Other Writing storage, examples, ramblings of a lunatic, etc.

[burn]

AYO.

don't mind this, just wanted a place on site to link for examples!
also maybe a little place to put vague ramblings and plot ideas that i may or may not work into my searches.

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Caine’s eyes glossed the skyline. Four stories up. He was just high enough to peer over the low-lying buildings that surrounded the loft he stood in, and take in the writhing behemoth of a city that breathed outside.

Just high enough to allow his gaze to freely slide along the contours of the architectural nightmares and neon-lit skyscrapers, far off in the distance. Commercial buildings towered within the storm like beacons, their advertisements steady and methodically timed as they cycled through garish ads – ads that screamed ‘safe’, ‘reliable’, ‘clean’, all but begging people that milled upon the sidewalks below to not only consider buying, but to consider loving them. To worship at their altar of affordable comfort; bow before that neon God, and buy your absolution with the only thing worth something in this city: your wallet. Stellar! Brand Energy Drink was not just a product, after all. It was a staple of any household. As familiar as your next door neighbor, and twice as useful. Not only could it quench your thirst on those hot days and give you that over-the-counter kick you needed to keep going, but it could also clean the blood off your bumper after your leisurely, Sunday drive through that part of town turned harrowing.

All for the low price of thirty credits a can – ten creds less if you signed up for the subscription service, and had your loyalty card with you during purchase, of course.

When he thought too heavily on all of it– not just Stellar!, but everything else-- it caused his stomach to churn. Or maybe that nausea was a byproduct of withdrawal of whatever unlisted or veiled additive was pumped into it before it hit shelves… it’d been a while since he’d ‘nourished’ his body with one. Half a day to be specific, but he told himself wasn't counting.

As his eyes pulled from the glowing, massive hologram a few blocks away and turned down to the dimly lit drink in his hand, he did wish, somewhere in the back of his mind where his electrochemistry demon ruled, that the watered-down alcohol in his glass was carbonated and tasted like what he assumed battery acid did. Thankfully, the bass that suddenly vibrated through his feet and penetrated down to his skeleton brought him from those thoughts, and he remembered where he was.

“Caine,” a familiar voice echoed in his skull, cutting through the sudden pick-up of electronic beat that filled the room. A woman’s voice – authoritative, but somehow empathetic and distantly amused all the same. “The ‘grams ain’t hidin’ you, I can see ya’ broodin’ from across the room.”

“... you ever felt alone in a room full of people, Piper?” It could’ve been telepathy, as his mouth didn’t even need to pull away from the drink he was taking to respond. Implants, thought to speech, tone trained – only sometimes did it slip and say things he actually wanted to keep inside.

“Very funny, choom.” She sounded annoyed, but only vaguely. “You’d have to be some kinda shut-in to consider this a room fulla people.” There was a pause before she continued, momentarily distracted from the conversation. “Sat’s pinging the mark just outside, they’ll be up here soon.”

Caine casually pivoted to eye the opposite side of the room, cutting through the silhouettes that bounced to the rhythm that rocked the building. Energetic people decked in colors caught by black-light, faces and bodies slathered with paint, limbs wrapped with hazard tape. An undistinguishable murmur that came with crowds, with people who were trying to call over the music that was only just incapable of blowing out their eardrums. Maybe thirty– fifty? Perhaps more, it was hard to count the bodies in motion that flooded the industrial loft they were packed into. They were surely violating safety codes with the crowd that’d gathered for the private rave that’d been organized here.

Well, it’d violate codes if any of them were real.

“Graves’ll intercept ‘em outside and bring ‘em ta'the bar, hopefully directly. Ain’t the smartest bunch of beavs, but the illusion ain’t exactly a sure one, either...” Doubt flirted with the edges of Piper’s tone, but it vanished as she focused the conversation. “Gonna need ya ta'have your head on straight for when we move on ‘em. We’ll all cut loose after we delta, so think about that insteada whatever's cloggin’ the gears right now, twenty?”

