Tales from Occupied Westside: Part 2

[Luci]

http://omniverse-rpg.com/showthread.php?tid=9927

***

Kilgrot the Mighty stalks down a Hover Street slum, his hands in his letterman jacket, his face in a scowl.

The angtsy teenage Klingon crushes a wild begonia growing from a crack in the ground beneath his sneaker.

“It’s like, the next block,” comes a mousy voice says from behind him.

Danny and Dungbomb, a pair of punk rawk twitches with matching bright blue hair, giggle to each other a few steps behind Kilgrot. Although you might not know it by looking at them, the girls are veteran gangsters of the Westside Hufflepunks.

As they approach their destination, the witches flank Kilgrot on either side, neither one rising up to the hulking Klingon’s shoulder.

The twins keep their eyes out as the trio ducks into an alleyway. They start to sprint, and after a moment of surprise, Kilgrot does too. There is a sharp turn in the alley, and the twins hop a chain link fence leader to a waterbed.

“Quick!,” one of the twins whispers to Kilgrot. After a moment of hesitation, the Klingon runs and throws himself at the gate, nearly clearing it, and pushes himself over the fence.

The trio hurry down into the waterbed, not stopping until they are beneath a narrow stone bridge.

After the twins catch their breath, one of them (Kilgrot thinks it is Dungbomb) whips out her wand and traces the outline of a door onto the cement in what looks like white spraypaint. As soon as she completes the outline, the door starts to glow brightly.

A single huge graffiti eye appears, opens, and fixes it’s stare upon each of the trio.

The eye lingers on Kilgrot, the surly Klingon glaring back.

It is a very long time before the swirling eye blinks and disappears. The door opens just a crack, and the twins quickly duck inside, followed more cautiously by Kilgrot.

***

[Luci]

***

America Jackson is slumped over backwards in a chair in a brokedown studio apartment in the Westside ghetto. A window unit AC sputters dutifully as it tries and fails to fight against the heat of a Teir-5 summer. She wears a sheer white nighty over a worn white bra and panties, nearly glowing against her dark curvaceous body. She holds the neck of a fifth of Jack between two fingers, the bottle nearly gone and slipping out of her grasp.

America is glaring drunkenly at a graffiti portrait on her wall. The portrait is of a pretty young woman with rainbow skin and kaleidoscope eyes.

Between them is a table, and on the table is a loaded gun.

America lifts the bottle to her lips, finishing what she can and letting the rest dribble down her chin. She throws the bottle at the portrait, and it shatters against the wall.

America staggers up, grabs the gun, and presses the barrel against her temple.

The portrait blinks.

The hair starts to move from an invisible breeze. The eyes start to swirl bright colors.

“Hey America,” Luci says from the wall.

America lets the gun fall to her side and tumbles back into the chair again.

“Sup Luci,” America slurs, her eyes closed. “We wasted those suckas.”

The graffiti portrait of Luci nods.

“Good,” she says, her voice echoing dreamilly. “Did you get Jarl?”

America nods back, her afro bouncing.

“Wasted that sucka...” America repeats aggressively.

The portrait of Luci breathes a sigh of relief. The painting finds and lights a hand rolled cigarette. When she exhales, a sweet rainbow smoke fills the apartment. She keeps her weird psychedelic eyes trained on America.

“Welcome to the Westside, Lueteniant,” Luci says, trying to add a stern edge to her voice. America does not move. Luci frowns. “Are you ready to receive your orders?”

“There were heavy casualties,” America mumbles. Luci’s heart sinks. “But not more than expected.”

There is a silence in the apartment.

“I didn’t tell you to put on that mask,” the painting of Luci says carefully. “When you put that mask on, you decided to dive head-first into this war. I’m not here to hold to your hand and tell you everything will be ok, because it won’t. I’m here to help you win. I don’t have time for anyone who’s going to be a weak link. If you can’t pull your shit together then you’re a liability. Now are you ready to receive your orders?”

America stumbles up and glares at the graffiti picture with the swirling eyes.

The painting glares back.

“Yeah,” America says.

***

[Luci]

***

Kilgrot the Mighty stalks down a magical graffiti tunnel behind Danny and Dungbomb, the twin’s bright blue hair bobbing in front of him.

The tunnel is small and cramped, and Kilgrot has to duck his head. The walls, ceiling, and floor are all made of simple red brick. The only light comes from the glowing magic graffiti that covers the tunnel, their swirling colors and shapes bringing messages to and from the Westside. Some of the graffiti is quite beautiful; Kilgrot watches a sparkling silver Siamese fighting fish the size of his head swim past him on the ceiling, and spots a pulsing pink heart with a love note in it on the wall beside him.

The tunnel ends abruptly in a red brick wall. One of the twins, possibly Dungbomb, uses her wand to trace the outline of a door in glowing green light. She makes a handle, and opens the door to the Westside Hufflepunk Hideout.

