A crowd big enough to get lost in didn’t offer enough logical persuasion to do a runner from the event grounds. For some no doubt benevolent and perfectly respectable reason, she was expected to attend.
She’d genuinely considered trying to pretend; act like she had the luxury of being an excited attendee, whose only thought was seeing and experiencing as much as the fair had to offer. It had, surprisingly, lasted for half an hour. As soon as she had lingered at a booth, all of the carefully constructed facade fell away. At least to her. Started thinking about the many ways the Kovalis could turn the day into a nightmare. Maybe they had poisoned the water supply to the festival trucks, maybe they had contaminated the food with some new drug they wanted everyone hooked on. The barrage drained her of every drop of normalcy.
She was trying to get it back. Really, truly, had been desperate to find some reprieve for the few hours where she didn’t have to deal with her usual work. Had spoken to vendors, politely declining everything they had to offer, wandered around looking for something to pique her interest. Finally settled on loitering near the games stalls.
It was a bad idea and it wasn’t. So many kids milling around reminding her of her four younger brothers.. well, as they had been. Yet their enthusiasm was doing a little to lift her spirits. Not enough to fully pay attention, staring into space as she listened instead.
She did, however, notice when something dropped to the ground. Near enough to the peripheries where she leaned, that it wasn’t immediately kicked along with the crowd. A task to keep her occupied, she picked it up and quickly set after the owner, following them between vendor stalls before tapping them on the back. “Excuse me. I think this is yours.”
♛ Life is a waterfall, we turn around & put up our wall ♛
( THE FESTIVAL )
The gunfire continued to blaze through the festival grounds, mass hysteria and chaos taking ahold the crowd as they fled to safety. Was this vengeance, a fine display of the King’s well-deserved rage as it boiled in the Kovali’s veins? If only... the Prospect aims his gun, a faction lackey in his sight. Just as the bullet flies across the park, the target moves. He can see the face of a young boy in his crosshairs, and then blood. The Faithful, The Doctor and The Forgotten watch in horror at the crimson seeping into the concrete...
The police sirens cut through the nightmare, a squadron marching upon the gang violence, armed to kill. The Infiltrator falls in the line, eyes widening in horror as she sees the S.W.A.T symbol and gun pointed in the Heir’s direction. How far was she willing to go, to maintain her identity, an operation she’d worked so hard to destroy from the inside? The movement is brisk, grabbing the man to the ground, sharp pain in her side- the feeling of a gunshot wound. She hears the sound of her own scream, the Weapon and The Contractor at her side trying to load her into the vehicle. Tires squeal against the pavement, the second Kovali car lurches forward... The Icarus runs across the pavement, ducking down when he notices a phone lying on the crowd. In his haste he grabs it, sprinting off into safety. He rounds the corner into an alley when it begins to ring. The voice on the other side of the line stops him cold- “Motta, what the fuck is going on there, the news just stated there was an attack- I’m in half the mind of pulling you off this investigation...”
The Spy takes cover behind a broken booth, knowing damn well that her immunity is in full play while hell is unleashed. Just as she turns to feign a shot, she sees the Traitor, a Kovali gun waiting to take his life... and then it doesn’t. A representative, left alive... her suspicions grow. But she isn’t the only one, the Assassin can’t help but think it’s beyond luck that he’s breathing. And the Hot Shot, huddled in a booth, sure as hell noticed it too.
The Illegitimate and the Sacrificed are neck-at-neck, aided by the Gambler, and the Consigliere. It’s clear death if they stay, that or jail which is a card the Gambler simply cannot play. He calls out to the Casanova to move, but the man doesn’t hear him. In his line of sight are the uniforms of CPD- he won’t risk it. He grabs ahold of the Faction’s very own counselor, but not before he hears the man say a peculiar set of words to the Kovali felon... “careful, you don’t want to spill your own family’s blood..” His foot hits the gas, watching the face of the Casanova, whose gun tossed aside, putting on the mask yet again. Can he blend in and play the game of innocence as the Crooked pulls him away, a pair of cuffs on his wrists. They didn’t see anything, it was too much chaos, a golden boy isn’t made for a cell. He’s shackled to her squadron car, as the woman speeds down towards the wacker checkpoint.
