Hey all. Here's another for those interested in Del's story. As always, comments are welcome.
-Ski
Bass. Low and throbbing. Cascading across the unwashed masses. As the bassist's solo came to an end in a fading note, a low rumble emerged from the mega PA. The crowd's eyes turned to catch what technical difficulties were plaguing the latest band to make it to the stages of The Cave. Instead of frying electronics, the audience was greeted by a crouching human form, holding a mic to its lips. The bassist's hanging note died, leaving the young man to growl before a sea of eyes. He fell completely to his knees trying to drive all the remaining air from his lungs. His face was beyond red, turning from purple into blue as his death growl rattled the PA. As he fell onto his side, reverb from a pair of guitars crooned from the blackness of the shadows upon the stage. A bass drum mimicked a heartbeat as the young man saw blackness crept into his vision due to oxygen starvation. The bass guitar kicked in again, and as the dissonance reached its climax, the band ripped into another song. The lead singer ceased his growl, stretched his vocal chords to their limit, and inhaled. The shriek that rose out of his mouth was that of dying sewer pig being raped by a SCAF bike in a power dive it could never recover from. He didn't care that he wouldn't be able to talk for the next three weeks. This was the mother load of all gigs and he wasn't going to fuck it up. Vex was in the house tonight, and everyone was going to know it. Or so thought the lead screamer.
The crowd thrashed in time with the music that boiled off of the stage. The Frothers on this level screamed out their clans name as they attempted to take over the "official" mosh pit. Yet even they gave way as the Stormers hit the floor.
She stood at the furthest bar from the stage, but still in same cell of The Cave. The music had drowned out all thoughts so far tonight. Not even so much as a fanged ice cube had assaulted her cocktail of White Noise, alcohol, and death metal. The recent discordant crescendo brought her out of her self-imposed stupor, and the singer's death growl had somehow turned into Jonas McGiver's war cry.
Delidona glanced down to the drink in her hand. She knew better than to mix drink and drugs, but was far beyond caring. There was a wake going on a few floors down and she had been working up the courage to pay her respects for the last four hours. If she kept her current pace, she might be able to pay those respects for Jonas directly to him in whatever afterlife he had believed in.
As the lead guitarist ripped into a lead solo, the memories of the day before came rushing back into the void her cocktail mix had cleared. If she had not have been so blasted tired she could have 'ported him out of harms way. Yet, sleepless nights had claimed her long before that op. Her senses, though sharpened by the impending combat, had been dulled for months by the dream demons that wouldn't stay in her dreams. Her inability to act quickly had ensured the Frother's death. If only she had led the squad as she had on past op.'s instead of following Pug down that damned alley. Or was that just sleep deprivation and alcohol talking?
Del raised the cup to her lips, tilted her head back, and slammed the rest of her drink. She felt the vodka ease it way into her throat and slowly start to burn in her stomach. Sliding the empty glass onto the bar, Del fumbled in her pockets in search of her cred card. An enormous taloned hand slipped past her and slotted a card into the bar in front of her.
Anger swelled within her as someone from behind her violated her space and took HER slot on the bar. Del spun around, ready to deck someone, only to come face to face with an advertisement for a fast food burger bar. It was then she realized that the owner of the offending hand could cave in her chest with a love tap, and that the hand, arm, and connecting shoulder did not have proper skin.
As Del looked up she noticed two sharpened tusks, towering above her, attached to a likewise skinless head. The tusks rotated downward and two enormous, sky blue eyes pierced her soul.
"You wus drinkin' vod ka wit a splash of wata, rite?" asked the Chagrin. Del could only nod as the huge Stormer keyed in the order. A paper crown adorned his head, another advertisement for the same burger joint as the T-shirt. This had earned the Chagrin the nickname: King. And nobody argued the point.
Anyone who was remotely familiar with Karma could have read the serial number under the barcode on his right arm and neck. That serial number would have told the reader that 'King' was the forty-second Chagrin ever produced. But you didn't need that to know who King was. He was something of a saint among Stormers, and an urban legend among other Ops.
King had become impressed with the Frother Clans. He had petitioned a number of them to be given the chance to join a clan. When his offers when met with hideous and uncontrollable laughter, he decided to make his own. A clan of Stormers.
While many Frothers took offence to this, no clan ever moved against him, as he didn't take a tartan, didn't take a name, and didn't challenge anyone for any of the rights of a clan.
"I," King began, "wanted to tank you fo helpin' Roth out when he needed it. He sould be back on his feet tomarra or de day afta."
Del blinked her eyes and shook her head, trying to clear the haze. Looking back up at the giant, she replied, "Roth's a squad mate and friend, no thanks are necessary, big guy."
"No. You helpt kin," said King, talons fishing into his belt. He produced a "business" card, complete with address, and handed it to Del. "You come 'round when he is up and we tank you fo reel." With that the Chagrin reached behind her, grabbed her drink off of the bar, and handed it to her. He then turned around and made his way to the door. It was then that Del noticed the four Malice bodyguards. Not that there was any question that King needed body guards.
