Lawrence sauntered along the boundaries of Queen Bee's palace, glancing back to where his squad patrolled farther in the distance. He snorted to himself when he turned back around, knuckles tightening over the grip of his gun, slung loosely through one of his belt loops.
Queen, my ass. You ain't any queen, you're just some dictator.
He didn't like this. It was far too warm for his liking, the sun too bright and sand constantly finding it's way into his nose and mouth. Not to mention Bee wasn't quite one to stay low-- it was public knowledge that she was suspicious, constantly sneaking around and the like. The Bialyians, though, gave it no second thought, though, to his surprise. Normally dictators are challenged by at least a few stray citizens... but those were probably cast out as warning for the others.
Deader than dead could be, most likely.
Glancing at the watch on his wrist, he noted that his duty was over; 7:00, and it still looked like noon. That was probably one of the things he hated most; the fact that the scenery never changed, it appeared as if time never passed. Enough with that, though, he was free to settle with personal affairs after two hours of in-city duties. He was only in this city for another day, and he'd be damned if he didn't make it worth it.
He pulled a comm out of his pocket, and held it up to his mouth as he heard faint static on the other side.Â
"Alpha's shift on the north wing is over and shift for the west starts in twenty minutes after the hour. Lieutenant, is Gamma all set to take over for Alpha? I repeat, is Gamma ready to take over for Alpha? Crock, over."
"Sir, a fire fight has broken out twenty degrees south of the palace's eastern wing, and Gamma may be delayed--"
"Spare me the details, just fix it," he snarled through gritted teeth, "Better yet, if breaking that up is too much to handle, I'll take care of it myself. No wonder you're on Gamma, so now get your squad's asses to where you've been assigned. Crock, over."
Shoving the technology back into his pocket, Sportsmaster spun around and began trekking southeast, brown shirt tails flapping out behind him in the mild breeze.Â
Sure enough, two men were out in the marketplace, squabbling over some stolen goods while a crowd circled around with extreme interest of the outcome. That changed as soon as the large man's silhouette was visible from across the plain, some people speaking in hushed whispers, pointing, or immediately withdrawing from the area. This didn't stop the two fighting civilians, however, as they continued yelling at one another in their native language. Sportsmaster and he pulled the trigger of his gun, shooting the ground between the two without a second thought.
Their screams were cut short as Lawrence pointed the firearm between them, growling disapproval.
"I know the majority of you speak some english, so unless you want me to use your heads as hood ornaments, I'd cut it out and get back to what you were doing before. Nothing to see here." When the crowd remained, his sneer grew, eyebrows knitting together as he pulled out a foil and took some violent practice swipes in the air.
That got them moving, almost fighting to get away from the scene. Sportsmaster glared in the direction of the palace, unamused at his duty as a soldier of Bialya. In other words? Like an american cop, only more quick to use violence.
A twisted vigilante.
What a strangely ironic and funny thought.Â
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