(L O W E R W A C K E R D R I V E)
The Truck weaves in between traffic, the Kovali car far too close for comfort. Just as they speed around the corner, the Mad Scientist begins to wonder just how this plan could fall through. His eyes land on the Shadow, the only one that isn’t one of them... a rat. He reaches for his gun, a sharp curve tossing the doors of the truck open. It doesn’t make sense, why are they slowing down? Flashing red and blue lights all but burn into the Lover’s eyes when a checkpoint appears on the bridge. She barely has time to register what’s going on when the Coward gets a clear shot at the driver. Blood splatters her clothes, a sudden loss of control. They’re going to crash, they’re going to crash. The Shadow, corned and all too familiar with death takes a chance, tackling the Mad Scientist out of the vehicle... In a split second, the Black Widow tries to reach for the steering wheel but it’s too late. The sound of metal-on-metal echoes through the City, the truck hanging on the edge. The Lover’s eyes meet the Cataclysmic, a brief second of time in the balance before the truck goes over, cold water meeting her skin.
( T H E N E W S )
It’s an hour after the events have unfolded, the face of the Messiah splashed across every television screen.
Chicago- with the increasing magnitude of the attacks, our city has declared a state of emergency. Under the agreement of the Governor, we will be imposing Martial Law for the safety of our citizens. A mandatory curfew of 9pm will be held for all, in the efforts of finding the criminals behind this attack. Businesses will be required to comply. We’ve asked for the state to provide us with reinforcements on our streets, patrols will be monitoring the city. If you see or hear any suspicious behavior, call 911. While this may be a drastic step, it is necessary.
♞ Aerials in the sky, lose your mind & free your life ♞
OOC INFORMATION
(BEHIND THE SCENES) The Faction’s shipment has been swept away in the current of the Chicago River, with the Lover and Black Widow barely making it out alive. In direct result, the Zhang’s productions and the Faction’s main money source has been severely hit. The Festival grounds are now under police control, with the first Kovali car and the first Faction car bolting out of the space. The City is now under Martial Law, with the following dictations.
9PM Curfew
S.W.A.T Patrol on the street
Suspension of habeas corpus and civil law, searches may be conducted without a warrant.
Application of Military Law
This concludes our King’s Rage event with grave implications. Remember, all actions have consequences... Please tag all starters with bkevent02.
Parker had loved cowboys. Some kids slept with stuffed animals, but Roe’s brother could be found every night with his head pillowed on his arm, hand still clutching the cap gun that Roe and Annie had scrounged up enough money to buy him for his birthday. The house quickly became the stage for epic showdowns between cowboys and outlaws. “Get down Roe!” Parker would shout, insistently tugging on his brother’s arm, commanding him to take cover to avoid the imagined hail of gunfire raining down on them.
But when a series of shots ring out, turning the buzzing energy of the festival from lively to hysterical, Parker and his life-saving advice are far from Roe’s mind. People scatter like wildfire, their panic just as pervasive and destructive, swarming the area without a care of who or what is in their path. Roe is blind to the masses, eyes instead fixated on a woman in the distance. He can’t make out an expression from this far back, but her body languages reeks of panic, head swerving in search of something—someone?—her voice is lost in the sea of shouting, but her mouth is opened, calling out. There’s another round of shots cracking through the air and Roe watches the woman crumple to the ground, a heap of limbs that is quickly swallowed in the crowd.
