A Favor for Francis

GM: Simone/Gretchen
Players: Dorian

[ The Run ]
Dorian is asked to help his forger contact Francis with a spur of the moment emergency. Francis needs a tortured KE officer to live in order to be blackmailed, but the cop is in the clutches of a group of thugs who have decided that footage of the officer abusing young orks and being tortured himself before getting snuffed out is a better way of doing things. Dorian cleans up shop, but two of the thugs get away with one of two cameras containing the footage. Francis gets his blackmail material, the cop is extracted alive, but there is some potential for fallout/follwup.


WELCOME TO SUMATRA

The air is thick and heavy, filled with delicious, exotic aromas and the locals are dressed in a kaleidoscope of wild color… Just another tuesday afternoon at Welcome to Sumatra, a cozy little coffee shop tucked into a gentrified corner of South Hampden.

The joygirl that dragged Dorian's protesting ass in here claims, "Buy me a fuckin' caf, and then we can party. It's fucking freezing outside." She pleads and paws, and may very well have just blindsided the elf and dragged him in here for all we know.

She wears some leggings and small, three-inch heeled boots, along with a short jacket that shows midriff over a crop top with reflective, metallic patterns. Her heavily pierced imitation elf ear points protrude from a shock of blonde hair that looks to have multiple days' worth of hairspray holding it out practically horizontal. "Come on, big man, warm me up… And then I'll warm you up…"

Dorian's phone buzzes in his pocket.

Dorian quirks a brow at the random hooker trying to score clients by getting them to buy her coffee, on top of her fees. "Yeah I'll get right on that, you go on inside, I'll join you huh? I got a call." The elf continues walking at that point, mentally switching on the line via the datajack, answering through a robotronic voice thanks to the transduced thoughts. «Amadaeus Cleaning Co., we got mops.»

"Drek, man, shit. My battery's about to die," Francis transmits in a rapid but hushed tone. Ambient sound can be heard through his end of the phone for a few moments before it dies out with the sound of a closing door. "Look, I got drawn into something and could use a hand here, man. I can't—" That mystery door seems to open at Francis' location and he yells, "Gimme some fucking privacy! O-cu-pa-do," he drawls out in shitty Spanish. "Jesus Christ… Look can you meet me…" He offers an address with the promise of making it worth your while, and the sooner you can get there the better. He sounds stressed out, and the moment he repeats the address a second time, (an 'artspace' building in East Ridge, but really more of a home for squatters and pr0nsim productions), his phone dies.

Dorian navigates through his pocsec through the DNI interface, punching in the address into the mapping system. At the same time, he adjusts his tie beneath his scarf and checks the chain on his cloak before crossing the street and making a beeline for his car. And with a vroom vroom, the jaguar peels off to follow the best path indicated by the gridline system in order to avoid traffic, construction and other time consuming things. While the autopilot handles the basic straight lines, he takes the moment to light himself a cig to enjoy on the way over.

Ruby, the down-on-her-luck streetwalker struts after Dorian with a gaudily manicured claw raised over her head in the hopes of beckoning him back. He's too quick for her to pursue, so she ends up shoving her hands into her pockets to begin sullenly prowling for a new trick to turn.

En route to punk rock Francis, however, the vehicle's autonav is forced to take evasive maneuvers due to a careening sedan that sideways-slides through an intersection out of turn thanks to this morning's heavy sleet. The roads are in a sorry state that verges on sheer ice.

The out of control vehicle drifts, sending cascades of slush in arcs through the intersection as it makes a 180 degree turn and rear-ends its way up onto a curb. Pedestrians are scattering and other drivers make wavering sudden stops at all points of the intersection to the best of their ability. Not all of the sidewalkers make it out of the way in time, and the rear bumper collides with the knees of a twenty-something couple, who are then battered down onto the trunk due to the momentum until the car skids to a final stop. The two bodies slide from the back end of the car onto the pavement and the driver seems to lie limp against an expanded air bag.

