#tsbombing

[sanguisrex]

We got set up. She fuckin' set us up.

I can't believe this. I just can't--Jesus Christ, Armand, cover me.

He slams his fist against the side of the car he's currently crouched behind with a furious cry, clenching his fists and taking deep breaths to calm himself, to get seeing straight again.

I'm gonna kill her. I'm gonna fuckin' kill her.

[sandy-mckenzie]

The Mind of a Beast || Self-Para

Sometimes silence wasn't golden. Sometimes silence could be torture. Sometimes silence could be the thing that drove you to the brink of insanity. This would've been one of those times.

Sandy had not seen hide nor hair of Rory Alfonso since their last auspicious meeting. In fact, no one had. It was like Rory had simply disappeared off the face of the planet, which should've been a good thing as far as Sandy was concerned. But it wasn't. With every day of silence that passed, Sandy couldn't help but wonder just what the little shit was up to. Was he really just hiding himself away, or was he planning some sort of revenge? And if he was planning revenge, just what course of action would he take? It was scarily easy for Sandy to figure out. Rory knew that he had no emotional attachments, so what then? What would hurt Sandy McKenzie the most? The destruction of The Siren, of course. This thing, this investment, that he'd spent so much time and money on… He could easily see Rory reveling in turning the thing to ash, and in the process, ruining Sandy's business. If he closed his eyes he could see Rory's smug little face, broken nose and all, towering over him as he attempted to pick up the pieces. He wouldn't let it happen. Could not let it happen. No matter what it took, or how much money he had to spend, he could not let Rory win. He would sooner burn the place down himself. Sandy's concern -- because that's what he insisted upon calling it, concern, and not what it had actually turned into, which was paranoia -- had started to keep him up at night. His thoughts running cyclically through all the possible scenarios that could arise resulted in restless nights that could not be quelled through drink nor sex nor drugs. He would not be calmed, not until he made fucking certain that Rory Alfonso would do nothing to destroy the small empire that he'd built for himself. So on the morning of April 23rd, Sandy rose from his bed with determination. It was time to stop worrying and start preparing himself for war. Because this would not end, not until one of them was dead. And Sandy had survived the Great War. He would be good goddamned if he some self-entitled little shit like Rory Alfonso was the one to take him out. When Sandy arrived at The Siren that morning, he decided to take his business to the porch. He'd been cooped up in his office for the better part of a month now. Perhaps some fresh air and a new perspective would help to clear the clutter from his mind. With a pen in his hand and a journal on his lap, Sandy stared out at the lake. It was so still, so flat, so calm. It was like nature itself was taunting him. Anger started to curl within him, his vision going a bit dark around the edges. What right did this city have to such peace, when he was suffering with such turmoil? They were all as dirty as him. They all deserved to suffer just as much as he. He forced his gaze back down to the paper, his clutch on the pen tightening noticeably. He shut his eyes, trying to calm himself, but behind his eyelids all he could see was Rory destroying all that he'd worked so hard to build. No. No, no… "No." He said it aloud, but he was the only one there to realize it. Sandy hated that Rory had him so rattled. He shouldn't have, but with every silent day that passed, Sandy only became more and more worried. It wasn't right. No one person should have such complete control over his mind. He should be focusing on his money -- which, while still coming in, was beginning to plateau -- not this. But this had to be taken care of first, didn't it? Sandy wouldn't be able to rest until it was. So what should he do? What favours could he call in now? Well, he certainly couldn't go to the mobs for help, could he? He'd all but burned his bridges there. And things with Oxford, well… He'd destroyed that relationship as well, hadn't he? There was still Lincoln, but he could be bought easily enough. The gravity of the situation was slowly beginning to set in. He had no one. His lips thinned to nothing. Beads of sweat began to settle on the back of his neck. His heartbeat sped up. This was bad. This was very, very bad. Sandy rose from his seat and began to pace. He just needed to calm down and think. Maybe he didn't have anyone, but he'd been in worse situations, right? He didn't need anyone. He had himself and his mind, and that was more than enough to take care of fucking Rory Alfonso. Yes. He would be fine on his own. He could take care of this on his own. Or at least that's what he kept telling himself as he sat back down. He was enough. He would have to be enough. Right then, first thing's first. Rory would most likely go for The Siren in any attempted revenge plots. So, pay for more security. He was only down to one personal guard, as the other was busy tailing after Nat, but he could afford a few more. Maybe he could convince Eddie to send some of his better officers -- the ones who were a little less than morally upstanding -- to patrol the place too. It was worth a shot, anyway. And speaking of Eddie, as much as he hated the man, he needed his compliance in order for The Siren to stay open at all. So, unfortunately, he was going to have to make sure that he kept the man happy, very happy, no matter how much he hated it. He wrote down "Call Lincoln" on the page. So, added security and ensuring that Eddie was in his corner would be a good start. But what else could he do to safeguard himself? Well, a lot of his apprehension arose from the fact that Rory fucking Alfonso had all but disappeared from the face of the Earth. Perhaps it would be best to keep him on a tighter leash. A small smile crept onto Sandy's face as he thought of this. Yes, Rory couldn't get away with fucking anything right under his nose. Perhaps one of the new guards that he'd hire would be made to follow Rory around when he wasn't in Sandy's immediate vicinity. And giving him a few more jobs wouldn't hurt either. Beneath "Call Lincoln" Sandy wrote "Bring Rory In." If he kept Rory close, and made sure that he had someone watching over him at all times, that should be enough to solve his problem, right? But ah, how could he overlook Miss Russell? Her expertise may come in handy in this area. He quickly jotted down "Talk to Miss Russell" before officially calling his list done. Sandy quickly looked over the list, which now read:

