Temperature outside: 96-F; temperature inside: 95-F
Out of ice cream, Thin Mints are on strictly emergency stock levels...
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"Ugh..."
Warspool took his mask off to absorb more of the small fan whipping him in the face with its cooling breeze. His hideout underneath Drake's bed had served him well in the winter months, but he had to rewire a few things in order to get a comfortable arrangement for anything past February.
Drake had been gone for the better part of the day, on "training" exercises with his new girlfriend. The Unhinged Hyena wasn't jealous or anything... at least he tried not to think of it that way. Larry was in the shade on the far side of the room in his bed, curled up into a little ball of golden-brown fur.
Toys were scattered on the floor, most of them squeaked. The purple stick was his favorite, since he liked to wrestle.
Warspool tried to focus on his book, or really it was a journal where he could write down various food combinations for Charred-la-Main's and memorize them for takeout orders.
"Let's see... chicken nuggets with extra crispy fries wrapped up in a burrito with lettuce and tomato, extra ketchup? Grilled onions. The Phantorrito? Flairrito... eh,"
He marked it under 'maybe'.
Sooner or later, Drake would get back. Warspool had been digging through his mail today out of sheer boredom and found a letter detailing a mission that could be interesting. Of course he just opened it a little bit, enough to see the DSA logo and know that it was probably a mission.
Well...
He also cut open the envelope, read it three times in a row, then stuffed it back into its original package and stapled it shut again.
[You think that's gonna fool him?]
The voices were arguing when he did it, concerned about the legality and stuff about going through his best friend's private postage.
"The guy can hit the graffiti eyeball of Kevin Bacon on a water tower across the city from the pizza place. Of course this isn't gonna fool him,"
[Then why bother?]
"Because as his best friend, I have to make it known that I respect his privacy enough to not let other people read his mail. It's a flawless system we got going on, invisible Brad Pitt, you wouldn't understand,"
[Why do you call me that again? Is it because 'there are floating gifs of Fight Club sometimes'?]
Not again... Drake's arrival was mostly unnoticed, Larry's tail wagged slightly faster and his head promptly looked towards the door, yet that was about it. Drake's left hand held the open envelope, Warspool's meddling wasn't necessarily something new, even so it was quite bothersome. Having him know about his work even before himself could lead to very... disastrous outcomes. However, it wasn't because of his roommate's curious nature that he had a frown. Training, as usual, was more than he could possibly handle, body sore, mind shattered, will to do anything practically nonexistent. "I swear to god they'll find a way to work me to death during training." He complained, leaning over the open fridge.
It didn't quite happen his situation that whatever decided on the weather settled on 'inferno' temperature today.
A gelid ice pack touches one of his facial wounds, more specifically a swolle area on his lower lip. "Ah, I wish I could just lay down in a giant ice block and do nothing the whole day." His gaze shifted towards the second floor of his apartment, the giggles were enough to indicate who was on their bedroom again. "Yo, Wars, thanks for getting my correspondence for me again, bud." An ironic remark, more of a joke than an actual reprimand. "We should really try to get the AC running again, jesus. Satan must actually be jealous of all this heat."
The door clicked open and shut three times, the locks to keep Jimmy the Caveman from barging in and showing Warspool the new items on the menu for his food truck. Last time that happened, the apartment smelled like chili dogs for three months.
They still haven't found all of the tater tots.
"You home?" he asked rhetorically, knowing Drake would go straight for the fridge to cool himself off. He swatted at some flies and crawled out from under the bed, taking the top part of his costume off in order to just walk around and vent.
He swung it around, swatting air and circulating the otherwise humid and miserable environment upstairs.
"Hey yeah you know it bro. Ain't no one messin' with this pad's mail!" he roared in defiance of some unknown, possibly entirely imaginary, post snatcher.
Then came the comment about the AC, always about the AC.
"You know that thing is a hunk of crap!"
Warspool smacked the window-bound box with his shirt, slightly damp from the sweat, and it sputtered to life before clanking again and going into impromptu hibernation.
"I think a squirrel might be stuck in it or something," he commented, unscrewing the front panel with his fingernail and popping it off for the fifth time this week.
