Post by Reve on Nov 12, 2008 6:24:15 GMT -5
I was digging through my files, and I found it. 
The fighters and non-fighters in Continent Republic’s countries drew a mutual line between each other. Nobody troubled the other party. The fighters had their own economy, trade... none of which surpassed the non-fighters. The fighters were what they were : Fighters. Making clothing, manufacturing bullets and weapons were part of what they did, but their main focus was still fighting, furthering their own inhuman skills. Whereas the non-fighters were masters of everything... except fighting. Non-fighters employed fighters as Police members, soldiers, and various fighting matters.
In truth, not all fighters could be true fighters.
True fighters do physically impossible moves using spasms of their body's four limbs. They would tell their bodies to do things, and their bodies would push itself to the limit to do whatever the mind wanted it to do. For example, for a basic move called "butterfly", fighters would force their bodies to do an air dash with a slash-block spasm repeatedly.
However, not all people could do that. True fighters "just know" how to force their bodies into those spasms. Others "just don't know" how to do so. The people who could not do so made do with natural movements and guns. The fighters who had that gift were called the K-Stylers, the word “K” was supposed to stand for long forgotten.
Of course, some of the non-fighters had that gift. None of whom ever rose to become fighters.
Well, there were a few who had crossed over, one of whom happened to be the fastest butterflyer in Astra.
A long time ago, Legro was a musician.
But nobody thought that she would actually be a K-styler. That mild 14 year old with that slight body, the callused fingertips of a strings musician, those stunning sapphire eyes, and that silky head of straight blonde-silver hair? No, she was too frail. Too weak.
And a long time ago, she thought so too.
The 84th year of Kavvelad, 12th of March.
Legro never thought of herself as “special”, even though all evidence was against it. True, she was certainly very ordinary, with an all too common “tragic past”, which mainly involved a group of fighters and her parents getting caught in a crossfire. She had lived as a street urchin, right until she was 6, when she had found a carelessly dumped violin in an alley. And then, she stopped being ordinary.
She played it, learnt, excelled, and got recognized by the Royal Music School of Kavvelad.
Over 8 years, Legro picked the other strings instruments up – The viola, the cello, and the double bass, once even trying a guitar out – Making astounding progress within such a short time frame.
No wonder Legro’s name came up everywhere in music magazines, called her a “musical prodigy” amongst other honorifics. How Legro could still think of herself as “one of the more average strings musicians in Astra’s history” is still beyond most.
When Legro was admitted into the school, the only one willing to approach her was Prodigy, a young boy her age, eventually becoming her admirer when her playing reached heights he could not achieve, even though Prodigy was also a musical prodigy; although his area of expertise was solely the cello, which was the only instrument he was better than Legro at. Likewise, Legro admired him for his talent as a cellist.
However, they killed Prodigy.
The fighters were fighting amongst each other on the streets, in broad daylight. Everyone scattered as they unholstered various firearms.
When they pulled their triggers, Prodigy - who was just a step too late from the nearest cover -, was shot. Right through the head. Bang. Splatter.
And Legro was right in front of him, watching with seemingly placid eyes.
When the last fighter standing had left –albeit with grievous wounds –, Legro walked over to the site of the massacre, reached out a hand, and picked up a bloody European-styled Military sword.
She sealed the bloody future awaiting her.
Over the years, Legro fought, killed, almost get killed, got up on her feet, fought some more. Using the Military sword more than anything else, she quickly gained complete mastery over it, and over time discovered how to use her body’s spasms to her advantage. Of course, she had no idea that not everyone could do that, and so was not proud of herself throughout those miserably bloody years. Her self esteem was dangerously low, making it a miracle for her to survive for so long, seeing that she lacked much confidence.
And then, after those few years, Legro’s butterfly became the fastest anyone had ever seen. Take a pencil, put it between your thumb and your pointer, then flick it back and forth as fast as you can. That would be the speed of Legro’s butterfly, with one individual flick counted as one butterfly. And one find day, while thinking of ways to improvise, Legro did Astra’s first double butterfly. Ever.
And so, just like that, Legro became a legend in two worlds.
There was a girl and a boy, both in the middle of an empty road in the abandoned town of Guntrix. Mysterious was hardly a word to describe them. Mismatched and complete opposites were more like it.
The girl –Shadow by name- wore a sleeveless black top, baggy grey cargo pants, with rows of magazines in pouches hanging off her waist belt, twin shotguns strapped onto her back and a sword at her left hip. Her hair was a dark shade of indigo, complimenting purple hued eyes.