Just as Dorian was about to ash his cigarette, he sees the car come-a-spinnin' from the corner of his vision, his brain immediately kicking into high gear as he both switches on the manual controls and grips the wheel to give it a small side jerk. Downshifting the gears to gain that compression from the engine rather than using the break in order to slow down without losing control, the moment the immediate danger is cleared, he jerks the steering back into the proper direction and floors it to gain his instant traction and straighten himself on the street. "Fucking amateurs.." He then looks at his cigarette, the ash clump having fallen to the carpet of his car, and a frown crosses his features. "If he ain't dead, I'm going back there to make sure he is…"

Onlookers start to gather around the crash, everyone calling a friend or snapping photos. There might be a good samaritan or two who check for vital signs, but they're lost in the hubbub as news of the incident hits ten, then twenty, then forty, eighty social media sites in the blink of an eye. If the authorities or medical services have been alerted, they're still a long time out.

A good samaritan he is not, especially when alone and having nothing to prove to anyone, so Dorian let's the wageslave crowds handle it until the emergencies get there one day or another. And so for now, he keeps course to meet up with Francis in his shoddy porn neighborhood, mentally thanking having his precious gun with him, and a few goodies in the smuggling compartment in his car. There's always a detour if possible to pick up the bulk of things. But for now! Let's see what the Misfit fan has in mind.

Francis' directions lead to a rundown area just west of the Aurora perimeter where there's more rust strung up between fence posts than chain link. It's an ex-industrial area, all squat plasticrete buildings butting up against each other, surrounded by open lots, and the particular place in question has a small parking lot compared to many of the others in the area that lies mostly beneath a bit of Warrens-skirting overpass. In the shadow cast by the streets above, a number of vehicles are gathered, but unoccupied, including two beat up vans, a decent looking Americar and some economy tri-wheelers for the budget-conscious wageslave on the go! Graffiti radiates out across the neighborhood, as it does anywhere without a major rentacop presence, and if not for the layer of slushy brown ice froth on the ground, years worth of refuse and paper trash would be drifting in the breeze coming down off the Rockies.

"Quaint neighborhood Francis.. This is more snuff film than porn film." Dorian parks himself in the parking lot, reaching beneath the seat to pull out his Ares Predator III, with the camera /really/ focusing on the Ares Predator III for marketing purposes. "The Pred III, it kills every fraggin' time." Along with the slogan as he holsters it in it's concealable stash beneath his dress jacket. He adjusts his gloves then finally gets out the car, locking it and turning on the electro-shock system as well. With that, he proceeds for the address on foot, knocking/ringing/singing/dancing to get in.

A tap-tap-tapping comes from one of the windows set high in the wall of the squat structure. It appears from the outside to be a warehouse, with large, rolling bay doors near a loading dock on one side, and it would be safe to assume the lion's share of the interior would be an open area with small offices tucked into the corners and surrounding walkways overlooking the main floor.

Francis is visible up in that window looking punk as fuck and in a major hurry as he hastily points down to a ground floor entrance - a battered metal door with stickers and tags scrawled across it. In mere moments the forger shoulders open the door and grips the edge, peering one side, then the other as he beckons Dorian in. "Look man, this whole thing is going south, fast…" He begins to relate what he understands the circumstances to be while leading the way through dingy hallways with flickering fluourescents and just as much graffiti as the exterior.

"Then you better get to detailing it quick." Dorian retorts once he's let in through the door, following along casually with the punk rocker through his tagged shangrila of squatting. "Clocks ticking, and I wanna grab a slice at Montoni's before it closes, so we're both on a timer huh?"

The gist of the story is as follows: Francis got tipped off about a little blackmail operation on a particular Knight Errant. He signed on in the hopes of getting a good in with the mark, maybe leading to some new connections, or at least a quick payday by getting the cop's private info out of him. The other people he's working with are going full-on dark, and have the officer drugged and taking part in… compromising situations for a little makeshift trid crew, but they all speak Spanish, and the cop may or may not be slowly dying in the other room.

