Metro City, Dave's tale

[TheOneTrueGod]

This is the thread for Dave's part of the metro city tale.

[Just_Ice]

It is evening in early July. The low buzz of a soda machine invades your ears as you unlock the white pine door to your second-floor room in the Chez Georgia, a fairly decent motel in a fairly decent motel chain. You take note that no one's set off your door's tripwire, not even the cleaning ladies. As you open the door, you see the mess you remember you made. You may be tired after a hard day's sleuthing, but just as you won't stop until you catch the Mad Bomber, you won't rest until the boxes of take-out chinese food are off of your bed. Some of the sauce even got onto the sheets - you didn't think you were a messy eater, or nothin'.

You go over what you've done today - you nosed around at the florist's in the morning, trolled under the bridge at noon and had a verbally rally with a contact at the Honnaby Park Tennis courts in the afternoon, but you didn't get any real leads. Suddenly, you forget your frustration as you sense some sort of funny business at work, like something smells sweeter than it should. Thankfully, your baseless feelings of doubt are somewhat assuaged by a refreshing breeze that blows from the river.

Unexpectedly, the phone starts ringing - you weren't expecting any calls, but it's not like it hasn't happened before; it's usually a wrong number or some maligned telemarketer, but your good friend and former parter Officer Dmitri Ulysses will call you now and again if something big is going down.

There's that funny feeling again. Well, that phone's not going to pick itself up.

[TheOneTrueGod]

Keeping an eye on his surroundings, Dave locks the door behind him and quickly replaces his security system. On the 5th ring, he picks up the phone and, in a faux gruff voice, answers
George's cleaning service. How can I help you?

[Just_Ice]

You are surprised to hear a strange, columbian-accented voice over the phone. The caller is unknown to you.

"You're not fooling fooling anyone, Mr. Stevensohn. Hah, hah... please do not hang up, as this is not a wrong number. You may also... ehhn... regret doing so. Of course, as soon as this conversation ends you will regret it anyways, so eef you decide you don' want to wait... I can understand that."

You heard a sucking noise, followed by a puff and a cough.

"You see, the Mad Bomber is not, as you say, mad. He is not even angry, except maybe at nosey snoops like you. He is a professional that works for people like me, and I would like to keep him in business. That means putting you out of business, hombre. Check the bed, he sends hees regarrds. "

Laughter follows.

[TheOneTrueGod]

I slam the phone down and quickly dash over to the bed, expecting the worst and ready to dive out of the large bedroom window, hoping the thin metal railing outside will support my weight.

[Just_Ice]

As you hurry to the bed, a perforating blast rings out. You look back for an instant to see the table the phone was resting on, now bursting into a showering sphere of woodchips. A table lamp somersaults into the popcorn ceiling as the "complimentary" chocolates sweat their sweet confections into their container.

You feel the heat's best attempts to effect you, the effects of convection reaching as if the explosion wants to fulfill its intended purpose. It is foiled by your exhibition of speed, grace and self-defenestration - a showing that you doubt you will repeat. You notice the drape (soon to be aflame) swinging from the wind- the window is already wide open, something you would have never done. Your left hand moves with the same explosive quickness the bomb has shown in securing a grip on the metal rungs, which while not intended for this specific purpose, are meant to keep one from falling to their peril.

The banister cannot support your weight, but it doesn't give up the ghost so easily - it bends, lowering you at a surprisingly comfortable but sufficiently brisk pace that you can drop onto a nearby van's roof, and roll to the relative safety of the nearly empty back parking lot. The lot is only relatively safe, as gunshots ring out against the van. The shots stray quite wide from their intended mark in the dark, and the lark who fired takes off like a spark in his 1975 Buick Skylark.

He begins to make his way down the highway-side road behind the parking lot. You know he'll have to circle around to the front to leave.

[TheOneTrueGod]

Using the momentum from my fall, I whip out my gun as fast as I can and take a complete shot in the dark at his tires, not even bothering to use the iron sight as there's probably not enough time. Knowing full well that there's probably not chance at all that I stopped him, I give a last mournful glance up at the exploded remnants of my possessions that are now gone.

I then hustle around to my car in the front, hoping to get out of there before the police or some reinforcements show up. I drive around back to where, presumably, the Mad Bomber's car was to take a quick look around, before pointlessly heading off in the same direction that I saw him take off in, hoping that either my shot was lucky and I'll be able to catch up with him, or that he's careless and leaves me a trail.

