06-08-2018, 02:25 PM
De’ialia Batgirl Skywalker sighs, a weight too heavy for her age resting on her shoulders. She removes her plastic Batgirl mask and shows a young, forlorn face hardened by battle.
“Do you play chess, Jacket?” the little Twi’lek asks suddenly, her eyes on the wall.
The handsome killer shrugs. “Not really,” he admits.
De’ialia nods sadly.
“Yeah, me neither,” she says. She still focuses on the right wall. A simple white tapestry hangs limply, with dozens of blood-red names stitched into it. Names like Face-Puncher, Deaths Assassin, Mikey F., Katana Boy, and Princess Hellstab.
At the top of the tapestry, in large print, is the word ‘MARTYRS’.
“President Shadowkill and Princess Hellstab loved chess,” the girl continues. Her sad eyes are still fixed on the tapestry “They used to play against Weasle and Kilgrot, but they would always lose to Chirpa. Chirpa was the best chess player in the Westside, until Luci came along. That’s what this war is to them, a chess game. You can’t play it with your heart, you’ve got to play it with your head, or people die.”
De’ialia Batgirl Skywalker, President of the Westside Deathblades, fixes her cold eyes on Jacket’s surprisingly warm face.
“You don’t seem like a chess player,” the little president says, crossing her arms.
Jacket nods.
“Yeah, I’m not,” he says, a healthy smile crossing his face. De’ialia wonders how much of the psychopath’s personality is real, and how much is a calculated move to make the young girl feel at ease.
“That’s what I told Chirpa,” he continues, running a hand through his blonde hair. “But Chirpa seems to think different. That’s why he gave me my mission, just like Shadowkill gave you yours.”
De’ialia blinks, but does not uncross her arms.
“Chirpa’s been wrong before,” President Batgirl says. “Have you ever heard the tragedy of the Westside Ewoks?”
For the first time since he entered her chambers, Jacket frowns. He closes his eyes.
Slowly, two lines of war paint appear under his eyes.
They glimmer with the unmistakable irridescent glow of Luci’s blood.
On his forehead, a single bloody cross appears.
“I don’t only take my orders from Chirpa,” says Sir Jacket, First Knight of the Westside.
***
The superhero and the psycho have retired to the Tea Room.
Every inch of the room is covered in pink, lace and frills, or crammed with stuffed unicorns and pixies.
De’ialia and Jacket sip fake as the sit at a knee-high (to Jacket) plastic table, a map of Tier-5 in front of them. De’ialia has drawn three X’s in green crayon.
The X’s are three intersections between Prohibition Alley and the border of the Northside.
“What do you know about drugs, Jacket?” asks De’ialia calmly.
Jacket frowns again. “More than you, I hope,” Jacket tells the young girl.
She smiles sadly. “Yeah, I don’t really think so.”
The Twi’lek pulls out a small bag. Inside is a glowing green worm, about the size of a thumb.
“This,” she says as Jacket examines it. “Is Grub. It makes you see the world in claymation.”
Jacket nods.
De’ialia pulls out another back, this one of glowing purple powder. “This is Pixie Dust. It makes you talk really fast and float.”
Again, Jacket nods.
“This,” says De’ialia as she slams a bag of dark brown powder on the table. “Is heroin.”
A silence fills the room. When De’ialia is satisfied, she continues.
“Weasle and the Hufflepunks, they sell things like Grub, Pixie Dust, and weed. The orcs sell heroin. They sell crack,” the President says, her voice starting to tremble with righteous rage.
“They distribute it,” she continues when she has control of her voice. “Here.”
She marks a spot on the map with a big red X, just to the east of of the three green X’s.
Jacket looks over the map, and recognizes it as an abandoned warehouse formerly in Westside territory. The only way to get to it is to pass through the green X’s.
“The green X’s,” explains the Twi’lek. “Are roadblocks. They have spies and snipers all around. We can’t get anyone within five blocks. If we could get through, the Deathblades would kill every orc in there in five minutes. The Hufflepunks would set up shop there, and hold the territory.”
Jacket nods again, his brow furrowed. Slowly, after much consideration, the prime pulls out two Pikachu-shaped ice-creams from his pockets, somehow still cold.
“You like ice-cream, President Batgirl?” Jacket asks.
De’ialia nods and reaches wearilly for the ice dream. She unwraps it and takes a big, toothy bite, the hardened gangster not concerned at all about brainfreeze.
“Not bad,” she says, still looking at the map. “Little heavy on the sugar, but that’s what you come to expect from the Nintendo ice-cream. They spend a lot on packaging, you’re really paying for the brand.”
Jacket nods, licking his own Pikachu. “Yeah, Chirpa told me the Deathblades make their own ice-cream?”
De’ialia nods. “Yuss, Death-Pops. We’ve kinda stopped operations though; the orcs are busting up any shop that carries us.”
Jacket nods again, his tongue turning yellow from the ice-cream. “Chirpa said that too. So I had an idea, and Chirpa liked it.”
De’ialia’s head perks up. Jacket grins.
“I think I can solve both your problems,” the Prime says, eyes on the little Twi’lek.
