#analdrain

Hey, I wrote a working one-shot short mystery. I wanted to write this as I had the idea, but also wanted to explore what it’d actually be like in the ship, and how it would work. And I’ve got plenty of great ideas, if I ever decide to write a small mini series on this! Comment if you can guess who the killer is, or message me! ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- The cafeteria laid bland, and cold. The brown linoleum floors reminded them all of a sterile hospital, the bolted down sleek aluminum tables and benches gleamed with a surprisingly clean reflection. And in the middle of the cafeteria, on the middle desk. The 3 astronauts stood, all opposing each other. They each had a color badge on their right shoulder, with a rank and insignia on the left. The suits they wore fit to their body strictly, with many folds and crinkles along each line of fabric and metal. A classic space suit, with a big clear glass visor over their face.The three of them stood there, and didn’t say a thing. Their eyes would turn to one another briefly, glaring at the glass and peering through, hoping to see something that would solve their problem.The silence in the air was thick, and suffocating. It was harshly cold on their skin, hairs would prick up, and their gloves would drip full with sweat. Their lips were shut, but their eyes were wide open. The metal of the ship casted a loud, low creak. In the distance of the cafeteria, a panel hung loose off the wall by a single screw. Inside were a set of 6 wires, with one labelled “O2” snipped. A loose tangled cord of copper made a bridge from either end of the broken “O2” wire. A temporary solution, for a permanent problem. The reality of their situation dawned upon them, guilt and shame washed through their bodies, like the dawn of a lunar eclipse. Pink had died last night, after they had ejected Red.And that only left the three of them. Brown stood the closest to the table. The bench strained against the back of their knees, the table dug into their waist harshly. Yet they stood tall, and unmoving, despite the pain. They were the first in the meeting, and when the rest of them didn’t sit down, they stood right where they were. Trapped between bench and table, and morally trapped between which of the ones they stared at were the killer. Green stood across from Brown. His hands leaned against the table, and his legs were stretched out behind him. Brown thought he looked ready to sprint. While Blue thought he looked ready to be pat down and arrested. Green seemed to take it the worst, sweat would frequently run down his face, his lips would twitch and his teeth would bare, like a cornered wild animal. Green knew that in the mess of words that’d fly out soon enough, 50% of them would be lies. That’s just statistics, he thought. Blue stood in the middle of all of them, looking to Green, and looking at the ‘ADMIN DEPT’ insignia over his other shoulder. Blue stood half on her side, her arms were barred across her body, creating a prison cell for herself, in her own suit. Green thought she looked helpless, a victim lost in the murders, and thrown to the wolves to defend herself. Brown thought she looked remorseful, standing in regret of the lives that could’ve been saved, the people that could still be walking around.

They all knew a single sentence could be the first step to a judgement call, by the all too eager executors, innocent by job, murderous by nature, and hopefully not vice versa.

Green stared at Brown, eager to look at their face. Though the broad, luminescent lights above glared right at their visor, and shined right back into Green’s. Green ducked his head, down, and around, trying desperately to look into their face.

Blue’s eyes darted along to Green. She was in no sense to say anything, she was one of the most suspicious when Pink was found. She had told and pleaded with them, she was only in O2 to check on Pink, and that's where she found her dead, half crammed into a ventilation shaft. The insignia on her left shoulder read “REACTOR DEPT”

Brown stared at Green. Their eyes darted from Green, to Blue, attempting to look like crude arrows. Though Green never saw them. Their eyes ached, and their fists started to clench. Why can’t he see me? They thought. They had never found Brown suspicious before, they completed their tasks all across the ship. It was a funny case, being apart of the electrical department. Wires were all over the ship, they could be anywhere and fix something.

Green pressed his head closer to the bench, his brows furrowing as he stalked Brown with his eyes. Just fucking move. Just fucking say something. He thought. Usually, we’d find whoever was last to the meeting suspicious. We know the traitors use the vents, we know there’s nothing that ever has to be fixed in there. He thought. No person could kill and not hide themself in a vent out of shame, it’s a brief respite from the pain. A nervous chatter came out from his lips, as he thought to himself. You’d have to be a stubborn bastard to not vent.