I drive as fast as I can without being pulled over, using my knowledge of the speed traps of the city at night to my advantage. If all else fails, maybe I can find a new motel to stay in. Hopefully the next one will explode less.

[Just_Ice]

roll wits + firearms + perception

[TheOneTrueGod]

3 successes.

[Just_Ice]

Unfortunately, your method proves unsucessful and the villain has escaped you. Instead, you manage to drive along until you find a ratty old motel, an "Ultra Metr", since the 'o' is totally burnt out. It's looks like a ski chalet that doesn't know what a "chalet" is, and it's located down by the trainyard, but it could suit your purposes. Maybe.

You know there's some apartment complexes around town that might be better than this, but you would have to establish some fake credentials.

[TheOneTrueGod]

Exhausted from a long day's work, I park my car in the trainyard, grab my vest and a fedora I have lying around, and walk towards the tracks, hoping to throw anyone who may be after me off of my trail. Taking a quick look around, I steadily weave through some of the dilapidated box cars, and slowly make my way to the back of the motel. From there I move around to the front and pull the fedora down over my eyes, hoping to make myself harder to recognize. I walk up to the man behind the cashier and ask to rent a room, paying whatever he asks for.

I collapse onto my bed, exhausted, then go through the routine of setting up my alarm system. At least I don't have to clean up any boxes of chinese food left lying around.

[Just_Ice]

With no barrier preventing your sleep and your tripwire set, you are able to peacefully dose off without explosive interruption. What comes during your slumber makes you almost wish you couldn't.

You are in terrible agony. Smoke and distorted air billow around your body as it is being burned by a field of flames. The ground is a sea of char and soot, like a blackened desert. Harsh wind blows the ashen dust into your wounds, but does not refresh you or much disrupt the flames, only adding another layer to your suffering.

Unknowingly, you walk forward. Each step is painful, but you are unable to halt wandering motion. Is is difficult to see or hear, but you think you can make out the shapes of tank traps, and the occasional cries of agony from afar. While attempting to assess your surroundings through the pain, you also realise that you are as naked as the day you were born.

You suddenly stop, and as you look up, you see the most impossibly vivid sight you've ever laid eyes on. A brilliant tower of giant golden bricks rises from the heavens, and its top is planted on the earth ahead of you. Although you can see every brick and view its vertical pinnacle, you find it impossible to estimate its height. Its "top" is thicker than its "bottom"; it is certainly an inverted tower. Lastly, and most disturbingly, the structure seems to be bleeding as a man might sweat; its titanic drops stain the earth.

Equally as striking as the tower is the long, jade-coloured dragon that encircles it, even gripping it slightly. Its eyes flicker like lightning, and its face is adorned with terrible horns and a greyed fu manchu mustache. It does not open its horrible maw, but instead speaks into your mind itself. Its voice is harsh and ancient.

You suddenly realise it is raining, and that the fires have stopped. Save for the fully radiant dragon and tower, there is scarcely any light. You can see a giant body of water to your left, and a seemingly infinite desert to your right.

Answer me truthfully, son of Man. I ask for thy counsel, not that of another. How may I halt the tears of blood from the tower? Must I use force? Shouldst I console it?

[TheOneTrueGod]

Horrifying nightmares having become the norm, I do what comes naturally in them -- Push through the pain and despair to find the end.
Sighing deeply, I respond.
I used to think that you could fix these problems with care, patience and adoration... But in my short life, I have lived too long. Force is the one universal constant. The one thing that binds everything together, and is the one thing that all problems... understand.

[Just_Ice]

The dragon curls tighter around the tower, physically intercepting the blood streaming down the tower. Suddenly, the blood on the tower dries, and instead the dragon begins to bleed from every scale, from its jaw, from its eyes. Smaller, but still substantial drops fall from the sky in every direction, darkening the land they land upon. More upsetting is the slow decay of the dragon's body; its scales begin to peel, its exposed flesh blackens and dies, its face elongates as if to melt right off. Despite all this, it is no less stoic or focused than before, and speaks to you once again.

"It is done. I cannot, however, bleed in the tower's stead forever. I must place the blood elsewhere, so it does not weaken the tower. I must ask thy advice again, Son of Man. Wouldst thou have me drain the blood to the great river, the field of flowers, or the coloseum? Or perhaps you would have me take the whole burden upon myself?"

