RE: Incident [TEXT]
05-24-2013, 10:47 PM
You pull down the brim of your hat and push up the scarf. Act like you don't expect to be stopped, and it probably won't happen.
With the purposeful stride of someone who has places to be (but not so quick so as to seem panicky) you head for the stairs and step around the people sat on them. The conversations wash over you like water, but nobody directs any of it at you. As you pass by the two statues at the bottom of the stairs you notice that a few people have found a pack of cards and have started dealing them out. Unlike everyone else on the stairs, the dealer turns to look at you. You pretend you don't notice and keep walking. You can hear the gentle thwip of the cards as they hit the floor. The dealer hasn't missed a beat. You can feel his stare on the back of your head, or at least you think so, but the thwip, thwip, thwip, of the cards doesn't stop.
But you don't break pace and nothing happens. It's only as you get out of earshot and exhale that you realise you'd been holding your breath.
The stench of ozone hits you hard, even through the scarf. Keeping a respectful distance from the people in the middle of room does nothing to alleviate it. Looks like your suspicions were correct. Lightning shooters and pyros have a tendency to roll up their sleeves, on account of damage to clothing. Neither ability is particularly neat or predictable; a fact that keeps everyone else far away, but seems to drive such sparkers together. Pyros that hang out in groups like this usually wear facemasks in an attempt to deal with the ozone fumes, which are bad enough around 'clean' bolters and worse around the kind of delinquent associated with rolled-up sleeves. The headaches and nausea are worth it, apparently. Too bad the uniform makes it impossible to tell the composition of this particular group.
Nobody here so much as casts a glance in your direction.
And so you make it to the door largely without incident.
The door guards look towards you as you approach. A few of them briefly glance at a blonde with a buzz cut cradling a submachine gun. You assume she's the leader of this little group.
“I need to get outside,” you say as you come to a halt in front of her.
She chooses not to reply for a moment, instead taking the opportunity to look you up and down.
“No can do,” is the eventual languid reply.
“Look, I dropped a packet of smokes-”
“Take it up with Kierkgaard.” Somebody sniggers. You look at the blonde, and she stares back with unshakeable indifference.
“So where can I find Kierkgaard?” There are a few laughs. Even the leader raises an eyebrow. Nobody moves, their eyes on you.
Suddenly she jerks a thumb in the direction of the bank counters and shrugs.
“Kierkgaard wants a runner anyway. Doesn't sound fun to me, but it'll get you out.”
You begin to walk away.
“Hold up.” You turn back and she looks you dead in the eyes. “You owe me for this. Your name?”
“Alexus Silk,” you reply, without hesitation. Naturally. It's your real name, after all. You don't have any intention of meeting this person ever again; you doubt it's going to matter.
She nods, and you walk on.
You pass behind the bank counters, explain to a couple of guards what you're doing, and enter into a somewhat stark room. An out of place table takes the centre of attention, in addition to the playing cards, cash, chips and mobsters situated on and around it. There's a tense silence dominating the room as you walk in. Most of the players have thrown their cards down, but two opposite each other are clutching at theirs and grinning. There's a mountain of chips between them. The stakes are high. Quite literally.
But it's the statue in the corner of the room, leaning against a gleaming steel door, that catches your attention. It looks like it might be marble, but someone's splashed it with red paint and pinned a piece of paper on it. Naturally, the statue is that of a queen.
Kierkgaard is standing in front of it with her back to you.
What's your next move?
With the purposeful stride of someone who has places to be (but not so quick so as to seem panicky) you head for the stairs and step around the people sat on them. The conversations wash over you like water, but nobody directs any of it at you. As you pass by the two statues at the bottom of the stairs you notice that a few people have found a pack of cards and have started dealing them out. Unlike everyone else on the stairs, the dealer turns to look at you. You pretend you don't notice and keep walking. You can hear the gentle thwip of the cards as they hit the floor. The dealer hasn't missed a beat. You can feel his stare on the back of your head, or at least you think so, but the thwip, thwip, thwip, of the cards doesn't stop.
But you don't break pace and nothing happens. It's only as you get out of earshot and exhale that you realise you'd been holding your breath.
The stench of ozone hits you hard, even through the scarf. Keeping a respectful distance from the people in the middle of room does nothing to alleviate it. Looks like your suspicions were correct. Lightning shooters and pyros have a tendency to roll up their sleeves, on account of damage to clothing. Neither ability is particularly neat or predictable; a fact that keeps everyone else far away, but seems to drive such sparkers together. Pyros that hang out in groups like this usually wear facemasks in an attempt to deal with the ozone fumes, which are bad enough around 'clean' bolters and worse around the kind of delinquent associated with rolled-up sleeves. The headaches and nausea are worth it, apparently. Too bad the uniform makes it impossible to tell the composition of this particular group.
Nobody here so much as casts a glance in your direction.
And so you make it to the door largely without incident.
The door guards look towards you as you approach. A few of them briefly glance at a blonde with a buzz cut cradling a submachine gun. You assume she's the leader of this little group.
“I need to get outside,” you say as you come to a halt in front of her.
She chooses not to reply for a moment, instead taking the opportunity to look you up and down.
“No can do,” is the eventual languid reply.
“Look, I dropped a packet of smokes-”
“Take it up with Kierkgaard.” Somebody sniggers. You look at the blonde, and she stares back with unshakeable indifference.
“So where can I find Kierkgaard?” There are a few laughs. Even the leader raises an eyebrow. Nobody moves, their eyes on you.
Suddenly she jerks a thumb in the direction of the bank counters and shrugs.
“Kierkgaard wants a runner anyway. Doesn't sound fun to me, but it'll get you out.”
You begin to walk away.
“Hold up.” You turn back and she looks you dead in the eyes. “You owe me for this. Your name?”
“Alexus Silk,” you reply, without hesitation. Naturally. It's your real name, after all. You don't have any intention of meeting this person ever again; you doubt it's going to matter.
She nods, and you walk on.
You pass behind the bank counters, explain to a couple of guards what you're doing, and enter into a somewhat stark room. An out of place table takes the centre of attention, in addition to the playing cards, cash, chips and mobsters situated on and around it. There's a tense silence dominating the room as you walk in. Most of the players have thrown their cards down, but two opposite each other are clutching at theirs and grinning. There's a mountain of chips between them. The stakes are high. Quite literally.
But it's the statue in the corner of the room, leaning against a gleaming steel door, that catches your attention. It looks like it might be marble, but someone's splashed it with red paint and pinned a piece of paper on it. Naturally, the statue is that of a queen.
Kierkgaard is standing in front of it with her back to you.
What's your next move?
![[Image: ibqri5lbS714Fr.png]](https://i4.minus.com/ibqri5lbS714Fr.png)