back out into the echoey chamber of the warehouse. Laina watched timidly, her eyes looking between the two that were talking before her lips parted. “WE DON’T HAVE TOO LONG, GUYS.” She yelled back, the yell had the most tone that her voice shared for a long time, just that slightest hint of condescension. She had already found her cover.

James looked up to Laina, then to Smith, clicking his tongue, before back to Laina. “ARE YOU GOOD UP THERE?” Laina turned to James, leaning closer to him, looming her head over the stairway handrails. “YEAH.” she shared. James quirked a brow up to Laina, though the height difference made the expression of his face invisible to her. “YOU GONNA BE SHOT THERE?” He asked out, turning to the rest of the warehouse, seeing as how a majority of it was wide and open, save for the shelf lines. The sheet metal desks he stood at were a bit above waist height. Laina could feel her eye balls slink down, growing more tired of her having to banter everyday. A similar battle between her and mother, convincing her she was fine, now convincing James she was fine. What a future. “Yeah, I’m gonna SHOOT up here.” She yelled back, her voice growing more and more sarcastic as she spoke, feeling her stomach rumble beneath her top, before she pulled her head up, no longer looking to James, no longer interested in the conversation. Sam walked up to Smith, and she licked over her molars, digging her tongue against one of the spikes of her tooth in an anxious move. “So...Where’s...Like, what are we doing?” She asked, looking up to the 6’2, bald headed giant that was Smith. He turned away from the garage doors, and glared down to her, before looking over the warehouse once more, and he crossed his arms. “We have to cover fire exit and here.” He spoke bluntly. “Laina will stay. James will do whatever he wants. You cover by these shelves, I’ll move a forklift near the garage door, and I’ll cover fire exit and the garage doors. You watch where we came in from.” He settled the plan, his voice low as he spoke, pointing his fingers at the different places he ordered, glaring down at her with his unmoving stubborn eyes. “Mhm. Right.” She acknowledged, with a nod of her head, before she looked to the oddly placed shelves, and took a few short steps to get there, beginning to push some of the trash away to be able to stick her gun through the shelving. Smith stormed his way to one of the forklifts, just beside the garage doors before he crawled inside, and turned the key, looking over the controls and grasping them, his hands found the levers and the wheel like a second sense, easy and familiar. James drifted along the different computer benches, before glaring to those big garage doors, and biting his lip, before looking to the fire exit by the shelves. He shrugged, and started to walk beside the shelves, until he reached the 2nd shelf, just one shelf away from the fire exit. “ALRIGHT, YO, I GOT UP HERE!” He yelled out, raising his shotgun high into the air to signal everybody where he was, before he pulled his gun back into 2 hands, and slumped his shoulder up against the corner of the shelf, allowing himself to peek his head around and watch the fire exit up close, like a hawk. Meanwhile, Smith drove the forklift into place, before he took himself out of the seat, and stood on the opposite side of the garage door, leaving his back exposed to the fire exit, though his gun trained on the garage door. Sam shoved away random bits of trash and junk and lodged the front half of her gun inside the shelf, barrel pointed straight at the wooden door, leaning her head against a plank of wood to peek through and watch the door. Laina sat at the top of her staircase, humming to herself, wasting time… The time slowly ticked from there. They stood in those crouched positions, some more comfortable than others. James gun rested dormantly in his hands, his hand clenching the gun again and again in pulses, as the tension started to build up. The distant