The boy –Arladerus, she called him- was, in contrast, wearing bright colors. A white shirt and a pair of orange pants. So very bright for a K-styler, most of whom choose darker colors. Black elbow-length leather gloves covered his arms, a pair of revolvers high on either sides of his waist, a shotgun hanging behind his backside, and on his hips, a pair of kodachis. His hair was also bright orange. Of course he dyed it. He loved orange. Which happened to remotely match the color of his tanned skin.
Shadow watched as Arladerus kicked his Mule. Again and again. She smacked herself in the forehead, groaning for the umpteenth time that minute.
‘For Kavveled’s sake,’ she started, getting up from her crouching position and stretching her cramped limbs. ‘Stop kicking the Mule!!’
‘I did this before,’ the man replied, the ash from the tip of his cigarette dropping onto the floor. With that, the cigarette was reduced to a stub. He spat it out, grinding it on the ground with a boot. ‘The Mule would start working once I kick it enough.’
‘FOR HEAVEN’S SAKE,’ She cried out, unable to contain herself any longer,’ IT’S A MULE!!!!! A LIFELESS MOTORBIKE THING!!!! You don’t f***ing kick it and expect it to work!!!‘
‘The key is love,’ Arladerus said graciously, in stark contrast to Shadow’s tone.
‘Arlad. It’s a MACHINE.’
‘Precisely why we must treat it with love!’ He snapped. ‘You don’t throw your rifle around, do you?’
Shadow opened her mouth to retort, but then gave up. Arladerus, the mechanic guy. He loved machines. And nobody has ever convinced him about the fact that machines worked, whether you showered it with love or not. You can’t go dancing ballet about some meadow with the machine dancing around you without it malfunctioning when you two got home, anyway.
Well, maybe when they invent robots. But robots aren’t Mules.
An ominous hissing sound from the motorbike-like vehicle, followed by crashing machinery---
‘ARLAD, WHAT THE FU---‘
Before Shadow could duck, the petrol tank exploded in her face--- Scalding black oil smashing into the forearms she threw up in front of her face, her mouth cursing and swearing---
Arladerus screamed.
------------------
Legro jumped a little at the sound of something exploding somewhere just behind her, and accordingly, her own control over her Mule wavered a little, causing it to swerve on the road. The boy behind her squealed, almost falling off the Mule –which was traveling at close to 150 kph, so thank God he didn’t-, and cursing and swearing, wrapped his arms around the girl’s waist.
‘Was that a scream?’ Legro asked, looking into her mirror, then squeezed the brake levers. The boy held on tight, teeth bared in a snarl; a dam for the profanities behind it.
‘Where’s Shadow and Arlad? They were supposed to be behind us,’ The boy snarled, hopping off the Mule, holding his binoculars to his eyes, surveying his surroundings. Nope, nothing apart from those abandoned buildings and pieces of debris. After the Fighters evacuated from it 20 years ago because of a huge fire which decimated basically everything –caused by some idiot who threw a tank of gasoline down his then-dry toilet bowl thinking that it’s water, then lighting a cigarette, resulting in a massive explosion, according to rumors-, the town was never occupied again, although a road through it still existed.
‘Ryxtre, get on the Mule, will you? We’re going back there to see what happened,’ Legro said, firing up the Mule again. Ryxtre –the boy- hastily vaulted onto the small space on the seat behind Legro. Even as he settled his behind on the padded leather, the Mule sped off.
She didn’t have to drive for long before the saw Arladerus, crouched over Shadow, who was seated upright, cradling her arms. Their Mule was behind them, utterly destroyed, the once polished red plates looking just like garbage in that smashed machinery surrounding them, mostly covered in that black liquid you call Petrol. Overheated, perhaps. The heat in this place was quite unbearable.
The engines of the Mule died down as Legro kicked the bike’s stand, jumping off in a practiced movement. Ryxtre did the same, only more stiff.
Arladerus looked up at the two as they approached.
‘Ahh, hello, Cavalry 4,’ he said, trying to sound as cheerful as possible. Which only earned him a snarl from Shadow.
‘Damn it, Arlad!!’ she growled, obviously fuming. ‘You just had to make that tank explode in my face!!!!’
At that sentence, Legro instinctively looked up to observe Shadow’s face. Splattered here and there with the boiling petrol. Then looked down at her forearms, wincing. Looked like 1st degree burns.