"…I can barely understand these motherfuckers, and I just need some help cleaning up this mess. And if he dies, I get no leverage, these eses are probably gonna go ballistic, and…" Francis' forehead is beading with sweat as he rambles and sidles up to the door leading into the warehouse with a horizontal push bar. "If you can help me keep the fucker alive, we might have enough footy to get some cred out of him." He leans against the door, depressing the latch, which opens onto what looks to be the set of a snuff film. There's a matress in one corner with lights on tripods and a pair of cameras. A naked body is tied and laid out, and half a dozen latinos are on edge, in each others' faces while three young orks cower nearby, two girls and a boy, all looking fairly traumatized.

"So other than the cop.. Who's important alive in there." Dorian looks towards the young punk rocker as he follows him along, jotting down some mental notes in the process. As the door opens to reveal the very romantic set and a bunch of joyful consenting adults, the elf begins drinking in the details of everything laid out before him. Doing some mental calculations, recalling the way out looking about to gauge the distant of a jump if required, and all these little details that come in handy. "Just say which." He adds to Francis as they're now in ear shot of the group. "Hola, pendejos." He waves a hand to the group, wide smile, and fluent spanish. "'What's the problem, eses?'"

One of the guys turns, revealing a Colt Manhunter he's apparently been wielding for some time, and upon seeing Dorian's arrival, he tugs what was seemingly a beanie down over his face to reveal that it was a ski mask the whole time. Twist! "This ya boy, Danzig?" He begins to masked-maddog toward Francis and Dorian gripping his weapon tight but using it more as a pointer to gesture with than aiming it directly at anyone in particular. Two of the Mexicans drift off to the side and check their respective cameras as the cop's body convulses, hogtied and seemingly unconscious. Gotta get the last few breaths if this truly is going to be a proper snuff trid. In Spanish, the masked marauder orders two of the gangers to "not let the pig out of here alive," but the final man protests violently, shoving the alpha.

Meanwhile, Punk Francis' only real reply is that the cop, still breathing, is his intended meal ticket for the next couple months.

"So none of them.." Is Dorian's answer to Francis' lack of mentioning anyone else but the cop, the trigger happy ganger waving his gun around like he doesn't know how to use it, and the cop only having a few moments remaining on his breath, Dorian immediately releases the trigger on his wired reflexes, going into twitch mode. With the situation analysed, his hand quickly moves for his jacket, pulling out the Ares Predator III and aiming it straight for Alpha's dome, popping off a shot that causes the explosive round to blow out his cheek, while the gun switches targets to the next guy and pulls off another shot that lands right in between his eyes and blows the bridge of his nose. Of course, as he's shooting, he's moving behind the door frame to catch himself some cover from the rest of the crew. "Anyone else a wise guy in there?"

As though in slow motion, Francis' hands begin to rise to cover his pale, forelocked mug, his matching black leather bracers crossing at the wrists in a vain attempt to avoid taking fire by the power of 'out of sight, out of mind.' He's not being cowardly (unless that's his way, which is fine), but gunfire tends to make people react.

Dorian peeks from his corner, gun raised towards one of the guys who looks a little more prepared and less bleeding than the others, he initially wants to go for a similar wound he unleashed on his brother and Alpha dog, but sometimes ExEx has a mind of it's own. The twin shots fire off in rapid succession, the gun's recoil completely held back by years of experience.

«12»
«11»

The ammo counter in his eye reticule displaying the number of shots he has to play with until it comes reloading time. Though the outcomes were looking somewhat positive so far, especially as the twin shots blew through the armored plating of Santiago's vest and took a portion of his rib cage along with it. "So how you guys holding up? How about you all lay down on the ground face first, hands above your head, and you can stop dying."