sounds of cars passing by the business park roads didn’t help. Any of those cars could be the one that’ll pull up now, and bust down one of these doors. In just one flick of a moment, any second that wasn’t fully prepared for, one of them could be left with half a brain. James tapped his foot anxiously, glaring up to the dirty skylights, before he sighed, shaking his head, feeling the cold wind of the warehouse breathing down his neck, his hairs rising in goose bumps before he stared back to the fire exit. His leg bounced up and down anxiously, and for once, no one could comment on it. Left in the solemn silence of watching, fingers on the trigger, waiting anxiously to squeeze and feel the gun kick back into their shoulder. One word spoken too loud could give their aggressors any advantage if they heard. And like that, they played the dangerous game of no communication. Watching and waiting. The foot bounced again and again, and James winced, shaking his head. “What a fuckin awful time to take a piss.” he whispered beneath his breath. The sound of the industrial fans at the top of the warehouse were louder than his whispers. Then, a sound of a car came closer. The sounds of loose rocks crunching under tires, drifted slowly on the outside of the car park, just beside the fire exit. James’ eyes slowly grew wide, and he slowly brought his gun up to the door, digging his fingers into the grooves of the wood, his fingers growing white from the pressure. The mechanical whir of a car’s brakes followed, then the sound of the engine flicking off, before suddenly voices came to life. Muffled, muffled by the dense concrete walls, only a few voices could be made out. “Secure perimeter.” A loud, and clear director voice. A slight southern twang to his voice, youthful in his expression, but calm. The sounds of car doors shut, and more voices came alive. Some words were undecipherable, but the voices quickly grew to a halt as that southern voice came back. “Rangers left, Scout on Me, rendezvous in the middle of the building.” James’ eyes grew wide, and he turned his head away from the fire exit, glaring to Smith as he watched the garage door...Looking to Sam as she poked her head through the odd shelving. His teeth lightly chattered together, he could feel his bones locking coldly into place, his ankles building up with that thick film of tension, trying to hold him in place. He looked to Laina, trying to find someone who could see him, though the shelves blocked his view of Laina completely. He anxiously turned back to the fire exit, feeling his feet start to quietly tap again. Smith squinted, resting his elbows on the seat of the forklift, gun raised as he watched the garage. He could hear something, muffled English, they were loud, almost confident in whatever they were doing. Though he couldn’t comprehend a single word they said. Smith glared to Sam, her face disappeared in the shelves, the lovely locks of flowing blonde hair the only part of her head visible from his angle. He grit his teeth and squinted, before grumbling quietly to himself, moving back to watching his angle. They waited, quietly. Sam couldn’t hear anything, feeling the cold metal of the shelf on her skin, building up goosebumps, with her arms starting to ache from holding the gun up, she started to pant to herself, to push through that steady ache. Anxiously, James tapped his foot, again and again. And Smith heard the voices disappear again. Then, the voices came back, around the fire exit. “Alright...Breach protocol, find your cover and report back. No hostiles, we’re free to clear. Simple fetch mission, got it?” The southern voice carried on again, calmly. It wasn’t his first mission. A collective, muffled chant followed after, before the realization set in James head, and he held his shotgun tight in his hands, raising it up to the door, pressing the wooden stock into his shoulder, hanging his head onto the stock and glaring at his barrels point, waiting for those doors to open.