"Definitely smells like a squirrel is stuck..." he took a whiff and coughed.
"Anything happen at work today sweetie?"
The sarcasm was dripping from the words, but he felt like asking anyway.
"Any new missions that'll net a good paycheck? Maybe so I can actually fix this,"
[Or you could track down Jimmy again, get more Double Deluxe Dogs. Those lasted you for a long time.]
"Ah yes, the Chili-est Winter. Good times, good times."
"Squirrel? Dude, we live in the ninth floor, how the hell did a squirrel get stuck in there?" Drake scratched the back of his head, tilting his neck to attempt to identify the problem himself. A vision akin to an eagle's didn't quite help the obscurity of the device's insides, and the scent wasn't something he could actually analyze given his old communication issues that cost him quite a bit. Fragrances, delicious food, flowers, he barely could differ their smells, it was a taxing job, so he trusted Warspool's judgement, even if it could sometimes sound completely deprived of sense.
"Well, since you asked. There's this mini Gina Carano who was assigned with training the rookie, aka me, and let's say it isn't exactly the easiest of practices. I swear, the way this is going I don't think I'll even get to use my bow, this job might secretly be an MMA training facility." And I'm their number one sandbag. "But it pays better, and I don't get dialed up to be told I won't be needed anymore. Better than wait for the inevitable 'hey, we are transferring you to the secretary' day on the other job." A brief shrug and a roll of his eyes at Wars' statement was all his friend would get before he reopened the letter.
Eyes skimming through, skipping any unnecessary information and trying to depict what exactly the mission entailed.
Finally some respect.
"You see, this might come as a biiiig shock for you, but, as a matter of fact, I do have a mission!" A sarcastic reaction, obviously they both knew by now. "It involves what you might consider E-list villains and their love for the delicacies of cheap, tasteless alcohol. Maybe also something about chemicals to make said cheap, tasteless brand into a weapon of mass diarrhea."
"Those little tree-rats can hop, alright!" the Crimson Carnage retorted, defending his stance on what was wrong with the air conditioning. He smacked it again, popped the front plate back onto its hinges, and slapped his shirt and mask back on.
Descending the stairs with the banister firmly under his buttocks, he hit the bottom bell-end at an odd angle and landed squarely on his kneecap.
[Don't do it.]
Warspool stopped himself from inhaling air through his teeth and continuing the joke. Besides, his healing factor already numbed the pain. Instead he just hopped up as if nothing happened and walked further into the kitchen, nabbing ingredients for a round of PB&J's.
"I still say you should have shot at least one arrow into her tires. Would have made her think twice before doing that to my buddy," he muttered, completely ignoring the fact that he went there the next day and sprayed the offices with a Super Soaker filled with... various unmentionable compounds.
He finished his works of art and handed Drake the grape one, taking the strawberry for himself. Color coordination had an odd effect on taste buds. Sitting down at the table he tore off some of the crust and gave it to an inquisitive Larry before pulling his mask up and digging in.
"Sounds like something Backstabber would come up with, to be honest," he chewed thoroughly, the jelly only coming through the ratio of peanut butter at the last second.
"But it also sounds like fun. Can I tag along, or are you supposed to be all secret and stuff now?" he waved his hands mockingly.
"Yeah, shoot an arrow in her tire and be unemployed for the year. Good plan, Wars." He nodded ironically, picking up the sandwhich his friend had made for him. Blueberry jelly, deliciously unhealthy, but he didn't quite care, munching through it as a starving animal would chew through any sort of food. You know what, probably would be worth it for a few minutes. "Thanks, bro." Sandwhich tightly grasped, a little toast as if they fancied those incredibly expensive drinks rich people often did. They weren't the poorest of people, still they were far from swimming in pools of money. Hence why he couldn't possibly fire any arrows at any tired.
Of course you'll ask to tag along, it's why you opened the mail in the first place, isn't it? A smirk crossed Drake's visage as he entertained the thought for a while, missions in two were always better. "I mean, if it was super secret, it wouldn't come as mail. Doesn't tell me anything about going solo, so I guess you can tag along." He shrugged. "But no killing. The last thing I need is a bad reputation as a punisher of sorts." He took another bite. "Also, who the hell is Backstabber? Sounds like a dumb name for a villain, because you know exactly what to expect from him."