Hire more security

Call Lincoln

Bring Rory in

Talk to Miss Russell

Yes, that was a sound list, and one that wasn't particularly incriminating either. As soon as everything was taken care of, Sandy intended to burn the list anyway. Sandy hadn't even realized he'd spent the better part of the day just plotting out what came next for him. But when he could finally be bothered to look up at the lake again, he noticed that the sun was just beginning to set. God, what a waste of a day. He started to rise from his seat, a feeling of contentment that he hadn't felt in weeks settling within him, as he heard a distant "boom." He gripped onto his seat, crouching down, waiting. He knew that sound all too well -- the sound of bombs going off. It wasn't just one bomb, though. It quickly became a cacophony, at least three bombs being set off in what he could only presume was downtown. It was miles away, but he could still feel the aftershocks beneath his feet. Just what in the hell was going on? His one remaining guard came out to him, supposedly to check that he was alright, but Sandy waved him off. So much for the peace that had lured Chicago into a sleepy lull. This was war, and during a war, you didn't get fucking complacent. It seemed that someone had. When the ground finally stopped shaking, Sandy took up his pen and paper and walked past his guard, heading directly for his office. "Should, uh, should we call the police?" his guard asked after him. "What for? You don't think they've already noticed the fucking massive explosions that just went off?" Sandy hissed. "I've got much more important business to take care of, so don't fucking bother me unless its our building that's getting blown up."

Sandy slammed the door to his office behind him.

[oxfordman]

Apathy [Self]

He had been avoiding the Stingray lately.

It had a little to do with the fact that the scar from being stabbed by a fucking letter opener was still very visible and a lot to do with the fact that his mask just hadn't been up to his own standards lately. He lacked the patience to deal with small talk he could normally keep up for hours and the force of will to laugh at the humorless jokes so many of his clientele swore were funny, and given his usual behavior, the change would be extremely noticeable.

Somewhere along the line the fury that had crushed so many of his whiskey tumblers had drained out of his feet into the floor; the anger that had slammed Sandy McKenzie into the wall of his office had melted into the shadows his bowed frame cast on the world. The lips that had so recently been cast into some kind of limbo between spitting expletives and finding the mouth they missed now fell open with words he didn't know, couldn't speak.

He felt nothing.

