ᴛɪᴄᴋ ᴛᴏᴄᴋ

“--And that’s when I knew it was probably not a smart idea to have put the crow in the microwave. Man, you think you know how bad burning feathers smells, but man, you’ve got no clue just how fuckin’ bad it can actually get when the entire house smells like it. Took like a fuckin’ month before it finally went away, but if ya open up that microwave you can still kinda smell it--”

“Ain’t ya gonna at least pull out the chair fer me?”

The look on her face answered his question. No, no she wasn’t.

RP partner: (writes fantastic starter with intricate dialog and plot settings)

It’s been a very long few days.

Originally, this was just going to be a checkup. Go out, get some tissue samples if possible, make sure things haven’t gotten too out of hand and return to base with the results. Make a good packet of cash, help the company refine the mold so it’s less wanton murder and more applicable mind control. Two hours, tops. Of course, it’s hard to predict a bunch of crazy fucking rednecks, so two hours wasn’t exactly an accurate estimate.

Oscar had his phone and guns taken, along with all of his equipment and some of his clothes. Better to just take the whole vest instead of leaving it on him and taking everything out, or something like that. Whatever. He’d slogged through the house for what felt like a week, slowly gathering his things back in seemingly random spots around the plantation and stilt house. Tossed all over with no regard for its condition like everything else in this place.

Thankfully he got the phone back. Even more thankfully, he got his drones back, as well as his link to the outside world. Apparently Lucas wasn’t around when his things were taken, because the satcom was still in one piece, too. Small victories.

He’d relayed the situation to his employers, who had instructed him that there was a new objective. Get Lucas, get him alive, get paid triple. With bonuses. What self-respecting entrepreneur says no to an offer like that? Now, of course, he just had to find the greasy motherfucker.

There’s probably a way out of the salt mines other than the main entrance, but there’s no way Lucas is already finished with the intel in the server banks unless he just torched it and ran. Not his style, and apparently there was now a ransom demand. The job is amended. Same bonus, dead or alive.

Dead would probably be easier.

Oscar gently pushes the door open, leading with his shotgun as he slowly enters the hallway. Normally he’d send his electronic eyes ahead, but if Lucas saw an RC drone zipping around he’d definitely just book it. As it is, he’s just going to make his way forward, watching for lights and listening hard.

There wasn’t a whole lot of time, he knew that. First things first: Get his shit together. Grabbing the laptop, he cracked it in half over his knee. If the Connections were tracing him through it, they wouldn’t be able to anymore. That, and any information they wanted from it would be gone. If they wanted information, they were gonna have to get it from him. Photographic memory served him well in these cases; he wasn’t a fucking genius for nothing.

Dumping the broken laptop on the floor, he moved on to the next order or business. Body ‘disposal’. Grabbed one of the poor saps by the legs, he dragged it over to a chem storage closet, cramming the guy inside before loosely closing it. Same treatment went for the rest of the bodies. Cupboards. Ceiling tiles. Wherever he could fit them. The Molding process on the corpses would be done much sooner than later. Any noise in the room when they were done would set them off into attack.

As for the final touch; the one left over would be set as bait, propped up in a desk chair with his spare keycard held loosely in it’s hands as a display. If he was seriously being followed, the fucker would need that keycard to get to him.

Sighing, Lucas took out his phone. 4:27 am. Prep in the room took him five minutes, this fucker the Connections sent out for whatever ‘asset’ they needed would be here soon. Time to take his leave.

He turned, crossing his arms. He could see the look on Lucas’s face, and he knew he had him on his side.

“Some’o the dimmer ones call me ‘Martyr.’ I died fightin’ that big ol’bitch Condy. Sliced her face open with my knife and showed the whole world that even gods bleed. Anyway, I’ve got separate rooms down here. Had some construction crew come in a fiddle with the place, so you got everything ya need. Tools, table, supplies, you name it. Everything on the shelf marked ‘spares’ is yours. Wires, nuts’n’bolts, whatever. Premium stuff too.”

He reached into his jacket and pulled out a pre-counted and banded wad of cash.

“I need shit that does everything. Flashbangs, smoke grenades, shrapnel bombs, nailbombs, C4, I need an arsenal. And I’m taking a big risk here. This is a secret. I can’t let anyone know about this or else my ass is a fancy purse.”

He offered the thick stack of bills.

“This is $350. You take it, you work for me. You’ll get $350 every week plus a nice $500 bonus when you finish with the list of shit I left in your room. You don’t like authority, right? Let’s call it a truce for now. You in?”