[lukebygrace]

Merc | Foreclex Office (Part 1)

The back door of the black van was wide open, waiting on the side of the street. The engine hummed and quietly panted. Sleek and black all over, the driver's seat had the window rolled down, an elbow stuck out, with a dark red hoodie rolled up past it, a caucasian hand falling down the side of the van door, pale fingers incessantly tapping at the metal of the door. James stared out from the van, looking out to the house beside him, the front door was wide open, and down the hall he could see his...Friends. Sam walked out first, blonde hair tied back up into a high hanging bun, a loose fade of eyeshadow over her eyelids, a natural set of pink lipstick over her lips, with mascara adorning her eyelashes. A grey and black ballistic vest laid over her torso, covering up a floral blouse, thin, white material, patterned with beautiful deep shades of purple, violet, yellow and red as flower petals, with a white set of tight fitting trousers as pants. A black strap covered from her shoulder to her opposite hip, at the end of the strap hung a dull, faded crimson red bag, with a white cross over it, torn velcro straps covering the contents. Her face was naturally rested, brows downtilted in an angered expression, her head looking to the floor, blue eyes looking across the gravel foot path as she walked outside, before her head leered up, to glare at James. Her eyelids grew into a tight squint, as she walked through the front grass to the back of the van. Then, next in the line, Smith. A tall, muscled figure, wearing a flannel button up shirt, his cheeks were chiselled, with a strong jaw, a grey 5 o clock shadow painted over his jaw, a shaved, bald head covered in a gradient of black, stubble starting to grow back. He stared straight out, looking to James, his shoulders were broad, his arms out by his side, hands clutching two firearms, small and compact. A set of grey, fading jeans hung loosely over his legs. Over his flannel jacket laid a familiar ballistic vest, akin to Sam’s, as he walked out to the grass, staring at James as he made his way through, his face naturally held in an angered expression, with a stout jaw and a constant squint. “Let’s go, buddy.” James called out from the driver's side, his right hand grabbing hold of the bottom of the steering wheel with his thumb, giving it a subconscious twist. The words from James only made Smith look away from him. The van buckled down, and gave a quiet creak as Sam crept into the back, a set of seats lining the interior of the van, facing one another, a total of 5 on each side. James flicked his eyes to the rear view mirror, watching the blonde crawl along the narrow hall way between the seats, and take a seat at the most top left seat, just behind James, a quiet, muttering sigh was heard as the click of a seatbelt was heard. “Gettin all dolled up huh?” James asked again, his voice still as eager and enthusiastic as the last day, his breath wasted to the air, in an attempt to cease that awkward silence. The air was thin, though suffocating, like a film that hung loosely in the air, like a loose cobweb in the wind, it only gave a sole reminder to their true purpose, or at least to Sam; Not a place to make friends, but a place to make a living. As Sam hung her head down, resting her elbows on her knees, and her palms on her face, she remembered that. “Better than dying ugly.” She muttered, feeling her breath drift past her bare wrists, before she wrung her head up and sat still in the seat, as the van gave another creak, as the hulking giant; Smith, came into the van. James glared through to Smith through the mirror, gifting him a sanguine smile, without any acknowledgement. James took a breath in, feeling the breath slip past his lips and harshly against his lips, before he looked to the windshield, clicking his tongue impatiently, looking down the road, the dirty brick buildings that bordered the cracked asphalt road, old parked cars laid dormant on the side of the road, some untouched, some broken into. It was a way of life in Crook territory. Anybody that had a car that needed to get somewhere would be out by now, James knew, before he looked to the house again, an impulsive “Are we good to leave yet?” slipping from his lips, a loud tone that he couldn’t quiet. The last of them stood at the front door, her hand moving back to grab the door knob and shut it behind her, as she looked to James. Long, messy black hair, curled and knotted without a care, a long face with a weak chin. A set of thick bushy brows and big brown eyes, her brows rested up, a resting expression of forgotten care. A black t-shirt was covered by the same, grey and black ballistic vest they all shared, though in Laina’s hands held a long, wooden rifle, just a little under the size of both her arms. She held it in her both hands, barrel downturned to the ground as she started to walk to the end of the van. “No we’re still--” Sam started to speak in a breathy, sighing mumble, before Smith spoke out at the same time. “No.” His blunt, strong voice leaving a booming mutter into the van. “If you wanna leave without me, that’s fine.” Laina spoke out from outside, her tone lacked all tone, a voice that portrayed simple stagnicity. James gave a little, amused puff of air from his nostrils, and a smile grew across his lips, “Gonna leave me alone up here?” He asked, sticking his head closer to the window to watch Laina as she arrived at the end of the van, one hand moving up from the gun to grab against the door, before she twisted her head to James. “Yeah.” Laina said, dull and monotone, before she looked back to the end of the van, and she crept into the back of the van, ducking her head down as she searched for a seat. James let out a scoffing chuckle, before turning back to the rear view mirror, watching Laina take her seat, and Smith give out a quiet, angered sigh, standing up from his seat to close the van doors behind Laina. “What’d I do to you guys?” He let out a jesting remark as Laina took her seat, and Smith took his seat, closest to the exit, uncaring with their seatbelt, before James looked to the windscreen, and pulled his hand inside, turning the handbrake with a whirring ‘click’ from the van. “Dunno.” Laina remarked, and Sam spoke with a breathy sigh, glaring at the back of James’s chair. “Wake us up at 10AM to kill?” Sam chides, earning a tiny amused muffled “Hah” from Laina. James feet struck the van’s acceleration pedal, and the van cruised along out to the main lane, starting to slowly fly by the old, brick buildings and rotting cars. James scoffed through his nose, “It’s not that bad.” James’ voice carried out a loud, sanguine tone, an optimist, even with the scar on his right eyebrow, with a dirty 5 o clock shadow over his face. A stained hoodie over his top, and stained track pants, with a shotgun laying beside him, jammed between the seat and the door, he was simply used to it. 