"Hey, it would have worked!" Warspool protested, finishing off his sandwich with a few claps to dust off any crumbs. Larry licked at them as he would find them on the floor.
[Bread is very unhealthy for dogs.]
The Crimson Carnage didn't say anything to the voice in his head, but would keep a close eye on Larry from now until he had his business outside again. He scratched the dog behind his ears, pulling on the jaw slightly in order to get his focus off the bread and on some good old-fashioned face massaging. Larry smiled a big gummy grin.
"Yeah, we can go after Larry gets his walkies this afternoon. He should be fine until we get back, right?" Warspool played with Larry's ears, flopping them around and making noises.
The dog just stared at him.
"And hey, as long as I'm around you there's gonna be no cans of bone-hurting juice opening. You keep me in line, and I keep you alive, that's the idea behind this,"
[It's also the idea behind most prescription drugs.]
Warspool almost snapped back, but stopped himself. "You have my word buddy, and I never go back on that,"
[Unless it's for a punchline.]
"Nngg..." he bit his tongue one last time. "As far as Backstabber goes, I think he and Pinnacle became best friends or something - kinda like us, but with a hero and villain dynamic going instead."
Why do I always agree to bring him with me? I mean, yeah, he's my best friend, but wouldn't it be trouble for him if someone found this out? Drake scratched his chin, a truly contemplative gaze completing his stern face, fingers run through a stubby beard, breath seems entirely regulated, focus perfectly on what has been laid before him. An odd-looking food truck that, apparently, Warspool had 'borrowed' from one of their neighbors, according to the stares from pedestrians as they drove through, the scents within the car weren't the most pleasant. Was it Warspool's natural fragrance or simply the owner's odd choice of food business? Drake didn't bother asking, it certainly would be bad to be associated with such a foul-smelling car, however.
For both of them.
"Okay, Wars, next time I call an Uber." Yeah, he should know better than borrowing food trucks. This wouldn't end well, as soon as an inspector finds the car, we're gonna get fined. "But for now, maximum effort, right?" The archer whispered over their comm frequency, his always vigilant eyes piercing through the protective lenses, bow at hands as he calmly analyzed the exterior. An abandoned factory, a recent bankruptcy case, most likely why the new gang didn't quite bother hiding their vehicles, all scattered over the courtyard in the back. Three guards chatting over the door, armed with whatever low-cost weaponry they could afford, tracksuits and tanktops, matching caps, stupid moustaches that seemed like they came off a second-hand porno. Yeeeeeep, never complaining about my salary again. I could be worse off. He nodded to himself, eyes now shifting back to Warspool. He needed to create an opening for his partner to break through and investigate the place.
Warspool would hit inside, and those running from him would be knocked out by Drake, who would also immobilize their means of transportation... Especially the truck carrying the allegedly modified beer, it wasn't safe beer anymore, the company itself had told the DSA to do what they deemed fit with their load. "On three, Wars." He muttered, typing the code for blunt arrows on his bow. The string tenses and pulls back smoothly. Breath well-timed. World slows down, everything seems to just cease to move, there is nothing hindering him anymore. There's nothing that will make him miss.
Inhale.
One of the three guards opens his mouth, absorbed into some conversation about whichever subject E-listers talk nowadays. Probably some gorgeous model or the latest fake gold chain in the market. Just the usual.
A smirk surges on his lips.
Exhale.
"One."
String moves forth, arrow leaves and the trajectory seems to be just flawless. No time to waste, he grabs yet another arrow, this time to the one with his back turned. It is almost rhythmical to him by now, another perfect release and as soon as his friend is knocked out on the ground by the weighed arrowhead, his head will soon be overwhelmed by another, instantaneously pressuring the back of his skull with just enough force to completely erase any trace of consciousness. "Two." The third one tries to run, the struggle is comical, he stumbles and pulls out a gun, which, all things considered, is rather useless against a sniper you have no way of spotting. Unfortunately, he wouldn't even get a chance to yell and warn the others as another arrow promptly knocked the side of his jowl, sending him down, unawake. "That's three, you're up." A lighthearted warning as he withdraws his bow, stretching a bit as he begun to get into a groove.
