I hate heroes.
A gloved hand lifted the barrel of the rifle, slotted it into the handguard and twisted it until it clicked. The sound echoed around the abandoned skyscraper like the gunshot that was to follow.
I hate how they give themselves airs, and pretend that they're the only ones who really know how to solve a problem. I hate how they're so concerned with looking like the 'good guys' that they don't pay attention to the people they trample over in the process. And I especially hate how, when anyone tries to point this out, they stick their heads in the sand and shut the criticism out, pretend it's not valid because of whatever stupid armchair philosophy they just made up.
A scope was slid into place on the top of the reciever, clicking into place just as the barrel had done. Then two support legs were taken out of the case, fastened to the underside and swung out.
But I think what I hate most of all... is that they're selfish. They only focus on the problems that matter to them, not to anyone else. Oh, sure, they'll kill a dragon or foil a mad scientist, but what about the smaller stuff that goes on under their feet? The stuff with the drug lords and the robbery and all that? And then, just to rub it in, they do the dumbest, most illogical shit and dare to call it "honour" - no killing, no guns, no actually trying to stop the bad things happening again. That's why Batman is such an idiot - he cares more about himself than actually stopping that clown.
No ammunition. Just a bottle-shaped canister, of clear plastic, with some pale green liquid sloshing about within it. Damn, only half full. Whatever shots had to be made, they would need to count, or it would be a complete waste. The cap was yanked off with a sharp tug, and then the whole thing was screwed into the assembly with rapid haste. The scraping of plastic was a small cause for alarm, but nothing came to investigate.
The Promethians? Bunch of holier-than-thou jackasses can go fuck themselves. They did a horrible job last year, and where are they now, when it actually matters? That Kamen Rider kid's alright, but he talks like he's on a constant sugar high, so his usefulness is vague at best. Dunno what the deal with that Paper Mario thing is, and I don't wanna dwell on that or I'll get a headache. And why are half the Kobbers on vacation when there's still problems in this sick city, festering away like a tumor that the doctor won't cut out because he's drunk and also an asshole?
The weapon, now completed, was gently lifted upwards and swung around, and the support legs were placed upon the windowsill to stabalize the whole thing. A golden-brown eye peered through the scope, seeing the street below as thought it's owner was standing in the midle of it. Hips wiggled back and forth as legs shuffled apart, bracing the body for the inevitable kickback of the rifle, and arms gently swivelled the weapon's sights along the road. This had to be the meeting-place, those drunkards in the face-paint couldn't have been-
Gotcha.
There they were, in an alleyway so conspicuous they might as well have painted bullseyes on their bodies. About three or four regular Black Dragon thugs leant against the pickup, some disinterestedly smoking whilst the other half kept an eye on the proceedings a little to the right. Obviously, something had gone wrong with the deal - a fifth man, black haired and with the dumbest bronze armour ever, was waving a plastic packet and saying something inaudible to the whimpering, pale, baldy-headed junkie in front of him. The latter looked as though he didn't want to be here at all, and rightly so - something was glinting dangerously at the leader's hip.
A pearly grin split across a face hidden by the bandana.
I'm not a hero. Heroes don't sneak out at midnight, when they should be sleeping. Heroes don't commit acts of long-ranged murder behind the backs of their best friends. Heroes, unless they're in comic books, don't have to put on a face at daytime to hide the reality of what they've seen.
It was easy enough now - had been since childhood. Hold your breath to steady yourself, get the crosshairs pointing just so, curl your finger around that trigger...
And heroes especially don't jailbreak a child's weapon to be lethal.
And pull.
PLUTT
-------
Jarek was somewhat relieved when the meth dealer's head exploded in a gush of red and green. It meant he didn't have to listen to him babble any more excuses for his shitty product. But there was still the problem that he was now dead, and that Jarek himself hadn't caused it, as much as he'd wanted to. And that meant only one thing.
"SNIPER!" the cry had come, before the man's body had even hit the ground. And on the instant, every Dragon had thrown down their cigarettes, leaped away from the truckand drawn whatever weapons they had to hand. No-Face whipped out his hookswords, Tasia drew both katanas and flourished them, the other two grunts - he could never remember everyone's name in this wretched organization - pulling various other nasty stabbing implements. If there was one thing you couldn't fault a Black Dragon on, it was the almost religious obsession with blades.