The bald headed male squatted behind the metal, blue trash can, his eyes drawn into a squint as he held the fore grip of his weapon in his right hand, his spare hand guiding a magazine to the port. “SMITH! This is scaring the shit out of me!” Renayl yelled, taking cover beside him, against a brick wall. Smith looked up to his friend, the echoing rip of bullets flaying the air and screeching through the bricks, cracking and chipping off the corner.

Renayl, black hair swept back with blue eyes wide stumbled onto his ass, crawling back, kicking his legs and placing his hands on the side walk to move away from the bullets, his right hand clutching the now damp grip of a pistol. “Get the fuck out from there! You’re gonna get shot dipshit!” Renayl barked, growing a frown.

Smith drew back to his gun, a roaring snap cracking in the air as the metal popped beneath smiths chest, the hot singe of a close call radiating over his chest, he bared his teeth and kept his head ducked down, crawling across to the solid brick wall.

“Fuck!” Renayl frowned, growing to rise into a squat, wearing a flannel, plaid jacket with a black shirt underneath, a set of grey sweatpants too. A series of stubble was over his jawline, his black eyebrows furrowing as he stared at his bald friend. “Why the fuck did you do that!?” He yelled.

One of the men chuckled coming from the driver's seat, a brown hand resting on the steering wheel, the other fidgeting with the centre console. A chapped lip quirked up, revealing a white teethed smile, his sneakered foot pressuring the gas, the van rolling through the side streets of the city, strangely vacant, the passerby’s of pedestrians were nil, the drone of another engines hum, or the melody of another's music, nothing was seen.

“Looks like clear skies huh?” he spoke, a small off kilter comment, casual and stagnant. Dressed in a plaid button up and simple denim jeans, he wasn’t like the rest.

The men in the back of the van brooded easily, 4 of them, in different corners of the van. There on one of the faux leather seats sat one, short black hair, faded to the side, an angled jaw line covered in scruffy stubble, a dirtied face, a cut lip, a scar across the right brow, and a smirk that rivaled life. A slanted, quiet nose, thick dry lips and eyes that bagged with the likes of withdrawal.

Faded grey eyes proved a fading view of life, yet a spark lit inside them, one of vicious energy. “That fuckin mask man.” His voice proved fiery, with a certain bark to it, one full of youth and rebellion, an angsty chuckle gurgling in his words, subtly imposing, brutefully mocking. A layer of complexity, all within the young mans voice. His chapped lips perked into the corners of his narrow cheeks, shady, yellow glinted teeth, darkened by the likes of drugs. His head shook casually, leaning back into the faux black leather seats, the seatbelt beside him, dangling anxiously.

Dressed head to toe in thick, rough black over alls, covering from ankle to wrist, a thick sturdy collar. Small pockets and pouches laid on hip and chest, chains of synthetic fibre and plastic clasps proving room for weapon holsters, an intimidating, darkened pistol fashioned by his hip.