"You know, I think my first date is gonna be in this thing," Warspool mentioned, inhaling a noseful of grease-charred smoke and old hot dogs. It was the simple things in life that kept him going, even if they did clog his arteries just by existing.
Jimmy the Caveman was nothing if not generous. Well, when he didn't know any better. He left the keys to his food under the stone turtle in his window-garden. Warspool had been able to nick them for months in the dead of night, and the old fart never caught on. Always thought the gas was just being siphoned by Raymond for a quick cash grab. The ensuing morning yelling contest would always be enough to get Warspool out of his half-drunken stupor under Drake's bed, and it would turn into a three-way verbal brawl until Jimmy just gave up and went back inside. He was a good sport to know when he was beat, since he had no evidence and Raymond was just greasy enough to probably do it.
Anyway.
"It's not like Jimmy is stupid or anything. He's really dumb, but he's not completely hopeless. He has a conscience, and I'm his best customer. I bet he wouldn't mind if I brought a lucky lady home on these wheels,"
[Lucky lady? No one with a sense of smell would get close to this thing - or you, for that matter - unless they liked the smell of chili dogs. Drake just hangs out with you because of his nose problems.]
"Zip it Invisible Brad Pitt! I know what I'm doing!"
He really didn't, as the plan - as far as he knew - was to wait for Drake to snipe the guards then bust in and do his Warspool thing. Minus the actual killing. Which made it a Friendship run on MKX.
He parked the food truck across the street in an alley. Sliding out the back, he took up position next to a dumpster just outside the fence of the auctioned-off factory. Some shady deals brought it to this point, he could tell, since the "CONDEMNED" sign on the gate had been callously thrown down. As expected, Drake dealt with the guards in an ostentatiously cheat-code manner. Warspool sighed, his Desert Eagles having to be replaced by 9mm pistols. He was explicitly told to aim to incapacitate, and only if he had to with the guns. The katanas were his only regular piece of equipment, and even then he was reminded again and again on the ride over here to hurt not kill.
"Well, at least I got plenty of chances for the 'this is gonna hurt' line now," he said to no one, flipping over the razor wire fence like a spider monkey.
[You did that once, and it was fine, too many times and it'll be a bit much.]
"Eh," he shrugged, fiddling around with the belt on one of the knocked-out guards.
He found exactly what he was looking for: a keyring. But something else also caught his attention: a security camera. Pointed right at him. He pulled down his pants and turned around, giving whoever was watching a good show before flinging a sharpened piece of metal through the lens and into the recording mechanisms.
"Ninja stars! Shuriken? Can I call them that? Sure I can," he snickered, moving on ahead through the door hoisting his clothes back into place.
He was faced with a medium-length hallway, bent at an L-intersection. Apparently this would be before staging, and housed some offices. He could only assume that one of these would be the security room and that some backup was being sent his way. Well, that and the actual sound of feet hitting the floor was a good indication. From the sheer repetition, he guessed easily over a dozen. Some overweight, others more healthily-built. Jimmy didn't frequent this part of town, otherwise these guys wouldn't be running anywhere.
"Alright, time for semi-automatic Maximum Effort,"
[That sounds pretty rad, actually.]
"Thanks, it's the mission title,"
As he thought, about a dozen guys emerged from around the L-intersection. Armed with everything from pipes to automatic weapons, they looked ready for a fight. So, as a force of habit, Warspool unsheathed the blades from his back. He wouldn't kill them, he made a promise to Drake.
But he would make them regret everything they've done to get themselves to this moment in time.
First came the men with pipes in their hands, looking to keep it as quiet as possible. Guns were loud. Made smoke. Very messy and inconvenient in an enclosed space. They just wanted a normal night, getting rid of the intruder in just the right amount of time and effort to be tolerable. Five tried swarming him in the breadth of the hallway, but couldn't get past each other. The Crimson Carnage caught and overhand blunt-force slash meant for his crown, locking his arm around the elbow joint, forcing it into a twisting pattern as he went around and cut through another man's oblique muscle with the curved blade.