“Yeah some of us haven’t done this since we were 13, James.” Sam scolded, a quick, fiery tone in her bark towards James.

“Or, even want to.” Laina monotonically remarks, bending over in her seat, resting her elbows on her knees, letting the gun drop to the floor, her hands hanging loosely in the air between her legs.

Sam’s brows were cast downtilt even further, an angry expression her face, tightly held. James rocks back into his seat, his brows furrowing down, growing angry for a second before he only quirks his brow up in confusion, “You think I wanna do this?” he asks, glaring back at the rear view mirror.

Smith holds onto the back of the van door, almost like a safety guard, staring ahead of him into nothing, a frown constantly over his face, as if he’s just waiting for something.

Laina hangs her head down, her messy clumps of long black hair falling beside her, her shoulders give a lazy shrug.

Sam stoutly keeps herself in an upright posture, head tilted to the back of James chair. “So why aren’t we turning around?” She barks out, before turning to face ahead of her, looking to Laina staring at the van floor.

James opens his mouth, his breath hangs in his mouth for a minute, a solid pause before he barks out, his tone no longer sanguine, but still with an enthusiastic tinge in it, a glimmer of hope almost.

“You think I wanna be working for the german fucks?”  He barks, angrily looking off to the side, though still forced to glare at the windscreen, as they drive into an intersection, the main highway just ahead of them, the cars drifting past.

The cars flew by quick on the highway, the highway sprawled out into branches of different roads going all over the city. It’d take almost 25 minutes to get from this crime ridden, slum of an industrial district, out to the main city, almost untouched by the faction wars that leered on the outskirts of the city.

“So why are we.” Laina muttered to the floor, as Sam barked over her. “You’d rather work for The Crooks out of all people, that doesn’t make us better!” she yelled, her voice starting to pick up in sound, bouncing around the metal walls of the van.

Smiths hands clutched at the handle to the door, grasp tightening slowly. “We have a mission to do.” He spoke quietly, though it didn’t lack the blunt, rude nature of his voice.

James opened his mouth and stammered, “Well fu-” he paused, bringing his head straight ahead of him, and he shook his head. “What else are we supposed to do? Fuckin German’s got money,” He ranted, shaking his head from side to side, as if he was listing things off in his head. “Redhead bitch is corrupt.” He continued, and Sam’s frown only grew further.

“You don’t know that.” Laina mumbled to the floor.

“The Lawyers a fuckin pussy, he’s got fuckin nothing dude.” James listed again, steering off at the intersection. “And hey, fuck, The Crooks are the only fuckin thing left!” He shouted off, at the end of his list, turning onto the main highway, and drifting along with the cars side by side.

“You don’t like Lucy because The Crooks don’t like her!” Sam snapped off, “And, you know what, you think The Crooks are so good--They’re a bunch of drug addicts, isn’t their whole fucking reason to gang, because...cause!” Sam continued to yell, feverishly yelling out to the van, losing her poise at the end of her words, tripping up on her sentence.

Laina lets out a sigh and sits herself up, looking to Smith, her hands on her knee’s.

“You like Lucy huh? When she fuckin sells kids as sex slaves, huh? You wanna work for that devil bitch?” James snaps out, looking to the rear view mirror, tilting his head towards it, his eyes open wide, a stabbing, piercing sight in his eyes, almost vacant save for that sharp stare, trying to look for Sam.

“The Crooks are better?” Sam laughingly yells out, shaking her head and crossing her arms in her seat. “Yeah, think about all they’ve killed and childhoods ruined, for their fucking gang. You ever think that!” Sam only yells, though in a jovial, jesting matter, a sadistic smirk over her face, taking pleasure in the heat of the moment.

“Yo, Smith.” Laina calls out to Smith, watching him as he hangs his head low, shaking his head, his other hand moving up to bring along his face, giving himself a face palm.

