09-25-2016, 02:26 PM
It had all happened so quickly. Thorn had taken refuge behind a burnt out Camaro, taking stock of the street surrounding her. West 33rd Street, the signs read, but it bore no resemblance to the 33rd street she had walked a few weeks prior. Abandoned cars, trucks, little more than a meager shadow of it’s former self.
“Shit,” The Agent muttered to herself quietly, “what am I doing here?” She sighed to herself and peered over the charcoal stained boot of the vehicle that provided her shelter. A wave of regret flushed over the woman as ISAC flashed into life, an automated message played into her earpiece;
“Warning: Hostiles approaching.”
“‘Ey, Claxton, what’s the plan man? We been walking this street for hours now, when’s the fire start, man?” A muffled voice rang through the nigh dead silence of the street.
“Kid, do us all a favour and shut up, huh? The Division are crawling around these streets and ain’t one of these lot taking a bullet for you, a’ight?” The reply elicited a raucous laughter from their group, six of them, as Nishana had carefully noted. Two sweepers, a fumigator, an Engineer, a Shield and the big one, the Incinerator, Claxton. Heavily armored, armed to the teeth with a variety of weapons that had more chance of burning something to ash than taking them out cleanly. A flamethrower, a whole belt of incendiary grenades. The gas tanks that supplied fuel for the fire, however, those were the weak point.
Nishana groaned, they were just diverse enough to give her a damned problem. She ducked back behind the car and made her way around to the furthest point away from the Cleaners. They were still talking, laughing, as if this was a happy time, exactly where they wanted to be. It sickened her, they were out “purging” this virus and anyone who had even the slightest chance of having come into contact and it was her, and the rest of the second wave’s, job to stop them. The first wave of Agents had all but disappeared and, in between culling the gangs and scumbags that had risen to power over the previous few days, the second wave were in the process of gathering information and piecing together the tragic loss of the former first wave.
Thorn peered down towards her wrist, her wristband glowed orange. She reached for it and held a finger onto the face for a few mere moments. Invisible to the naked eye, but most definitely there, a recon pulse scanned the street, relaying information through the Agent’s earpiece. A few moments passed and the Cleaners closed in on Nishana’s position. She turned, peaking over the bonnet of the Camaro and nodded affirmatively. She reached around her back and produced a small device from one of the many pouches on her belt. Thorn tossed the device across to the other side of the street, where it’s magnetic stand latched onto the roof of an abandoned car and it folded out into a mini turret, red dot laser homing in on the Cleaners. The Shield, the kid who had started out so eager was the first to go, three precise shots from the turret connected with his cranium, blood spurting from his hood as his body crumpled to the floor. The turret scanned for it’s next target, using ISAC’s information to lock onto the Fumigator. Another burst of rounds peppered the poor man, one clean shot penetrating the satchel of incendiary grenades which instantly erupted into flame. The Agent barely suppressed a snort, the irony of it all. The fumigatory screamed and writhed in agony as the grenades exploded one by one, phosphorous drenching him until he fell still.
The turret powered down, known to have a poor battery life, she groaned and coiled her fingers around the grip of her M4. One strong step took her from her cover, rifle shouldered and trained on the two approaching Sweepers, two single shots and the Sweeper’s tanks exploded, quick and clean. They didn’t stand a chance. The third shot sang cleanly into Claxton’s chest, coming to a less than threatening halt as it came into contact with his armor. The Agent ducked and weaved, avoiding the Cleaner’s constant stream of flame, spewing from the flamethrower clutched in his plated gauntlets.
“You ain’t getting away this time, pig. You’s ain’t the first to try and stop the purge and you sure as hell ain’t gonna be the last. But you, pig, you ain’t nothin’. You got nothin’, you’re a fish outta water and I’m feelin’ fish for dinner.” Claxton belted forth as he stomped towards the Agent’s cover, “Ain’t no chance’a you getting outta here alive, bitch,you hear me?!”
Nishana’s reply came in the form of a trio of rounds to the gut, not that any of them got through the thick plates of armor. The weakspot was on his back and without a distraction she’d have no way of getting to it. Another step saw her out of her cover, another trio of rounds punched into the Cleaner’s shoulders, forcing him off balance slightly with a groan. To her joy, the cleaner’s loss of balance opened up a shot on the gas canisters. A metallic whistling and a stream of flame from the canister saw the Agent crack a smirk briefly. Her perceived victory was short lived, however, a much larger stream of flame cast it’s purifying light over the Agent. She collapsed to the ground, writhing in agony as the flames spread across her person, incinerating. She rolled as best she could, blind to the futility of her efforts. The cleaner approached, drawing a handgun from the depths of his get up and stood over the Agent.
“I told you, pig, you wasn’t gettin’ out alive. This is cleaner terr-” The gas canister whistled ominously and burst, taking with it the pair of other canisters that sat beneath it. The cleaner erupted into another violent storm of irony, cleansed from the world by the fires he so desperately clung to to prove his innocence.