Was this what his life had come to? Had he made this far just to be robbed not only of his natural emotions at birth, but now of his fabricated ones, too? There seemed to be some great injustice in it to him: he wanted to be filled with an elemental rage, the kind that shook the ground and cracked the earth, that had gotten him stabbed, and instead he was left standing in the half-light of the setting sun existing in the space of a measured kind of apathy that was more nothingness than living.

Such was his lassitude that the distant sounding of sirens and the serpentine curling of smoke toward the heavens hardly gave him pause. It crossed his mind that it was probably mob-related, if past events were any indication. She was more likely than not involved, and if her history of violence was to be trusted, her life was probably threatened.

He wanted desperately to worry for her. He wanted to run toward the site of the current emergency, to search fearfully for what he knew in his heart would be her corpse, to feel regret and hurt and the impulse for violence coil deep in his gut and drive his feet forward and a bullet into the forehead of whoever had wronged her so.

But he didn't. He couldn't.

He couldn't, and so he returned to his apartment with a steady stride and a calm heartbeat, having finally given in to the night of smoking and resignation that was long overdue.

[therighthandwoman]

Only Lovers Left Alive || Charlotte + Rory

One pointlessly-spent hour spilled over into the next as Charlotte chain-smoked the morning away on the fire escape of her apartment. Something had prompted her to wake up early enough to actually watch the sunrise, something she hadn’t done since she was a child, with Aidan right alongside her. The city had gotten so quiet as of late - no interesting work, no good parties, not even the faintest whisper of any gossip or otherwise minimally-engaging conversation. She hated it, and she hated herself for being stuck in that position. Then again, Charlotte was never quite one to be entirely happy with the world, regardless of what it presented.

That was, of course, not including Rory. Regardless of what Smokey had said about him, there was still something about the very thought of him that made the corners of Charlotte’s lips tip upwards. Christ, she was in deeper than she had ever meant to be, certainly deeper than she had bothered to realize before, and the more the woman thought on it, the more she wanted to see him, if only to have him help her understand - or possibly distract her from understanding-  her feelings.

It was still early, but that only meant that she had time to either try to cook something for breakfast or pick something up. As per usual, Charlotte swayed towards the latter, walking just across the street to Buona Terra after fixing herself up for the day. It was one of the fancier, and therefore more expensive, Italian restaurants that populated this part of the city, and, thankfully, she had done enough dealings (on behalf of Smokey) with the owner that he gave her a pretty remarkable discount. Before she knew it, her hands were full with a small tin of cookies and other delectable sweets - certainly much more than she knew what to do with, which, of course, gave her the perfect excuse to go and visit Rory.

Hailing a cab, she slid in, placing the sweets beside her as she gave directions to his apartment as best she remembered. Not more than a few moments into the ride, just barely a few miles past her apartment complex, a deep, hollow boom resounded, shaking the very earth itself. The car came to a grinding halt, the screech of the tires more than audible, and she looked back towards the area, the car's rear window thankfully still intact. Two more explosions reverberated even through the taxi, and she lowered herself to the cloth of the seat, her hands shielding her head and neck from the flying bits of shattered glass as best as she could manage. 

Once it seemed as though the worst had subsided, Charlotte returned to a passenger's usual sitting position, locking eyes with the young cabbie who was rather fearfully staring at her, his voice quavering in fear. "Y-You alright, miss?" She didn't respond at first, instead choosing to gaze back at the smoke and rubble polluting the streets. There was too much fire and debris, but if her mind wasn't too rattled from the state of things, she could have sworn that was her fucking apartment blown to pieces. The brunette squeezed her eyes shut and turned back around to face the driver, inhaling and exhaling sharply before saying, "Fucking drive, would you? Now."

When the taxi finally reached familiar ground, thankfully unharmed, she handed a few bills to the driver, bringing along the little tin of cookies, embarrassment taking over her features. She hurried past the residents as they surveyed the explosion from the front steps of his complex, rushing inside the godsend that was an open door and up the steps. "Rory? Rory, it's just me. Open the door, would you? " Charlotte pleaded, panicking somewhat upon the realization that he very well might've been near that part of the city when...it happened.  As she knocked on his door, her eyes alerted her to the numerous cuts on her raised hand, drops of crimson running down her wrist and on to the floor. "Please, I just need to know that you're okay..."