A quiet sigh left the man as he watched the dancing mess of holograms with idle interest, taking note of the fact that the vibration of the music made a convincing substitute for what all these people should’ve been doing to the floor if they weren’t made of light. Before he responded, a lone figure cutting through the crowd caught his attention – literally through them, shattering the illusion as Piper had suggested. A broad shouldered, dark-complected, bald man in a tight-fitting tank top that stood a full head or two above the imitations of people. His angular face briefly angled toward him, circular shades honing in on Caine’s position. Through the strobes, Caine caught sight of the wide, chromed out set of teeth the man beamed his way.

‘Riddle’. Taken into the crew just before he was. His smile would’ve been just slightly reassuring if he didn’t always flash one before shit hit the fan, and he knew the man wasn’t listening in to the light chastising he was currently receiving.

“Twenty, P. I’m dialed, don’t worry.” He muttered, this time both over comms and aloud to himself. The irony that the aloud part was to himself more than the thought was not lost upon him.

“Good ta'hear. Graves is in the elevator with ‘em. I’ll let you know when.” She chuffed, her voice dropping an octave as she dipped into a healthy bit of gallow’s humor. “Or the mark will.”

As he lowered the low-ball glass from chin level, Caine’s hand slipped around to the small of his back, dipping under the decorated and worn jacket that hugged his shoulders. His hand found iron, and with a slight shift, he pulled it from the waistband of his joggers. The pistol was heavy, but fit nicely in his hand, and as he turned to settle his shoulder into the window, it was neatly obscured by his body if someone caught sight of him from the entrance. Doing something like this was easier when the people were fake, but even so, the dark, tiny hairs on the back of his neck always stood on end before the bullets started to fly. Piper said he’d grow out of it – but it’d been the better half of a year since he joined, and it hadn’t gotten easier yet. Then again, maybe it was that sense of dread and anticipation that had kept him from being flatlined, himself.

He saw the door slide open from the corner of his eye, and a man’s silhouette stood in the hallway, backed by two to three more. The shadow turned and threw his arms open, welcoming the group that stood behind him with an air of casual exuberance. Obviously Graves, committing to the bit.

As the music built up to a bass drop, in that brief stint of suspenseful silence, a shotgun blast echoed through the room and cut the lead man nearly in two pieces. For everything the glorified conman that Graves was – emphasis on was– he was also modded to near capacity. The blast of a gun like that would’ve misted someone less chromed, but instead, it threw the young runner across the dancefloor. Tumbling through the holograms that dropped back into fervent dance with the timing of bass resurgence, and to a distinctly wet thump that he felt more than heard as he landed against Caine’s window.

Time slowed as his attention trailed from the door and to the bloody heap of meat and mechanics at his feet, his eyes growing wide as he met the look plastered across the barely adult runner’s face that was in the process of expiring. There was mirth in his eyes, his neck unnaturally craned up to face Caine, and the smile that lived on Graves’ bloodied lips had only just begun processing the shock of facing down a death he recognized in delay. As the realization hit him fully, and his grin began to falter, there was a moment where he met his senior’s eyes, and uncertainty finally flooded through them.

The stunned runner could not hear his ruined counterpart – maybe he didn’t actually make a sound. Caine could read the word that stumbled from the other man’s fading smile, though.

“... C-...aine?”

Gunfire erupted from across the room, and from everywhere else in the rave as Piper’s voice flooded his head.

“FUCK, GRAVES–! FLATLINE THESE FUCKS!”

 

[burn]

'nother one, and a continuation, cuz i felt wordy.

also yo content warning: violence, language, etc.