As he speaks, you can notice a beautiful field of whites, greens and purples, a majestic, pure river leading to the water, and a great colloseum, where glorious matches are held.

[TheOneTrueGod]

Things of beauty should not suffer so. The Colosseum is the best place to put this taint.

[Just_Ice]

The dragon's tail slithers away from the tower, leading to the grand structure in the wastes. The blood drips from the great beast's end, crushing the walls, and causing the screams of the crowd. The dragon no longer bleeds, and retracts his tail, but in the stead of the colosseum, a gigantic dark chariot, rimmed with spikes rises. A spectral dragon of bone writhes out of the wreckage, curling itself around it and hissing forgotten words at you. Though it is distant, you feel its vicious claws rend at your flesh.

"Things are not always so simple."

Suddenly, the ground bends and distorts. The chariot, the two dragons and the reverse tower crumble to nothing. The sun blazes, and light engulfs the world.

A "whap" and a buzzing "Bzzzt" awaken you. You are lying in an uncomfortably hard bed with half-fluffed pillow supporting your neck. You are not wearing pants. There is an old rotary phone on the bedside table beside you and an impressively dingy looking bathroom. The whole place smells like you would expect a cheapo motel in a city full of easy tramps to smell like.

There's a small, dusty 13'' tv with a half-bent aerial on a small stand directly away from you, but you really doubt it works. Behind it lies a curtained window- the mechanism for the curtain looks like it's pretty badly rusted, and it looks like the rings holding the drapes may actually be superglued to the windowframe.

There is no wallpaper, and the wall behind you is pretty badly cracked.

[TheOneTrueGod]

Startledly looking around him, I blinks the dream from his eyes. Nightmares are a fairly constant thing, but there was something striking in this one. I felt like he knew that dragon... But such thoughts would need to wait until later.

I walk over to the bathroom and try to turn on the shower, but all that comes out is a hissing noise, and a mocking trickle of water. Sighing, I turn the water back off and resign to shower the next day. Knowing better than to eat whatever cardboard they might be passing off as food in the cafeteria, I head outside and prepare to spend another probably fruitless day searching for the mad bomber.

The first order of business is to make sure my car hasn't been tampered with while I slept. Then I'll head over to the coffee shop nearby for breakfast, then check my police scanner and the radio to see if the cops have figured out anything so far about the mad bomber last night.

[Just_Ice]

As you leave the bathroom, you hear a loud clang. It seems the integrity of the entire shower head has faulted, and it lies in the throes of the filthy tub. You open the door after a short fight with the failing handle to a bright, [country name] day, the good weather being in sharp contrast to your dingy surroundings. On your way out you kick something - a rolled up newspaper, kept that way by a taught elastic band.

Ignoring the news for now (who reads anymore, anyways, am I right?) you sleuth over to your vehicle, give a bit of a look-see to make sure you're not embarassing yourself, and then slip on under to size up the situation. The underside of the car is pretty normal - the knife gash to the break fluid is still taped, the knife gash to the oil line is still taped, the knife gash to the coolant could probably use a re-taping. Yup, pretty normal... except for the two foreign objects, one of which is a bomb A BOMB. BOMB A BOMB BOMB BOMB WHAT

You immediately eject yourself, realising that if they'd found you already they'd probably have shot you in this neighbourhood. In fact, it looked like most of the wires were still hanging loose from the explosive in question. Still, breakfast will probably have to wait for your next action.

[TheOneTrueGod]

Initial panic subsiding, I slide under and try to dismount the bomb from my car, lest it go off at an inopportune time. If I'm successful, I'll drop it off in an empty field and shoot at it when I'm far away to try and make it go off without harming anyone. Then breakfast.

[Just_Ice]

You managed to dis-lodge the bomb from the underside of the car without much trouble. The casing is labelled in a different language, but the name, "Wanatabe Electronics" is clearly engraved in the side in a alphabet you actually understand.

Dis-regarding that, you indulge in your plan. Driving to a grassless field twenty minutes outside of town and outside of ear-shot, you plug the device with two clips worth of your .38 special ammunition from a safe distance. It doesn't detonate, leading you to believe that if bullets really can set it off, the amount of time it would take would lead you dangerously near lunch territory.