Pusherman scrambles, following through with his shove that tilts the now nearly braindead Alpha and sets him teetering. Pusher's hands hit the concrete floor as he begins to make forward momentum, and one hand whips an uzi from his waistband. A spray of muzzle fire silhouettes Alpha for a brief moment as Pusher slings a few bullets Dorian's way with a distinctive BRAAAAAAAAP, then he slides out of sight behind a stack of cardboard boxes that support a sheet of corrugated siding.

Dorian says "I'll take that for a no, got it."

Pusher calls out from his perceived safety in Spanish, "I ain't drop my weapon for no muthafucker step up on the scene and start blastin'!"

Alpha can barely function from the trauma, drunkenly staggering to the side thanks to Pusherman's guidance as he pops off a pair of shots without being able to aim. Burst eyeballs aren't so great for trying to shoot straight it turns out.

Braindead even before Dorian entered the room, some would say, Lenny backpedals on knees that are on the verge of collapsing. He begins to scream and collapses back into the pile of young, abused tuskers, gushing blood from the center of his fucking face, it's disgusting. He can't control his sinus functions and drools while snot pours from his nostrils in thin lines blackened with his lifeblood. He manages to draw a pistol though, and shoves it into the ear of one of the girls in a torn shirt and skirt with only one shoe on. He's mostly collapsed now, and needs his free hand to support his wait on the concrete floor as he tries to scoot behind the ork. The other two cower for fear of invoking anyone's wrath, hands over their heads. "I die theyalldie!" He manages to cry out, or sputter en Espanol.

The two cameramen begin to bolt, making sure to snag one of the cameras on the way. The one who abandoned his camera draws a pistol but they both retreat together into a doorway opposite Dorian and Francis. They rapid-fire yell back and forth in the process, just one telling the other to cover them, basically. And the response is essentially, "You fucking do it!"

Francis does what he was set out in doing, take cover behind the wall as guns start popping off, his arms bracing protectively as the plasticrete splatters about the door with the missed automatic fire from Pusherman, and the heavy caliber bullets from Alpha's manhunter.

The orks, having been through hell already today, and probably their whole lives up to this point for that matter, are too fearful to move more than what it takes to shrink even lower into defensive postures. With one of their own being taken hostage by Arseface, they don't dare do anything that might turn his fucked up eyes on them instead of Erica.

"Si muero, todos vienen conmigo," Lenny manages to sputter…

Dorian pokes the gun around the corner of the door frame again, the sputtering Alpha getting some pity from him and the elf decides to put him out his misery right then and there. The guy blabbering his mouth in the back gets tagged right in the arm as he's threatening to blow the girl's brains out. "Alright listen muchachos. I really wanna go grab a pizza. So drop your shits and lay down, or I keep braining you guys one by one. The choice is pretty simple in my opinion."

Metal rasps on concrete from Pusherman's fortress of solitude as his weapon skitters out across the floor. He doesn't rise, but he calls out angrily, "The fuck you want?"

He mutters to himself, "KNEW we should'na fucked around with no punk ass Francis bullshit!"

"Hey far as I'm concerned, you got yourselves a pretty realistic, and unique snuff film. The likes of which no one has ever seen. Imagine that shit man, killers going hard on some tied up fucker, guy shows up and goes apeshit on them in the back ground. All you hear is the shots and the blood splattering everywhere. And his punk ass threatening to blow out a SINless' brain like it means something." Dorian looks at his pistol. "So. Lay your shit down. Kick it over. I go in and grab what I want, and you get to breathe and have your film."

Pusher's hands slowly appear above the junk pile. "Hold your fuckin' fire, then, damn." He begins to rise, then ever so slowly raises his light grey sweatshirt to show his tank top underneath, and another weapon in his waistband, just a throwaway handgun. "Aight, omae?" He slowly reaches for the pistol…

But pulls it non-aggressively, letting it dangle. It gets tossed over near the uzi with a clatter of hard plastic and metal.

He starts to turn his back to Dorian's door, still holding his shirt up. He has a trenchknife, a big bowie blade with a brass knuckle hilt.

