🚀 go-pugleaf

   On the floor of the building, the occupants of the two vans spread
out quietly, but methodically.  Simple utilitarian clothing and
unsilenced weapons were all they carried.  Stealth was an option, but
not a high one.  After all, who was going to respond fast enough?  The
main leader motioned to his lieutenant, and the men split evenly into
squads of five.  One group started to move up the stairwell as the
other group spread among the main floor.
   The first indications that some was amiss were as subtle as a Mack
truck to the the leader.  No guards.  Not even a fat slob with coffee
in one hand and donut in the other.  No power to the security system
either.  The sounds of automatic fire from the second team was the
last nail in the coffin.  Something was hosed.  Probably someone else
with the same plan.... no, that is TOO coincidental.... a doublecross?
His eyes narrowed.  Yes, that sounded right.  Especially after so much
personal investment.  He motioned to the his team quickly, using hand
signals practiced.  Two to cover the door way.  One to act as relay
and cover fire, while his right hand man and himself got the objective.
The other team's job was done for the most part.... he hoped.
Otherwise, this situation went to Hell<tm> and all bets were off.
   He smiled grimly.  And too much was invested in this little shindig
for him to turn back now.  Double or nothing.  The objective AND
whoever screwed them over.  Which one was the sweeter prize was a very
debatable point right now.  The leader cocked his gun, and unlocked
the selector.  He nodded to the overwatch and moved quickly with his
partner down the hall.  Back and forth in a weaving pattern, pausing
to check for trap signs or sounds of gunfire from the overwatch.
Silence reigned, only broken by the rapid footfalls of either moving
forward.  Finally, the two stopped at the goal, its lockpanel one of
the few sources of artificial illumination.  His compatriot looked it
over critically and nodded.
   A quiet whisper, "go.", and the demolitions expert slung his weapon
and opened his pack.  Quick deft fingers crammed bits of ceramic and
plastique into critical points, wired them, then backed away himself.
Three seconds later, muffled sharps reports heralded a rattling clang
as the door fell forward.  Both paused, silent, as the echoes died
down. Nothing.  No alarms, no sounds of gunfire from the overwatch.
Silence.  The demolitions man glanced at the leader.
   Frowning, the other looked back, carefully extended two fingers,
and rotated them downward.  Wait two minutes, then bug out.  The other
looked warily, then nodded his acknowledgment.  As the first stated
down the path, he let a ghost of a smile form on his lips.  Good man.
Would probably scram in a minute and a half.  About half a minute more
than he'd expect of him.  He didn't pick people for loyalty over
intelligence, after all.
   Warily, he approached the vault door.  Wisps of smoke and the
charred metal struts were the only indicators that the circular slab
on the floor had been connected to the open passage.  A testament to
the skill and precision used, the vault proper had almost no damage
from the explosives used.  He slipped inside the vault and moved
toward the back, stopping short as he saw his objective....  or more
to the point, _didn't_ see his objective.  The drawer was open, the
contents inside gone.
   Footsteps from behind him triggered reflexes honed early on, as he
moved behind one of the tables built into the vault room.  A
hyena-like laugh echoed from about the steel walls.  Gritting his
teeth, he spat out a name.  "Vincetti."
   "Yeah, Floyd.  S'me.  Good racket, but me 'n Luke were thinkin'
'Hey, why let the pretty boy get the big piece of the the presteege?
'Specially since Mission Malone probably was boastin' when he said
he'd do it himself.'  Huh.  Didn't think you had it in you."
   Malone gritted his teeth, seething a bit at the backhanded jab.  "I
always do my own work, Vincetti."  He took great pains no to use the
other name for the man outside.  "Jackal", albeit descriptive, is not
something one uses from a position of weakness.
   "Yeah, guess you do, Floyd.  Even the wetwork.  Didn't think you'd
have it in you to dirty yourself that way on a streetpunk like Jazz."
Malone still couldn't see Vincetti's face, but could imagine the smirk
on the thin-faced man. "Besides, it takes some cojones to try to rip
off plates for currency of a country I ain't even heard of."
   "My men don't do anything I don't do myself, Vincetti."  Malone
snapped.  "And besides, the currency from Qurialac currently has about
a three to one exchange rate with here.  The fact that the emir is
cheap enough to contract here for the currency was enough to tempt."
   The laughter from the hallway after that chilled Malone more.
Instead of the high pitched whine of the previous laugh, the tones
were much deeper and raspy.   "That, Mission Malone, is all I needed
to hear."
   Malone cursed to himself about his damn pride and kept silent.  No
sounds followed, but he was sure someone was waiting.  He looked over
his options.  Damn little.  He could wait, and be caught by the
police.  He could charge out, guns blazing, but the odds were damn
good all he'd hit was his men, if they weren't already dead.  Not that
that'd stop him if it would take out the interloper, but the odds were
slim enough as it was.  After another minutes silence, he cautiously
crept forward.  As he cleared the door, he could see the still form of
his demo man slumped over.  Dead, unconscious.... didn't matter.  The
point was, he was effectively neutralized.  As, likely, were the rest
of the team.  Scanning about, there was no sign whatsoever of the
persons who did this.  Nothing reassuring there.  Especially since the
one most likely to be the opponent SHOULD be -damn- busy at the
moment....
   He shook his head.  No use speculating now.  Deal with the threat,
cover ass, and get the Hell<tm> out of Dodge.  Keeping gun loose and
ready, he looked over the hallway and darted over.  Back against the
wall, eyes scanning up and down for movement.  Textbook approach for a
lone man.  But the flaw with the textbook was a quite simple one.  It
didn't factor the third dimension.
   A fact made evident as the black-garbed figure dropped on Malone
from above. A staccato burst erupted from the gun as the commando
leader's finger twitched reflexively, the bullets ricocheting
harmlessly about the empty hall.  A ripping sound greeted two sets of
ears as twin tears appeared in the sleeve of Malone's arm.  He cursed
as he saw the mark of the wounds underneath.  The figure, nodding a
bit, concentrated on the gun hand, slamming it against the wall
multiple times.  Malone tried to resist the attempt, but found his
strength waning.  Of course, he realized.  Poison blades would help to
guarantee even odds..... he slumped over as he blacked out.
   The figure looked over the quarry for a moment, and nodded.
"You're lucky, Malone," the voice rasped.  "Not only do I need you
alive, but I don't care to muddy my hands more than I have to."  The
raspy chuckle sounded again.  "You may wish I did later...."  Grabbing
the prone Family boss in a fireman's carry, the figure strode out of
the pressing mill, and hurried away as the sirens of approaching
police cars could be heard.

