Dirty Tales - Episode 1

= Dirty Tales =
  Episode 1

Cast: Bushwhacker, Rhino, Nader, Sparks, Stoker
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Standing in the middle of the street, he flicked his light and took a drag of his cigarette. Down the road, lined by the deserted residential buildings, a white and neongreen barricade blocked the path. Some adventurous looter had sprayed a rather derogatory image, sign of some gang or another, across it. His story took a turn for the worse, when the following sentence was cut off mid-letter. The blood splatter told the end of the short tale. Spitting to the side, he rolled his shoulders, shifted the weight of his collapsed turret around and looked behind him.

"Smoking is nonbeneficial to your health, you know?", his tall and mask-clad companion added insightful.
"Thanks, Stoker. Appreciate ya lookin' out for me. Wouldn't have known without ya," he responded drily.
With her usually sharp pronounciation, the other merc interrupted their chat. "I would prefer if zee gentlemen could keep their eyes on ze road und windows, please." - "Sure thing, bosslady. Now, how's that map coming along?"

The lumbering presence of Rhino shifted, resting the enormous General Electrics minigun on his shoulder for the time being. Instead of joining in the idle chatter, he merely grunted and watched the distance they had already covered. From beneath his shadow, a skinny figure emerged, striding gracefully towards the middle of the street. Every step a well-calculated whisper, the woman raised her eyes and took in the scene, then nodded slowly. She brushed her white hair to the side.

Map in one hand, she pointed onwards. "Comrades, about three hundred metres forwards, then ve should find a maintenance hatch to the subway. From zere, it is only another 2 kilometres and ve will come out just below our target area." The wind blew some sun-bleached leaflets past and tossle her platinum hair.

A quick glance into the group, a resemblance of agreement, and they set back into motion. Rhino at the rear, Sparks in the middle, with Nader, Bushwacker and Stoker fanning out at the front. The rustle and muted clattering of gear, steps on cobble stone and sidewalks, ignoring litter and discarded objects, they made their way forwards. Bushwacker took another drag of his smoke, stuck it into the corner of his mouth and checked his gun, again. Force of habit, he thought, as he observed, for the umpteenth time, that his SMG was well-oiled, in peak condition and ready to do his bidding.

"So, when this is over, whaddaya wanna do?"
"Oh, are we bonding right now, Mister Bushwacker? Would you like to strengthen our comraderie?"
"You're a real treat, not gonna lie. I was just makin' conversation," he drawled.
"Sure you were. Well, not to be impolite. I wish not to disclose details unnecessarily," Stoker's response came softly.
The engineer grunted. "How about you, Nader?"
"I vill go home, of course. Take a break, spend some time with ze wifey."
"Wifey, you say. Lemme guess, she's the girl, right?"
The woman laughed, briefly. "I vould hope so - unless she had me tricked for quite some time, zere is leetle evidence to the contrary."
"Not what I meant'ta say, ah mean, she's the girly one, you're the man of the house," he qualified his question, as he flicked the smoke aside.
"If it vould be like zat, don't you think I vould have married a man? Not do go into details you don't qualify for - it is nothink like zat."

He grunted, shrugged, and kept on marching. The grate a few dozen metres up the road had the red and white stripe used for maintenance entrances. "We seem to have arrived," Stoker said matter-of-factly.

The warning tape fluttering in the wind urged them to be cautious, but Sparks merely nodded towards the closed opening. "Crack ze lock, and let us go, comrades." He spat out again. "Whatev'r you're sayin', snowflake. Lemme just get dem d'ere boltcutters and I'll get it open in a jiffy." Stoker stood erect, observing the area. "Are you even Russian, Miss Sparks?", he inquired gently. With a metallic groan, the rusted material gave way to Bush's handiwork. Ripping the busted lock off of the steel eyelet, he stood up. The engineer felt the weight of the lock in his hand, leaned back and flung it through the nearest window. Glass shattered, some furniture was hit. He grinned.

"Would you care to keep the disturbence of our presence to a minimum..?"
"Ah sure would not, Mister Stoker, sir, nuh-uh. I'm bored outta my mind, this has been nothin' but a nice stroll so far."
"Ah, yes. The thrill of the fight. May I remind you that we are not paid by scalps, but for completion of a given task?"
"You just ain't no fun, Stokey. Always with the reason 'n all."

