06-30-2017, 03:18 AM
Sergeant John Estes leaned heavily against the dirty brick wall of a nearby building, shaded in the dark corner of a forgotten alley in Mega City One. It had felt like it had taken several hours, almost a full day for the burly but beaten law officer to rally his body and spirit, beginning the long trek back to the Zone C Safe House.
His whole body shuddered as he tried to steady himself on his good foot, easing the weight off the shattered remains of the other. Pain crescendoed throughout his body, but the hard headed cop set himself to focusing through the pain, and looking towards the goal ahead - safety and respite within the safe house. With a quivering hand, Mad Bull drew out his Smith & Wesson revolver, finding comfort in the weight of the weapon. He gazed at the other hand, broken and useless, and sighed.
The battered cop tucked the weapon in his armpit and fished into his pants pocket. With a grunt of agony, he withdrew six brass shelled slugs. As his fingered the rounds of .38 ammunition in his palm, the revolver dropped from his armpit and hit the ground noisily. With a filthy curse at his lips, he slowly lowered himself to the ground and sat by the gun. Methodically, almost meditatively, the Sergeant began to load each of the six rounds into the accompanying six chambers of the cylinder. Each metallic shell was like a cage, holding back the incredible violence held within each bullet. Mad Bull found peace in this thought, knowing that within the palm of his hands he would wield the power of life and death. In a world of chaos and uncertainty, there was a comfort in that, knowing that you too could personify that chaos and become yet another catalyst to its continued reign of destruction.
His whole body shuddered as he tried to steady himself on his good foot, easing the weight off the shattered remains of the other. Pain crescendoed throughout his body, but the hard headed cop set himself to focusing through the pain, and looking towards the goal ahead - safety and respite within the safe house. With a quivering hand, Mad Bull drew out his Smith & Wesson revolver, finding comfort in the weight of the weapon. He gazed at the other hand, broken and useless, and sighed.
The battered cop tucked the weapon in his armpit and fished into his pants pocket. With a grunt of agony, he withdrew six brass shelled slugs. As his fingered the rounds of .38 ammunition in his palm, the revolver dropped from his armpit and hit the ground noisily. With a filthy curse at his lips, he slowly lowered himself to the ground and sat by the gun. Methodically, almost meditatively, the Sergeant began to load each of the six rounds into the accompanying six chambers of the cylinder. Each metallic shell was like a cage, holding back the incredible violence held within each bullet. Mad Bull found peace in this thought, knowing that within the palm of his hands he would wield the power of life and death. In a world of chaos and uncertainty, there was a comfort in that, knowing that you too could personify that chaos and become yet another catalyst to its continued reign of destruction.
Quote:Moving from C21 to the Safehouse