Friday, November 10, 2017

Pandora's Playground 11

Expectations fell apart as Deathgrind peered around the still inside of the van. The doors had not closed; the engine had not roared in a hasty escape. On the floor in front of him laid an empty cot. Standing around him were three of the four gunners, each holding a sleek European style rifle trained on the apartment building. A doctor sat in the back with a medical potpourri at the ready. Nobody moved. A stern, soft voice spoke over the communicator in his ear.

"Leave her," more than suggesting, Dechs reasoned, "We need to get a captive out of this and the distraction will help my team get her back safely."

It took Deathgrind a full second to decide whether to comply. The logic was sound enough. Whatever the chances of a clean escape, engaging in pursuit would improve them. The enemy would be forced into playing defense and splitting their attention. Not in any position to argue, he set Marie's body down on the cot with gentle hands. The doctor had checked her vitals and started hooking up an intravenous saline drip before Deathgrind had even released her. With a hop backwards, he was back on the street. The van raced off as the doors closed.

Tuesday, October 3, 2017

Pandora's Playground 10

"Elaborate." Deathgrind spoke without panic as he darted to his armor.

"We think it's the mystery organization. At least eight operatives involved. I'm prepping a team with intent to capture." Cooper explained, "Meet us on the forty-fifth floor. We leave from there in forty minutes."

"Unacceptable," Deathgrind replied, already in two thirds of his armor, "I am going direct."

"There's no reason to rush. They're after you, not your stuff," Cooper assured him, "I called in off duty replacements, but I can't thin the hospital staff before they get here."

"I must retrieve something immediately." Deathgrind insisted, exiting the forge at a run. He got to the elevators to find one open, waiting for him.

"Y'know, Dechs had mentioned you might say that," her coy tone covered the annoyance with her boss, "We're holding elevators for you. I'll tell you as much as I can on the way."

"Thank you." The elevators doors closed, "What am I up against?"

Wednesday, September 6, 2017

Pandora's Playground 9

An enormous plume of steam billowed out as Deathgrind plunged the three foot length of glowing metal into a barrel of water. The equipment Dechs provided was phenomenal; to be ready for heat treatment after only three days was testament to that. The folding alone would have taken a week by hand, but Deathgrind had done at least four folds in a morning with the power hammer crushing the task. Now cool and well hardened, he pulled the slender piece out and laid it across the anvil for inspection. Straight and flawless, as expected. In fact, this may be his finest work yet.

Now came the most delicate part of the process and the second secret to Deathgrind's alloy. Getting the composition right was no easy task, but if the metal was not tempered precisely so, the product would fail. Thrusting it back into the forge and moving it around, he gave the metal a gradual and even heat along its entirety. This particular alloy required a high temperature that would reduce the toughness in any other material. Anything less and the internal stresses would tear it apart over time. As soon as the metal turned the right color, he removed it for one final inspection.

Wednesday, April 26, 2017

Pandora's Playground 8

"Restricted floor access, forty-fifth floor," announced the familiar pleasant voice as Deathgrind stepped into the second sea of security officers on his way to the party. He had expected this layer to be less accommodating than the first, but again, scanning his credentials was enough. The guard motioned to elevators on the other side of the room.

"Enjoy the party," she finished the sentence uncertain, then asked, "Would ... you like me to check your cape?"

Deathgrind chuckled, then replied in as polite a tone as his voice changer would allow, "No, thank you, ma'am."

The cape was an integral part of his ensemble for the evening; it hung in what he believed to be a timeless fashion over both of his shoulders, to say nothing of its tactical value. The armor he wore was a minimalist version of his usual, designed to be sleek, stylish and comfortable. Although armored plates still covered his most vital areas, few were visible. Those showing were diminutive, with swept shapes and gold etchings. His sturdy metallic gauntlets were replaced by supple black leather gloves; rather than a helmet, a tight cloth mask crowned with a velvet top hat hid his identity. Confident that his guise would outclass everyone in attendance, Deathgrind resumed his swagger across the room.