The Britisher eyeballed his Texan peer through the glass of his mask. A deep breath, muffled be bespoke mask, akin to a sigh, followed. As if accepting the situation, the company that came with it, he took his eyes off his peer and glanced at the grate. "Shall we, then?", he asked, his eyes now back on Sparks. The lanky woman was preoccupied by reading the map - or, rather, the mission dossier, again. His question interrupted her studies, but did not catch her off-guard. She nodded, once more.

"Yes, ve shall. Davai, tovarish, attackui."
"I still remain unconvinced, Miss Sparks."

Despite his mild objections to her displayed nationality, the team descended into the sewers.

There was a lingering, mouldy smell. At the very least, he tried to convince himself it was mould, because the alternative would only put thoughts in his head how unfortunate it would be to slip and fall. Bushwhacker grunted, fiddled with his chest rig and slipped the softpack of cigarettes out of a pocket. The mercenary put the smoke between his lips, pulled his lighter out. A hand on his shoulder stopped him from going through with the motion.

"As you are surely aware, rotting gases such as methane may be quite combustible, Mister Bushwhacker."
"You're really startin' to grind mah gears, Stokey," he grumbled, yet pocketed the zippo again.
"It is not a matter of personal attack, but general discomfort from being on fire. I know a thing or two about that."
"Sure you do. Goddamn posh snobby-nosed arsonist."
"Invectives aside, would you rather test the theory to prove me wrong?", the England native asked, sans any hint of anger.
"Yeah, whatever. I'mma light this once we're out the shitter pipes then."

They proceeded further down, following the path of signs towards the subway tunnels interconnected with the sewers. The group moved silently, ceasing their chatter, but their gear clanked and rustled. Last, but not least, Rhino's heavy steps set the beat to their steady percussions, a progression in march.

"Ze next door on the left, comrades. Poshli," Sparks announced.

Stoker sighed again.

They left the sewers behind them, stepping through the dusty connection tunnel that lead them into a small alcove, part of a subway tube. Rails in front of them, with darkness left and right, Nader turned around and looked to Sparks for further directions. She adujsted her grenade-bearing straps with a shift of her shoulder blades, before she rested her elbow on her hip. The launcher dipped against her shoulder.

"Eh, Missy, vill vee go left or right?"
"To ze right, Nadja. Just a few more chundred metres," came the response.

And thus, they turned right. Again, with Nader on point, Stoker and Bushwhacker on her flanks, Sparks in the middle and Rhino bringing up the rear. As they got closer to their objective, their collective mood became more monosyllabic, reducing conversation to short inquieries and responses. Eventually, light ahead spoke of a station close-by. They stopped, still in the dark, took a knee and rested.

"Bush, I need you to scout achead, see whether ve chave customers at ze station," Sparks whispered.
"Sure thang," he acknowledged, and moved out. The rest stayed behind.

Staying near the wall, he pushed forward and held his weapon close to the chest. The closer he got, the slower he moved. Just some fifty metres short of the station, he heard voices. Their conversation was idle, killing time. The mercenary moved yet closer, pressing himself against the stone, intent on finding out the nature of the opposition.

"Well, well, well, what do have here..?", he muttered to himself. Peeking over the platform, he saw two men and a woman, guarding a three palettes stacked with crates. The stencils on each told him what he needed to know - those were EMP and static surge protected hard drive carriers, some of CDA property, some of government issue. It was also clear as day that these three would not suffice to haul all that weight out of the city by themselves. The hum of the generator powering the station's lights interfered with his listening, but he could tell, these guys were getting ready to move. He withdrew, silently as he had come.

"Got three shooters, two with rifles, one with a machine pistol," he reported.
"Objective is on site, an' there's a generator I could bust. Supplies the station with power, for the lights and probably the doors, too. Could rewire the thing, and lock the automatic doors - because these fellas are waitin' for the extraction team. Gonna be here soon, I reckon."

The group nodded in unison, stacked up and moved forward. Nader spun the drum of her launcher, suppressing an anticipating giggle. Stoker eyeballed her briefly, and Bushwhacker could've sworn he saw the man roll his eyes. Not that the mask and the dark did not prevent any deeper interpretation of Stoker's facial expressions. Regardless of the Britishers approval or lack thereof, they reached the platform. Handsigns replaced words, then Sparks showed three, two, and then one finger. A fist followed.