The 4 of them stood out front of the warehouse, standing in the barren, concrete car park, not a car to be seen. The massive garage doors gave a contrast to the tiny, human sized door beside them, the walls were painted white, scraped after long years of wear and tear. Smith stood beside the human sized door, leaning up against the wall, with his arms crossed, his gun held in one hand, the stagnant, stubborn frown looking over to the group. “So...We have 12 minutes to defend for, or...They’re coming in 12 minutes?” Laina asked, standing beside a faded yellow pole, resting one hand on the pole, one leg crossed over the other as she bleakly looked to James, holding the gun at it’s most forward grip in her spare hand. Sam stood about 6 meters away from the door, glaring at it, one arm crossed, one leg crossed over the other, one hand up against her lips, her teeth scraping along her thumb, her other arm holding her gun, akin to Smith’s. James stood just beside Sam, though directed at Laina, he placed his hands on his hips and licked over his lips looking to the door, his gun shoved up against his hip with his right hand. “Ahh…” He stammered out, confused, before looking to her. “Probably...Coming in 12?” He asked, a querying tone in his voice, balanced with uncertainty, yet an eager expression nonetheless. “Lets get it done then.” Sam snided, letting out an uneasy sigh before she stormed to the door, grabbing it’s cold metal handle with one hand. The crew’s eyes trailed her, watching her pause at the front of that door, before giving it a tight push down, hearing the mechanisms click, and the hinges start to whine. “Did you check for hostiles?” Smith advises coldly, his eyes half lidded in an angered, disappointed frown. And Sam stood still, scared to the bone, as she held the door knob in her hand, she anxiously, slowly creaked her head back around to look at James and Laina, her eyes wide, and her lips held stiff, she glared at Laina, before settling back to James. “..do you--wanna, maybe.” Sam meekly whispered to James, her finger clutching at her guns polyester handle, her thumb anxiously resting on the safety, slowly and carefully pressuring against the safety, feeling the tension in her thumb build as she slowly clicked the gun off of safe, to fully auto. James’s lips turned to a wide smile, and he let out a cocky chuckle, before he pulled his shotgun hold, clenching the wooden grips with both hands, his forehand fingers lightly dragging against the wooden ribs of the pump action on the gun. “Yeah, lets go.” He vibed aloud, not a sense shocked as he stormed to Sam in a fast, cocky gait, she glared down to the floor, moving her body off to the side, her hand still on the door knob, before James’ brought his forehand to the door knob, their fingers grazing for a minute before Sam plucked her skin away from the warming  metal, and she took a jolt back, staring up at the door with wide eyes and tiny pupils, raising her gun to the door. James let out a high, slow whistle as he pulled the door slightly ajar, leaving an inch of space to peek through, before he tilted his head to the side, glaring through the slight peephole. The lighting inside was meek and low, the faint silhouette of jagged bits of random trash were raised high, above head level, what could be a set of shelves was placed daintily just in front of the door. James took a slow breath in, feeling his spit dry up in his mouth, before he looked down to the bottom of the door, his left sneaker jamming inside the peephole, before he looked back up and he cleared his throat, letting go of the doorknob to grasp his gun with both hands. “YO!” He yelled aloud, as he pulled the door open with his foot, quickly taking 3 stomping steps inside, his head locked from side to side, looking over at every place inside. His voice echoed inside the warehouse, a long drafty echo, carried by the wind of industrial fans stirring. “Mother fuckers.” James casually shouted aloud again, hearing his voice echo. Smith let out a quiet, disappointed huff of air from his nostrils, as he pushed himself off the wall, and followed James inside. The scuttling of their shoes could be heard, as Laina and Sam watched from outside, their sneakers danced on the concrete, and James let out a quick gasp, with a sudden frantic dash of short footsteps, before a loud grunt was heard, and an anxious scoff. “You big fuck. Don’t scare me.” James snided from inside. Sam tilted her head away from the door to look back to Laina with a worried, upturned brow, big baby blue eyes gleaming with shock. Laina’s brown eyes dully drifted from the door, to look at Sam, her shoulders raising in a lazy shrug. Sam quickly turned her head back to the door, “Are you guys being babies, what’s in there?” Sam said loudly, her voice carrying into the warehouse even from outside. James let out a confused grunt, before Smith moved from the dark warehouse back to the door, his eyes glaring at both of the girls as he stood in front of the door way stoicly. “It’s fine. Hurry in.” He commanded, 4 simple words that led to another realisation to them all. They were going to be killing again. Smith ducked back inside, and Sam anxiously jogged inside, her medical bag bouncing along her hip with her running steps, hair swaying as she ran inside. Laina stood outside and stared, giving herself one second to breathe. Feeling the wind brush along her skin, waving against her thick mounds of hair. The cold metal of the pole she leaned on, compared to the grainy, warm wood of her