New York City, Queens - Abandoned Schoolyard
The one person who came up with the line 'this city never sleeps' certainly hit the first bullseye at defining New York in its entirety. Simply a place where the glistening luminescence of headlights a constant throughout the many numbered venues. It could be argued how he never got used to it, raised at Newport until his early twenties when he ultimately decided to leave it all behind for a better cause: making the world a better place. A country bumpkin such as Drake couldn't halt the skipping beats of an anxious heart, even after so many speeches granted his uneasiness never seemed to diminish, trembling legs and a glimpse of pure astonishment on his wide-open eyes as he gazed those towering edifices belonging to the concrete jungle. Those earlier days were simpler, his objectives were handed to him from beyond, his sight limited by blinders of a prettier world.
Back then he still ran from the rain.
New York, never thought I'd be back here so soon. City looks bad as usual, clogging with lowlifes, even worse ever since powered people started realizing they can use their bullshit to get whatever the fuck they want. Doc said I shouldn't have taken the plane, shouldn't have returned to America so soon, hospital wasn't done with my treatment. He was a good doc, gave me medicine, understood no matter how much he tried to hold me there, I'd be here today. Smart man, world needs more like him. Less like them.
Vultures, that's what they call themselves. A bunch of fucking scum ganging up together, led by god-knows-who, praying on others. Sex, drugs and rock & roll, I've seen the movie before. Hell, I'd be a shitty old-timer if I hadn't. Got here after a lucky shot, interrogated this one member called Hammerfist. Fists don't work on bullets, someone should've told him that. They break easy once you know where to hit, once you remove every sort of pattern from their minds, teach them there's nothing but waiting for death. Tells on his mates without a second thought, thinks it will redeem his past.
Who knows? Maybe God will.
It poured from above like so many other times, seeping placidly through the numerous leaks of the seasoned construction, exerting its immutable rhythm upon meeting the ground below, muffled pitter-patters reverberating underneath the graffiti-sprayed building. Abandoned school, a decent place for illegal negotiations, dealings of varied sorts, slaves, weapons, drugs, it was unsuspecting enough, out of the police's scope and vigilantes' hacking capabilities. No cameras around, at least so it seemed. A few figures remain motionless underneath the trickling rain, soaked but apparently entirely ignorant to the weather. Willingly ignorant, that is. A vehicle approaches the location, light-colored unlike those often darker hues most seem to think criminals prefer.
Doors creak open, revealing the suited men inside, red ties complementing their professional-looking attire. Emotionless visages, immune to any outside interference, only there to show their own guns as a third figure sluggishly rose from the car. Golden locks, now somewhat colorless, curling milimeters away from the shoulder-blades, white coat garnished by the velvety fur of whichever animal had the bad luck of crossing the hunter's path, an equally alabaster pair of pants, complemented by a flashy jewel-encrusted ivory cane. A wooden thud as it reaches the ground, an elderly figure quickly covered by the obsidian umbrella a third security guard promptly offered. They walked towards the trunk, and those previously nonchalant figures flocked together, eyes readying to witness their long-awaited reward.
"Shit, Georgie, check out dis piece, man!"
Five thugs, three trained guards, one shitty mogul. Out of these, eight are probably armed, the three guards being my major issue. Good to see how well the country is faring, I don't know why I expected any major changes in a few years of retirement. They killed me off, put a big statue on wherever the fuck they wanted, said some inspiring words someone half-assed thinking they knew me, thinking they knew how it was out there, and here we are.
Criminals getting armed, people getting fearful and the hero scene looks like one huge reality show.
I'll change that. They'll help me change that.
Trunk open means early Christmas.
One of the kids exclaimmed joyfully, displaying his M4A1 assault rifle as he leisurely stepped away from the group. "Next time out I'll pack some heat on 'em hoes, huh?"
It was a swift change in mentality, a brief period of abruptly realizing that, with such superior firearms, his gang could wipe out their enemies effortlessly. His mind was flooded with imagery of great triumphs, as he erradicated their rivals with a bright smile on his face, rolling in money and women, having a better outlook in life than his upbringing could ever grant him. It was a daring thought, yet getting this equipment was a first step for greatness.
Unfortunately for him, fate was a treacherous mistress who often schemed very distinctly from what we have in mind for our futures.
He couldn't ever see it coming, those creeping shadows protruding their reach towards him as two gloved hand promptly pulled him away. Invincibility was merely a concept crafted by our minds, one that could be exploited and capitalized on, one that led even the most brilliant shady smugglers superciliously overlook rookie mistakes. For instance, selling loaded weaponry to those trustworthy clients of yours. It can only end in catastrophe. The kid tries to react, limbs intermittently flailing, muffled yells covered by the long sleeves of whoever is behind all of this. It's odd, though, no matter how hard he attempted to get free, the only movement that properly worked on his body was his finger disabling gun safety from the rifle.