Sparks jumped out of cover, backwards onto the rails, Revi-VR at her shoulder. "Drop it, davai!" She shouted. The group, still halfway immersed in their preparations and conversation, spun around as one, weapons trained. Safeties clicked into firing position. Quietly, still in cover, Nader giggled again. "Zis is gonna be good."

None of them dropped their weapons. Instead, they dove to cover behind old concrete barriers from the evacuations days. One of them pulled on his radio and audibly called for reinforcements. Sparks fired her gun, after a quick charge. Slinging an energised dart towards the woman in their entourage, she missed by virtue of her target ducking down further. The mercenary hissed, let her medical wonder hang from the straps and raised her own machine pistol. Meanwhile, Bushwhacker, with boost from Rhino, hopped onto the platform.

A well-trained grip, a toss, and a button press later, the turret came to life, whirring and beeping. With all targets gone from sight, it merely scanned the area in front of it. The engineer himself made a dash for the generator room, below the stairs up to the main hall of the station. Behind him, under the deliberate suppressive fire of his squadmates, Rhino rolled onto the platform. Shortly after, the whirring of the triple barreled gatling urged their opponents to stay in cover. Bushwhacker pressed on, dashing towards the door labeled as the generator room.

He kicked the door, and the rusted-through lock simply crumbled under the assault. Creaking on hinges that hadn't been oiled in ages, the dusty yet held life in the form of a machines that rumbled, hummed and blinked. Before him was the generator, with multiple wires of varied thickness running to and from the block. After a quick scanning of the room, he found the control panel. "Aww yeah, come to pappa," he proclaimed. Bushwhacker put a smoke in his mouth and lit it.

His KEK-10 set aside, he dove under a control panel and unscrewed the coverplate. His powertool whizzed four times, and four times, screws hit the ground with a metallic clink. With controlled speed, he removed the plate and looked at the innards of the panel. Wires of multiple colours ran over controlboards, and into relays, were bundled and split up. Flicking some ash to his left, the technican picked a solder gun and pliers. The latter between his teeth, the cigarette now held between fingers, he unsoldered a connection and rewired another. And so he worked.

Outside, a burst of gunfire came, followed by muffled bellows. It sounded like Rhino to him. No one came into the generator room though, and he had to hurry. Reconnecting the door controls, he changed the polarity on a pair of wires, grumbled and ripped out another connection. He climbed out from under the panel and dusted himself off. "Now let's see if we're in business." He pushed the button controlling the subway station doors. A spark fired out from underneath and he cursed, but the previously red light turned green. "That oughta do it."

Stepping back, he put his hands on his hips and admired his workmanship. Cigarette hanging from his lips, Bushwhacker tipped his hat back and scratched his forehead. "Seems like I'm just about dun..." The door opened. Rhino walked in, his minigun on his back. He seemed tense, but Bushwhacker didn't pay much mind to it. All their banter aside, a firefight always left a mark on someone, hardened merc or not. They shared a nod.

"Do you have accomplished your goal?"
"Whadda broad question. But yeah, I got 'r dun. Doors are locked."
"No more reinforcements from upstairs, then?"
"A-Yupp. Not without explosives there won't be."
"Splendid. And thank you. Also, my apologies."

Bushwhacker raised an eyebrow and looked at the other mercenary.

Rhino pulled his sidearm and aimed it straight at Bushwhacker. He shrugged, accompanying the motion. "Nothing personal." The Texan blinked, and the big man in front of him sighed audibly. "Different contract. But, let us not leave on bad terms." He lowered his revolver, and pulled the trigger. The round came out of the bucking firearm, and before he registered the sound, he already felt the excrutiating pain. Bushwhacker held his stomach, where the bullet had found grizzly purchase in his intestines. He fell, both from the powerful punch and the pain flaring up.

"Hnng! Wha-what was that for?", he asked, with pressed voice.
"Oh, I cannot have you chasing after us. But, I do not wish to kill you, either. You have a few hours to get to doctor."
"Ya dirty pig, I'll gut ya-" Rhino interrupted him.
"I think I just did that with you. Insults are unbecoming."

Rhino stepped away, after he had kicked the KEK-10 into the far corner of the room. He tapped two fingers at his temple, in a mocking salute, then left the room. The engineer rolled on the floor, holding his bleeding wound. He coughed, and the pain again made him curl up. Eventually, he got on all fours, pushed himself against a wall and slowly got up. After what seemed ages, he had retrieved his primary and made his agonizing path to the door.