the name's greed (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
nestingdevil) wrote2015-06-25 10:09 pm
nestingdevil) wrote2015-06-25 10:09 pm
➥ "AND HE WAS HERE WHEN THE BOMBS DROPPED." | MAD MAX AU | OTA
They all know what it means when it starts. The thudding drone of bass from deep in the recesses of Vacant City, the too-deep sigh of bone-dry cogs choking with protest. The melody grows as more and more come to the call. With their instruments of choice, let it be a wrench in hand or a couple of long, plastic pipes they've saved for such an occasion. The noise hums harmonious as the seconds pass and from the lowly hull of a not-so-vacant ship, a red glow begins to hum.
It's Finders Day.
Misshapen cars, trucks and motorcycles swing in black-steel cages - like starved victims of a medieval torture room. The procession causing chrome and steel to strike angrily at the late-night sky; a consistent blue-black with metallic grimaces. Those who reside in Vacant City know who they belong to, but unlike many of the self-crowned kings of the Wastes, there's an understanding here. A residual nod that each and everyone shares:
Monsters came in all shapes and sizes in the Wasteland. But some were far more giving than others.
Flares ignite down below in a flurry of red-hot pink and carbonizing smoke. Finders Day always comes at the Crow's Hour. When supplies are minimal, but the prospects are high. It could be the next day, a month from now, longer - but it always seems to fall whenever one very signature car disappears in the morning haze. Gone for hours, it seems, then back again. With the same uttered promise that far too many have heard before:
"Nothing wrong with too much hope now, is there?"
Ragged families scurry out of their makeshift homes towering up above and small children leer dangerously on jagged pikes of gnarled wire and iron. It is a spectacle to uphold, that's true. But not just for the line up of steel horses or the quickly-smeared oil paint that comes in feverish excitement. It also means food, water, liquor, and anything else those of The Devil's Nest gang can get their hands on.
Which usually is plenty.
Cages bang loudly on sand-soaked metal planks and chains fall with the weight no longer holding them. In hypnotizing flutters of flares, there's movement; not unlike shadowy fish schooling upon an inexperienced swimmer. Roofs are banged, doors are torn open. And the roar of engines starts quickly, nearly deafening out the constant rhythm wafting in from no where and everywhere all at once.
A squad of cycles, cars, and one, lumbering truck head the procession. A pack of wolves composed of red-peppered chrome and dust-caked wheel-wells. Angry smoke and diesel lifts into the tight enclosure, temporarily blocking out the white-wax wane of a late moon.
No one knows the exact story and the rumors have been endless. Told by campfire, whispered in the shadowy depths of a half-holding building. "They were here when buildings rose and people lived. They were here when you could see yourself in a million mirrors and never look once. They were here when food was in a great safe and you could have your fill."
"And he was here when the bombs dropped."
I come bearing action scenes, pls give me a wave if there's a problem (guess who watched mad max)
Some say 'They betrayed their warlord;' others say 'They betrayed their warlord for us.' But the story of cutting ties is the same either way, and it's no secret - three of Heiss's elite crew, spies and secret police and assassins alike, loyal for years. Then gone in the night, an enforcer and mechanic in tow.
To Stocke, it's just him and his team. It's not the original five anymore - they've picked up more stragglers on the way - but that doesn't change anything. Him and his team, messing with all of Heiss's little outposts and feelers, and doing what they can for everyone else. (It's not enough. Never enough, without the clout of a wasteland emperor behind them. But Stocke's not having them go back to Heiss for anything; if nothing else, he'd be the only one likely to survive.)
And sometimes one of Heiss's far-ranging gangs is lucky (or unlucky) enough to set eyes on them. Sometimes they've even got the firepower to be a threat.
"Scatter!" Stocke calls out, and - "Five days!" It's rubbish, of course, and his team knows it - he'd hardly announce plans within ears' reach of pursuers - but it's a good bit of invention. He gets shouts back, revving engines, and the formation bursts like a firework, like a star; their pursuers stall, deciding who to chase. Logically, it should be an even split - they'd still have some sort of advantage even with all of Stocke's split up, smaller targets. But Stocke's banking on something else -
And he's not wrong. Of the rough dozen and a half after them, a full nine swing around to bear on him.