He instantly fell to the ground, rolling away, and two more came at Warspool with the pipes and crowbars and tire irons. He twisted and pushed, knocking his prisoner instantly into their line of aggression. They caught him and the sheer mass of their being made it so that they could counterattack almost instantly. The man with the shredded abdomen stood again, realizing the cut only to be superficial - at least to him it was. Very little blood loss, but performance would be severed. Any extraneous movement would cause it to lengthen.
Warspool kept an eye on the doors. They were good weapons in of themselves. He caught another one aiming to cave his skull in, hooking the arm and unable to go anywhere else but left. So he flipped his body upwards, locking into an impromptu floating armbar, and slammed the man's head through the nearby door. Splinters shot everywhere. While he was preoccupied with that, he had to block another incoming tire iron with one of his swords. A crowbar found its way into his clavicle, shattering it on impact. He muffled a scream by chewing his tongue, and rolled out of the armbar. Four left.
He knew they wouldn't fall for the door thing again unless they were really stupid.
So he did the next best thing and cornered himself in one of those previously-mentioned rooms, finding it to be a break area of sorts. Pushing the door shut, he knew he had about two seconds before they just opened it again. He revved himself up like a motorcycle, aiming both legs forward in a dropkick. As expected, one of them had tried to open it in a vague attempt to get inside. Three left, at least the ones that didn't have guns.
He ripped the microwave out of the wall, nailing the first person he saw in the noggin. He caved instantly, bouncing off the mangled door and on top of the guard that had just caught a faceful of door and Warspool-foot. Two left, and the men with guns started to make their way down.
AK-47s. Cheap, efficient, recognizable enough to be somewhat frightening. The implication of their use actually weighed more than the full-force spray of customized automatic fire they were capable of. But it still hurt like a S.O.B. to get nailed by a few bullets from them. Warspool had experience with that.
He removed a 9mm from its holster, replacing one of the katanas with it.
Dual-wield skill increase. Would you like to add skill points to your specialities tree?
"Kinda busy!"
Cannot add points when enemies are near.
"Yeah, I know that,"
The broken clavicle locked back in place as he took up firing position behind the wall. Of course, plaster didn't mean shit to bullets. Which is exactly what happened as the two with pipes and other makeshift hand weapons actually backed off, getting pistols of their own.
"Yeah? We actually doing this?" Warspool huffed. A salvo of bullets ripping through the drywall answered his question as he right arm slumped down, paralyzed by the fact that a few actually slashed into his shoulder. Blood dripped to the floor accented by him coughing and sputtering away the pain, hitting his head on the wall in tandem with it.
"Okay, this is getting stupid,"
He rampaged out of his hiding spot, nailing two of the rifle-wielders in the kneecaps and causing them to fall down almost instantly. The other handful dragged their friends to cover and took up intermediate positions down the hall. That didn't stop the Crimson Carnage from utilizing his now-escalating agitation to its fullest potential for violence. His healing factor spat out the bullets in his shoulder, and he reached out for both of the advancing men with hand weapons. He launched a shin into one of their groin areas like a rocket ship, and hauled his bent-over body into the other one's stomach like a battering ram. As if that wasn't enough he grabbed that second man by the collar and crunched his nose into an accordion with his forehead.
They didn't get up, and the one who had been unfortunate enough to catch the systematic destruction to any future family members vomited a bit onto the floor.
Warspool pointed at the remaining four still taking up firing positions down the way, and started to charge, pumping his legs despite all the bullets tearing him apart.
He incapacitated half of them with a forceful disarmament on both sides, wrestling the rifles out of their hands and slamming the stocks into their temples simultaneously. One of them actually bled out of his ear.