James just lets out a scoff, turning away from the mirror, hands gripped tight onto the steering wheel as he steers, he gives himself a slow, shake of his head, quietly scoffing under his breath.

Sam slowly loses her smirk, looking past Laina’s shoulder, as she sighs and turns, looking dead at Sam.

“Huh?” Laina questions.

And Sams angry frown looks to Laina, “What?” she snaps out.

“You..” Laina mumbles, before she gives a roll of her shoulders, and she looks beside Sam, looking over her shoulder. “Nevermind.”

Sam lets out an exaggerated, dramatic scoff before looking to the bottom right of the van floor.

The silence hung thin once more, that constant film of web in the air, hanging in front of them, draped at their face, like taunting a red bull. The film of tension.

“None of the factions are ‘Good’” Smith mumbled out, angrily and loud, as he brought his head back up to stare in front of him, before he looked out to the rest of the van, talking to them all.

“We’re not good. Pick a side and fuckin stick.” He speaks out, louder, his voice naturally boomed out along the vans insides, giving all a clear directive.

“Crooks are spastic kids, Brokers are fraudy fuckin fritz.” Smith rolls his eyes. “The Kids are an organized set of kiddy fuckers, and The List is a senile fuckin lawyer.” He closes his mouth grimly, and simply stares, feeling that tension, feeling the film build over his mouth that wants to shut him up.

“So shut the fuck up. And pick one. “ Smith finishes off, looking to Laina, and looking to Sam. Sam still sits with her arms crossed, eyes looking to the floor, her lips pursed up in an angry pout, Laina sits with one leg on the seat, her elbow resting on that leg, her fist up to her head, staring out in front of her blindly.

“Crooks.” James speaks out, a sense of condescending obviousness in his tone.

Sam lets out a dramatic grunt of disapproval, “Ugh.”

Laina stares in front of herself, giving a slow sigh, and a slow blink. “This fuckin sucks.” she mutters out bluntly, monotonely.

And Smith rolls his eyes, turning back to the door, shaking the door, feeling the metal jar back into his hand as a means of reassurance, almost.

The silence built up for a while, the thin film crew to a thick tape, plastered over their mouths as the highway passed by them. The highway growing over the Grandulay river, a river that separated Crook and Kid territory from the safe center of the city, known as ‘The Public’. Up on the highway, there was a clear view of the city, Brisom. In the centre was a sprawling mixed district, tall, dense skyscrapers and city towers were frequent, long and congested roads, with hundreds of pedestrians on the street at any one time, going from place to place without a care in the world, under security of Milatas.

Underneath The Public, was The List territory, a set of recently acquired land with roads that were like small grids, copy-pasted houses lined the streets, a quick and easy way of buying as much property as people. Next to the List, or bottom left of The Public, was The Crook territory, a mess of industrial manufacturers and cheap, brick buildings, thick sludge poured out from the landfills out into the river, and big stacks of white smoke would leer off from the factories.

Just above Crook territory, was The Kids, a set of suburban houses and shops, lining against a set of cargo harbors that painted the side of the Grandulay river, a key set of assets for a human and drug trafficker.

And above The Public, was The Broker territory, sets of offices and factories with higher standards than The Crooks, modern buildings with beautiful looks, with hard working office workers, blue and white collar, slaving away for a corporation they never knew was owned by The Brokers.

They drove through the Madison highway, the highway over the river, and down to the very start of The Broker territory, they drove past the luxurious office buildings and rushed, office workers, dressed in a shirt and tie, rushing from lunch to their office to get back to their work.

As they drove along one particular business park, James pulled the car up along the curb, the tires harshly grazing against the freshly mowed grass.

“What’s the address?” He asked, his voice had lost his sanguine tone, but a gleam of hope still remained, somehow, an almost light tone to his voice, even if reluctant.

Sam goes to open her mouth, before she pauses, and she closes her mouth, pulling her arms away from being crossed and onto her legs, before she sighs.

Laina lazily drums her fingers against her upraised ankle, leaning her cheek on the same leg.

Smith looks away from the door, and down to James. “...8 Lanscier Park…” Smith speaks, glaring to James.