   Back in the warzone, the evolution of battle had forced combatants
to disperse, much in the same way as the gas issuing from the tear
canisters.  Those still brave, lucky, and foolish enough to continue
the carnage had separated themselves into multiple hand to hand duels.
Not due to any concern on the part of the fighters for their
compatriot, but the simple fact that one shot would set off three,
which would set off more, until one labeled "occupant" would
tragically come back to the original sender.  Those who didn't
recognize (or in some cases would welcome) that reason had another
simpler reason.  Gunfire drew the attention of the Grimy Knight that
much faster, acting as a beacon.  Within less than a minute, anyone
foolish to start a spate of gunfire found himself disabled painfully
by fist or trashlid.
   In the haze of battle, chance encounters are the turning points in
many a conflict.  At Gettysburg, it came as two divisions met while
one was simply scouting for comfortable or at least usable footwear.
Later on, in the same war, it was a chance encounter that killed
Stonewall Jackson by the guns of his own men.  Command units running
afoul of one another while trying to avoid each other's assassin
units.  And this is in the ordered chaos of warfare.  A gangwar's
battle is nothing but chance encounters.  The leader of the Sonz and
Boyz had passed each other many times during the night, as each tore
into the lower ranked members of the other.
   Eventually, though, the dice had finally come up snake eyes, and
the most savage of the fighting started.  Nothing graceful or poetic
about this fighting.  Simple savageness and raw physical bludgeoning
was starting to take their toll on both of them, but there was no
pause from either camp.  Blow after purposeful blow rained down on
each other, knives and other weapons forgotten along with everything
else.
   A phosphor flare directly inbetween the two isn't the most
unorthodox reminder, but then again, the person to critique that
wasn't in the same time zone.  Both leaders dove for cover, trying to
clear their eyes.  A raspy chuckle carried over the immediate area.
People in the area froze, looking for the source.  Elsewhere, a pair
of eyes narrowed as he paused between groups.  A new element in an old
routine.  Continuing on his task, he split a small portion of his
attention on the new instance.  If any of his targets noticed that
they now had a half-second more reaction time, they didn't say
anything about it.
   "I don't know which is more pathetic.  That you two are fighting
like this, or that you both have been played like cheap fiddles."  The
caustic words cam from somewhere near the temporarily blinded leaders.
   "Who's there?  You ain't the Trashman."  The Sonz leader bluffed,
wishing he could see better.  Dimly, he saw a dark shape in front of
him.
   "Give the boy a cigar.  Or don't, he's already in a high risk
category."  The shape dodged as he tried to take a swing at it
blindly.  Pain shot through his knee as the shape kicked it, causing
him to collapse to the road.  "And STAY there.  Listen, boys, school's
in session, and PE's over."  A small click sounded, and then an
exchange from elsewhere played for them.  Eyesight was returning to
both leaders, even as insight was being bestowed.
   "I'll KILL him." grated the Boyz' main man.  "I'll strip his skin
from his carcass and burn him a new one I'll...."
   "Take a number."  The Sonz' leader whispered.  "My blood is in jail
because of him."
   The other leader's eyes burned imaginary holes in the other gang
boss.  "And Jazz wasn't part of my blood?  My gang -is- my blood...."
   "Then there's a lot of your blood on the street, and patching up
the damn wound better happen now boys.  Because, there isn't much
going to be LEFT if you don't."
   "We'll stop it," one said, "and then it's PAYBACK."
   "Uh-uh.  Sorry.  Wrong answer.  Because, boys, he's out of your
reach.  He's in the one place even the boys in blue have to be honest
about him.  And you know the odds on you boys lasting against the
family.  And I've got one last reason for you to go home, forget,
forgive, and just leave everyone alone."
   Both gangers, eyes finally able to focus on the black garbed
figure.  "What, you'll stop us?", sneered the Boyz's headman.  He
barely finished his challenge as something ricocheted off the lamppole
near his head, slammed into a wall directly behind the Sonz' main man,
and flew back to the gray figure pausing in the open.
   "No, boys.  I don't have to do much of anything."  The figure
chuckled raspily as it rappeled up the building side and onto the
roof.  Before the figure disappeared into the shadows, it heard a
booming voice call out.  "ENOUGH.  The fight and this lesson is OVER.
Both leaders have called off.  Disperse, or it's detention.  You have
one minute..."