Kilgrot follows the twitches, ducking to get through the door frame.He lands in a pile of discard beer bottles, beneath which a sleeping or dead Hufflepunk lay, and realizes he has just stepped out of a fireplace.

The Hideout reeks of stale cigarettes and old beer, and other narcotics too exotic for Kilgrot to place. All around him witch and wizard gangsters with brightly colored hair, tattoos, and facial piercing are rushing. Some of them are jumping into fireplaces and disappearing, and some are stepping out. A group of five witches are pouring over maps and battle plans in the corner, while next to them a wizard lays slumped in his seat with a tourniquet around his arm. All around the peeling wallpaper are pieces of moving graffiti, many of them the silvery animals that Kilgrot knows are called Patronesses. Some of the graffiti is appearing to send a message, some of it is being conjured from wands and sent off with orders, and some have discernible purpose at all to the Klingon.

“Over here,” Dungbomb, pushing open a rickety white door beneath a stairway.

The noise of the Hideout dims and then falls to silence as Kilgrot follows the witches through the door and down a creaky spiral staircase.

They walk much longer than Kilgrot thinks was possible, lit only by the light of the witches wands, down and down into the bowels of the house. They pass many doors of different shapes, sizes, and colors. They pass strange clocks and moving portraits and suits of armor and weirder things.

After nearly an hour Danny stops and knocks on a bright green door with a red handle.

“Occupied!” says a voice in a strange accent and deep voice.

Danny grins and opens the door, Dungbomb and Kilgrot following after her.

A shirtless African man in a loincloth sits cross legged in front of a bubbling cauldron. The smoke give off a foul chemical spell, and looks like thick black mud. The smoke fills the tiny windowless room and then floats gently out the window, something Kilgrot notes is impossible this deep underground. The only furniture in the room is an unmade bed, and each wall is taken up completely by book shelves stocked with potion bottles, books, ingredients, and strange tools Kilgrot could not hope to guess at. Above the bed, in the only free space available on the walls, is a mural.

A pretty girl with rainbow hair and psychedelic eyes is painted onto the wall, her hands drawn in front of her as though in prayer. The picture is not moving, but the eyes seem to follow Kilgrot as he shuffles forward.

“Hey Baq’aru,” says Danny as she saunters in and hops on his bed. She pronounces a hard click consonant in the middle of his name.

“Danny,” he replies in his strange accent, putting the emphasis on the last syllable. “I ‘ope you ‘ave been beezy. Dere is ‘till much wark do do. Is dis de son?”

Kilgrot crosses his arm churlishly.

“Yeah,” says Dungbomb as she plucks one of Kilgrot’s hair’s. “Nice and fresh. Kilgrot this is Baq’aru,” she says, again adding the click consonant. She hands the Klingon’s hair to the wizard. “He’s from Uagadou, a magic school in a different country than ours. He’s the best potions master this side of Camelot, and he makes a bloody fucking wicked polyjuice potion.”

The man chuckles strangely, holding up Kilgrot’s hair to the light. “I cannod take all dey credit,” he says, glancing up at the painting of the rainbow girl. “Luci ‘as ‘elped. She sboke do me in my drems, you know? Drems, when I am asleep.”

The trio nod politely.

The potion bubbles.

“What is that?” Kilgrot rumbles finally.

“Eed ees de polyjuice potion,” Bac’qua says, waving his wand over the cauldron in a gentle circular motion. “‘Ave you eva ‘ad a sip, yoong gangsta?”

Baq’ura scoops up a cup full of the bubbling brown liquid and drops Kilgrot’s hair into. He grins widely at the Klingon as the bubble turns a shade of deep crimson.

“I’m not a gangster. And I’m not fucking drinking that,” Kilgrot says flatly.

Baq’ura gives the same strange chuckle. “Do are righ', yoong gangsta.”

The African wizard smiles as he drains the cup.

He does not move nor cry out as the potion takes effects, only letting out a low guttural groan of pain. His bones start to pop, and his skin starts to stretch as the man grows larger. Thick cords of muscle bulge from his arms, chest, and back, and his forehead stretches to twice its length and grows several ridges. His skin color goes from a dark midnight black to a soft brown.

After a moment to catch his breath, Baq’ura stands up in his new form.

Kilgrot stares at a perfect copy of himself, down to every last detail, but still wearing Baq'ura's loincloth.

“All right gangsta,” the copy says without any hint of an accent. “Let’s go get your daddy.”

***

[Luci]

***

America Jackson, acting President of the Westside Blessings, is sitting in a hand-carved chair in the Westside Knife Ear Treehouse. She is drinking an ice cold Pepsi in a glass bottle covered in a sheen of frost, and smoking a reefer cigarette. She leans back in her chair, her afro bobbing as she takes in the the bizarre gang hideout.

“Nice digs,” America admits, impressed.