It's got nothing to do with his importance and everything to do with it being personal. More personal than the betrayal itself, though that's far more under wraps than the identity of his previous employer.
Three more peel off after Raynie, another two after Rosch - the largest vehicle, the only one that isn't a cycle and could be rightly called a war machine - and the rest go just as splintered as Stocke's own gang. Stocke bares his teeth, satisfied - Raynie's even better at using the sands than he is, and he's got confidence in all of them. They'll be fine.
So he turns his attention to the road in front, and the canyons - now all he's gotta do is get rid of his tail. Time for a favoured strategy - he keeps his pace low enough that they start to draw nearer, darting glances in the cracked, sand-strewn mirrors. Then he skids, intentional, gear too high - throws sand up, sends two cycles slamming into each other full-tilt when they're blinded. He doesn't wait for the noise and explosion - soon as he's sent up his makeshift spray he guns it, click-click-click down through gears until he's got the traction he needs, then straight back up the scale once he's built up enough speed.
Twenty minutes later, his pursuers are down to four - but a far more skilled, persistant four. Canyon roads and jumps weren't enough to balk them, and Stocke's out of ammo for everything but sniping; not the most one-handed of activities. He's just peeling through options in his head when he swerves a corner onto the road and -
A wall of chrome and engines, blazing bright and hot in the sun. Stocke screeches across dirt, avoids impact by yards, ends up speeding parallel. Whose territory is this? He's in and out of borders so often, just like he'd been as one of Heiss's, that it takes him a moment. Greed.
Stocke knows the name, knows the reputation. Never met the man, but that makes it easier to make the detached decision - he swerves into the mass, dodging through cars and smoke, blending into the crowd. Goggles and scarf hide his face, and even if he's caught after, he carries enough (he hopes) to buy off a favour - either way, better anyone's mercy but Heiss. and he's out of other roads to take unless he wants to go diving straight back into the arms of the four after him. As for them - it'd be stupid to invoke another warlord's wrath, much as he hears the 'war' part of it isn't really Greed's style. They wouldn't get out alive.
...apparently they're holding on to that idiot ball. They decide he's picked up friends, (a lot of friends) or maybe they've just got twitchy trigger fingers: either way, as soon as they're round the corner and see the Devil's Nest gang, they open fire.
bsbssgs THIS IS AWESOME AHH
Reality is a harsher mistress though and while some have lost their chase, not all are so lucky. Greed briefly sees the Morse code of steel shining through the kicks of sand, sees it coming right towards him like a small fish skirting away from the open mouth of a predator. Whoever it is, they've brought company - towing behind him in an arch that fishtails like some sort of iron, Frankenstein shark. A war machine, the heavy drumming of dogs ready to be let off their chains. The banner that flies is tattered and worn, but the paint isn't too hard to read.
Someone named Heiss, the Sin recalls. And as recollection sets in, he finds that he doesn't care in the slightest. Especially not when the bullets come as their answer.
Sand spews up like a corpse's cough. Spinning across broad tires as a distinct vehicle takes the lead. Similar to an Alpha wolf with a formation in mind, the vehicle screams into view. The front is an elongated point, showing an engine wrapped in various coils, blocks, and springs. The sharp hood angles violently, giving the image of a Mako - it's snout turned down, readying for a quick burst forward. The large cylinder in the center blows with black smoke and the fan tick, tick, ticks as grains of sand bounce between the exposed parts. Only to be incinerated by the engine; swallowed up and spat out from the tail pipe.
Moth-holed fabric whips from one of the windows, parting along side the speckled-black finish. The red dye has long gone pale from sun exposure and in the high-noon sun, it takes on a fleshy look. Similar to old jerky that's been left out to dry for some time. It's then that a smile flashes in the hot, terrible dark. A jackal's grin trying to win all of the Cheshire's favors. A bullet ricochets across off the hood, bouncing with a flurry of sparks that lash away - tossing and turning until finally crushed by the procession of engines that follow.