Thursday, February 16, 2017

Pandora's Playground 7

The huge man snorted as he was wrenched from his dreams by a noise he was not yet awake enough to identify. Stretching his neck, he could feel a glob of snot that bridged all the way to his no longer white tank top. He failed to wipe it off twice before remembering that he had to do that with his left hand. Everything had to be done with his left hand, now. He looked around for any furniture he could reach, but resigned himself to clean his hand by way of his jeans again. The noise came again; it was a rapid succession of knocks on the door.

"Gimmie a minute!" he shouted, pushing forward on the stick controlling his wheelchair. It groaned forward; the motor was not made for as much weight as it had to carry. Halfway to the door, his right leg, held stiff and straight out by a brace, brushed a pizza box off of a table. The hardened, leftover slices spilled out next to a pile of crumpled beer cans. The rattling of the cans urged him to reach for the bottle of pain pills he kept on that table. He popped a few into his mouth and chewed. It was too early for this shit.

The door rattled against the frame when it was assaulted this time. An agitated voice yelled from the other side, "C'mon! Two more deliveries after this. I ain't got all day!"

Monday, April 25, 2016

Pandora's Playground 6

Despair fell heavy on Dechs when he realized the situation he was in. He already had over two hundred thousand tied up in the pot, most of it was trying to scare his opponent out of the hand at the turn. There was no need to look at his cards, but he did anyway, reminding himself he should have just folded the suited eight-ten. It was a decent hand, but something about this hand had always brought the worst kind of luck. Why should today have been different? Yes, he had the high straight on the table, but the river was a third heart and that bastard across the table had the flush. Maybe.

The dealer tonight was less attractive than the one he remembered seeing last week; the impatient scowl she tried to hide was not doing her any favors. Ten people had taken seats in the private room nearly three hours ago; another five minutes would not make a difference. Of the eight players who had already run out of luck, Dechs had finished off three himself, along with four glasses of a delicious Laphroaig quarter cask the casino was happy to provide. Unfortunately, all three conquests were the current short stack, failing to secure a chip lead against his final opponent. That opponent sat motionless, save for the flipping of a chip over and again between his spindly blotched fingers. Every so often, the chip would make a distinct clink as it struck past the gold Masonic ring, a sound which somehow broke its owner's composure. Each noise let confidence leak out as the slightest twitch of a smile, barely noticeable within all the wrinkles of his face. That meant the flush for sure. Damn it, there was no easy way out of this.

"All in." Dechs pushed his chips forward and spoke devoid of emotion.

Wednesday, April 13, 2016

Pandora's Playground 5

Out of the twenty windows along the outside wall of the motel, only five did not have sections boarded up or cracked. Two cars were in the parking lot, the better of which was missing one of its rear wheels. The street corner to the left was home to a pair of working girls, the other to a degenerate selling an assortment of powders in plastic baggies. The street itself was littered with glass bottles, syringes and cigarette butts, among other sorts of refuse. Gang graffiti decorated more nearby buildings than not. Despite all this, the motel remained in business, most likely attributed to the proprietor, whom Deathgrind had noted as more than capable of defending his territory. He further noticed that the rates were reasonable, even including the 'no questions asked' charge. This would be a delightful spot to perform the interrogation.

Deathgrind carried the psychic up to the second floor, still unconscious and over his right shoulder. Slung across his back, under his cape, was his most familiar weapon, a two handed axe made from the same alloy as his armor. The semicircle blade, almost two feet from heel to toe, protruded over his left shoulder. The cheek bore ornate etchings, but the blade itself was the true work of art. A trained eye would see how the metal had been folded over itself time and again while it was being forged, resulting in an edge far more keen and strong than could be produced by any other method. The end of the haft hung by his right knee, only visible from the front or when the cape fluttered just so.

Upon entering the room, Deathgrind first found a sturdy wooden armchair into which he half tossed the psychic. Kneeling next to the chair, he wrapped several layers of duct tape around each wrist and ankle of his prisoner. There came a stir and a groan, then a sudden jerking, as the psychic awoke and gazed about the room. He found it frightening enough with the poor lighting, brown-red stains on the floor and a couple spent shell casings, never mind the behemoth who was just now leaning his axe against a wall in plain view. There were a few discarded bondage toys that gave the room a sort of dungeon feel, but the axe was the crowning piece of intimidation. That was all the time he had to observe before an electric shock caused him to shudder violently.