James looks around the signs and squints, reading the different sign numbers before he spies one specific office on top of a hill, a big two story building with plenty of windows along both flavours, except for one side to the left. The left side stands as a blank, concrete building, with two large garage doors and a simple maintenance door next to them.

James pulls off of the curb, and starts the drive up to the office, a big sign on the front of the office building reads “FORECLEX.”

“...They want us to defend the warehouse.” Smith speaks out coldly, before looking back to the van. “What time is it?” Smith asks, James glares to his center console.

“11:48?” James asks out, curious, as he pulls along side the warehouse’s huge garage doors.

“We’ve got 12 minutes.” Smith explains, before James looks to the rear view. “Really? Shit, a’ight…” He calls out, and the hand brake locks with a clicking whirr, clicking the gear into park.

“Finally.” Sam speaks out, standing up as Smith stands up and opens the door, grabbing one of the guns before walking out of the van.

Sam places her hands on her back, cracking her lower back before she moves to the end of the van, picking up the spare gun and stepping out of the van.

Laina stands herself up, her mouth opens wide into a long, loud yawn, stretching her arms out wide before she bends down to pick up her rifle, and moves out of the van.

James smirked, looking to the massive garage doors. “Fuck, this gonna be fun.” he laughs to himself, grabbing the handle of his shotgun, turning the keys to the van and pushing open the driver's side door, walking outside to meet with the rest of the crew.

[lukebygrace]

Merc; The Kids | Christine

Again. Again, and again. She said no. She sat in that same antique, wooden polished chair, velvety cushion straipped nearly to the seat. Her legs were held tight against each other, a set of simple black long higheels over her feet, black painted nail polish across her toe nails, legs and skin silky smooth without a trace of hair. She stared into that unforgiving mirror, staring into her own brown eyes, a set of thin sculpted brows perched down into a glaring frown, her mouth slightly agape, revealing the white bleached teeth inside. She didn’t get it. Her molars dug harshly down into the thick muscle of her tongue, and she shook her head, brown hair tied back into a tightly held bun. Each strand of hair finely tuned through her hairbrush a million times over. Was it her face? She angled herself up and grabbed firmly a hold of her chin, fingers angrily pushing and pulling at her flesh against the bone, looking over herself angrily. Was it her weak chin? Was it a mark she didn’t see? She lurched forward, legs kicking hard against the old wood, shoving it back onto the floor with a crash as her hands throttled against the frame of her mirror, pulling herself closer. Brown hair, brown eyes, staring back at herself, she pursed her lips carefully, staring at her lips. Did she leave something unshaven? She leaned her head down, peering to her carefully sculpted brows, thin and arched. No? “I hope everythings fine in there, Christine.” The voice of that middle aged woman spoke from outside the dingy, dark room.