‘We need to get you to a clinic or somethin’,’ Legro said, stepping away. ‘So Ryxtre, you and Arladerus wait here while I take Shadow to Town-4.’
‘And how long would that take?’ Arlad asked, fearing the worst. From Ryxtre’s expression of a mix between horror and anger, he had the same fears as Arlad.
‘A couple o’ hours,’ Legro stated flatly. Arlad and Ryxtre both stared in shock for a moment, then Arladerus started making frantic gestures, while Ryxtre opened his mouth---
Legro helped Shadow up onto the Mule as she kicked the engines into life. Behind the dust in their wake, Ryxtre ran through his impressive list of profanities.
Of all the places she had been assigned to, she had to be assigned to the seediest, bloodiest, and darkest part of Town-4.
In Town-4, there were three areas. Terraces, Shopping square, and Apartments. The Terraces were occupied by the rich folk. Peaceful non-fighters. Sociable, the direct opposite of violent, a pleasure to talk to and be around with. Occasionally some gangsters would go there and cause trouble, but it wasn’t much trouble for the police stationed there.
What you do in the Shopping Square is self-explanatory by its name, unless you’re an idiot, meaning that in the gentlest and most polite way possible.
And in the Apartments... Well. It was every law-enforcer’s nightmare, unless you loved putting your life on the line in firefights in the narrow alleys, or loved getting attacked by gangsters with blazing guns. Actually, the police at the Terraces were practically begging Metro’s higher ups to assign them to the Apartments area, as the patrolling at the Terraces can get very monotonous without any action. Most who got their wish regretted it. They usually got killed on their first day.
At least Metro’s higher ups assigned a couple of able-bodied men to patrol it with her. Before that, she was surrounded by idiots of fighters, who can’t think in tight situations or react fast enough. Which made her almost get killed every single day of her working life. And she didn’t like that.
So she liked Imppala and Dragoon with all her heart. Sort of. Unless they annoyed her.
And this fine afternoon, Metro was strolling around the Apartment’s deserted streets in her lanky looking police uniform. Her dark blue blouse was un-ironed and heavily crumpled the belts across her waist and running diagonally down her chest from her right shoulder loose and still stinking of blood. Her black baggy issued trousers were obviously not washed with all that dust remnants, and her boots simply accented her overall untidiness. But her superiors didn’t really care.
Metro was a K-styler, after all.
In the day, the minor details in the buildings were disturbingly clear. Cracks, rust, blood splatters, broken blades lying around, bullet shells, abandoned guns... The list goes on endlessly. None of that at the Terraces.
Footsteps behind her. Metro pivoted on her heel and spun about. It was Imppala, sprinting at her, an odd look on his face.
‘What’s wrong, Imp?’ she asked, raising an eyebrow. The man gasped air into his lungs as he jogged to a halt in front of her, steadying himself after a moment.
‘Well... I was patrolling... And there was this house... It’s horrible, blood everywhe---‘
‘Take me,’ Metro snapped, cutting him off. Imppala nodded, and ran back the way he came, Metro following him. She was half worried about the absence of his usual humor.
Somehow, she had a bad feeling about what happened to the house.
Walking past two blocks, Imppala stopped in front of...
‘Sweet Kavveled,’ Metro breathed.
A door surrounded by guts and blood.
Even though the police officer had smelt and felt blood a thousand times, she doubled over, as if about to vomit, then simply retrieving her black woolen scarf from a pocket, wrapping it about the lower half of her face. Imppala watched, wishing that he had a scarf of his own. He tugged his rifle free from its holder on his back. Metro unholstered her twin handguns, pushing the door open slowly...
Seeing no movement, she took a step forwards, giving Imppala a gesture to advance.
After the sixth step, Metro wanted to desperately get out.
Every inch of the floor was covered with blood. It seemed like this apartment was quite cramped with people. Half dismembered bodies was scattered here and there, and Metro almost slipped on a giant worm, which turned out fo be an intestine.
Imppala put his hand to his mouth and tried to suppress the nausea rising from his stomach as he saw a heart amongst other organs neatly put on a table beside a cruelly mutilated body. Its limbs were tied to the chair, and its mouth agape, suggesting screaming. In its stomach was a hole, and even without looking, he knew that those organs belonged to it. He forced himself to look away, fear shooting up his spine, making his neck hairs stand.