He needs to move. Needs to get over there. He needs the crowd to get back—please, god, they’re going to step on her. But his legs will not move, Roe’s not even sure they’re still attached to his body. He can’t feel them, can’t feel much of anything at all. All sensation has been narrowed down to a vice-like pressure constricting his chest and brittle gasping breaths rattling through lungs that have forgotten how to draw air properly; neither as painful as thoughts he can’t stop from entangling him in a growing fog of panic. Is that how Annie looked when she fell? How many people were around to watch her collapse like a discarded doll? How many people saw and did nothing? How long did she lay there before help arrived? Was she cold when they got to the hospital, pale from blood loss? Did blessed unconsciousness swiftly greet her, or did she lie awake, unable to move wondering if every breath would be her last?
He’s not sure what happens, everything around him is still erupting in chaos, but his worldview shifts. What little air was left in his lungs is stolen, knocked out of him as another body collides with his before being jarred a second time as he crashes against the ground. There’s a shout he belatedly recognizes as coming from himself, too caught up in the fiery pain that is suddenly lighting its way across his right shoulder. He tries to lift the arm to no avail, but finds that his left arm obeys his command still when he tries to move it, bringing his hand into his view. Nothing but clear sky overhead, his hand stands out starkly against hues of blue and yellow, the blood coating his fingers even more so. Blood? No, no. Whose blood is that?
Gülfem teyze, the proprietress of the little Turkish restaurant Dede had loved so much, had always claimed that Turkish baklava was the best in the world, and the Greek version was a poor imitation--but if that was true, Eudaimonia Greek Restaurant was giving the Turks a run for their money. Alp’s opinion (though he’d never told Gülfem) was that both were good, and there was no reason why honey and walnuts shouldn’t be just as worthy a filling as pistachio and cinnamon. So, although standing around eating was really a cover, he could think of lots worse assignments.
Still, he’d feel better once things got started.
But there was no point in getting antsy, so he just glanced at the person next to him, offering the paper plate. “You tried some of this yet?”
Emmett knew better than to get drunk on a mission--if this even was a mission; he hadn’t received any orders beyond showing up at the festival--but he couldn’t help feeling restless, the sense of brewing trouble clawing at his muscles and making him want to act. It’d be one thing if he had a job to do--he knew how to take orders and get a task accomplished. But this? Just wandering around until he heard something different? This was liable to drive him crazy.
And a drink would settle his nerves--but he also knew that, too often, one drink led to two and then five and then being out of commission.
And so, while he was eyeing one of the bars’ booths, trying to decide if it was worth the risk, he hadn’t actually gone toward it yet.
--Until a woman who’d been in line with her back to him turned around, and to Emmett’s surprise, he recognized her. After locking eyes like that, there wasn’t much he could do but acknowledge her, and so, although he wasn’t quite sure how it’d go, he moved a little closer, wary and apologetic but not unfriendly. “Nic?”
Loc: Taste Of Chicago (Cabaret Pop-up Bar)
Who: OPEN
The packed crowd looked like ants, the snippets of conversation and settling ice drew his attention from one direction to the other almost continuously. He’d been sat at the bar for only a few minutes, observing the people around him for any sign of ill intent. And ensuring that he didn’t get a drink spilled on him like he had the last time he’d been so openly out in public the previous time. Crowds now gave him an added layer of tension, which reflected in the set of his shoulders. Out of his peripheral, he noticed a figure coming too close- either not paying attention or intentionally doing so, he lifted his crutch to block their path. “Back it up, employee only area.”
When you reached a certain level of efficiency in the assassin’s circle’s, it was hard to find others that could kill with the same class and skill that you had. It becomes terribly stagnant, when you had no competition, no verve to spice up your life, but Mira had gotten lucky - there was another such as her operating within Chicago’s city limits, and the only person she’d engage in competition with. His icy blue gaze aimed to be more level than hers, cooler than she, and as unflappable as they come, and she’d come to recognize his burred drawl for what it was...the whisper of death.