Delidona tucked the card into her jacket's breast pocket and nodded. "I'll be there," she yelled toward the retreating Stormers back. Before she could see if she was heard, "Will you?" was whispered into both of her ears. She glanced around, but everyone around her was enjoying the music, or drinking, or both.
The drink fell from her grasp and Del bolted for the same door King had exited. The crowd kept her from reaching the same lift the Chagrin was on, but she got to the tubes as another opened. As the door closed, she spun around and hit the button for level one and slumped onto the side of the lift. As the doors closed, the band whipped up a metal-ized dirge.
The doors opened, and she was out like a shot. Her only clue was the number of tartans. She glanced around and saw that it was not the Well that she stood in, but the Sink-Hole. Del searched franticly and found the McGiver colors. She made a beeline toward them.
**What the hell,** she thought upon sighting Pug in the crowd of McGiver and its sub-clans. **He hated Jonas.** Del headed toward him, surprised that none of the clansmen blocked her way as she invaded their turf. The 'Waster was talking with a few Frothers and seemed in the middle of telling a tall tale. **Well, let's go ruin his lies.**
As she approached Pug, a cold can was pushed into her right hand. Her head twisted to the right and found the culprit. Blue stood, supported by a rather burly Frother, with a grin from ear to ear, and rose-hued cheeks that announced the amount of Slosh he had consumed.
Glancing at the can in her hand, she noticed the favorite flavor of the clans. Del looked toward Blue, who was not on Mort anymore, and noticed a resemblance between the man holding him and her dead squad mate.
The top popped with such ease, and Pug could wait for the punch he desperately deserved. Ignoring the warning bells in her mind and the protesting whispers in her ears, she brought the drink up, saluted the Frother holding Blue, and chugged the Slosh. Jonas would have been proud!
Will McGiver dropped Blue and whooped at the top of his lungs upon seeing the Ebon woman slam the offered drink. It was the second to the last sound Delidona heard that night. She finished the can, managing to wear about half of it and crumpled the can. The can ended up on the floor as she spun on her heal and took two steps toward the lifts. Her legs stopped working then. The last sound she heard was a whispered, "Oh this is gonna hurt," before she hit the floor.
Blackness rose up to engulf her as she fell. Delidona had no idea how long she had been falling, it was only seconds she was sure, but it felt like an eternity.
Again, she was on her knees when she came to. But she wasn't in the Pit anymore. She had never been where she stood, could not tell where she was, yet knew she stood upon hallowed ground. She was so entranced by the wall of light that she missed the thousand or so pair of eyes upon her from all around.
Again a figure stepped out of the light and beckoned. Del stood up and started to speak.
"They will understand," the figure spoke into her mind. "They will mourn you passing, yes, but you are destined for far greater things." His hair was an electric blue flame now, with two tiny black flames dancing up front. The duster he normally wore was a cloak woven from the stuff of midnight that hid his legs from her view.
She noticed a Blitzer on one hip under the cloak, and a sword on the other. Worried, her eyes jumped back to his, only to see mirrors where his eyes should have been. Again, she started to speak.
Again, he cut her off. "Not much, really. Over before you know it." Was he lying? How could she possibly know?
Teserak extended out the uppermost, left arm toward her. His claws retracted as he unfolded his hand, reaching out for her. Unlike so many times these last few months, Delidona did not hesitate. His hand engulfed hers.
____________________________________________ She came to on a gurney in a white, sterile room. Needles pierced the backs of both hands and attached them to IV drips. An Ebon man held her hand to a Sci-Fri box that was located at the foot of her bed.
Del sat up. The man shook his head as if startled out of a dream. He looked at her.
"Where am I?" she asked. "How long have I been here?"
"Don't worry," he replied. "You were dropped off here from the Pit. Seems you had a bit too much to drink. You've been here for sixty three hours."
**Almost three days,** she thought. "I need to go."
"Actually, you need to await until you are cleared to-" Her look cut him off. He had seen it before. Only once, but that one time had been enough. Without further hesitation, he stepped forward and removed the IV's.
"Your APC driver brought you a set of clothes. They're hanging in the closet." He opened the door to her room and paused to take the data pad from his hip. He scribbled franticly upon the pad and jacked it into a socket just outside the door. While closing it he paused and said, "Good luck." Nobody tried to stop her on her way out. Some stared after her in awe, others in terror.
He was waiting for her as she exited the building. Standing by a black APC, dressed as she had always seen him while awake. His blue hair was tied back and the blackness of the duster seemed to twinkle as if the stars themselves hid there in the daytime.
He didn't say a word. A hand drew the rear door of the APC open and another beckoned her. She took yet another hand, and allowed him to assist her into the vehicle. She tried to find a place to sit, but the blackness took her as the door was pulled to. In that blackness, she found the answer to her prayers:
The end.
Or maybe, merely the beginning???
Cogito, ergo meos amicos terreo.
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