(no subject)
Who: OPEN.
Where: The center of the Igura Battlegrounds.
What: A little drama.
When: Starting in the afternoon and stretching into the evening of April 26th.
Warnings: violence and graphic imagery.
The three gentlemen wore masks, dressed in black, wore no tags, and carried their lengthy, heavy-looking bundle through the battleground. They also had toolkits, relatively large-boxes with translucent tops with all sort of screws and nails and the like inside. They picked no fights, but those that were started with them over their prize (a lengthy black bag, approximately six feet long) were ended quickly and as painlessly as possible. The three gentlemen worked in tandem, the way people only expect teammates-for-life to work. Even the superior speed or special talents of any particular i-jin was unlikely to stand up to their nearly-telepathic level of teamwork. They walked with a single-minded determinedness; they had a task and they would carry it out as soon as possible. None of them had any desire to be here longer then they had to, despite the machinations of their employer.
They paused in their labors and all simultaneously looked up at a building. Perhaps an office in its past life, this building was about six stories tall and shockingly survivable, what with still having almost all of its structure through the CFC/Nikkouden and then White Day bombings. Among the slummy hovels of Igura, it stuck out like a sore thumb. The door had been locked, but the one in front simply kicked it in with one kick of his enormous black boots.
They appeared again on the roof where they placed their bundle down for the first time (sans any fights they may have encountered) and pulled a number of interesting things from their toolboxes. They also, it appeared, had gathered up several pieces of metal from inside the building - long,metal mini-girders of sorts, and supports bent at a 90 degree angle.
Those who would watch them would notice their speed and diligence. They spoke little, with vague mumblings; those with ears sharper than normal might notice Giacomo a topic of discussion, of an ‘event,’ of trips to White Magnolia - nothing particularly shocking. But they warned no one to enter the building at the first floor, and to see anyone on the roof with them was immediate death for that poor fellow.
But slowly, those on the floor around the building would notice some sort of long pole taking shape and sticking out over the open space in front of the building, not unlike a gigantic metal fishing rod ready to catch some shockingly huge flying fish. The only thing it needed, though, was a lure. One of the workers pulled back the heavy wire dangling from the long fishing pole and looked quite busy on top of the building, unzipping the bundle they’d carried so far. No one on the ground would be able to see them work, though, and so there probably all the more surprise when they finally dropped the wire back into the air, all though this time the lure was very attached.
A man, maybe in his mid-thirties, struggled against the noose that held him hovering. It seemed as if he had been tied in a complex, elaborate way; hooks filled parts of his flesh at his hands and feet, so that he could alleviate the pressure at his throat in exchange for tearing bits of skin off. Not only that, but the noose wasn’t simply wrapped around his neck, but an additional cord seemed to disappear down his throat. Eventually, either he would fall or he would be hanged or have his innards pulled out, but it was not up to the gentlemen who had put him there. The man had dark hair and looked ragged and thin, wearing only torn shorts for protection. His hands were bound. He kicked his bare feet as if to get attention, but those who put him there laughed softly at the attempt.
One pulled a megaphone out of his toolbox and turned it on. The voice that came out was mechanical, as if the megaphone meant to specifically change the way he sounds.
“This man,” the mechanical voice said, “has a wealth of tags in his possession. However, there are a number of issues with this. First, obviously, he is very high up, and we will permit no one on this building. In order to get to him, you must find allies which you can then betray for his prize. Secondly, he won’t give them up very easy. You may even have to tear them away from him.”
A pause.
“Go.”
Another laugh, and the men stood, watching.
Where: The center of the Igura Battlegrounds.
What: A little drama.
When: Starting in the afternoon and stretching into the evening of April 26th.
Warnings: violence and graphic imagery.
The three gentlemen wore masks, dressed in black, wore no tags, and carried their lengthy, heavy-looking bundle through the battleground. They also had toolkits, relatively large-boxes with translucent tops with all sort of screws and nails and the like inside. They picked no fights, but those that were started with them over their prize (a lengthy black bag, approximately six feet long) were ended quickly and as painlessly as possible. The three gentlemen worked in tandem, the way people only expect teammates-for-life to work. Even the superior speed or special talents of any particular i-jin was unlikely to stand up to their nearly-telepathic level of teamwork. They walked with a single-minded determinedness; they had a task and they would carry it out as soon as possible. None of them had any desire to be here longer then they had to, despite the machinations of their employer.
They paused in their labors and all simultaneously looked up at a building. Perhaps an office in its past life, this building was about six stories tall and shockingly survivable, what with still having almost all of its structure through the CFC/Nikkouden and then White Day bombings. Among the slummy hovels of Igura, it stuck out like a sore thumb. The door had been locked, but the one in front simply kicked it in with one kick of his enormous black boots.
They appeared again on the roof where they placed their bundle down for the first time (sans any fights they may have encountered) and pulled a number of interesting things from their toolboxes. They also, it appeared, had gathered up several pieces of metal from inside the building - long,metal mini-girders of sorts, and supports bent at a 90 degree angle.
Those who would watch them would notice their speed and diligence. They spoke little, with vague mumblings; those with ears sharper than normal might notice Giacomo a topic of discussion, of an ‘event,’ of trips to White Magnolia - nothing particularly shocking. But they warned no one to enter the building at the first floor, and to see anyone on the roof with them was immediate death for that poor fellow.
But slowly, those on the floor around the building would notice some sort of long pole taking shape and sticking out over the open space in front of the building, not unlike a gigantic metal fishing rod ready to catch some shockingly huge flying fish. The only thing it needed, though, was a lure. One of the workers pulled back the heavy wire dangling from the long fishing pole and looked quite busy on top of the building, unzipping the bundle they’d carried so far. No one on the ground would be able to see them work, though, and so there probably all the more surprise when they finally dropped the wire back into the air, all though this time the lure was very attached.
A man, maybe in his mid-thirties, struggled against the noose that held him hovering. It seemed as if he had been tied in a complex, elaborate way; hooks filled parts of his flesh at his hands and feet, so that he could alleviate the pressure at his throat in exchange for tearing bits of skin off. Not only that, but the noose wasn’t simply wrapped around his neck, but an additional cord seemed to disappear down his throat. Eventually, either he would fall or he would be hanged or have his innards pulled out, but it was not up to the gentlemen who had put him there. The man had dark hair and looked ragged and thin, wearing only torn shorts for protection. His hands were bound. He kicked his bare feet as if to get attention, but those who put him there laughed softly at the attempt.
One pulled a megaphone out of his toolbox and turned it on. The voice that came out was mechanical, as if the megaphone meant to specifically change the way he sounds.
“This man,” the mechanical voice said, “has a wealth of tags in his possession. However, there are a number of issues with this. First, obviously, he is very high up, and we will permit no one on this building. In order to get to him, you must find allies which you can then betray for his prize. Secondly, he won’t give them up very easy. You may even have to tear them away from him.”
A pause.
“Go.”
Another laugh, and the men stood, watching.