The other two started to try and find a way out, but there wasn't anywhere safe from Warspool once he initiated this kind of thinking. He pinned one against the wall with a shoulder tackle, twisting him around and throwing him headfirst through another door, breaking about seven-eighths of it away. Grabbing the other, he pulled him into a falling guillotine onto that remaining piece of wood. The soft tissue of the windpipe collapsed the weak material, but the fact that the neck caught most of the force meant that he wouldn't be getting up for a while.
At length, Warspool just stood up, heaving and breathing with a visible effort. He methodically stashed the bodies in a room, making sure they were all alive. Which they were. He didn't want to break that promise he made, after all. He barricaded the room, which had a door opening out into the hallway, with a series of wood planks. There weren't any windows, as this was ground-floor maintenance. He picked up one of the walkie-talkies he confiscated, throwing the rest into the mop bucket in the janitor's closet.
"Damn it, come in somebody!" the voice crackled over on the other side.
"Hey, dispatch, this is Jim," Warspool answered. Everyone knew a Jim, and he had pretty good odds of one of these knuckleheads being named Jim.
"Jim? Thank God,"
Bingo.
"What is happening down there, did you get the jackass that shot my security camera?"
"Yeah man, he had more people with him but we got him. They're in a supply closet with some two-by-fours keeping them in place,"
"Alright good, keep them there. We don't need anyone messing up the operation,"
"You got it chief," Warspool clicked the radio off, and deposited it into the mop bucket as well.
[You have a gift, man.]
"Nah, crooks just think they're smart because they get past the police. But police can be stupid, these guys just got by stupid cops. It's nothing major,"
He clicked on the comms frequency he had with Drake.
"Alright bud, hallway is clear. They're not gonna send anyone else, they think we're dealt with,"
He looked behind him, and sighed.
"Also, most of this blood is mine, be advised: don't have a cow,"
Warspool shuffled along the hallway, making sure no cameras followed him. Apparently they just had funding for the one; he laughed. "God they're dumb,"
There was a tanker in the garage as he rounded the corner. This was a staging area of the factory, and the place where they were to mix in the poison to threaten the beer company with. Just throw it in with their delivery routes, scare them into paying an exorbitant fee to get rid of it. It seemed to work in their heads, but according to some of the arguing he heard upstairs the poison wasn't even in the tankers in the first place. He decided to eavesdrop a bit while Drake was en route.
Someone was worried they would be found out and shut down on the spot, citing the plate number as a major hole in the operation, while another called the bluff 'foolproof'. Warspool just shook his head.
"Yeah yeah, keep arguing. You're just making this easier."
Saving now will overwrite previous files... continue?
Wars' got this, been a long time since the last time he didn't... And I still doubt it wasn't because of the junk food we had. Drake mused from a distance, eyes attentively pursuing as his friend vocally made his presence known. Honestly, it would be an imbecilic plan if it had been anyone else, swarming the corridors with security meant your odds of leaving with your life were lower by the second. Not if you could literally reattach severed limbs promptly, having them be usable immediately. Warspool had a knack for turning covert operations into mindless onslaughts yet brilliantly making it work. Drake admired that, his friend was a good professional, one that would never back down on his words. That sort of confidence built throughout years of quipping, drinking and, sometimes, leaning on each other for support was what made this duo astonishingly effective. In a way, they acknowledged exactly what each other required during clashes, complementing each other's fighting style rather than showcasing who had the best individual skillset.
Mind at ease, Drake set his bow cautiously behind his back, rhythmically running over the vehicles he would have to properly rig prior to Warspool's contact. A devilish simper crossed his face, pearly teeth showing as a rather vile laughter came out. Oh, I'll make sure you all remember my friend and I. Removing the quiver from his back, his hand slyly ran through its side, tapping what seemed as a separate compartment. It slid off, a rather metallic-looking drawer-like chamber, garnished by lavender-hued neon lights, filled with arrowheads to the brim. He took those that seemed as if they were bags, its silky outside complemented by a rather mushy feel upon being grasped. "Now we put these..." Kneeling nearby the vehicles' wheels, he cautiously shoved his hand over the gap above the tires, seeking for the flawless spot, one that would crush the bag upon the mechanical system's proper activation. "Here." He giggled to himself, this trap never got old, everyone always believed their vehicles to be salvation, but if they did as much as moving an inch...