The knife is slowly pulled, then tossed, making a sharp ping against the warehouse floor as it lands near the guns.

"Alright alright, chill just like for now. What about home boy over there? Why don't you talk some sense into him. Facial reconstruction is cheaper than no life insurance and a funeral to pay for his the rest of his family." Dorian gives a little peek, just enough, though still ready to pop his banger like it ain't no thang.

He tries to lift up one of his feet high, to show a holdout strapped to his ankle. Easily visible next to his probation tracking monitor thanks to cargo shorts and crisp white socks. He stumbles slightly, but remains upright.

Dorian says "…Jesus christ man, you're packing for fifteen guys."

"You think /I/ trust these motherfuckers? Gotta watch my back twenty-four seven. Sleep wi' one eye open an' shit."

Lenny rages, meanwhile, shaking and sputtering and slowly losing consciousness in direct proportion to the amount of bodily fluids lost, and now decorating his hostage.

The cop doesn't seem any worse for the gunfight, but he hasn't reacted in the slightest, remaining perfectly still throughout the very one-sided firefight.

"Yo homeboy, crank it down a notch. Drop that gun, get something to squeeze on that wound. I mean I don't really wanna have to shoot you, but I wouldn't mind, you know?" Dorian peeks the corner again, gun pointed in defense just in case someone wants to get wise.

Lenny takes the opportunity of a lifetime and swings his pistol roughly in Dorian's direction at that. "Grraeeeeeeeghhh!" He fury-gurgles in a high-pitched screech.

The ork children take the opportunity to collapse to the ground fully, doing their best sheet of paper imitations, though they sob their guttural, tusky sobs which sort of ruins the illusion a bit.

"Good job guys.. Knew you had some brains." Dorian nods as he rounds the corner once all is still and quiet, save for Lenny who is having a hell of a hard time. "But you're totally fucking amateur cunts." The gun is raised first towards the back of Pusherman's hand, the aiming reticule in his eye display homing in directly at the vertebrae that connects the spine to the skull. The Ex Ex round does the rest, separating head from body and burying itself deep into his cerebrum before detonation with the utmost satisfaction.

Graeeggh is next, the gun trained rapidly to the next Snuff Asshole, and the dead center shot in his chest is enough to put him out of his misery finally, but also leave a nice open chest cavity for the Orks to dream about for the days to come. Fear the elves, tuskers. The worse? There's a smile on his face, and he's actually laughing while walking over to check on the policeman. "Did he really just Graaeeaghghghg at the end?" Dorian makes a morbid imitation, laughing some more. "Oohh shit.. That was good.. "

As Dorian passes, a final, moist gurgle escapes from stubborn Lenny's mutilated lips, his dying breath barely audible. ~Grrrrreeeeaaaaggghhhhh…~

Dorian says "Just like that!"

Is Francis pleased at the outcome? Mortified? Nervously unable to shut the fuck up, or struck utterly speechless? Only one neo-nineties protopunk knows for sure!

"Holyjesusfuck, let's try to get this son of a bitch," He pauses to turn toward Lenny for a split second, then shakes his head as if hearing things that aren't there. "These fucking kids. Get the fuck out of here, and don't say shit about shit!" He jabs a finger at them and aims it toward the door. "The fuck out!" He then turns to join Dorian as the children slowly begin to rise, shaking, then bolt in sheer terror as fast as their patchy-skinned, hairy feet will carry them.

"Let's see if this fucker is even alive enough to dump somewhere where he won't just die of exposure…"

"Go grab the other camera, that's the leverage you wanted right? And I'm checking if he's alive right now.. Might have to do some quick patching up depending how bad they went to town on him.." Dorian looks over the policeman slowly, gesturing off to the side with one arm towards the camera while the other hand is slowly checking vitals and general state of his body.