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Three blocks over, and fifteen minutes later, four upright and two slumped figures were cutting a hurried limp through abandoned halls. Fluorescent lights flickered above them, flirting with plunging their messy retreat into near darkness. It would’ve been a forgivable handicap– it’d save the conscious the unpleasant look of their own wake that marked concrete and busted linoleum tile. Splatters of dark red blood in hand prints upon the walls, the smeared path of someone’s boots as they were dragged through life that seeped from wounds and down branded clothing. The rain they’d run through diluted the gore that stuck to them; it stained whites pink, and caused congealed gashes to weep anew.

All of them were losing strength in one way or another. Either from bullet wounds, or the dwindling resolve to save who they could in favor of themselves.

“What the fuck happened back there?!” There was no need for the comms, anymore. These were real voices this time, unsimulated, furious – Riddle’s baritone was choked by phlegm, or perhaps it was due to the trickle of blood that had made its way into his lungs. “You said the mark was a fucking chump, P!”

Piper twisted just enough to cast a scowl over her shoulder, now blindly leading the way through the subterranean hallway. Her left eye was gone, and although it was cybernetic, the socket around it did not take the separation well. Flesh typically did not readily handle chrome that was going haywire while still embedded, and if she hadn’t torn it out herself, it could’ve melted a hole down to her brainstem.

“Now? Ya’ wanna do this shit now?” She seethed, letting out a pained grunt as she stumbled her way forward. “He was–... supposed ta’ be. Y’saw th’deets y’self, asshole…”

“Yeah, I saw them.” He spat back, that steel-coated set of teeth bared in a snarl. Whether it was from pain or contempt, it was stained red by blood that trickled from his mouth. “Let’s talk about other shit that’s ‘supposed to be’. Like how you’re–... ghh…fuck..!– ‘supposed to be’ pickin’ jobs that don’t end up with us ventilated!”

“... guys, I–... don’t feel too… nova right now…”

A third voice croaked, swallowed by the argument and collective panting. The owner was expiring, rapidly – it was an honest miracle he had made it this long. Likely due to the overclocked chrome as it attempted to keep his vital organs from failing. The first victim of the job went awry, and the youngest among them, Graves’ head pulled from the shoulder he was draped against. His lower half was useless; the man’s lanky frame barely in one piece from the point-blank blast to his stomach. The glossy look he leveled at the backs of his crew members seemed to take a great deal of his energy, and it didn’t last long before he slumped again, a trail of crimson saliva dripping upon his ruined, high-collar jacket.

They hadn’t heard him. Not even the man who was struggling to drag him along by the hip heard him. Caine was somewhere else. Anywhere else.

“This is how it fuckin’ is!” Piper’s voice cracked, suddenly whipping around to face the group of ragged runners. Bloodied and slowly fading, it didn’t stop her from squaring her shoulders, and taking a steadied step inward. Riddle towered her by at least two feet, but her finger leveled at his chest all the same, driving her point home with an accusatory stab that forced the man to right his posture.

“This is how it fucking is, Riddle. You ain't new-- you know! Quit y'fuckin' bitchin', and suck it up like the big man y'like to think you are...” From a strained snarl to a venomous whisper, the woman’s voice lowered. “Jobs. Go. Bad.” The dragged out statement came with her digit driving home into his chest despite the wounds there, punctuating each syllable.

“Watch it, P.” A cautioning, sharpened reply came from the heavy, the edges of his mouth growing taut and shifting the well-shaved lines of his goatee. “You ain’t gonna talk to me like that. Not after all of this shit.”

“... g-guys…? I–... I fucked–...”

“Or fuckin’ what? What’re ya’ gonna do?” Piper’s hand curled in Riddle’s button-up, leaving another bloody blossom in white silk. The other hand pulled around her back, subtly reaching for steel as her eyes demanded attention. A shame the larger man wore shades.

“I’ll flatline you right here. That’s what I’m gonna fuckin’ do.”

Everyone not involved with the exchange stilled. Even their panting came to a halt. There was no room for the dying man’s voice, even if it was audible in the tense silence that’d filled the corridor.

“... I fucked u-up…I’m s-oo… sorry.”

“Shut th’fuck up, Graves!”

