05-02-2017, 12:41 PM
*Thwink*
“C’mon let’s go,” the older brother said, “she ain’t coming.”
*Thwink*
Maxx watched his brother walk across the room and pick up the battered tin can. Taking a few paces to the center of the room Parker weighed the can in his hand, threw it up in the air, and swung his bat.
*Thwink*
The rusted can soared across the room and smacked against the far wall, it bounced off at an odd angle and came to rest in front of Maxx. He kicked the can back to his brother who stopped it with his foot. A dim battery-powered lantern struggled to fill the ancient meat locker with light. Maxx, the youngest sibling, sat on a stack of pallets, drying his eyes with the sleeves of his hoodie. Parker leaned into a batter’s stance and swung his bat in slow motion, pretending to hit a homerun. He swung a few more times before standing up straight and glancing through the open door. Dark angular shapes hid in the darkness, vestiges of an abandoned butchershop long forgotten now repurposed as a temporary hideout.
“How can you be so calm when they got sis?” Maxx asked, his voice cracking.
Parker held up the credit chip between his fingers and answered, “che, but we’ve got their money, and there ain’t no way they’ll turn her in before coming for their cash, we just gotta take this to mum and she’ll get Sam back no problem.”
“You promise?”
“Che,” Parker answer and adjusted his bandana, “let’s dip, we’ve wasted enough time.”
Maxx sniffled and wiped his eyes one more time, “okay.”
*Thwink*
There were few places in the Omniverse more fit to be a den of thieves than Ameara’s compound, and few people more fit to be their matriarch than Ameara herself. Nested within a decaying corner of tier six, hidden behind a jungle of rust and dilapidation. It was of modest size, an old theater gutted and repurposed into a ragged hive of cutthroats and criminals. A bar, cobbled together from the remnants of the concession stand, served dangerous tonics filled with illicit substances. The main stage served as Ameara’s chambers. A large throne, once a set piece for a play about a king, was permanently installed centerstage and offered Ameara an imposing presence over those that served her. A lone man prostrated himself before the Queen, his hands clasped together as if he was praying. Around the edge of the stage and corners of the room tugs, armed with shoddy excuses for rifles, stood sentry.
“Tell me my dear, why have you returned to me with empty hands yet again?” Ameara’s voice cold with disinterest echoed from her perch.
“I beg your forgiveness ma’am,” the begging man spoke, his voice riddle with fever, “I tried, I really did, but the fuzz was onto me so I had to ditch the loot, I was gonna double back for it, but they found where I hid it.”
Ameara nodded. She emanated an alien attractiveness, a sort of bizarre elegance befitting a monarch of rust. Half of her head was shaved and covered with cybernetic implants, while the other half was a long mane of bright red hair. Metal screws poked out from beneath her pale skin, implants long since obsolete. A chrome-plated revolver hung heavy in her limp-wristed hand. It stuck out as a glimmering status symbol in a wasteland of decaying industry. Ameara thumbed the release for the revolver’s cylinder and loaded three rounds. She closed the cylinder and spun it.
“Asking for my forgiveness is as fruitless as asking for this pistol’s forgiveness,” she said as she stood from her perch. Metal plates drilled into the bottom of her combat boots clanged with every step, punctuating her words. She slowly walked down the steps that led to her throne. She stopped before the kneeling man and held the barrel to his forehead. Once again she spoke, “instead you should be courting Lady Luck, one bullet for each of your failures that gives you a fifty-fifty chance, poor odds if you ask me.”
“Miss Ameara, please I, I won’t --”
She pulled the trigger.
*Click*
“Congratulations,” she said, lowering the pistol, “you should buy a lottery ticket, now get out of here, next time it’ll be four.”
“Yes ma’am.”
The man stood and hurried out of the auditorium. As he stepped to the door two boys walked through. They froze and watched the man shuffle past them. The older boy growled at him as he passed and then laughed as he scurried off.
“Che, what a loser,” Parker said as he walked towards the stage, “mom, we’ve got an issue.”
Maxx climbed up the stage and embraced Ameara.
She put a hand on his back and asked, “where’s your sister?”
“That’s kinda what the problem is,” Parker answer, “we knicked a credit chip from some dickheads --”
“Language,” she interupted.
“Right, sorry ma,” he said and shuffled about, “anyways we knicked this credit chip from a couple of dudes at the racetrack, big payday, but they snagged Sammy ‘fore we could get away.”
“How much was on the chip?”
“About 20,000.”
Ameara smiled. She rarely smiled. She held out her thin hand and Parker gave her the chip. She slid it down the front of her shirt, hiding it in her bra. Maxx was pushed away and she turned her back on the two kids. She climbed to the top of her throne.
“Those buffoons know nothing of the jackpot they’ve got themselves into,” she said, her voice returning to frigid detachment, “they’ll come for their money and find little more than death.”
Parker slung an arm around his brother and said, “see, told ya mom would take care of it, ain’t no way they gonna keep sis from us.”