And then, suddenly, sounds of splintering wood. Imppala threw his head at the sound’s direction---
---A blade slashing---
Imppala immediately thought of Metro, and, fear hammering his heart, cold sweat sheathing his forehead, he advanced on. Even as he opened the door ahead of him, a body flew at him, collided right into his face, throwing him backwards, all the easier with the slick mass of what was beneath him—
His head hit hard against a table, and he was gone.
Metro opened the door in front of her, refusing to let fear grip her. This was just a normal search. In a very bloody but normal house. Normal situation. Yes. Of course.
Then, suddenly, the wooden window in front of her erupted into splinters—
Before she could do her blade unsheathing spasm, something flashed in front of her, then the familiar whip as a blade was swung ---
Then she was flying backwards, arms flailing, watching as the blood erupted from her abdomen---
She expected a painful crash through the door behind her, but suddenly, it creaked open---
Something rounded in shape, hard---
And then a bone jarring crack as whatever cushioned her flight hit the table behind.
Metro twisted her head backwards and saw Imppala, lying unconscious, head bleeding from his knock on the table. And then, her own body felt like it was on fire. Yelping with pain, Metro forced herself up and unsheathed her sword---
A blade then smashed into her own with a force that rocked the police officer, as she stumbled backwards, boots sinking into the blood, almost slipping.
Another flash through the air as her opponent’s blade disengaged, then hammering a series of bone jarring blows at Metro. Her sword jumped in her hands as Metro did elaborate tricks, desperately deflecting her opponent’s blows. A snarl of frustration, and the sounds of air dashing---
Metro’s arm erupted in blood. She gritted her teeth and shut an eye against it, darkness thundering through her skull. She dashed backwards, putting some distance between herself and her assailant, steadying herself as she dash forwards, her sword arm spasming wildly as it turned into a blur, slashing and blocking almost at the same time. Their blades rang with every impact, accompanied by crashing sounds as they unwittingly collided into various obstacles in the confined area---
And then suddenly, unexpectedly, the blade broke through her defenses, sinking into flesh--
Metro's physical sensations erupted with such fire that darkness claimed her vision almost immediately.
A distant sound of a dropping blade as her legs crumpled beneath her, remote pain as her head struck the bloody floor...
And then, a door slamming open, a dash, then blades ringing-----
~ To be continued
The fighters and non-fighters in Continent Republic’s countries drew a mutual line between each other. Nobody troubled the other party. The fighters had their own economy, trade... none of which surpassed the non-fighters. The fighters were what they were : Fighters. Making clothing, manufacturing bullets and weapons were part of what they did, but their main focus was still fighting, furthering their own inhuman skills. Whereas the non-fighters were masters of everything... except fighting. Non-fighters employed fighters as Police members, soldiers, and various fighting matters.
In truth, not all fighters could be true fighters.
True fighters do physically impossible moves using spasms of their body's four limbs. They would tell their bodies to do things, and their bodies would push itself to the limit to do whatever the mind wanted it to do. For example, for a basic move called "butterfly", fighters would force their bodies to do an air dash with a slash-block spasm repeatedly.
However, not all people could do that. True fighters "just know" how to force their bodies into those spasms. Others "just don't know" how to do so. The people who could not do so made do with natural movements and guns. The fighters who had that gift were called the K-Stylers, the word “K” was supposed to stand for long forgotten.
Of course, some of the non-fighters had that gift. None of whom ever rose to become fighters.
Well, there were a few who had crossed over, one of whom happened to be the fastest butterflyer in Astra.
A long time ago, Legro was a musician.
But nobody thought that she would actually be a K-styler. That mild 14 year old with that slight body, the callused fingertips of a strings musician, those stunning sapphire eyes, and that silky head of straight blonde-silver hair? No, she was too frail. Too weak.
And a long time ago, she thought so too.
The 84th year of Kavvelad, 12th of March.
Legro never thought of herself as “special”, even though all evidence was against it. True, she was certainly very ordinary, with an all too common “tragic past”, which mainly involved a group of fighters and her parents getting caught in a crossfire. She had lived as a street urchin, right until she was 6, when she had found a carelessly dumped violin in an alley. And then, she stopped being ordinary.
She played it, learnt, excelled, and got recognized by the Royal Music School of Kavvelad.
Over 8 years, Legro picked the other strings instruments up – The viola, the cello, and the double bass, once even trying a guitar out – Making astounding progress within such a short time frame.