rifle. The warehouse was tall, and big. It had no shame in it's blocky shape, mass produced like everything the warehouse would make. She pulled her hand off the pole, and grabbed her rifle, clicking that small lever of safety off, with a satisfying ‘click’ She took slow steps to the warehouse door, as the flights flicked on. Dead in front of the door were 2 oddly placed metal shelves, lined and stacked with bits of furniture trash. Broken wooden doors, old washing machines and computer bits, hiding the rest of the warehouse from the doorway, a nice set up for an ambush already. The ceiling was high, ending up in a rusting sheet metal roof, bolted all together, with a set of fancy skylights above, industrial glass smogged and dirtied with the likes of dust and dirt, rarely seeing a clean. The concrete floor was lined with little chips and cracks from the misuse of heavy machinery, the whole warehouse gave a residual coldness to it, a freezing aura leered off of the walls and the floor, from the metal shelves and all furniture inside. The smell was faintly metallic, with a hint of grease. The air felt polluted by industrial grade oil and lubricant, you could feel it hang thinly on your skin, threatening to condense it's self. The aura in the warehouse was unforgiving and cold, what would be a work place filled with coworkers, with crude jokes from blue collar workers, turned to an empty slaughter house today, it’s products would be mass produced death, sold to the highest bidder. Laina walked around the 2 metal shelves, and saw the full warehouse. Lines and lines of metallic shelves, placed side by side, then a big spacing for machinery to go through, then it would repeat. The shelves repeated like this, making up a total of 8 lines of shelves, stacked up to the ceiling. In the middle of the line of shelves, there was a large gap, where a set of conveyor belts and work tables were placed, old tape guns laid haphazardly on the sheet metal tables, unmade cardboard cutouts stacked on each other, wooden pallets laid messily across the floor, thrown underneath each other to make room for forklifts to pass. 3 forklifts messily scattered across the warehouse, left in a hurry, some with the keys still in. To the right of the building, the lining of shelves stopped, giving space for a shoddily made set of computers, for supervisors and package trackers, and a long set of cold sheet metal stairs lead up to supposedly the office, with a large washing machine in the way of the door to the office. Boxes of materials and fabrics were stacked on the shelves, everything from faux leather to vinyl, cloth to silk. Foreclex, a major fabric shipper. The crew spotted themself around the warehouse, looking around and investigating, finding the entrance points and places of cover. Smith closed the door, and the tight sound of a lock snapped into a place, echoing throughout the facility. James walked around the perimeter, mumbling to himself, the echoes carrying his voice to the crew, yet undecipherable what he was saying. Laina took one look at the warehouse, and shrugged, moving herself to the set of stairs as she calmly climbed them, mumbling a theme to a song as she climbed up to the washing machine. Sam stood at the front most set of shelves, inspecting the boxes, one hand anxiously on her gun, the other pushing at the cardboard boxes, discovering their weight, trying to see if they were easily pushed or not. Beside the front most set of shelves were 2 large doors, a fire escape, painted in cob webs and rusted hinges. Sam took one look to the door, and her mouth opened, before she turned around, looking for anyone else in the ware house. “Uhh...Fire escape, over here.” She spoke aloud to the warehouse, letting her echoing voice carry it to the rest of them. Smith stayed at the front door, feet planted and dug into the slippery concrete as he shoved his palm roughly into the door, hearing the inch thick wood creak and groan at his solid pushes, before he squinted and stood up properly with a sigh of breath. “This one’s weak.” He mumbled out quietly, though his voice was unheard, as he typically went. James walked along the series of computers, taking long, exaggerated, bored steps as he clicked his tongue, inspecting the walls. “Man I got nothing over here.” He replied outloud, before turning around to find Smith, only instead, staring at the big garage doors opposite him, the same ones next to the door. “Could they get through that?” James yelled aloud, pointing his finger at the garage doors. “What?” Sam yelled back, turning her head around, trying to find James, before she started to walk out between the set of first most shelves. “The doors. The garage ones.” He followed up with, as Smith walked around the corner from the oddly placed shelves in front of the front door, looking to the garage doors beside him, he frowned. Sam stood at the end of the metal shelves, now closer to Smith, she looked to the collosal doors. “Uhhh...What, they’re gonna blow it up?” She chided, though, a very real set of confusion in her voice. It could very well be possible. Laina sat at the top of the stairs, sat firmly atop of the laundry machine, watching her coworkers move around like ants, she could see most things from up here, save for anything behind a shelf. The cardboard boxes that were stacked on the shelves get Laina little view of anything beyond the shelves, but anything else looked fair game. Laina mumbled quietly to herself, mumbling the theme of some song underneath her breath.