A numbness fell over the Agent as the darkness of night turned to pitch.
“Shit,” The Agent muttered to herself quietly, “what am I doing here?” She sighed to herself and peered over the charcoal stained boot of the vehicle that provided her shelter. A wave of regret flushed over the woman as ISAC flashed into life, an automated message played into her earpiece;
“Warning: Hostiles approaching.”
“‘Ey, Claxton, what’s the plan man? We been walking this street for hours now, when’s the fire start, man?” A muffled voice rang through the nigh dead silence of the street.
“Kid, do us all a favour and shut up, huh? The Division are crawling around these streets and ain’t one of these lot taking a bullet for you, a’ight?” The reply elicited a raucous laughter from their group, six of them, as Nishana had carefully noted. Two sweepers, a fumigator, an Engineer, a Shield and the big one, the Incinerator, Claxton. Heavily armored, armed to the teeth with a variety of weapons that had more chance of burning something to ash than taking them out cleanly. A flamethrower, a whole belt of incendiary grenades. The gas tanks that supplied fuel for the fire, however, those were the weak point.
Nishana groaned, they were just diverse enough to give her a damned problem. She ducked back behind the car and made her way around to the furthest point away from the Cleaners. They were still talking, laughing, as if this was a happy time, exactly where they wanted to be. It sickened her, they were out “purging” this virus and anyone who had even the slightest chance of having come into contact and it was her, and the rest of the second wave’s, job to stop them. The first wave of Agents had all but disappeared and, in between culling the gangs and scumbags that had risen to power over the previous few days, the second wave were in the process of gathering information and piecing together the tragic loss of the former first wave.
Thorn peered down towards her wrist, her wristband glowed orange. She reached for it and held a finger onto the face for a few mere moments. Invisible to the naked eye, but most definitely there, a recon pulse scanned the street, relaying information through the Agent’s earpiece. A few moments passed and the Cleaners closed in on Nishana’s position. She turned, peaking over the bonnet of the Camaro and nodded affirmatively. She reached around her back and produced a small device from one of the many pouches on her belt. Thorn tossed the device across to the other side of the street, where it’s magnetic stand latched onto the roof of an abandoned car and it folded out into a mini turret, red dot laser homing in on the Cleaners. The Shield, the kid who had started out so eager was the first to go, three precise shots from the turret connected with his cranium, blood spurting from his hood as his body crumpled to the floor. The turret scanned for it’s next target, using ISAC’s information to lock onto the Fumigator. Another burst of rounds peppered the poor man, one clean shot penetrating the satchel of incendiary grenades which instantly erupted into flame. The Agent barely suppressed a snort, the irony of it all. The fumigatory screamed and writhed in agony as the grenades exploded one by one, phosphorous drenching him until he fell still.
The turret powered down, known to have a poor battery life, she groaned and coiled her fingers around the grip of her M4. One strong step took her from her cover, rifle shouldered and trained on the two approaching Sweepers, two single shots and the Sweeper’s tanks exploded, quick and clean. They didn’t stand a chance. The third shot sang cleanly into Claxton’s chest, coming to a less than threatening halt as it came into contact with his armor. The Agent ducked and weaved, avoiding the Cleaner’s constant stream of flame, spewing from the flamethrower clutched in his plated gauntlets.
“You ain’t getting away this time, pig. You’s ain’t the first to try and stop the purge and you sure as hell ain’t gonna be the last. But you, pig, you ain’t nothin’. You got nothin’, you’re a fish outta water and I’m feelin’ fish for dinner.” Claxton belted forth as he stomped towards the Agent’s cover, “Ain’t no chance’a you getting outta here alive, bitch,you hear me?!”
Nishana’s reply came in the form of a trio of rounds to the gut, not that any of them got through the thick plates of armor. The weakspot was on his back and without a distraction she’d have no way of getting to it. Another step saw her out of her cover, another trio of rounds punched into the Cleaner’s shoulders, forcing him off balance slightly with a groan. To her joy, the cleaner’s loss of balance opened up a shot on the gas canisters. A metallic whistling and a stream of flame from the canister saw the Agent crack a smirk briefly. Her perceived victory was short lived, however, a much larger stream of flame cast it’s purifying light over the Agent. She collapsed to the ground, writhing in agony as the flames spread across her person, incinerating. She rolled as best she could, blind to the futility of her efforts. The cleaner approached, drawing a handgun from the depths of his get up and stood over the Agent.
“I told you, pig, you wasn’t gettin’ out alive. This is cleaner terr-” The gas canister whistled ominously and burst, taking with it the pair of other canisters that sat beneath it. The cleaner erupted into another violent storm of irony, cleansed from the world by the fires he so desperately clung to to prove his innocence.
A numbness fell over the Agent as the darkness of night turned to pitch.
Quote:”This is not the world you know.”