Post by Cali on Jun 26, 2009 20:17:34 GMT 1
This is a little "wing it" story that may or may not be finished. It's a spy/merc ballad set entirely on Earth, and to top that off, it's tightly based off of a movie.
Think of it as a contest. If anybody can guess the movie this fic is based on, I'll buy you a virtual beer. How's that?
Anyhow, this story gets the scarlet M letter stamped onto it, since action stories I write usually end up being on the gruesome side. I will keep profanity to a minimum, however.
********
ONE / A Man and a Turian Walk Into a Bar...
Earth
Paris, France
October 24, 2181
His heels clicked on the stairs, the toes flopping down onto the edge of every one. The surrounding area was illuminated by the pale moonlight, as well as distant skyscrapers in the downtown area. An alleyway with stairs, leading to a fairly isolated street in a mostly crowded neighborhood. His Omni-tool beeped, the clock striking twelve. Reaching into his black trench coat’s hip pocket, keeping his Stinger Mark II sidearm from jiggling its grip out for all to see.
From the street below, a pair of headlights radiated from the adjacent street, brightening as a large old four wheeled van rolled to a stop, just past the stairs. He pressed his back to the wall slightly, his head peeking out, witnessing the vehicle’s side door popping out an inch before rolling backwards. A woman descended outward, closing the door behind her and waving the driver off. Narrowly, she dodged a half drunken man who hobbled away in the opposite direction. The middle of the street was afire with a rectangular light that opened up, then closed shortly afterwards.
Henry Conway rounded around two alley corners after reaching the designated street level. The back area of Fredrick’s Café, which actually happened to be a bar, was dark and very damp from the rainstorm that evening. A few plastic crates carrying empty bottles were stacked near the door. Henry leaned in, pulling out his pistol while scooting the crates aside with his left arm, just enough for a wide crack between the wall and the crate itself to open. He placed the Stinger just beyond the reach of the crate, scooting it back in position.
He rounded around the alleyway yet again to the front, passing a hair salon when a figure moved it’s way toward the bar, looking rather out of place on Earth. A metallic exoskeleton rather than skin, the being stepped near the bar, his feet halting as his head cocked toward Henry’s direction. The alien’s ebony eyes held their place, almost waiting for the human to chastise and throw insults at him like other natives of Earth.
Suspecting these thoughts, Conway smiled instead, waving his hand as he neared the bar. Surprised, the Turian huffed, heading on in. Henry rounded to the old knob and hinge door, only to find out that the xenon was holding the door open for him, waiting for him to pass through. He cracked a smile, satisfied with instant karma. He pat the Turian on the shoulder, striding inward.
The turian sat down at the nearest booth where another human was sitting, the latter not surprised nor repulsed by his presence. Behind the bar, two people stood, the blond haired woman from earlier, and another male human. “We’re closing.” The male informed in Gaelic-Germanic European* dialect.
“Just a small drink.” Henry retorted in the same language, holding his hand up and pinching his thumb and forefinger together.
The man shrugged, and stepping to the shelf, taking out a bottle of cheap wine and pouring into a tiny glass. He placed it on the bar, finding that Henry was heading for the back area, most likely for the water closets. Stepping over, he peeked into the back hall to see that Henry had opened the back door by mistake. Henry turned his head to the bartender, the latter pointing to the opposite door. He nodded, chastising himself and stepped into the restroom.
The Turian activated his omnitool, checking the extranet on the tiny holoscreen and flipping through random webpages, almost as to wait for something. The beefy human opposite of him puffed on a filtered cigarello. His fore and middle finger clamped onto the sides, pulling it from his lips, and he tilted his head back and exhaled the cancerous vapors from his lungs.
The woman from earlier stepped toward a bright white jacket hanging on the employee rack, reaching into the robust pocket and pulling out a Raikou Mark IV pistol, placing it under the back of her belt, under her jacket.
Henry emerged, no more than a minute later, his hands slightly wet from a mediocre drying job from the air dryers. He sat down on one of the stools. Assuming the wine was for him, he reached for it, only to have the woman from earlier hand it to the man, who sipped it immediately. Henry was slightly embarrassed to think that the wine was for him. The woman stared him down with the eyes of a disgruntled angel, standing directly in front of him and leaning against the bar.
“Just a small drink, and I’ll be on my way.” Henry repeated in the local language.
“Why are you rushing off?” She asked in Common English.
Henry cocked his ears, turning his head slightly and squinting his eyes.
“I said why are you rushing off?”
“I don’t understand…” He lied, holding his Gaelic-Germanic.
She stared at him for a second, looking annoyed, then closed her eyes. “The man from London called you.”
Henry felt the turian and the other human stare at him, the alien already on his feet and standing near the bar.
He rolled his eyes every which way. “What man?” He questioned in Common English.
“The one legged man.” She confirmed.
He nodded, his mouth shrinking to one side of his face. The others in the room continued to stare until the sound of a vehicle tapping it’s brakes sounded from the back area. The woman sighed silently and stepped near the back room. The rest followed, gathering their jackets and other belongings.
Henry was the last to step out, the woman standing just outside the exit. He nodded and stepped around to the crates, moving them out of the way and grabbing his pistol.
“What were you doing back here?” She asked coldly.
“Lady…” Henry chuckled, placing the Stinger back in his pocket. “I never walk into a place I don’t know how to walk out of.”
“Then why are you getting in that van?”
“I think you know the reason why.” He smiled, turning to enter the door of the vehicle.