It would then trigger his trademark putty arrows, glueing those cars to whichever surface they attempted to run at.
The archer repeated the process over and over again, randomly humming Earth, Wind & Fire's Fantasy while doing so, at least the chunks of it he remembered properly. No, this part was like 'hmm hmm hmmmmm hm hmm hm', right? &*%$, I need to stop trying to impress others by listening to their progressive shit, it's making me ungroove myself. Fingers ran through a stubby beard, tickling his skin slightly. The noises from inside were apparent, yet he wouldn't ever interfere on Warspool's solo scouting, if anything he knew the Crimson Clown adored to come up with ways to defeat his opponents creatively. The ambient is a weapon, they both knew it well, especially with lackluster, rugged fighting skills.
Warspool also liked praise for a job well-done.
Coolly resting his hand inside his uniform's pockets - something he had to advocate to actually be placed on his work gear - Drake's eyes lost themselves in the distance for a jiffy, until his grasp subconsciously brought his cellphone to his attention. A finger slides through the smudged screen, no matter how many times he attempted to cleanse it, the phone was old enough to see a few too many burguer nights for its own good. Password input, McIntosh tapped one of his favorite apps to pass time... And rage over. A game opens and a plethora of miniatures flood the screen, scattered throughout a medieval background, an animated castle of sorts. "Daily bonus should be juuuust enough..." He muttered nonchalantly, receiving his free orbs with a racing heart and a preoccupied grin. Please, something good. Pleeeeeease. He went over to the game's 'summoning' screen, choosing one of the many 'banners' to spend orbs at. A sigh.
This time he went for green.
A smoke curtain rises on the screen, encompassing a stone tablet that reminds him of a shrine where hopes and dreams are sacrificed. For a while, anyone could see an excited spark on Drake's eyes, narrowing just enough to realize the outline of the blonde, red-and-blue-clad figure he had already received at the very least twenty times in the last two weeks. "&*@¨ this game, seriously." An annoyed line as he rapidly closed the app, removing the phone from his sight before he crushed it against the wall.
Thankfully, Warspool was quick to communicate Drake his job was done. "Oh? I'll be heading over. Get ready to party." Drake stated, stretching for a bit before heading in, if anything this sort of physicality could strain him without proper preparations beforehand. Muscular sore during a fight was literally the worst part of being caught off-guard. Punches don't help massaging the area either, he did try it once... Or maybe twice...
It was a gloomy, somewhat dusty place, the bits of rotting mahogany scattered through the floor seemed a clear indicative of what had just gone down, the vermilion sprayed on the walls made it seem more like a scene from Supernatural than anything else. Not gonna question that. Nooooothing to do with me, totally not entering my report either. I've got this big sale going down at Monday and I'll be damned if paperwork for stains that aren't even our problem make me lose my one shot at a PS4. There he was, costume torn apart in some areas, bulletholes spewing their argent content from his inside, not a sight to behold, yet one he grew accustomed to.
Didn't mean it wasn't gross.
Drake readied his bow, leaning over the wall after touching Warspool's shoulder to warn him of his presence. Something along the lines of 'I have your back'. His eagle-like sight could identify every nook-and-cranny inside the bigger room, primarily taking note of the truck and the license plate should everything go to hell unexpectedly. Still, amidst all those lowlife fodder-looking wannabe gangsters, garbing their Adidas clothing and white t-shirts, the figure who stood out the most was who the DSA agent safely assumed to be the driver, a helmeted figure wearing his trademark sunset-fading Vaporwave-ish jacket and dark, ripped jeans. The flames on the man's helmet had Drake scowl, one hand gently supporting his head. "Turbo-Dash..." Drake whispered at Warspool's ears, beckoning for them to retreat for a while so they could speak properly. "He's the ex-leader of a biker gang, I thought he had followed his career as a professional stuntsman, but..." Drake sighed. "You don't get how awkward this is to me, man. I've arrested this man a couple dozen times back in my own spandex days. What the hell am I supposed to say?" Not like he's an old friend, but damn, meeting old acquaintances suck. "Anyways, it's pretty self-explanatory, he makes cars go faster with his powers... That's literally it. If he doesn't touch the truck, we're good, but... Help me out here, man. It's like a school reunion years later, you know? 'How are you? What are you doing nowadays? Oh, did you and Jess work out? No? What a shame. So... Divorced with kids or...', that sort of shit, you know? And it's not even someone I liked, dude was a prick with dad jokes and bad breath, even though one of those isn't a problem anymore."