[eddie-lincoln]

// He was sick to death of not having answers, he needed to get out there on the pavement and dictate from there. Barking out orders and leaving the station in the hands of his "trusted", Eddie headed toward the towering smoke and sound of sirens.

The second he could skid his car to a stop as close to the action as he could get, he ran. He shoved through people running away and running toward it all. //

"Somebody tell me what in the HELL is going on?!"

[rubyquick]

[eddie-lincoln]

Mayhem || OPEN

It was a madhouse. Phones rang off the hook with calls in regards to the catastorphe, officers were suiting up and arming up, running through the station. Everything was utter chaos, and at the head of it was Eddie Lincoln. For once he was being forced to do his job, the power in his hands to dictate the troops to go to the site of the disaster. Suprisingly when it came to an emergency, Eddie manned up and took the reigns in the fashion of his father - force of will and level head. Of course he could stand to be more level headed, Eddie's overall appearance red in the face and expression strained from yelling. He was up, not having taken a seat for over an hour now, three phones on the desk with two recievers pressed to either side of his skull. He was barking out orders to a group of five in front of his desk as he broke off into swearing-conversation with the department on the phone. "DON'T YOU THINK I FUCKING KNOW?!" The snap and tenor in his tone was enough to even make some of the older officers balk. "I'm doing every damn thing I can to get my men out there! I see the smoke, I'm getting the calls, I can't work fuckin' miracles here people!" Slamming down the recievers his attention turned to the men lined up in his office, "Take Fifth and Maxwell down to King, circle around and see if you can get anywhere close. The Fire Department is already out there, give them any kind of back up that you can! Go!"

[madison-victor]

The Sky Fell || OPEN

Victor grunted, forcing his eyes open. He was still lying in the rubble of the store he'd ducked into for cover, must have passed out again at some point. The time he'd been unconscious had done nothing to actually help any of his pain, however-- if anything it was just all the worse. He was relieved he'd managed to wrap up his bullet wound with his tie to stop the bleeding before that happened, but he knew it definitely needed some tending to and preferably in a clean place far from any Macini mobsters. The blood on his head had dried too, leaving dark reddish-brown streaks all the way down to his jaw and speckled across the collar of his shirt. 

Getting up felt like torture, but he'd been in worse skirmishes than this (he didn't really know what that said about him as a person at this point, considering this one was pretty damned bad). He pointed his pistol out the window first, moving cautiously to the door. He only had the bullets in his chamber and a few in his pocket, having never expected something of this scale to go down. He supposed that was a mistake on his behalf.

Still, he needed to get to Fran, see if she was all right. If Giovanni had planned something like this-- or even if he hadn't-- he knew she was in danger. Fran could handle herself just fine, but he didn't just have this position for show. Besides, there were likely other Lombardi members injured in the blast, possibly even killed, and it'd be easier to round up their forces if he started with the leader. At least he knew exactly where she had been at the time.

The smoke wasn't quite as bad when he stepped back out onto the street, but he still coughed as it entered his lungs. He was weary from being thrown by the explosion and from the blood loss, but he just tried to keep his vision focused and listened with his working ear for any sounds of attack or of distress.

Where the hell were the police? He would have thought the place would be crawling with them, unless of course they couldn't get by the debris.

...He really didn't want to think about the police right now.

Still, why blow up both sides of the street? Macini mobsters were just as trapped as Lombardi mobsters now, and he was sure all the explosion had managed to do was piss Fran off royally. It just didn't seem like a move that made any sense, unless...

Perhaps Giovanni didn't set it up, or... if he did, then he didn't set up all of it.

"Fucking hell," he rasped, voice hoarse from the air. He kept his gun trained forward despite the pain radiating through his shoulder, and he pressed on towards where he was certain the Walgreen's was and just hoped whoever he saw coming at him through the smoke was a friend rather than an enemy.