The Westside Knife Ear Treehouse is built into the top of a towering redwood in Central Park, hidden far from the beaten path in the deep dark woods where the tourists dare not tread. It is where the Westside Knife Ear Warriors live, work, plan, and hide. The home of the elven gangsters is anachronistic, lit by magical fire as well as fluorescent lighting, with hunting bows and sniper rifles hanging next to each other on the walls. Vines holding sweet fruit and bright flowers line the walls, and little glowing toadstools crop up in all the corners. It is built directly into the tree and made completely of unworked wood, as though the branches and vines had simply decided to create a three-story home perfectly suited for the gangsters.

“It is safe,” replies Sunshine, acting President of the Westside Knife Ear Warriors.

Sunshine looks like she’s been having a rough time of it lately. The beautiful elf has bags beneath her eyes and her platinum blonde hair is splitting at the ends. Like America, she is sipping an ice-cold thirst-quenching refreshing Pepsi-Cola in a glistening glass bottle. Like many elves, she smokes an American Spirit cigarette dipped in PCP.

The women sit across from each other at a table made from a teal mushroom with glowing neon pink dots.

“I’m sorry about Bloodstain,” America says finally, referring to the former drow general of the Knife Ears. “She was a bad bitch.”

Sunshine nods sadly. “She was a fine warrior, and a better friend,” the elf agrees. “Her death has sparked an exodus of sorts, as the drow and the other dark elves question their chances of surviving the war. But news of vengeance has reached our ears.”

This time it is America who nods, her afro bobbing. She reaches into the pocket of her bellbottoms and tosses a necklace onto the toadstool table. The necklace is made of elven ears coated in gold.

Sunshine lifts the heavy piece of jewlery and holds it up to the light.

“Then Jarl Elfsbane is dead,” Sunshine declares somberly. “And the Westside Knife Ear Warriors owe you a debt. With this war trophy, we might yet convince the dark elves to stay.”

America waves a hand dismissively, the smoke from her joint fogging the tiny room even more.

“Fuck a debt,” America says, her eyes narrowing.

A long, awkward silence fills the treehouse.

“I had a dream last night,” Sunshine finally says, her eyes somewhere far away. “Luci spoke to me.”

“Fuck Luci, too,” America snaps. “She died and went to dreamland when we needed her the most. The Westside Blessings recognize no leadership other than Jacket, the First Knight of the Westside.”

Sunshine sips her sweet revitalizing Pepsi calmly.

“Yet here you are,” the elf says. “Exactly where Luci said you would be, saying what she said you would say.”

America positively glowers across the table.

“What else does Princess Perkytits have to say about me?” America asks, her voice as icy cold as a Pepsi.

“That you are unstable, and you have been ever since the orcs killed your husband,” Sunshine replies calmly. “That you are in love with Jacket, despite the fact you’ve never met him or even seen his face. That you put on a panther mask and started killing orcs, probably to get his attention more than anything. She said that you now run one of the largest gangs in T5, but that the Blessings are inexperienced in urban combat, and despite your numbers you are hopelessly doomed to extinction without Westside intervention.”

America smashes her bottle on the ground, shattering it. Sunshine does not flinch, but just smokes her drug-laced ciggarrete and studies the woman across from her neutrally.

“I didn’t put that mask on and then expect to die of old age,” America spits. “None of the Blessings did. We all know what we’re risking. We don’t need anybody telling us to sit on the sidelines, not when we’re the ones out there every night bagging these tuskfucking turkeys.”

“No one is asking you to sit on the sidelines,” Sunshine says carefully. The elven warrior sighs and runs her hands through her long blonde hair, the stress lines on her face more apparent than ever. “But we need you alive, America, and the orcs have put a bounty on your head.”

America exhales a large cloud of marijuana smoke that lingers in the air.

“I know that,” America says, her dark eyes downcast. “But every second that I go without killing an orc is like a knife in my gut.”

Sunshine nods her understanding.

“Welcome to the club,” the elf says with a wry grin. “Unfortunately, killing the enemy every chance you get is not how you win a war, at least not this one. I decided long ago to follow the strange and winding path set me before me by Luci, as did Jacket. Her orders to me were clear; maybe you didn’t understand yours.”

America Jackson scowls and opens another icy refreshing Pepsi Cola and starts to drink.

“My orders,” she says mockingly. “Are to tell my soldiers to lie-low, and then meet up with your bleached asshole. What are your orders, sista?”

“MY orders,” the blonde says back, struggling to control her voice. “Are to keep you alive, at least for a while, while we get everyone into place. That means keeping you off the streets.”

America lets out a dismissive kind of sound. “Fuck is this? I came here to drink refreshing Pepsi-Cola and kill orcs, and I’m almost out of refreshing Pepsi-Cola, so I’m going to go kill some orcs. What could you need me for that’s more important than that?”

President Sunshine, acting President of the Westside Knife Ear Warriors, squints at America Jackson, sizing her up.

“The Westside Council is convening.”

***