   ".... and to repeat, KRAD, your one ray of light in Dark City, has
found itself with the EXCLUSIVE tale of one of the most daring failed
heists of the year.  Scooped directly from taped evidence attached to
the perpetrator himself, deposited directly high up on KRAD's scenic
tower emplacement in the Heart of Darkness...."  Justin turned off the
set and nodded.  Standing up, he hobbled back to the kitchen and
turned off the heat to the pot.  A chill ran down his back for a
moment.  "I was wondering if you'd stop by."
   The raspy chuckle sounded for a second, and then a small hacking
sound interrupted it for a second.  When the sound was done, the rasp
left the chuckle, and instead, a contralto tone came into play.
"Boss, you need a paratrooper, not a paralegal.  Good thing you have
both."
   Justin smiled slightly.  "Well, sometimes a bit of trust comes back
paid in full.  But why did you put him on the tower?"
   "I just figured if he wanted to look down on the city, he needed a
good view of it.  They release Mick yet?"
   Justin nodded.  "Plenty of evidence.  And that, Miss Dare, is
another railroad derailed."  He sighed.
   Ginny clucked a bit.  "Truth hurts still?  Pardon the pun."
   Justin nodded.  "He was telling the truth about Giuseppe's,
naturally.  Not much to be done about that, especially since I gave my
word."
   Ginny sighed, and walked over to the cooking pot and opened the
lid.  "Spaghetti, eh?  And, frankly, boss, that is small potatoes in
this mess.  As it is, old gray and gloom contained the thing to the
gangs.  None of 'em will be up to speed for a good bit.  And Malone
didn't pull it off, nor did Candypuss get the ball moving on time.
Sometime, though, you need to tell me what goods you had on the press
owner to clear out everything like that."
   "That, Ginny, is something only I know, and I wish I didn't.
Shaking hands with that creep was not enjoyable."  Justin shivered.
"And help yourself to the pasta.  Thought you might need some."
   Ginny sniffed.  "I think I will.  And, boss?  Deal with the
flammable trash first.  We did good."
   Justin looked out at the wartorn street, and smiled a bit as he saw
Julio peering out from his window across the street.  "Yeah, Gin, I
guess we did."