“Ugh!” Christine whined, slumping her head onto the table, throwing her arms underneath her face and burying herself in them. “It’s fine, Miss!” Christine cried out aloud, that high pitched squeak that she carried with her, that slight drawl in her tone, youthful compared to the woman outside. “We have lots of work to do. And I’d rather we start sooner than later.” The voice spoke from outside, followed by a weary, disappointed sigh. “You surely don’t expect yourself to do this by yourself, do you?” She spoke from outside. Christine couldn’t bear to react. She stood there like a fool, bent over on some makeup table, arms thrown across the wood with her head buried between them all, the bun already starting to mangle it's self undone. Brown eyes shut themselves tight, a wrinkled frown building over her face, and with her teeth grit and bare, she could still feel her own lips start to quiver, before one guttural sniff whispered out into the cold room. “Christine.” She spoke, a small bang on the door outside. A distraught, shuddering grunt came from Christine’s mouth. “Mhm, I get it.” She spoke. “It’s a big world out there. Scary.” The voice continued to speak, growing more clearer. “With parents like yours--And with...Face it, the town you’ve grown up in.” The voice continued to rattle on. Then, the room filled with a strange, eerie silence, not even the chirps of the crickets came from outside. A deep, croaky grunt came from the other side, a phlegmy ‘Ahem’ reverberating through the thin  wood of the dar. “You’re lucky to even really have this chance, so. Don’t be shy, open up and I’ll help you. And we can start our work quick and span. We’ll grow friends fast.” Another sigh slipped from her lips outside. “I can...I can do it myself!” Christine snapped from inside, a high pitched, shrieking quivery cry as she spat out into the table, taking another long shuddering sniff. A small chuckling scoff came from outside. “Just like me when I was your age. Aren’t you ready to be the face of The Kids?” Lucy called from outside. That thought rung in Christines head, jittering off the bounds of her skull, rumbling into her mind, and she forced her eyes shut, feeling another tear slip past a set of elongated lashes, she could feel her lungs well up, holding themselves still with air, before another shuddery breath slipped out. She was right, wasn’t she? She slowly stood herself up, her legs trembling and shaking as she stood up past the mirrors point, looking to the door to her right, the lock turned. “It’s not an easy choice, sure.” The woman outside continued to speak. Christine turned back to the wall, and she could feel her skin grow colder, staring at the unpainted dry wall of the shoddy ‘motel’ Lucy had ‘booked’ ‘You’re lucky to even really have this chance’ it rung in her head. ‘It’s a big world out there.’ Her molars bit hard into her tongue again, the muscle flexing against the spikes of her teeth-It only made it feel worse. “Y’know Christine, I’ve always wanted a daughter.” Her eyes slowly widened themselves, and she could feel her breath hang in her throat. “I feel we’d become like a family, after a little while.” Her heart gave a certain sink into her chest, and suddenly, it didn’t seem so crazy anymore, her eyes sunk down to the floor, staring at her toes in the open high heels, watching them as her hands melded together, mingling nervously with her fingers. “Maybe it’s just me…” She spoke from outside, and Christine’s head perked up, staring to the door, an uneasy, nervous expression over her face, lips held agape, brows tilted up with caring, young eyes. “Don’t worry.” The voice grew more muffled. Christine took a shaky, hasty step to the door, one singular step that pushed her closer, scratching at her nails. Her mouth opened to speak, and she felt her syllables stutter and hang in her throat. “N-no. It’s okay.” she stammered, uneasily. “We’ve got work to do. You’re right.” The voice seemed, a tad bit disappointed, almost, a tired tone to it. Another long, brisk step, til Christine was out front of the door. “Y’---You’re right, Miss. I do need some help..” Christine found it hanging in her throat, an unwelcome hesitance til she was able to admit it, grabbed the brass lock and quickly shifting it, before backing away from the door, watching it peel open to reveal the redheaded woman outside, leaning against the door frame. Dressed in a white button up with a fancy belt and grey slacks, a monotonous frown, and a set of unforgiving grey eyes. “Mhm. Now, come come.” She spoke, her lips and brows barely showing the front of emotion before she walked inside, out to the front of the mirror, to which Christine anxiously followed behind, taking a small step back to sit on a fancy wooden bed behind her, a nervous giggle unsettling from her lips. “I think I know the perfect ‘daughter’ for The Kids.” Lucy spoke aloud, leaning to the make up table, grabbing a small leather make up bag off of the desk, before she turned around to face her. “Everyone’s going to love you…”

[lukebygrace]

Merc; Ethan | Surroundings

He stood there, stood tall and stout, a loose black hoodie with a set of grey slacks, a young face, unburdened by facial hair or markings, short jet black hair frayed off to the side in small spikes. A long jaw and a small nose, with a set of small lips to round it off, small, thin black brows with a set of light brown eyes. Hands stuffed into the pockets of his sweatshirt, the adjustable string met off at an uneven balance, his brows were slightly tilted up, angled with the curse of worry. His eyes stared down to the dull floorboards, his chest lightly raising and lowering with each stalwart breath. Why was he here? He couldn’t shake it off,  it was always on his mind, fresh onto his thirties and he gave away his life like this. His head pulled up to look down to the hall, watching that front door, with the slight peek of moonlight drafting inside, the yellow rays of the kitchen light giving him just the barest of sight other than that door.