Warspool crouched back around the corner and slumped into the hallway. Drake must have been in the middle of that dumb swords and sorcery game again, probably getting all sorts of good drops and shit. Without skipping a beat between these thoughts, however, the Crimson Carnage reached into his pocket and stripped it bare of the phone that rested within it. He mopped off the blood from his bullet wounds on the same costume that had been drenched in it, leaving a gross red smear on the front panel.
But at least he could get the password in.
He had been stocking up for weeks, doing quests and all sorts of menial garbage related to this accursed software. Thirty-five gemstones, enough for the free summon and then another full round of banners being unfurled. He sighed, rolling his shoulders and hopping around on his tippy-toes like a boxer.
Then it happened. 3-star. 3-star. 4-star. 4-star. 3-star.
Both reds? All duplicates. Colorless? An archer he would never use. The blue? Merge fuel. And the green... good God the green.
If he saw that smile again, those two fingers pointed in a mocking salute, he would scream. That damn mullet and that stupid costume... he didn't know what to do with himself. He still had twenty gemstones, enough for another round of summons.
He crossed his fingers.
Four 3-stars in a row. His heart sank. There was only one color left. And it was green.
He pressed down hard, not wanting to let go, but he had to. His thumb left a greasy imprint on the glass, and he could hardly believe it. At first he saw the 5-star rating, and almost shouted, but cupped his hand over his big mouth and didn't even see who it was.
Saving progress... save completed.
That was when something grazed his shoulder.
Press A to kick Drake in the face.
"Engage! Wait, no, disengage!" he didn't have a choice.
Would you like to load your last save?
"Hold on," he rolled through his password again, only to be greeted by the same face he despised. A Clumsy Hero, 5-star, mullet-wielding green ax unit. He gave possibly the deepest sigh he could without being too obvious to those who were listening in the other room.
"Just load the damn file, I want to forget everything in the past two minutes," he rubbed his face.
Loading... complete!
He pushed his phone as far down as he could in his pocket, confirming that he still had his thirty-five gemstones. He knew it was a doomed effort unless he saved up for another week to get forty and try another summoning circle. Besides, he didn't kick Drake in the face this time when he came up behind him.
"Goodbye the only 5-star unit I've seen in a month," he grumbled.
[You do know that didn't really happen right? The game, the kicking your friend thing... all just you standing there like a moron. He's been trying to get your attention for a while now, actually.]
"What, who?" Warspool turned around, catching his best friend's face in his line of sight. "Oh hey Drake, when'd you get here?" he sputtered.
He had chimed in on the tail end of the whole 'Turbo-Dash' thing, catching enough information to let him know that the guy was a complete loser.
"Sounds a lot like Raymond, if we're being honest. Do you think they're cousins?" he inquired, taking both 9mm pistols out of their holsters on his thighs. "Ah, who am I kidding? Every greasy Adidas-wearing gangster in a tracksuit is a cousin to another one of such conditioning,"
For some reason he had the barest twinge of an accent, like the Discovery-channel weirdos who stalk poor animals all day.
"So what's the plan, I go in and cause a distraction, you snipe Sonic, and we see how much is left on the deli trays?" he pointed towards the large table the group seemed to be centered around. Heaps of salami, pepperoni, various cheeses, and buttery Club crackers stared back at him and his stomach.
[Seriously dude? You had like three chili-cheese dogs courtesy of Jimmy's greasy food truck. Just one of those is enough to kill someone.]
"What? I'm still hungry..." he muttered half to Invisible Brad Pitt and half to Drake, whom he didn't doubt had something to say about Warspool craving the room-temperature artery-clogging display.
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