Monday, February 11, 2008
Death of a Mercenary
1:40 PM | Posted by
Warwriter Widow
They chased him.
God damn Longbow - it wasn’t like he could easily hide his multiple scars, tattoos, and constantly emitting electricity. It also didn’t help that he and his benefactor and rescuer from the Zig had a “disagreement”.
David Styrm first expressed disappointment that Provo still kept doing other projects on the side. “What I pay you, and the projects I request, is that not enough?”
Provo believed Styrm thought his skills were less than adequate, and was often insulted at the caliber of “projects” Styrm offered. Instead, he had other groups eating out of his hand for his craft: the IRA, assorted Kenyan tribes, drug dealers, even a representative from Al Qaeda had contacted him. Provo didn’t realize the reason Styrm gave him such easy projects was so that he would be free and on call for Styrm himself.
Provo rounded the corner and leapt over a dumpster. He misjudged, his ankle buckling under him. He rolled sideways and got to his feet, just in time to feel a bullet graze his thigh – where his head had been seconds before. He popped a green stimulant and kept running. He vaulted over a stone wall and landed in a pool of brackish green water, then banked to the right, waiting.
Didn’t Styrm understand it was the principle of the matter? He was a true mercenary, selling to the highest bidder, completely neutral in matters of bombs. He didn’t care that one of them was used against Shiites in Iraq – nor did he care about the Kenyans using it in their country, either. Nor should he care about the one that the ETA used in Madrid, killing over 200 people, a third of them children in a school.
Styrm obviously did and Provo’s life was forfeit in five words: “I am disgusted with you.” Within an hour after he walked out of his workshop in Cap au Diable, he was being tackled by Family of two different factions that he had played off each other in the past, and now – the Longbow jumped over the wall and landed in the water with him.
He relaxed, letting the electricity flow through him, and the Longbow started shaking, the conductivity of the water amplifying the electricity. He laughed as they fell face-first into the water – if they weren’t dead, they would drown.
Provo stepped out of the water and felt something enter his body through his stomach, then butterfly him open at the hips. He stared at a man with a black duster hat, in a black trenchcoat, and a typical black mask. “They missed,” he said, his voice muffled by the mask. “I don’t.”
As Provo sunk to the ground, the last thing he saw was the man’s eyes, yellow and emotionless like a cat’s.
God damn Longbow - it wasn’t like he could easily hide his multiple scars, tattoos, and constantly emitting electricity. It also didn’t help that he and his benefactor and rescuer from the Zig had a “disagreement”.
David Styrm first expressed disappointment that Provo still kept doing other projects on the side. “What I pay you, and the projects I request, is that not enough?”
Provo believed Styrm thought his skills were less than adequate, and was often insulted at the caliber of “projects” Styrm offered. Instead, he had other groups eating out of his hand for his craft: the IRA, assorted Kenyan tribes, drug dealers, even a representative from Al Qaeda had contacted him. Provo didn’t realize the reason Styrm gave him such easy projects was so that he would be free and on call for Styrm himself.
Provo rounded the corner and leapt over a dumpster. He misjudged, his ankle buckling under him. He rolled sideways and got to his feet, just in time to feel a bullet graze his thigh – where his head had been seconds before. He popped a green stimulant and kept running. He vaulted over a stone wall and landed in a pool of brackish green water, then banked to the right, waiting.
Didn’t Styrm understand it was the principle of the matter? He was a true mercenary, selling to the highest bidder, completely neutral in matters of bombs. He didn’t care that one of them was used against Shiites in Iraq – nor did he care about the Kenyans using it in their country, either. Nor should he care about the one that the ETA used in Madrid, killing over 200 people, a third of them children in a school.
Styrm obviously did and Provo’s life was forfeit in five words: “I am disgusted with you.” Within an hour after he walked out of his workshop in Cap au Diable, he was being tackled by Family of two different factions that he had played off each other in the past, and now – the Longbow jumped over the wall and landed in the water with him.
He relaxed, letting the electricity flow through him, and the Longbow started shaking, the conductivity of the water amplifying the electricity. He laughed as they fell face-first into the water – if they weren’t dead, they would drown.
Provo stepped out of the water and felt something enter his body through his stomach, then butterfly him open at the hips. He stared at a man with a black duster hat, in a black trenchcoat, and a typical black mask. “They missed,” he said, his voice muffled by the mask. “I don’t.”
As Provo sunk to the ground, the last thing he saw was the man’s eyes, yellow and emotionless like a cat’s.
Labels:
Dead Characters,
Provo
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1 comments:
The song I listened to on a loop for this was "Breathe" by The Prodigy.