And dangling out of the driver side window is a shotgun. Sawed off, decorated with chains of silver, coins, and trinkets. But what grips it is black - pure like charcoal and bottomless like oil. A curved nail hovers around the trigger, forcing the barrels up.
It's in those few seconds that time seems to still - as one car passes another. The moment frozen for just one, silent click. Inside his own, Greed's glance takes the look of a empty-socket skull. There's no eyes, not even a glimmer of them. Just that same too-dark pitch, swallowing in perfectly-rounded pieces of glass that steal the light right from the sun's constant beating.
Then the gun goes off and the whole world comes back into focus. Too quickly, too feverishly; a violent whip-lash of sensory overload.
The first blast hits the front of the offending party, putting two bulbous holes into the hood of the war machine. The gun drops just as quickly as it came, the double-barrels popping similar to an arm that's been suddenly broken. Two shells fall into the dust, replaced by another pair with a steady hand. Greed pins his elbow to the steering wheel, using his pace as a guide. His wrist snaps back and the slugs pop back into place. Another round goes off. The second time, he finds a fleshier target and one of the front wheels pops like a bad blister. Ribbons of rubber burst, shredding themselves underneath the under carriage. The war machine screeches, cut-throating itself towards a solid jut of rock.
gently... dusts this off... (if you're still interested in it being dusted off...)
If they meant to kill him and didn't care what happened to them: it'd be almost clever. But Heiss's follow out of no fanatic devotion, only fear of the warlord's far-reaching knowledge and promise of reward; besides, as far as Stocke knows, the man still wants him alive.
Knee-jerk or planned, it doesn't matter. All he can do is try to raise his chances.
Distantly, he hears the shells let loose, the scream of metal into rock; out of the corner of his eye he can tell there's impact, though he wouldn't say he'd seen it. He thinks: if I get out, I'll have to go back and clean up. No guarantee there're no survivors. But the rest of him's in hyperfocus - where, where, there.
Can't just be the one in front retaliating: the rest of the Nest gang have to have joined in by now. But Stocke's paying attention only enough to slide a two-step closer to one of Greed's own, snatch an unused pistol from a holster without as much as a 'borrowing this.' His hand darts out and returns unnoticed like the ghost he's been called and with barely a lean he slants back to his previous position. Then he twists in his seat, checking - loaded? (Loaded.) The recoil's going to be heavier than he's used to firing one-handed, that he can tell. But -
Even knowing it, his first shot goes wide of any of his pursuers. His second's aimed for the chest and hits the throat instead, but that's a shot he'll accept.
He's been tailed by this group for full half an hour, what might as well be an eternity. He knows - the cyclist that was his target rode in tandem with a partner, far too close, and when his bike swerves it tangles the both of them in a scream of metal, a deep furrow of sand and broken pieces. Stocke doesn't wait to watch, just throws his gaze forward for barely a flash to make sure he's still on course, then shoots a third time. This time it's straight and true, and another of Heiss's topples.
His pursuers are heavily outnumbered. It's only a matter of time, and they'll all be mopped up and buried by the sand, so much dead chaff.
And when they are: for a moment, Stocke's almost tempted to try and make a run for it. It'd be monumentally stupid - he's good, but even he's not even close to that good. Even so, the urge is there. Making a break for it; it's a risk either way, staying to see what this warlord'll say about a force of hostiles screeching down on him or running from the midst of his followers, and at least if he guns it it'll feel like he's doing something instead of just waiting for his fate.
Stocke doesn't. Slowly, his hands relax on his handlebar and the pistol; he returns the gun with as quick a whisper as before, then sits straight and calm, cool on sight as the desert rock at midnight. Chilled, unmoving, unconcerned. Maybe his heart's beating fast enough he could almost compare it to the rev of a motor; maybe he's wondering if this time is the time he's not getting out of it, finally run onto a track too sharp for him to take. But he's not saying a word, and the sheen of goggles keeps his expression safe. Confidence, maybe, will buy him time - keep the gang around him from grabbing the interloper straight up instead of waiting for Greed's word. One little pebble in a pit if possible advantages, and you never know when the smallest change will make all the difference.
He keeps pace, and he waits.