Francis hustles over to the remaining camera tripod and flips out a view screen from the side of the camcorder as he pulls it from its mount. "Holy shit, man…" He doesn't seem all that into the director's vision, whatever that may have been. "Yeah, there's…" He seems pretty truly disgusted but can't tear his eyes away - he needs to know what this sort of footage might be worth to officer Trogbottom over here. "There's enough to work with…" He subconsciously shakes his head, the light from the little screen illuminating his features in the darkness, exaggerating the disgust through elongated shadows and flashes.

Dorian starts with the basics, cutting the policeman loose so the blood can circulate in his body, which he will need, because out of a metallic cigarette case, the elf shuffles through the color coordinated slap patches, pulling out an Antidote one and removing the pelicule before applying it to the Policeman's neck, to make sure it enters through the main vein and gets to circulating quick through the body. "Keep an eye on him, grab drekhead's gun in case, and I'll go see if I can find a med kit. Unless you're cool leaving him like that."

Francis inquires about the slap patch. "What'd you give him?" He cautiously reaches out one booted foot and gives the cop a swift kick to the sole of one bare foot. The foot reacts -ish… A few of the toes curl slightly. "Whatever. Fuck it. If he dies, his widow would probably pay double what I was hoping for to not have me release this to News62." He looks around suspiciously all of a sudden. "Let's just… You just help me get this fat fuck into my van outside and we'll call it done. I don't want to hang around any longer than we have to in case those other fucks come running back with thirty of their fucking cousins."

Francis does dart over to pick up the nearest weapon, but it's Lenny's. And it's covered in puddles of gore. He zags over to Pusherman's arsenal and grabs the uzi, hefting it with some amount of approval.

"Sounds fine by me, party favor is in the car. Should've told me this was live on set, I would've brought it to begin with. …Then again we not've had the Graeeghh." Dorian waggles a finger towards Lenny before potato-sacking the cop over one shoulder. "I gave him an antidote patch. Should help fight the drugs so he doesn't croak on us on the way out." Pistol in his free hand, Dorian makes his way for the outside of things. "Let's go."

"Looks like we're in the clear, let's go." Dorian nudges his head in direction of Francis' van, hauling Mr. Pasty over so he can be dumped and things be handled through and through. "Give me the names of the crew that was there. I'm gonna tie up some loose ends on that regard. Or if you know about those two camera guys more personally, that's even better."

Depositing the body is simple enough, with Francis acting as spotter at the door before moving out to unlock the back door of his GMC. There's ample space to dump the officer, and he shoves one of the man's bare feet further in to not let it be caught in the doors. <Chunk> And the locks snap back into place. "Fuuuuck," he sighs, a little out of sorts, a little out of his element. As for Dorian's questions, he folds his arms against the winter chill and nods. "I know where they chill at least. Poolhall on Renton and Sandusky. I had to meet a few of their crew to get this thing set up, but those maniacal fuckers in there took it waaaay further than I thought it would get. Some sick shit…" He rakes a hand through his hair then tugs at his retro Misfits forelock and rotates the wide leather bands he wears around both wrists. "Hey look, you saved my ass, this pigfucker's too." He plants one of his boots against the bumper of his van as though vicariously stomping on the Knight Errant passed out within. He passes over a credstick as he looks over his shoulders. "If you end up heading to that poolhall, hit me up. I want to know about it."

"I'll see if I'm in the mood for some pool, but first, I have a pizza to go eat." Dorian takes the credstick and slips it into his jacket's pocket. "Stay out of trouble kid, don't fuck with no snuff biz, cuz that's what happens to ya one way or another." He jerks a thumb back to the warehouse, likely indicating the quad of dead bodies left there. "Stick to your usual shit, you're good at it." And with that, the elf makes way for his Jag, so he too may take off and change paint/plates on the way.

Francis hurriedly climbs into the driver's seat of his van and gets it rumbling before cruising out with nothing more than a nod. He has some evidence to stash and a body to place in a compromising situation before the drugs wear off…

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