“You could charge that with a vehicle.” Smith spoke coldly to himself, before he turned to look at Sam, then James off in the opposite corner. “IT CAN BREAK.” Smith yelled out, his voice boomed along the walls, that constant hint of fierceness buried in his voice. Sam placed a finger on her chin, looking between James and Smith. “SO...WHAT ARE WE DOING THEN?” James yelled back out into the echoey chamber of the warehouse. Laina watched timidly, her eyes looking between the two that were talking before her lips parted. “WE DON’T HAVE TOO LONG, GUYS.” She yelled back, the yell had the most tone that her voice shared for a long time, just that slightest hint of condescension. She had already found her cover.

The back door of the black van was wide open, waiting on the side of the street. The engine hummed and quietly panted. Sleek and black all over, the driver's seat had the window rolled down, an elbow stuck out, with a dark red hoodie rolled up past it, a caucasian hand falling down the side of the van door, pale fingers incessantly tapping at the metal of the door. James stared out from the van, looking out to the house beside him, the front door was wide open, and down the hall he could see his...Friends. Sam walked out first, blonde hair tied back up into a high hanging bun, a loose fade of eyeshadow over her eyelids, a natural set of pink lipstick over her lips, with mascara adorning her eyelashes. A grey and black ballistic vest laid over her torso, covering up a floral blouse, thin, white material, patterned with beautiful deep shades of purple, violet, yellow and red as flower petals, with a white set of tight fitting trousers as pants. A black strap covered from her shoulder to her opposite hip, at the end of the strap hung a dull, faded crimson red bag, with a white cross over it, torn velcro straps covering the contents. Her face was naturally rested, brows downtilted in an angered expression, her head looking to the floor, blue eyes looking across the gravel foot path as she walked outside, before her head leered up, to glare at James. Her eyelids grew into a tight squint, as she walked through the front grass to the back of the van. Then, next in the line, Smith. A tall, muscled figure, wearing a flannel button up shirt, his cheeks were chiselled, with a strong jaw, a grey 5 o clock shadow painted over his jaw, a shaved, bald head covered in a gradient of black, stubble starting to grow back. He stared straight out, looking to James, his shoulders were broad, his arms out by his side, hands clutching two firearms, small and compact. A set of grey, fading jeans hung loosely over his legs. Over his flannel jacket laid a familiar ballistic vest, akin to Sam’s, as he walked out to the grass, staring at James as he made his way through, his face naturally held in an angered expression, with a stout jaw and a constant squint. “Let’s go, buddy.” James called out from the driver's side, his right hand grabbing hold of the bottom of the steering wheel with his thumb, giving it a subconscious twist. The words from James only made Smith look away from him. The van buckled down, and gave a quiet creak as Sam crept into the back, a set of seats lining the interior of the van, facing one another, a total of 5 on each side. James flicked his eyes to the rear view mirror, watching the blonde crawl along the narrow hall way between the seats, and take a seat at the most top left seat, just behind James, a quiet, muttering sigh was heard as the click of a seatbelt was heard. “Gettin all dolled up huh?” James asked again, his voice still as eager and enthusiastic as the last day, his breath wasted to the air, in an attempt to cease that awkward silence. The air was thin, though suffocating, like a film that hung loosely in the air, like a loose cobweb in the wind, it only gave a sole reminder to their true purpose, or at least to Sam; Not a place to make friends, but a place to make a living. As Sam hung her head down, resting her elbows on her knees, and her palms on her face, she remembered that. “Better than dying ugly.” She muttered, feeling her breath drift past her bare wrists, before she wrung her head up and sat still in the seat, as the van gave another creak, as the hulking giant; Smith, came into the van. James glared through to Smith through the mirror, gifting him a sanguine smile, without any acknowledgement. James took a breath in, feeling the breath slip past his lips and harshly against his lips, before he looked to the windshield, clicking his tongue impatiently, looking down the road, the dirty brick buildings that bordered the cracked asphalt road, old parked cars laid dormant on the side of the road, some untouched, some broken into. It was a way of life in Crook territory. Anybody that had a car that needed to get somewhere would be out by now, James knew, before he looked to the house again, an impulsive “Are we good to leave yet?” slipping from his lips, a loud tone that he couldn’t quiet. The last of them stood at the front door, her hand moving back to grab the door knob and shut it behind her, as she looked to James. Long, messy black hair, curled and knotted without a care, a long face with a weak chin. A set of thick bushy brows and big brown eyes, her brows rested up, a resting expression of forgotten care. A black t-shirt was covered by the same, grey and black ballistic vest they all shared, though in Laina’s hands held a long, wooden rifle, just a little under the size of both her arms. She held it in her both hands, barrel downturned to the ground as she started to walk to the end of the van. “No we’re still--” Sam started to speak in a breathy, sighing mumble, before Smith spoke out at the same time. “No.” His blunt, strong voice leaving a booming mutter into the van. “If you wanna leave without me, that’s fine.” Laina spoke out from outside, her tone lacked all tone, a voice that portrayed simple stagnicity. James gave a little, amused puff of air from his nostrils, and a smile grew across his lips, “Gonna leave me alone up here?” He asked, sticking his head closer to the window to watch Laina as she arrived at the end of the van, one hand moving up from the gun to grab against the door, before she twisted her head to James. “Yeah.” Laina said, dull and monotone, before she looked back to the end of the van, and she crept into the back of the van, ducking her head down as she searched for a seat. James let out a scoffing chuckle, before turning back to the rear view mirror, watching Laina take her seat, and Smith give out a quiet, angered sigh, standing up from his seat to close the van doors behind Laina. “What’d I do to you guys?” He let out a jesting remark as Laina took her seat, and Smith took his seat, closest to the exit, uncaring with their seatbelt, before James looked to the windscreen, and pulled his hand inside, turning the handbrake with a whirring ‘click’ from the van. “Dunno.” Laina remarked, and Sam spoke with a breathy sigh, glaring at the back of James’s chair. “Wake us up at 10AM to kill?” Sam chides, earning a tiny amused muffled “Hah” from Laina. James feet struck the van’s acceleration pedal, and the van cruised along out to the main lane, starting to slowly fly by the old, brick buildings and rotting cars. James scoffed through his nose, “It’s not that bad.” James’ voice carried out a loud, sanguine tone, an optimist, even with the scar on his right eyebrow, with a dirty 5 o clock shadow over his face. A stained hoodie over his top, and stained track pants, with a shotgun laying beside him, jammed between the seat and the door, he was simply used to it. 