No wonder Legro’s name came up everywhere in music magazines, called her a “musical prodigy” amongst other honorifics. How Legro could still think of herself as “one of the more average strings musicians in Astra’s history” is still beyond most.
When Legro was admitted into the school, the only one willing to approach her was Prodigy, a young boy her age, eventually becoming her admirer when her playing reached heights he could not achieve, even though Prodigy was also a musical prodigy; although his area of expertise was solely the cello, which was the only instrument he was better than Legro at. Likewise, Legro admired him for his talent as a cellist.
However, they killed Prodigy.
The fighters were fighting amongst each other on the streets, in broad daylight. Everyone scattered as they unholstered various firearms.
When they pulled their triggers, Prodigy - who was just a step too late from the nearest cover -, was shot. Right through the head. Bang. Splatter.
And Legro was right in front of him, watching with seemingly placid eyes.
When the last fighter standing had left –albeit with grievous wounds –, Legro walked over to the site of the massacre, reached out a hand, and picked up a bloody European-styled Military sword.
She sealed the bloody future awaiting her.
Over the years, Legro fought, killed, almost get killed, got up on her feet, fought some more. Using the Military sword more than anything else, she quickly gained complete mastery over it, and over time discovered how to use her body’s spasms to her advantage. Of course, she had no idea that not everyone could do that, and so was not proud of herself throughout those miserably bloody years. Her self esteem was dangerously low, making it a miracle for her to survive for so long, seeing that she lacked much confidence.
And then, after those few years, Legro’s butterfly became the fastest anyone had ever seen. Take a pencil, put it between your thumb and your pointer, then flick it back and forth as fast as you can. That would be the speed of Legro’s butterfly, with one individual flick counted as one butterfly. And one find day, while thinking of ways to improvise, Legro did Astra’s first double butterfly. Ever.
And so, just like that, Legro became a legend in two worlds.
There was a girl and a boy, both in the middle of an empty road in the abandoned town of Guntrix. Mysterious was hardly a word to describe them. Mismatched and complete opposites were more like it.
The girl –Shadow by name- wore a sleeveless black top, baggy grey cargo pants, with rows of magazines in pouches hanging off her waist belt, twin shotguns strapped onto her back and a sword at her left hip. Her hair was a dark shade of indigo, complimenting purple hued eyes.
The boy –Arladerus, she called him- was, in contrast, wearing bright colors. A white shirt and a pair of orange pants. So very bright for a K-styler, most of whom choose darker colors. Black elbow-length leather gloves covered his arms, a pair of revolvers high on either sides of his waist, a shotgun hanging behind his backside, and on his hips, a pair of kodachis. His hair was also bright orange. Of course he dyed it. He loved orange. Which happened to remotely match the color of his tanned skin.
Shadow watched as Arladerus kicked his Mule. Again and again. She smacked herself in the forehead, groaning for the umpteenth time that minute.
‘For Kavveled’s sake,’ she started, getting up from her crouching position and stretching her cramped limbs. ‘Stop kicking the Mule!!’
‘I did this before,’ the man replied, the ash from the tip of his cigarette dropping onto the floor. With that, the cigarette was reduced to a stub. He spat it out, grinding it on the ground with a boot. ‘The Mule would start working once I kick it enough.’
‘FOR HEAVEN’S SAKE,’ She cried out, unable to contain herself any longer,’ IT’S A MULE!!!!! A LIFELESS MOTORBIKE THING!!!! You don’t f***ing kick it and expect it to work!!!‘
‘The key is love,’ Arladerus said graciously, in stark contrast to Shadow’s tone.
‘Arlad. It’s a MACHINE.’
‘Precisely why we must treat it with love!’ He snapped. ‘You don’t throw your rifle around, do you?’
Shadow opened her mouth to retort, but then gave up. Arladerus, the mechanic guy. He loved machines. And nobody has ever convinced him about the fact that machines worked, whether you showered it with love or not. You can’t go dancing ballet about some meadow with the machine dancing around you without it malfunctioning when you two got home, anyway.
Well, maybe when they invent robots. But robots aren’t Mules.
An ominous hissing sound from the motorbike-like vehicle, followed by crashing machinery---
‘ARLAD, WHAT THE FU---‘
Before Shadow could duck, the petrol tank exploded in her face--- Scalding black oil smashing into the forearms she threw up in front of her face, her mouth cursing and swearing---
Arladerus screamed.