He’s already walking over to the shelves, inspecting supplies, tugging down boxes just enough that he could peek inside, rummaging through materials, before roughly shoving them back and starting to pilfer through the chemical storage underneath.

“There’s... enough. Fer what ya need anyways. Might have to go out an get some more if ya want back-ups jus’ in case ya got sun in yer eyes.” He sniggered, before standing up, stretching his back. “Ya, I think I can handle it. Gimme like. Two weeks? Three tops. If ya want an arsenal, it’s gonna take some fuckin’ time.”

At the sight of money he’s reaching out, swiping it and thumbing through the bills. Well, it’s enough to get him through a month-- “Wait, this amount every week!?” That was a surprise. Back home when he still had that crappy job, he’d be lucky to rake in a hundred bucks ever three weeks. 

Idly pocketing it, he gave the area a one last look-over before turning to Steve, grinning at the other’s fucked up face. “I’d normally call you a fuckin’ idiot fer trustin’ me with a bunch of explosives, but since yer bein’ so generous, I think I’ll take ya up on that lil’ truce o’ yers.”

“Statistically speaking if I keep sales as high as they are, by Valentine’s day I can afford to stock whatever top-tier shit the bars in sector 5 stock.”

He’s ignoring the free swipe at his alcohol. The door led to the back of the warehouse where some other random guards and workers alike were inspecting crates of body armor and booze. Seems like something suspicious was being cooked up here. Steve stepped in front of a hatch on the floor, bending down to conceal a pin-pad from Lucas’s prying eyes, and typing in a code to unlock the handle.

“I dunno if you heard, but the entirety of sector three thinks I’m the most badass motherfucker around.”

Wasn’t entirely true, but anyone who knew what really happened kept their mouth shut. Steve gave up his life to show the city that even normal people like him could deal with demi-gods. Underneath his jacket were two nasty scars that were fresh and still sore. Lowering himself into the hatch, he glanced up at Lucas.

“You tell anyone this exists, and shit that you will regret will go down. And not by my hands. I’ve made powerful enemies, Luke, and I need to up the ante on what I’m packing.”

He dropped down and flicked on a light switch, to which floodlights illuminated shelf after shelf of crates. Some were old, some were new, and some of the shelves were bare.

“I need you to start making explosives for me. I’ll pay handsomely.”

Lucas was only the beginning.

“You leadin’ me down to yer sex dungeon or somethin’? The fuck’s with all this security, ya got someone tryna escape from it?”  It’s just a very hard thing for him to resist constant jabs. If one hangs around him enough, they’re gonna have to learn to just ignore it. 

He taps his foot idly while Steve unlocks the door, looking around, observant. How did this fuckin’ ‘gator prick even manage to hire all these lugheads? Just a big fuckin’ mystery, apparently.

“Yeah, yer the big bad sewer ‘gator, right? Went from a Duchess’ pet to the king o’ the underground... wassit, these tunnels made from fuckin’ catacombs or somethin’? Wouldn’t surprise me if this hell city had those.” No, he hadn’t heard the rumours, but he was never one to idle on gossip.

The real prize was at the end of the stupidly long hallway. As the lights lit up the shelves, so did his expression.

Oh, yeah. He could definitely work with this.

The first thing Lucas would notice is that security has really been ramped up. Two guards on either side of the bar are armed with shotguns and are wearing heavy padding. They snap out of their daze and point their weapons at the stranger, before Steve pipes up from under the counter.

“Not the person that I was expecting, but you know your way around explosions. Follow me, and don’t ask questions or you won’t get paid.”

He gestures for Lucas to follow him, and motions for the guards to relax. He disappears behind a door into the back of the warehouse.

Lucas just snaps up his chance to give the guards a shit-eating smirk followed by a mock salute before plodding off after Steve, eyeballing the counter where the hard liquors are.

“M-a-a-n, you actually got customers if yer sellin’ these shit brands? Step-up yer game, buddy.” A petty lie, he just wants free booze if Steve’s willing to throw it out for the sake of ‘quality’.

The door to the bar swings open with a bang, the force of it sending it ricocheting off the wall and swinging back closed, hitting him in the face.

A curse, a mumble, and finally he’s on his feet again, leaning against the door frame with a lazy grin.

“People. Yes, that’s the current conflict. A different kind of conflict. Though Maxwell may very well be considered the most difficult.”

“Maxwell... Maxwell.... Oh!”