“Yeah some of us haven’t done this since we were 13, James.” Sam scolded, a quick, fiery tone in her bark towards James.

“Or, even want to.” Laina monotonically remarks, bending over in her seat, resting her elbows on her knees, letting the gun drop to the floor, her hands hanging loosely in the air between her legs.

Sam’s brows were cast downtilt even further, an angry expression her face, tightly held. James rocks back into his seat, his brows furrowing down, growing angry for a second before he only quirks his brow up in confusion, “You think I wanna do this?” he asks, glaring back at the rear view mirror.

Smith holds onto the back of the van door, almost like a safety guard, staring ahead of him into nothing, a frown constantly over his face, as if he’s just waiting for something.

Laina hangs her head down, her messy clumps of long black hair falling beside her, her shoulders give a lazy shrug.

Sam stoutly keeps herself in an upright posture, head tilted to the back of James chair. “So why aren’t we turning around?” She barks out, before turning to face ahead of her, looking to Laina staring at the van floor.

James opens his mouth, his breath hangs in his mouth for a minute, a solid pause before he barks out, his tone no longer sanguine, but still with an enthusiastic tinge in it, a glimmer of hope almost.

“You think I wanna be working for the german fucks?”  He barks, angrily looking off to the side, though still forced to glare at the windscreen, as they drive into an intersection, the main highway just ahead of them, the cars drifting past.

The cars flew by quick on the highway, the highway sprawled out into branches of different roads going all over the city. It’d take almost 25 minutes to get from this crime ridden, slum of an industrial district, out to the main city, almost untouched by the faction wars that leered on the outskirts of the city.

“So why are we.” Laina muttered to the floor, as Sam barked over her. “You’d rather work for The Crooks out of all people, that doesn’t make us better!” she yelled, her voice starting to pick up in sound, bouncing around the metal walls of the van.

Smiths hands clutched at the handle to the door, grasp tightening slowly. “We have a mission to do.” He spoke quietly, though it didn’t lack the blunt, rude nature of his voice.

James opened his mouth and stammered, “Well fu-” he paused, bringing his head straight ahead of him, and he shook his head. “What else are we supposed to do? Fuckin German’s got money,” He ranted, shaking his head from side to side, as if he was listing things off in his head. “Redhead bitch is corrupt.” He continued, and Sam’s frown only grew further.

“You don’t know that.” Laina mumbled to the floor.

“The Lawyers a fuckin pussy, he’s got fuckin nothing dude.” James listed again, steering off at the intersection. “And hey, fuck, The Crooks are the only fuckin thing left!” He shouted off, at the end of his list, turning onto the main highway, and drifting along with the cars side by side.