“C’mon let’s go,” the older brother said, “she ain’t coming.”
*Thwink*
Maxx watched his brother walk across the room and pick up the battered tin can. Taking a few paces to the center of the room Parker weighed the can in his hand, threw it up in the air, and swung his bat.
*Thwink*
The rusted can soared across the room and smacked against the far wall, it bounced off at an odd angle and came to rest in front of Maxx. He kicked the can back to his brother who stopped it with his foot. A dim battery-powered lantern struggled to fill the ancient meat locker with light. Maxx, the youngest sibling, sat on a stack of pallets, drying his eyes with the sleeves of his hoodie. Parker leaned into a batter’s stance and swung his bat in slow motion, pretending to hit a homerun. He swung a few more times before standing up straight and glancing through the open door. Dark angular shapes hid in the darkness, vestiges of an abandoned butchershop long forgotten now repurposed as a temporary hideout.
“How can you be so calm when they got sis?” Maxx asked, his voice cracking.
Parker held up the credit chip between his fingers and answered, “che, but we’ve got their money, and there ain’t no way they’ll turn her in before coming for their cash, we just gotta take this to mum and she’ll get Sam back no problem.”
“You promise?”
“Che,” Parker answer and adjusted his bandana, “let’s dip, we’ve wasted enough time.”
Maxx sniffled and wiped his eyes one more time, “okay.”
*Thwink*
There were few places in the Omniverse more fit to be a den of thieves than Ameara’s compound, and few people more fit to be their matriarch than Ameara herself. Nested within a decaying corner of tier six, hidden behind a jungle of rust and dilapidation. It was of modest size, an old theater gutted and repurposed into a ragged hive of cutthroats and criminals. A bar, cobbled together from the remnants of the concession stand, served dangerous tonics filled with illicit substances. The main stage served as Ameara’s chambers. A large throne, once a set piece for a play about a king, was permanently installed centerstage and offered Ameara an imposing presence over those that served her. A lone man prostrated himself before the Queen, his hands clasped together as if he was praying. Around the edge of the stage and corners of the room tugs, armed with shoddy excuses for rifles, stood sentry.
“Tell me my dear, why have you returned to me with empty hands yet again?” Ameara’s voice cold with disinterest echoed from her perch.
“I beg your forgiveness ma’am,” the begging man spoke, his voice riddle with fever, “I tried, I really did, but the fuzz was onto me so I had to ditch the loot, I was gonna double back for it, but they found where I hid it.”
Ameara nodded. She emanated an alien attractiveness, a sort of bizarre elegance befitting a monarch of rust. Half of her head was shaved and covered with cybernetic implants, while the other half was a long mane of bright red hair. Metal screws poked out from beneath her pale skin, implants long since obsolete. A chrome-plated revolver hung heavy in her limp-wristed hand. It stuck out as a glimmering status symbol in a wasteland of decaying industry. Ameara thumbed the release for the revolver’s cylinder and loaded three rounds. She closed the cylinder and spun it.
“Asking for my forgiveness is as fruitless as asking for this pistol’s forgiveness,” she said as she stood from her perch. Metal plates drilled into the bottom of her combat boots clanged with every step, punctuating her words. She slowly walked down the steps that led to her throne. She stopped before the kneeling man and held the barrel to his forehead. Once again she spoke, “instead you should be courting Lady Luck, one bullet for each of your failures that gives you a fifty-fifty chance, poor odds if you ask me.”
“Miss Ameara, please I, I won’t --”
She pulled the trigger.
*Click*
“Congratulations,” she said, lowering the pistol, “you should buy a lottery ticket, now get out of here, next time it’ll be four.”
“Yes ma’am.”
The man stood and hurried out of the auditorium. As he stepped to the door two boys walked through. They froze and watched the man shuffle past them. The older boy growled at him as he passed and then laughed as he scurried off.
“Che, what a loser,” Parker said as he walked towards the stage, “mom, we’ve got an issue.”
Maxx climbed up the stage and embraced Ameara.
She put a hand on his back and asked, “where’s your sister?”
“That’s kinda what the problem is,” Parker answer, “we knicked a credit chip from some dickheads --”
“Language,” she interupted.
“Right, sorry ma,” he said and shuffled about, “anyways we knicked this credit chip from a couple of dudes at the racetrack, big payday, but they snagged Sammy ‘fore we could get away.”
“How much was on the chip?”
“About 20,000.”
Ameara smiled. She rarely smiled. She held out her thin hand and Parker gave her the chip. She slid it down the front of her shirt, hiding it in her bra. Maxx was pushed away and she turned her back on the two kids. She climbed to the top of her throne.
“Those buffoons know nothing of the jackpot they’ve got themselves into,” she said, her voice returning to frigid detachment, “they’ll come for their money and find little more than death.”
Parker slung an arm around his brother and said, “see, told ya mom would take care of it, ain’t no way they gonna keep sis from us.”
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