“Lets go upstairs," Jacket suggests. "I got a present for you.”
“Do you play chess, Jacket?” the little Twi’lek asks suddenly, her eyes on the wall.
The handsome killer shrugs. “Not really,” he admits.
De’ialia nods sadly.
“Yeah, me neither,” she says. She still focuses on the right wall. A simple white tapestry hangs limply, with dozens of blood-red names stitched into it. Names like Face-Puncher, Deaths Assassin, Mikey F., Katana Boy, and Princess Hellstab.
At the top of the tapestry, in large print, is the word ‘MARTYRS’.
“President Shadowkill and Princess Hellstab loved chess,” the girl continues. Her sad eyes are still fixed on the tapestry “They used to play against Weasle and Kilgrot, but they would always lose to Chirpa. Chirpa was the best chess player in the Westside, until Luci came along. That’s what this war is to them, a chess game. You can’t play it with your heart, you’ve got to play it with your head, or people die.”
De’ialia Batgirl Skywalker, President of the Westside Deathblades, fixes her cold eyes on Jacket’s surprisingly warm face.
“You don’t seem like a chess player,” the little president says, crossing her arms.
Jacket nods.
“Yeah, I’m not,” he says, a healthy smile crossing his face. De’ialia wonders how much of the psychopath’s personality is real, and how much is a calculated move to make the young girl feel at ease.
“That’s what I told Chirpa,” he continues, running a hand through his blonde hair. “But Chirpa seems to think different. That’s why he gave me my mission, just like Shadowkill gave you yours.”
De’ialia blinks, but does not uncross her arms.
“Chirpa’s been wrong before,” President Batgirl says. “Have you ever heard the tragedy of the Westside Ewoks?”
For the first time since he entered her chambers, Jacket frowns. He closes his eyes.
Slowly, two lines of war paint appear under his eyes.
They glimmer with the unmistakable irridescent glow of Luci’s blood.
On his forehead, a single bloody cross appears.
“I don’t only take my orders from Chirpa,” says Sir Jacket, First Knight of the Westside.
***
The superhero and the psycho have retired to the Tea Room.
Every inch of the room is covered in pink, lace and frills, or crammed with stuffed unicorns and pixies.
De’ialia and Jacket sip fake as the sit at a knee-high (to Jacket) plastic table, a map of Tier-5 in front of them. De’ialia has drawn three X’s in green crayon.
The X’s are three intersections between Prohibition Alley and the border of the Northside.
“What do you know about drugs, Jacket?” asks De’ialia calmly.
Jacket frowns again. “More than you, I hope,” Jacket tells the young girl.
She smiles sadly. “Yeah, I don’t really think so.”
The Twi’lek pulls out a small bag. Inside is a glowing green worm, about the size of a thumb.
“This,” she says as Jacket examines it. “Is Grub. It makes you see the world in claymation.”
Jacket nods.
De’ialia pulls out another back, this one of glowing purple powder. “This is Pixie Dust. It makes you talk really fast and float.”
Again, Jacket nods.
“This,” says De’ialia as she slams a bag of dark brown powder on the table. “Is heroin.”
A silence fills the room. When De’ialia is satisfied, she continues.
“Weasle and the Hufflepunks, they sell things like Grub, Pixie Dust, and weed. The orcs sell heroin. They sell crack,” the President says, her voice starting to tremble with righteous rage.
“They distribute it,” she continues when she has control of her voice. “Here.”
She marks a spot on the map with a big red X, just to the east of of the three green X’s.
Jacket looks over the map, and recognizes it as an abandoned warehouse formerly in Westside territory. The only way to get to it is to pass through the green X’s.
“The green X’s,” explains the Twi’lek. “Are roadblocks. They have spies and snipers all around. We can’t get anyone within five blocks. If we could get through, the Deathblades would kill every orc in there in five minutes. The Hufflepunks would set up shop there, and hold the territory.”
Jacket nods again, his brow furrowed. Slowly, after much consideration, the prime pulls out two Pikachu-shaped ice-creams from his pockets, somehow still cold.
“You like ice-cream, President Batgirl?” Jacket asks.
De’ialia nods and reaches wearilly for the ice dream. She unwraps it and takes a big, toothy bite, the hardened gangster not concerned at all about brainfreeze.
“Not bad,” she says, still looking at the map. “Little heavy on the sugar, but that’s what you come to expect from the Nintendo ice-cream. They spend a lot on packaging, you’re really paying for the brand.”
Jacket nods, licking his own Pikachu. “Yeah, Chirpa told me the Deathblades make their own ice-cream?”
De’ialia nods. “Yuss, Death-Pops. We’ve kinda stopped operations though; the orcs are busting up any shop that carries us.”
Jacket nods again, his tongue turning yellow from the ice-cream. “Chirpa said that too. So I had an idea, and Chirpa liked it.”
De’ialia’s head perks up. Jacket grins.
“I think I can solve both your problems,” the Prime says, eyes on the little Twi’lek.
“Lets go upstairs," Jacket suggests. "I got a present for you.”