“You don’t like Lucy because The Crooks don’t like her!” Sam snapped off, “And, you know what, you think The Crooks are so good--They’re a bunch of drug addicts, isn’t their whole fucking reason to gang, because...cause!” Sam continued to yell, feverishly yelling out to the van, losing her poise at the end of her words, tripping up on her sentence.

Laina lets out a sigh and sits herself up, looking to Smith, her hands on her knee’s.

“You like Lucy huh? When she fuckin sells kids as sex slaves, huh? You wanna work for that devil bitch?” James snaps out, looking to the rear view mirror, tilting his head towards it, his eyes open wide, a stabbing, piercing sight in his eyes, almost vacant save for that sharp stare, trying to look for Sam.

“The Crooks are better?” Sam laughingly yells out, shaking her head and crossing her arms in her seat. “Yeah, think about all they’ve killed and childhoods ruined, for their fucking gang. You ever think that!” Sam only yells, though in a jovial, jesting matter, a sadistic smirk over her face, taking pleasure in the heat of the moment.

“Yo, Smith.” Laina calls out to Smith, watching him as he hangs his head low, shaking his head, his other hand moving up to bring along his face, giving himself a face palm.

James just lets out a scoff, turning away from the mirror, hands gripped tight onto the steering wheel as he steers, he gives himself a slow, shake of his head, quietly scoffing under his breath.

Sam slowly loses her smirk, looking past Laina’s shoulder, as she sighs and turns, looking dead at Sam.

“Huh?” Laina questions.

And Sams angry frown looks to Laina, “What?” she snaps out.

“You..” Laina mumbles, before she gives a roll of her shoulders, and she looks beside Sam, looking over her shoulder. “Nevermind.”

Sam lets out an exaggerated, dramatic scoff before looking to the bottom right of the van floor.

The silence hung thin once more, that constant film of web in the air, hanging in front of them, draped at their face, like taunting a red bull. The film of tension.

“None of the factions are ‘Good’” Smith mumbled out, angrily and loud, as he brought his head back up to stare in front of him, before he looked out to the rest of the van, talking to them all.

“We’re not good. Pick a side and fuckin stick.” He speaks out, louder, his voice naturally boomed out along the vans insides, giving all a clear directive.

“Crooks are spastic kids, Brokers are fraudy fuckin fritz.” Smith rolls his eyes. “The Kids are an organized set of kiddy fuckers, and The List is a senile fuckin lawyer.” He closes his mouth grimly, and simply stares, feeling that tension, feeling the film build over his mouth that wants to shut him up.

“So shut the fuck up. And pick one. “ Smith finishes off, looking to Laina, and looking to Sam. Sam still sits with her arms crossed, eyes looking to the floor, her lips pursed up in an angry pout, Laina sits with one leg on the seat, her elbow resting on that leg, her fist up to her head, staring out in front of her blindly.

“Crooks.” James speaks out, a sense of condescending obviousness in his tone.

Sam lets out a dramatic grunt of disapproval, “Ugh.”

Laina stares in front of herself, giving a slow sigh, and a slow blink. “This fuckin sucks.” she mutters out bluntly, monotonely.

And Smith rolls his eyes, turning back to the door, shaking the door, feeling the metal jar back into his hand as a means of reassurance, almost.

The silence built up for a while, the thin film crew to a thick tape, plastered over their mouths as the highway passed by them. The highway growing over the Grandulay river, a river that separated Crook and Kid territory from the safe center of the city, known as ‘The Public’. Up on the highway, there was a clear view of the city, Brisom. In the centre was a sprawling mixed district, tall, dense skyscrapers and city towers were frequent, long and congested roads, with hundreds of pedestrians on the street at any one time, going from place to place without a care in the world, under security of Milatas.

Underneath The Public, was The List territory, a set of recently acquired land with roads that were like small grids, copy-pasted houses lined the streets, a quick and easy way of buying as much property as people. Next to the List, or bottom left of The Public, was The Crook territory, a mess of industrial manufacturers and cheap, brick buildings, thick sludge poured out from the landfills out into the river, and big stacks of white smoke would leer off from the factories.

Just above Crook territory, was The Kids, a set of suburban houses and shops, lining against a set of cargo harbors that painted the side of the Grandulay river, a key set of assets for a human and drug trafficker.