Marking where you've left the bomb on your handy map, you speed off to the No Questions Cafe for a decidely adequate poppy seed bagel, filled beyond capacity with some cheapo no-name cream cheese. You tried to order eggs and bacon, but according to the surly waiter, they were somehow out of both. There is a stack of newspapers on top of a garbage box, but as you're already aware reading is for ****. As you pick the last of the lettuce from your teeth and swagger back to the vehicle, you feel as if you've forgotten something.

It couldn't possibly be important, though, since you certainly can't put your finger on it. That's what that means. You open the door to your car and slide back in, feeling pretty confident that you're not going to explode due to the short length to your stay.

Flipping on your scanner/radio, you don't get too much of worth - until you hear a call put out for a car with stunningly similar make and colour to yours, located at a position startlingly reminiscent of your own. Perhaps it's just a feeling, but the addition of "..ip of the m... omber''s locati..." to the call and the multiple replies of 10-4 really raise the stakes.

[TheOneTrueGod]

I run my hands over the sticker that I pulled off the bomb, breakfast suddenly going flat in my stomach.

This beat-up old car might not be able to outrun the police for very long, but it's basically all that I've got left. This city is my playground... maybe I'll be able to figure out something as I go.

I quickly step outside of the car, and kick the licence plates a couple of times so they are dented and much harder to get a read on from just a quick look. Pulling on my vest I motor out of there and drive my way into the relatively light amounts of pre-lunch traffic, heading towards the inner city that I know well, turning away from any sirens I hear and avoiding the direct routes to the diner from any speed traps where the nearby cops would likely be pulled.

[Just_Ice]

An amazing sensation of calmness surrounds you. It is as if you have entered your element, and you are the master of the wheel and steel (though also plastic). Sliding the gear into neutral, you pull out from a famously bad parking situation with the grace of a swan, albeit a multi-ton swan with the power of many equines. You subtly put that power to use, and obstacles and vehicles seem to stop for you, in your nirvana of handling.

You glide onto the steet, intent on u-turning towards your destination as soon as possible. You pass by a residential strip - mostly 30-year-old houses around before the city extended this far. You spot two headlights spark to life on a car up ahead - the reflection off a mirrored lawn ornament reveals its chassis has suffered a bullet wound- this is definitely the same Buick Skylark from last night, attempting to crash your escape. Craftily, you are able to pull up your parking break and perform a J-turn just as it it about to drive its plain front end into your passenger-side door. Having avoided its attack, you note that the driver over-shot, ending up with his front end embedded neatly into a sturdy telephone pole.

You note that his engine has, understandably, decided to catch fire in response to this debacle, and it is only a matter of time before it reaches his fuselage. You might be able to save him, you might not; you haven't memorized the "average time from engine combustion to gas explosion" chart for any vehicle but your own.

[TheOneTrueGod]

Cursing at the number of people driving pintos in this neighbourhood, I put the brakes on hard and my car screeches to a stop, at which point I reverse most of the distance that was put between us. I dash the last 30 meters to the car and, remembering that easily exploding cars usually have fire extinguishers in the back, I pull open the trunk, grab said fire deterrent, and move around to the front to put it out.

Having finished that I pull the unconscious man from the car onto a nearby lawn, and then check him over for any ID or weapons, and then perform the same rapid search on his car, keeping an ear out for any approaching police.

[Just_Ice]

On his unconcious body you find the aforementioned pistol, as well as some extra rounds in the back pocket. You carry them by touching them as little as possible- grasping only the tip of the barrel to avoid putting on your prints. You may take them with you or leave them here.

He looks to be a foreigner (one of the sorts that is accused of stealing the jobs in metro city). His Driver's License looks somewhat suspect, and reads that his name is "Largo Sandravez". Upon further inspection you find that he has two others, each for different states and with different names. You may take his wallet.

Finally, you have found a plain Novella brand notepad and a distinct lighter- it is marked with an engraving of three malformed eyes on an open hand. You may or may not have time to inquire further; you hear the oscillating pitch of a siren fast approaching. The trouble is that neither the fire department, ambulances nor police cars sport ideosyncratic noisemakers: You're not sure who it is, and you're sure that whoever it isn't won't be too far behind.

[TheOneTrueGod]

I quickly put the pistol, rounds, and wallet into one of my 'evidence' bags (really just ziploc bags, as my real ones ran out ages ago), and, spotting a small relatively in-tact piece of metal nearby, I push his finger on the flat side of it to try and get an imprint of his finger. I also pull out a couple of hairs before booking it back to my car and making my exit.