   "... This is KRAD News at Eleven."  The television clicked off, as
the obese man in white put down the remote slowly.  Almost
immediately, the phone next to him rang.  "I saw.  Yes, I think
there's going to be a family meeting soon.  Lawyers?  Already covered,
though Malone may sadly jump bail....  Who?  I have no clue.  But
that's twice now he's interfered.  I want him, Jackal, I want his head
on a platter."  The Candyman looked at the blank screen.  "And how to
explain this to the Don, I have no idea," he muttered.  "But the
payback will be cold, sweet, and satisfying, I'll guarantee it."

----

   Well, another post on the grill, and another chapter in some
characters's lives brought to light.  First off, I realized (and some
people noted) that I forgot to credit the lyrics that made up part of
the last Refractions.  The tune was "Open Your Eyes" (what, you think
the title came from nowhere?) by Asia on their _Alpha_ album.  Asia,
Rush, and Yes have a nasty habit of influencing my writing style and
mood strongly, so I started off with one in Refractions#1.
   I have no idea how "Truth and Dare" came about, save for a bit of
nostalgia over a certain character from the Big Two comics publishers.
I decided to see how well I could work with it.  Then, I hit another
wall.  Making a city for a one-shot is a good thing, but, honestly, it
felt like I was about to duplicate something.  Looking about, I saw I
was half right.  Dark City, home of Trashman, was precisely the type
of place I was thinking of.  However, very little has been written of
the place, due to various circumstances I don't know totally about
myself.  So, I looked at it, and looked at my idea, and decided to see
if Sabre would let me play in his personal playbox, the grime-covered
alleys of Dark.  Fortunately, not only did he agree, but gave me two
wonderful scenes to add to this.
   Now, that does add a bit of complication to the "offered"
characters this time about.  First off, there is a good chance Sabre
has use for them, and he has right of first call.  Secondly, even if
he doesn't, the odds are you'd need to either get his permission to
operate in Dark or move the character(s) elsewhere.  By allowing them
to be in Dark, he put no small degree of trust (and no small amount of
 putting up with questions asked or draft versions sent to him) in my
defining part of the city.  Protecting that is rather important to me,
then.
   Well, here's to hoping that my other two projects (which could be
called being caught between a mop and a hard rock, but that's just
silly) will be posted soon.  I don't know if or when I'll be working
on the next Refractions.  Well, enough rambling.  Goodnight, and
someone turn off the light on the way out.

-JR