________________
*It's not exactly elaborated on, but I assume that the number of Earth dialects has narrowed since the space age. In this story, there are only two common languages in Europe other than English (Gaelic-Germanic, and Eastern).
Think of it as a contest. If anybody can guess the movie this fic is based on, I'll buy you a virtual beer. How's that?
Anyhow, this story gets the scarlet M letter stamped onto it, since action stories I write usually end up being on the gruesome side. I will keep profanity to a minimum, however.
********
ONE / A Man and a Turian Walk Into a Bar...
Earth
Paris, France
October 24, 2181
His heels clicked on the stairs, the toes flopping down onto the edge of every one. The surrounding area was illuminated by the pale moonlight, as well as distant skyscrapers in the downtown area. An alleyway with stairs, leading to a fairly isolated street in a mostly crowded neighborhood. His Omni-tool beeped, the clock striking twelve. Reaching into his black trench coat’s hip pocket, keeping his Stinger Mark II sidearm from jiggling its grip out for all to see.
From the street below, a pair of headlights radiated from the adjacent street, brightening as a large old four wheeled van rolled to a stop, just past the stairs. He pressed his back to the wall slightly, his head peeking out, witnessing the vehicle’s side door popping out an inch before rolling backwards. A woman descended outward, closing the door behind her and waving the driver off. Narrowly, she dodged a half drunken man who hobbled away in the opposite direction. The middle of the street was afire with a rectangular light that opened up, then closed shortly afterwards.
Henry Conway rounded around two alley corners after reaching the designated street level. The back area of Fredrick’s Café, which actually happened to be a bar, was dark and very damp from the rainstorm that evening. A few plastic crates carrying empty bottles were stacked near the door. Henry leaned in, pulling out his pistol while scooting the crates aside with his left arm, just enough for a wide crack between the wall and the crate itself to open. He placed the Stinger just beyond the reach of the crate, scooting it back in position.
He rounded around the alleyway yet again to the front, passing a hair salon when a figure moved it’s way toward the bar, looking rather out of place on Earth. A metallic exoskeleton rather than skin, the being stepped near the bar, his feet halting as his head cocked toward Henry’s direction. The alien’s ebony eyes held their place, almost waiting for the human to chastise and throw insults at him like other natives of Earth.
Suspecting these thoughts, Conway smiled instead, waving his hand as he neared the bar. Surprised, the Turian huffed, heading on in. Henry rounded to the old knob and hinge door, only to find out that the xenon was holding the door open for him, waiting for him to pass through. He cracked a smile, satisfied with instant karma. He pat the Turian on the shoulder, striding inward.
The turian sat down at the nearest booth where another human was sitting, the latter not surprised nor repulsed by his presence. Behind the bar, two people stood, the blond haired woman from earlier, and another male human. “We’re closing.” The male informed in Gaelic-Germanic European* dialect.
“Just a small drink.” Henry retorted in the same language, holding his hand up and pinching his thumb and forefinger together.
The man shrugged, and stepping to the shelf, taking out a bottle of cheap wine and pouring into a tiny glass. He placed it on the bar, finding that Henry was heading for the back area, most likely for the water closets. Stepping over, he peeked into the back hall to see that Henry had opened the back door by mistake. Henry turned his head to the bartender, the latter pointing to the opposite door. He nodded, chastising himself and stepped into the restroom.
The Turian activated his omnitool, checking the extranet on the tiny holoscreen and flipping through random webpages, almost as to wait for something. The beefy human opposite of him puffed on a filtered cigarello. His fore and middle finger clamped onto the sides, pulling it from his lips, and he tilted his head back and exhaled the cancerous vapors from his lungs.
The woman from earlier stepped toward a bright white jacket hanging on the employee rack, reaching into the robust pocket and pulling out a Raikou Mark IV pistol, placing it under the back of her belt, under her jacket.
Henry emerged, no more than a minute later, his hands slightly wet from a mediocre drying job from the air dryers. He sat down on one of the stools. Assuming the wine was for him, he reached for it, only to have the woman from earlier hand it to the man, who sipped it immediately. Henry was slightly embarrassed to think that the wine was for him. The woman stared him down with the eyes of a disgruntled angel, standing directly in front of him and leaning against the bar.
“Just a small drink, and I’ll be on my way.” Henry repeated in the local language.
“Why are you rushing off?” She asked in Common English.
Henry cocked his ears, turning his head slightly and squinting his eyes.
“I said why are you rushing off?”
“I don’t understand…” He lied, holding his Gaelic-Germanic.
She stared at him for a second, looking annoyed, then closed her eyes. “The man from London called you.”
Henry felt the turian and the other human stare at him, the alien already on his feet and standing near the bar.
He rolled his eyes every which way. “What man?” He questioned in Common English.
“The one legged man.” She confirmed.
He nodded, his mouth shrinking to one side of his face. The others in the room continued to stare until the sound of a vehicle tapping it’s brakes sounded from the back area. The woman sighed silently and stepped near the back room. The rest followed, gathering their jackets and other belongings.
Henry was the last to step out, the woman standing just outside the exit. He nodded and stepped around to the crates, moving them out of the way and grabbing his pistol.
“What were you doing back here?” She asked coldly.
“Lady…” Henry chuckled, placing the Stinger back in his pocket. “I never walk into a place I don’t know how to walk out of.”
“Then why are you getting in that van?”
“I think you know the reason why.” He smiled, turning to enter the door of the vehicle.
________________
*It's not exactly elaborated on, but I assume that the number of Earth dialects has narrowed since the space age. In this story, there are only two common languages in Europe other than English (Gaelic-Germanic, and Eastern).