------------------
Legro jumped a little at the sound of something exploding somewhere just behind her, and accordingly, her own control over her Mule wavered a little, causing it to swerve on the road. The boy behind her squealed, almost falling off the Mule –which was traveling at close to 150 kph, so thank God he didn’t-, and cursing and swearing, wrapped his arms around the girl’s waist.
‘Was that a scream?’ Legro asked, looking into her mirror, then squeezed the brake levers. The boy held on tight, teeth bared in a snarl; a dam for the profanities behind it.
‘Where’s Shadow and Arlad? They were supposed to be behind us,’ The boy snarled, hopping off the Mule, holding his binoculars to his eyes, surveying his surroundings. Nope, nothing apart from those abandoned buildings and pieces of debris. After the Fighters evacuated from it 20 years ago because of a huge fire which decimated basically everything –caused by some idiot who threw a tank of gasoline down his then-dry toilet bowl thinking that it’s water, then lighting a cigarette, resulting in a massive explosion, according to rumors-, the town was never occupied again, although a road through it still existed.
‘Ryxtre, get on the Mule, will you? We’re going back there to see what happened,’ Legro said, firing up the Mule again. Ryxtre –the boy- hastily vaulted onto the small space on the seat behind Legro. Even as he settled his behind on the padded leather, the Mule sped off.
She didn’t have to drive for long before the saw Arladerus, crouched over Shadow, who was seated upright, cradling her arms. Their Mule was behind them, utterly destroyed, the once polished red plates looking just like garbage in that smashed machinery surrounding them, mostly covered in that black liquid you call Petrol. Overheated, perhaps. The heat in this place was quite unbearable.
The engines of the Mule died down as Legro kicked the bike’s stand, jumping off in a practiced movement. Ryxtre did the same, only more stiff.
Arladerus looked up at the two as they approached.
‘Ahh, hello, Cavalry 4,’ he said, trying to sound as cheerful as possible. Which only earned him a snarl from Shadow.
‘Damn it, Arlad!!’ she growled, obviously fuming. ‘You just had to make that tank explode in my face!!!!’
At that sentence, Legro instinctively looked up to observe Shadow’s face. Splattered here and there with the boiling petrol. Then looked down at her forearms, wincing. Looked like 1st degree burns.
‘We need to get you to a clinic or somethin’,’ Legro said, stepping away. ‘So Ryxtre, you and Arladerus wait here while I take Shadow to Town-4.’
‘And how long would that take?’ Arlad asked, fearing the worst. From Ryxtre’s expression of a mix between horror and anger, he had the same fears as Arlad.
‘A couple o’ hours,’ Legro stated flatly. Arlad and Ryxtre both stared in shock for a moment, then Arladerus started making frantic gestures, while Ryxtre opened his mouth---
Legro helped Shadow up onto the Mule as she kicked the engines into life. Behind the dust in their wake, Ryxtre ran through his impressive list of profanities.
Of all the places she had been assigned to, she had to be assigned to the seediest, bloodiest, and darkest part of Town-4.
In Town-4, there were three areas. Terraces, Shopping square, and Apartments. The Terraces were occupied by the rich folk. Peaceful non-fighters. Sociable, the direct opposite of violent, a pleasure to talk to and be around with. Occasionally some gangsters would go there and cause trouble, but it wasn’t much trouble for the police stationed there.
What you do in the Shopping Square is self-explanatory by its name, unless you’re an idiot, meaning that in the gentlest and most polite way possible.
And in the Apartments... Well. It was every law-enforcer’s nightmare, unless you loved putting your life on the line in firefights in the narrow alleys, or loved getting attacked by gangsters with blazing guns. Actually, the police at the Terraces were practically begging Metro’s higher ups to assign them to the Apartments area, as the patrolling at the Terraces can get very monotonous without any action. Most who got their wish regretted it. They usually got killed on their first day.
At least Metro’s higher ups assigned a couple of able-bodied men to patrol it with her. Before that, she was surrounded by idiots of fighters, who can’t think in tight situations or react fast enough. Which made her almost get killed every single day of her working life. And she didn’t like that.
So she liked Imppala and Dragoon with all her heart. Sort of. Unless they annoyed her.
And this fine afternoon, Metro was strolling around the Apartment’s deserted streets in her lanky looking police uniform. Her dark blue blouse was un-ironed and heavily crumpled the belts across her waist and running diagonally down her chest from her right shoulder loose and still stinking of blood. Her black baggy issued trousers were obviously not washed with all that dust remnants, and her boots simply accented her overall untidiness. But her superiors didn’t really care.