And above The Public, was The Broker territory, sets of offices and factories with higher standards than The Crooks, modern buildings with beautiful looks, with hard working office workers, blue and white collar, slaving away for a corporation they never knew was owned by The Brokers.

They drove through the Madison highway, the highway over the river, and down to the very start of The Broker territory, they drove past the luxurious office buildings and rushed, office workers, dressed in a shirt and tie, rushing from lunch to their office to get back to their work.

As they drove along one particular business park, James pulled the car up along the curb, the tires harshly grazing against the freshly mowed grass.

“What’s the address?” He asked, his voice had lost his sanguine tone, but a gleam of hope still remained, somehow, an almost light tone to his voice, even if reluctant.

Sam goes to open her mouth, before she pauses, and she closes her mouth, pulling her arms away from being crossed and onto her legs, before she sighs.

Laina lazily drums her fingers against her upraised ankle, leaning her cheek on the same leg.

Smith looks away from the door, and down to James. “...8 Lanscier Park…” Smith speaks, glaring to James.

James looks around the signs and squints, reading the different sign numbers before he spies one specific office on top of a hill, a big two story building with plenty of windows along both flavours, except for one side to the left. The left side stands as a blank, concrete building, with two large garage doors and a simple maintenance door next to them.

James pulls off of the curb, and starts the drive up to the office, a big sign on the front of the office building reads “FORECLEX.”

“...They want us to defend the warehouse.” Smith speaks out coldly, before looking back to the van. “What time is it?” Smith asks, James glares to his center console.

“11:48?” James asks out, curious, as he pulls along side the warehouse’s huge garage doors.

“We’ve got 12 minutes.” Smith explains, before James looks to the rear view. “Really? Shit, a’ight…” He calls out, and the hand brake locks with a clicking whirr, clicking the gear into park.

“Finally.” Sam speaks out, standing up as Smith stands up and opens the door, grabbing one of the guns before walking out of the van.

Sam places her hands on her back, cracking her lower back before she moves to the end of the van, picking up the spare gun and stepping out of the van.

Laina stands herself up, her mouth opens wide into a long, loud yawn, stretching her arms out wide before she bends down to pick up her rifle, and moves out of the van.

Again. Again, and again. She said no. She sat in that same antique, wooden polished chair, velvety cushion straipped nearly to the seat. Her legs were held tight against each other, a set of simple black long higheels over her feet, black painted nail polish across her toe nails, legs and skin silky smooth without a trace of hair. She stared into that unforgiving mirror, staring into her own brown eyes, a set of thin sculpted brows perched down into a glaring frown, her mouth slightly agape, revealing the white bleached teeth inside. She didn’t get it. Her molars dug harshly down into the thick muscle of her tongue, and she shook her head, brown hair tied back into a tightly held bun. Each strand of hair finely tuned through her hairbrush a million times over. Was it her face? She angled herself up and grabbed firmly a hold of her chin, fingers angrily pushing and pulling at her flesh against the bone, looking over herself angrily. Was it her weak chin? Was it a mark she didn’t see? She lurched forward, legs kicking hard against the old wood, shoving it back onto the floor with a crash as her hands throttled against the frame of her mirror, pulling herself closer. Brown hair, brown eyes, staring back at herself, she pursed her lips carefully, staring at her lips. Did she leave something unshaven? She leaned her head down, peering to her carefully sculpted brows, thin and arched. No? “I hope everythings fine in there, Christine.” The voice of that middle aged woman spoke from outside the dingy, dark room.

He stood there, stood tall and stout, a loose black hoodie with a set of grey slacks, a young face, unburdened by facial hair or markings, short jet black hair frayed off to the side in small spikes. A long jaw and a small nose, with a set of small lips to round it off, small, thin black brows with a set of light brown eyes. Hands stuffed into the pockets of his sweatshirt, the adjustable string met off at an uneven balance, his brows were slightly tilted up, angled with the curse of worry. His eyes stared down to the dull floorboards, his chest lightly raising and lowering with each stalwart breath. Why was he here? He couldn’t shake it off,  it was always on his mind, fresh onto his thirties and he gave away his life like this. His head pulled up to look down to the hall, watching that front door, with the slight peek of moonlight drafting inside, the yellow rays of the kitchen light giving him just the barest of sight other than that door.