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The Wait [Part 1]

Lance Striker's picture
Submission type:

He'd sat himself on the hood of his car, his back resting uncomfortably against the tattered glass windscreen.

He held his rifle across his body, the muzzle protruding above his shoulder from underneath the makeshift poncho he'd thrown together

from the clothing of his bounties.

The sun had barely been up for thirty minutes and already the chassis was almost too hot to touch.

He looked up at the sun through squinted eyes one last time and lowered his head drifting off into a trance.

It wouldn't be long now.



He strode up to the shack, his leather attire groaning and creaking with every step. His gasmask distorted his breathing into a terrifying medley of gutteral whispers.

He stopped before the wooden door and took a moment to compose himself, his rage was boiling inside of him. He snatched at the handle and flung the door open.

The unmistakable sound of glass smashing caught his attention as he stepped under the door-frame, having a little trouble with his considerable height. An old man

shrieked as he caught sight of him and collapsed into a chair clutching at his chest.

   "S-Striker! I heard you were dead!" The old man, cried.

   "He is, but mark my words you fat old bastard, you'll help me finish what he started." The masked man replied, his voice heavily distorted.

The old man looked confused, trying to edge further backwards into the chair as if he could simply disappear into safety among the upholstery.

   "Wh- what? You're too late... he'll be long gone by now."

   "No, no. Nobody just disappears, especially not some loudmouth ape like Hellmane. He -cannot- have that chip, do you understand?"

 The old man scurried out of his chair and behind a well-worn desk, sitting himself in what the masked man thought was a pointlessly ornate chair.

   "Striker, look, whatever you're trying to do... it's madness! He's got the entire clan on his side and you know it, not even you can best that. The last

    time you were h-"

The man interrupted him, leaning across the desk and towering over the quivering, sweaty red-faced elderly man.

   "We've never met, I'm just the unfortunate sack of shit that popped out the cloning tank and has to clean up the mess your buddy Striker couldn't manage."

   "You're a clone? But... how? I... had no idea... so that's what you hide under that mask? I knew you were more than you said, but this! Ha! I should have

    seen this months ago!"

The masked man sighed and pushed himself away from the desk, stopping to examine the crunching glass beneath his boot as the old man rambled on about events past.

He casually walked over to the cabinet where the old man kept his drinks and plucked out a rather elaborate looking decanter of booze, holding it out to his side and letting

it smash across the floor.

   "You're going to help me find Hellmane or I'm going to make you a very desperate drunk."

   "T-that was pre-fall! You can't just smash something like that!"  The old man protested, fluttering and flailing his arms around.

 The masked man mockingly started fingering through a shelf before stopping at the end and sweeping everything off it.

   "Alright, alright, alright! I'll do whatever I can, just leave my babies out of it!"  The old man begged.

   "Good boy. I'll be back in three days, don't disappoint me now, old friend..."


To be continued.



Ramon Cain's picture

(You just don't destroy pre fall booze... That's gonna come back to bite you in the ass man. Good read.)


Madame_Zybella's picture

(( Good read :)  ))

Lost Bride's picture

(( your interrogation technique put Devil to shame. Great work. ))

"There was a girl, a girl named Lost. Her eyes, they were like frost" - from the infernal journal of Zane Gore

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