Security guards took a while to realize where he had gone to, absorbed on the task of safeguarding their hirer, and as they did eventually access the situation, bullets had already lodged profoundly inside their bodies. First the arms, rendering them useless as the assault rifle sprayed projectiles, the captured fool's finger overwhelmed by his captor's own finger, pressed against the trigger as metal punctured bone, tainting the floor with carmine that the rain couldn't possibly wash away. It was a bloodbath, the thunderous roar of a single weapon single-handedly muting the sobs and screams as chunks of flesh were ripped off of those bastards, an overkill, but effective no less.
The mogul endeavored to sneakily crawl back to the car, mumbling whatever under his breath, probably one last prayer or an ancient curse that would ultimately ravage his assailant's next fifteen generations, it was all for naught, however. The once loud firing ceased, the inflexible grip softened as the kid's face was but a mix of fluids now, his legs failed to harness any strength to keep him upright, bending into a pathetic kneeling stance as tears rolled down his rounded cheeks, opening path amidst the turmoil of red painting him partially. There was nothing left of his previous comrades, those who laughed alongside him, and suffered from the same problems as he did back in the day. Those who always had his back regardless of the situation, now lifeless over a puddle of their own internal juices.
He had witnessed it all, every single of them dropping dead now a memory scorched inside those eyes of his.
It wasn't over, that nightmare that torn apart his innards and made him puke obnoxiously at the pavement. The man moved away from him, encompassed by the obscurity of the night, garbing only dark cloth as it was pretty much impracticable to note any particular feature. He lifted their supplier off the ground as if was nothing, hurling him far away with tremendous ease. Boots plop over the soggy schoolyard, a devilish smile surging from his lips as his knee bents above his waist line, rocketing down, thus causing a vicious cracking sound to be heard, an evanescent screech as the last pleas of the old man went unanswered.
It was his turn now, yet his whole body moved as if to aid his survival, unable to rise or even stumble away, one clenched fist mustered enough courage to rapidly reach for the pistol hiding in his pocket. He found it, the flawless plan, the last resort that rekindled the little hope he had, clinging to life until the last minute. A swift motion and it was pointed straight at the mysterious murderer's head, that grin simply not vanishing. The trigger didn't budge an inch. His finger, it wouldn't answer to him, it wouldn't press the goddamn trigger. "Nice try, kid."
His hope morphed into desperation, filling him to the brim as his eyes were fixed on the only memorable characteristic he could spot. Something hidden until now. A white skull, ostensibly smudged onto his black clothes.
For some reason it called for him, almost as death called for each of its targets. The reaper came to collect his soul, that was what went through his mind as his focus was entirely on that vile symbol. Words were uttered inside his mind, senseless and disconnected, incomplete phrases and strident yells, the growls of a vivid battlefield. He averted his gaze, his surroundings completely transformed as the man before him crouched, one hand cautiously placed over his temple. It wasn't New York anymore, he stood amidst a bizarre rainforest, leafless trees all around as the gruesome scent of putrid flesh reached his nose.
It wasn't any forest.
As his eyes roamed around, all he could see were flames consuming living bodies, masked men wielding their ancient hatchets barbarically violating the living, chopping them into nothingness. Carnage. A veracious slaughterhouse.
A hand touches his own,forcing it to point against his forehead. He could see clearly, those unkempt threads of obsidian hair from which beads poured from, those mahogany eyes devoid of anything but wrath and regret, bandages hiding part of his face. That was the bloodthirsty bastard who had his way with them. The man who he had to pledge his life to. "D-don't kill me. I will be bet-" Bang.
A dry thud as the final thug rests dead on the gelid asphalt. "Save it for who wants to hear it."
Drake shrugged, slipping into his hood, hand over the soaked bandages covering his eye. "Fuck..."
He whispered, slowly walking towards the open trunk.
Military-grade equipment. This will have to do for now. All this trouble for a few days worth of gear, I'll be hitting many more Hammerfists this week.
Just gotta make sure they aren't on my trail, even if the current occurrences of enemy gangs attacking each other feels off, I can't leave one. Gotta play their game, mess with their perception of things. Lazy fuckers will be putting in the journal soon enough: "Victims of circumstance or conservative ideals?", a load of bullshit to sugarcoat the fact an armed kid took down his own men and then offed himself.
Media nowadays, these fuckers will get off of anything. Guess I'll have them to thank.
Even if there is something leading them to a dead man, ghost stories surely are out of fashion.