Main Street Millieux, Night
The streets were empty. El Pistolero had made the cartels see to that.
Even that pesky sheriff had been redirected. Too much trouble that one. Too much law and order and too good at his job.
Redirect his attention, redirect where they should go. An easy task in this place. This warzone.
It was very much like hell. And it was very much how El Pistolero liked it.
El stood in front of him, black guitar case in one hand, staring across the field.
Mirror images. One in black, one in red. Each with a guitar case in hand.
El stared hard at his mirror image.
The dark part of him that he despised.
Theoretically there are five stages to grief. At some point, all the grief El went through had him stuck in depression.
All the grief El Pistolero went through got stuck in anger.
And anger turned in on itself, and became joy in slaughter.
The gunshots were a drumbeat.
A drumbeat of war.
Da-da-da-DA.
Da-da-da-DA.
El Pistloero grinned.
El Mariachi remained quiet, staring at him.
The cartel gunmen shifted nervously, afraid of what might come.
Then it dropped, and they dashed and the danced and they fired.
It's difficult to describe, there aren't really words for it.
All that's to be said that it was voilence as an art form, combat as a dance, gunfire as music.
And then...
Then things went wrong.
No one was sure what happened first, but the cartel gunmen missed something. Gunem from another gang, gunmen from another world, soldiers, police, who knows?
Borders were crossed. What passed for a wall went down.
And El Pistolero got caught back, lost in the crowd. His quarry gone.
And then the smoke cleared.
Innocents had wandered in. Innocents had been caught in the cross fired. And a hero had suffered, trying to keep them out.
The innocents had been pushed into the safety of a tea house. The gunmen had suffered for their actions.
Suffered greatly.
They were to suffer more.
With a roar of rage, a roar of anguish and pain the likes of which we humans we can't understand, a pair of guns appeared in El Pistolero's hands.
And the dance became a massacre. A solo act that had not been seen on this Earth since the days of the Crusades.
And during it all, El picked himself up and limped into the night.
[[OOC: Not for IC interaction. Place is basically a slaughterhouse anyway. OOC comments are fine, though.]]
Even that pesky sheriff had been redirected. Too much trouble that one. Too much law and order and too good at his job.
Redirect his attention, redirect where they should go. An easy task in this place. This warzone.
It was very much like hell. And it was very much how El Pistolero liked it.
El stood in front of him, black guitar case in one hand, staring across the field.
Mirror images. One in black, one in red. Each with a guitar case in hand.
El stared hard at his mirror image.
The dark part of him that he despised.
Theoretically there are five stages to grief. At some point, all the grief El went through had him stuck in depression.
All the grief El Pistolero went through got stuck in anger.
And anger turned in on itself, and became joy in slaughter.
The gunshots were a drumbeat.
A drumbeat of war.
Da-da-da-DA.
Da-da-da-DA.
El Pistloero grinned.
El Mariachi remained quiet, staring at him.
The cartel gunmen shifted nervously, afraid of what might come.
Then it dropped, and they dashed and the danced and they fired.
It's difficult to describe, there aren't really words for it.
All that's to be said that it was voilence as an art form, combat as a dance, gunfire as music.
And then...
Then things went wrong.
No one was sure what happened first, but the cartel gunmen missed something. Gunem from another gang, gunmen from another world, soldiers, police, who knows?
Borders were crossed. What passed for a wall went down.
And El Pistolero got caught back, lost in the crowd. His quarry gone.
And then the smoke cleared.
Innocents had wandered in. Innocents had been caught in the cross fired. And a hero had suffered, trying to keep them out.
The innocents had been pushed into the safety of a tea house. The gunmen had suffered for their actions.
Suffered greatly.
They were to suffer more.
With a roar of rage, a roar of anguish and pain the likes of which we humans we can't understand, a pair of guns appeared in El Pistolero's hands.
And the dance became a massacre. A solo act that had not been seen on this Earth since the days of the Crusades.
And during it all, El picked himself up and limped into the night.
[[OOC: Not for IC interaction. Place is basically a slaughterhouse anyway. OOC comments are fine, though.]]