Piper’s venom turned to the man that Caine was keeping upright, leveling the ruined runner with a look that dripped with her harsh, knee-jerk annoyance. A look that faltered when she realized she was scolding a dying man who was trying to apologize– a look that would be the last to cross her face before the lights flicked off inside, permanently.

Quicker than anyone could react, the heavy had drawn his own weapon and jammed it below her chin. The gunshot that cracked through the hall was sickly muffled by her mandible, the point blank discharge obstructed by contact with realskin. The neon-shaded, blue strands at the crown of her head jerked as the round passed cleanly through flesh, bone, grey matter, bone again, and flesh one last time before finding home in an apartment upstairs, somewhere. Their lead’s body went rigid, briefly, before it tipped backward and she spilled in more than one way upon the linoleum that was once below her feet.

Everything that Piper had been was now pooling below her head. Running along the contours of where tile fit with tile until it flooded even that, and began swallowing the expanses around those thin indentations. Four people were still conscious of their six – four sets of eyes were locked on the unsalvageable body upon the floor, and the man that stood over her.

“You fucking made me do that, Piper!” Riddle kept his weapon trained on her, despite it being clear that she wasn’t getting back up. “You dumb! Fucking, bi–”

Graves’ body unceremoniously dropped to the floor, and another weapon made an appearance. Caine’s. In such close proximity, the shot was sure. It was merciful as well, as if he'd had time to properly deliver justice, it would’ve been a slow and exacting one. Eleven millimeter retribution tore through Riddle’s uppermost vertebrae, causing him to lurch forward and crumple against the wall, sliding down its length until he lay wedged between Piper’s side and the cold concrete. All of the rage, and the tension, and the ringing in their ears faded as the heavy’s limbs grew rigid, and his body reacted to those final synapses of fight or flight with a haunting series of twitches.

Riddle’s shades were cocked, exposing wide-eyed hazel that rolled aimlessly. Maybe it was just the body doing it's thing as it shut everything down. Maybe he was roaming for something in those fleeting milliseconds – reaching for it. Maybe for where his gun landed, maybe to find help, maybe just to see who’d taken the shot that’d dropped him. It found nothing, though, and simply slowed to rest, aimed at Piper’s neon mane that his face was now half buried in.

An odd pang of jealousy flooded Caine – looking down at the macabre duo, he wanted to trade places with a dead man. To let the smell of Piper’s shampoo, and the metallic scent of his blood mixing with hers whisk him away to somewhere else.

Silence filled the room. Nobody was breathing. Not even the ones still alive.

Caine’s trembling hand lowered, something loose jostling within the mechanics of his pistol as he nearly dropped it. There was too much– too much had happened in the span of thirty minutes. He felt out of control, careening toward the end of something. His life? Would it even matter at this point? A desperate look floated down to the body he’d shrugged off to avenge his mentor – Graves’ eyes were shut, finally. His chest no longer heaved with struggling breath. There was hardly any blood under him, which tracked – he lost most of it in the failed ambush at the loft. Not accounting for everything he’d lost in the downpour outside, or the first half of the hallway Caine now felt like a ghost in.

His head turned to face the two runners that were using the wall opposite of his to keep themselves up, and his weapon almost trained on them, next. There was nothing to be found in that wide-eyed, blank look he leveled upon what remained of their crew. A devoid expression, save for the eerie mixture of remorse and denial that lived in his eyes.

Remorse that it’d gone so, so poorly. Denial, that most of his friends were dead in this very hallway, and now, sorrow. Sorrow that there was just the fodder left.

Two people he barely knew the names of – solos that Piper had brought back for this job. She’d spoken fondly of both of them, stand-up runners that’d have their back should it go poorly. She'd said they were her friends, even if he had never heard of them before. He believed her at the time. They’d held their own during the fight, and hadn't pulled any punches that he’d seen.

Staring at them now, however, he couldn’t help but feel this was all their fault.