He was her favorite play partner, and when Violet had pried out of her why she had a slight smile on her face with no blood on her hands, she’d referred to him a golden boy. Golden in the way that Midas was, collectively cursed though Zephyr knew how to use it. His golden touch left people cold, life blood staining the floor and the whoosh of a last breathe. She was a fan. And she was a fan of the way he teased, so cool and collected and patient that Mira had assigned herself her own job; nuke his patience. Was there fire lurking beneath that scruffy beard? She wanted to find out. And so find out she would, pleased to see him out and about on that Chicago night. Night was beginning to touch the buildings, her sunglasses long since abandoned, long inky tresses hanging down her back. Having nothing but time to kill, she put a little more of a pendulum to the sway of her hips as she headed over to him, a crooked grin playing on her lips. “Big man looks distracted today,” Mira observed with a tsk of her tongue, tilting her head up to his height. “I wonder what you have spinning around in that mind of yours.”
The sun beat down on the Sigara ports as the faction’s shipment was slowly loaded into the truck. Half a million dollars, detailed in raw materials and stolen goods, in guns that sat disguised as car parts. It was a fortune contained in cardboard boxes.. however, with the fear of a King coming back to life, a sudden switch gave the opportunity for retribution. The Traitor stepped out of the shadows, armed with incendiary details that cursed the very promise of success... how quick news traveled until it reached the crown. You’ll know the signal, it’ll be a distraction.
(BEHIND THE SCENES) It was a hired driver that took the wheel, with the Black Widow and the Lover sitting side by side as they watched the man start the engine. Over the walkie they heard a voice, The Assassin confirming that the group guarding the goods on the inside was ready. Engines spun and the truck began leading the way, with two cars not far behind. It was the Spy and the Casanova at the wheel, Lake Shore Drive leading the stretch towards the festival...
The Kovali were called from the festival, Capos standing behind the King and the Cataclysmic as they looked out into gathered associates.
Today was a day of reckoning... In a few hours, we will receive signal that a vital shipment will be on the move. Each of you will play a part in making sure that doesn’t happen- Strike where it hurts, and strangle the enemy with their own rope.
The text is sent from the Traitor to the Paradox, the Spy’s watchful eyes seeing a spark of rebellion... was this the card that was going to flip? It was the Faction’s plan to distract the Kovali at their own business, little do they know it now means something very different. Drinks are thrown in the Cabaret’s booth- the diversion that signifies the truck is on the move and to get ready.
(BEHIND THE SCENES) Just as the truck entered the festival grounds, two unmarked cars cut it off. Almost immediately, bullets begin to rain down on the vehicles, with masked men making their way. Lead by the Heir and the Sacrificed under the King’s orders, a group of Kovali attack the truck, forcing the other Faction vehicles to get engaged. When an opening appears, the Black Widow urges the driver to take the chance and the truck crashes through booths and down into the streets... however, the Kovali are not far behind.
♞ From the pinnacle to the pit, it’s a long way down ♞
OOC INFORMATION
Welcome to our second drop of King’s Rage! The Kovali had managed to intercept the shipment in the festival ground, with a shootout beginning between Faction and Kovali- in a bold move, the truck manages to blast through stands onto the streets, though it is followed in hot pursuit by a Kovali car. The winding roads of Lower Wacker Drive have become the backdrop of a heated car chase, while Taste of Chicago resembles something of a battleground.
L O C A T I O N S
Taste of Chicago Festival
Faction Car One: The Spy, The Traitor, The Assassin
Faction Car Two: The Gambler, The Casanova, The Illegitimate
Kovali Car One: The Sacrificed, The Prospect, The Consigliere
Kovali Car Two: The Heir, The Weapon, The Contractor, The Infiltrator
The above have engaged in the shoot out, aiming to kill. Those stuck in the firefight include The Performer, The Hot Shot, The Survivor, The Doctor, The Princess, The Faithful, The Forgotten, The Paradox. The Crooked. These listed may have been injured by either the truck, gunfire, or the stampede (This decision can ultimately lie with the mun, may also not be injured at all.)
Lower Wacker Drive Car Chase
Kovali Car: The Cataclysmic, The Coward, The Phoenix
The Truck: The Shadow, The Lover, The Mad Scientist, The Black Widow