Metro was a K-styler, after all.
In the day, the minor details in the buildings were disturbingly clear. Cracks, rust, blood splatters, broken blades lying around, bullet shells, abandoned guns... The list goes on endlessly. None of that at the Terraces.
Footsteps behind her. Metro pivoted on her heel and spun about. It was Imppala, sprinting at her, an odd look on his face.
‘What’s wrong, Imp?’ she asked, raising an eyebrow. The man gasped air into his lungs as he jogged to a halt in front of her, steadying himself after a moment.
‘Well... I was patrolling... And there was this house... It’s horrible, blood everywhe---‘
‘Take me,’ Metro snapped, cutting him off. Imppala nodded, and ran back the way he came, Metro following him. She was half worried about the absence of his usual humor.
Somehow, she had a bad feeling about what happened to the house.
Walking past two blocks, Imppala stopped in front of...
‘Sweet Kavveled,’ Metro breathed.
A door surrounded by guts and blood.
Even though the police officer had smelt and felt blood a thousand times, she doubled over, as if about to vomit, then simply retrieving her black woolen scarf from a pocket, wrapping it about the lower half of her face. Imppala watched, wishing that he had a scarf of his own. He tugged his rifle free from its holder on his back. Metro unholstered her twin handguns, pushing the door open slowly...
Seeing no movement, she took a step forwards, giving Imppala a gesture to advance.
After the sixth step, Metro wanted to desperately get out.
Every inch of the floor was covered with blood. It seemed like this apartment was quite cramped with people. Half dismembered bodies was scattered here and there, and Metro almost slipped on a giant worm, which turned out fo be an intestine.
Imppala put his hand to his mouth and tried to suppress the nausea rising from his stomach as he saw a heart amongst other organs neatly put on a table beside a cruelly mutilated body. Its limbs were tied to the chair, and its mouth agape, suggesting screaming. In its stomach was a hole, and even without looking, he knew that those organs belonged to it. He forced himself to look away, fear shooting up his spine, making his neck hairs stand.
And then, suddenly, sounds of splintering wood. Imppala threw his head at the sound’s direction---
---A blade slashing---
Imppala immediately thought of Metro, and, fear hammering his heart, cold sweat sheathing his forehead, he advanced on. Even as he opened the door ahead of him, a body flew at him, collided right into his face, throwing him backwards, all the easier with the slick mass of what was beneath him—
His head hit hard against a table, and he was gone.
Metro opened the door in front of her, refusing to let fear grip her. This was just a normal search. In a very bloody but normal house. Normal situation. Yes. Of course.
Then, suddenly, the wooden window in front of her erupted into splinters—
Before she could do her blade unsheathing spasm, something flashed in front of her, then the familiar whip as a blade was swung ---
Then she was flying backwards, arms flailing, watching as the blood erupted from her abdomen---
She expected a painful crash through the door behind her, but suddenly, it creaked open---
Something rounded in shape, hard---
And then a bone jarring crack as whatever cushioned her flight hit the table behind.
Metro twisted her head backwards and saw Imppala, lying unconscious, head bleeding from his knock on the table. And then, her own body felt like it was on fire. Yelping with pain, Metro forced herself up and unsheathed her sword---
A blade then smashed into her own with a force that rocked the police officer, as she stumbled backwards, boots sinking into the blood, almost slipping.
Another flash through the air as her opponent’s blade disengaged, then hammering a series of bone jarring blows at Metro. Her sword jumped in her hands as Metro did elaborate tricks, desperately deflecting her opponent’s blows. A snarl of frustration, and the sounds of air dashing---
Metro’s arm erupted in blood. She gritted her teeth and shut an eye against it, darkness thundering through her skull. She dashed backwards, putting some distance between herself and her assailant, steadying herself as she dash forwards, her sword arm spasming wildly as it turned into a blur, slashing and blocking almost at the same time. Their blades rang with every impact, accompanied by crashing sounds as they unwittingly collided into various obstacles in the confined area---
And then suddenly, unexpectedly, the blade broke through her defenses, sinking into flesh--
Metro's physical sensations erupted with such fire that darkness claimed her vision almost immediately.
A distant sound of a dropping blade as her legs crumpled beneath her, remote pain as her head struck the bloody floor...
And then, a door slamming open, a dash, then blades ringing-----
~ To be continued