Did he really think he could save lives like this? He didn’t want to think about it, he didn’t want to go any further with this. Part of him wished he could back out, before he even started this. Before they even thought of hiring him, anything. They didn’t need to be in this whole mess. No one was a goner, right? Everyone had their chance, they didn’t have to be criminals, did they? Did he have to be? His body shivered lightly, his body giving a small jitter across his body, from his neck down to his toes, shivering himself awake, trying to pull himself away from the real questions that he needed the answers to. He pulled his head away from the door, just off to the side, to the lounge room beside him. They’ll be fine. The small TV, held up on that cardboard box sprayed it's bare amount of light across the lounge room and couch, the show paused, with a small tally. 21 minutes, it read. He shivered again, looking to the back of the couch, the faint, sole silhouette of a woman slouched over the lot of couch pillows, passed out and sleeping like a log, the quiet groan and the occasional rustle of clothes and the fabric of the couch radiated like a small crickets chirp, noticable but barely. Was she a goner? What part played in her life for her to drag her down to this level? His lips pulled tight into a grimace as he took the slow steps across the   raggedy floor boards, drifitng up to the back of the couch, hands anxiously planted on the back of the couch, looking to the TV. Was she always like this? Did she always love the TV, or does she use it to drown out everything else? His eyes perched down, to the view of her, long entangled her crept over her face like vicious vines, overgrown shrubbery, the look of despair. Did no one else see that? Did they stop for a minute and ever pay attention to the people around them? His index finger scratched against his thumb, digging against the fold of loose skin by the nail, picking at himself again in worry, his brows rose again, and a small sigh came from his eyes, his brows dragged half lidded. “Sorry, Laina…” he mumbled in a quiet whisper beneath his voice, staring at those curled strands of hair. Each of them like a small wire, a tiny little road, or path. A curled up mess of Life, every decision framed in each curled, tangled, knotty road. His eyes dropped from her hair, to her hand, hanging off the side of the couch as her thumb twitched just the slightest bit. Another breathy huff came from his mouth, looking to the bottom corner of his vision, with a slight shake to his head. He turned around, facing the lit up kitchen, leaning his lower back up against the couch backing. And what about James? Just a kid who worked through crime all his life? Was that his life, was he set that as fate? Did he choose this, is he happy? Smith even? He looked across the kitchen tiles, studying the white tiles, with black circles at each intersection of the tile line. Sam? Was she anything more than she summed herself to be, did she care about everything going around her? Did she feel any remorse for the insults she gave, if not for the killing, or the pain brought by the stitches she gave? He brought his eyes back to his feet, pointed inwards, his toes giving the slightest wiggle. Liam… What reason? Just to try it before he’s too old? Would any 50 year old be as quick to kill as he was? He sighed again, his body dragging in a slump down, shaking his head subtly, just to himself. Don’t get caught up in it.

He pushed himself off of the couch backing, and planted his foot one after the other, lightly treading across the floor boards. Step, after step, he shuffled his way down to the front door, giving an anxious look outside to the shining moonlight, watching the poor suburban houses across the road, crumbling away more and more every day. He drug his head down, and turned around, his hand pulling out of his hood pocket to grab against the wooden hand rail of the stairs. Pulling himself up each step, every thump of his feet giving that slight echo throughout the house. Perched at the top of the stairs, he looked loosely across the room in front of him, the set of wooden doors that gave each crew member a room. Save for two, anyway… Metal folding chairs placed in a small circle, a folding table in the middle, a set of cards placed amongst folders and lists. A whiteboard up against the wall, drafted with squares and lines of tasks needed from the various factions. A corkboard stabbed into, holding various different badges, berets and symbols from their enemies bodies. The walls scuffed with moved furniture, the paint fading and chipping from age. A small, dingy, 2nd kitchen held against the wall, a cheap microwave, a stained bar fridge and a simple sink, stacked with a few small dishes. A trash can too small stuffed with cans of soft drink and napkins. He drug himself past the table, hand dragging along the white plastic, feeling the scrape and marks from knives and nails, his finger creasing along a small bottle of deodorant, most likely James’s. He came to the end of the hall, just in front of those scuff marks before he leaned back against a small accent table. Somehow, they made a home out of all this.