"Spread out!" snapped Jarek. "Search that street - every building on this road! Meet up behind the back - it's too exposed here!" Damn it, he knew it would be, yet the boss had insisted that they corner the idiot dealer in a place just ripe for sudden ambush. Either he was going mad from the isolation in this shitty city - which the thug didn't doubt - or he had so little faith in this one client that his death would be a happy accident. It was hard to tell what was going on, with the boss, but the Australian would have accepted either explanation without question.
As the other criminals vanished in different directions, Jarek turned back to the corpse. Heh, he looked much better like that now. A pity that he hadn't got the chance to slit his flabby throat with his axe, or dig his cables into his skin and string him up for the crows, but at least now he didn't have to deal with that awful fungus breath and lispy voice. But it still meant that they hadn't got any dealers in the contacts now, and that meant funds would be down for a bit without any product to sell. Elder Gods be damned, this was inconvenient.
Speaking of... Keeping an eye out to where the shot had come from, Jarek knelt by the headless body, noting the still-wet, green, splotchy line that had formed on the side of his fat torso. Shuddering at the idea of touching it, he neveretheless ran a finger over the sweaty shirt, picking up some of the liquid on the tip of his finger, before bringing it to his nose. A tentative sniff told him all he needed to know - oddly chemical or sweet, like soda pop, with vague hints of iodine somewhere in there.
Fucking hell. Third time this month.
"It's them again," he called to the pickup. "Same stuff, even! Think we got a stalker or somethin'?"
The semi's door opened, and the person inside got out.
-------
...are you shitting me?! Damn it, all I had to do was check the car...!
-------
"I would be more concerned for yourself," rumbled Tremor as he approached. "A little to the left, and that would be your corpse upon the floor, not his."
Jarek snorted. "What, and you're not worried? If our little friend has any idea whom you are-"
"No bullet can pierce me. Not even a liquid one."
And that was that. The statement was made which such confidence, such a mater-of-fact finality, that Jarek shut up almost immediately. If it had been anyone else, he would have argued, but he knew who Tremor was, and what sort of thing Kano had made him do to sour the geomancer's opinion of his own employer to such a degree. Anyone who could come back from that without so much as a scrape, on top of being imprisoned by the Special Forces... Well, they might not be lying. And you didn't mess with someone that brutally honest.
"Where," continued Tremor, "did the shot come from? I cannot assume the others even noticed."
For answer, Jarek pointed one finger at the adjacent window where, he guessed, the shot had been fired. If only he had known, he was but a few meters off.
-----
Shit, they saw me. Well, think it's time to book it...
-------
"Mind out," he added as the imposing figure turned towards the empty building. "They might still be in there, lining up another shot."
Tremor's fists clenched with a noise like a single beach shifting.
"Oh, I hope they are."
And then, with a roar, he lifted one fist and slammed it back down with a thunderous noise, like lighting itself had torn the sky in two. The pavement splintered beneath his punch, and a huge crack lanced out from the impact point like a questing serpent, aiming straight for the assumed hideout of the attacker that had foiled the rendevous. Jarek took one look as the crack split in two, surrounding the hollow shell that had once been filled with people and possessions, saw the heat haze simmering from between the gaps in the asphault...
"IGNIMALUM!"
...and watched as the entire buidling collapsed into the magma, disintegrating as plumes of fire and smoke swallowed it up.
That never failed to impress.
Both criminals waited until the impromptu eruption had calmed down, and all that remained was a pit of rapidly-cooling lava that bubbled happily to itself. Then Tremor yanked his fist from the earth with a grunt, straightned up and surveyed the scene he had caused. A thrill of pride seemed to course through him when he saw the results of his latest show of power, eyes glinting ominously underneath his cowl - bt Jarek, wiping his brow from the heat, didn't notice any of that at all. If he had, he probably might have been more worried.
"Every day," the geomancer muttered behind his mask. "Every day, it gets stronger..."
Then he turned back to his associate, who had straightened up and was wiping his hand on his own trousers.
"Call the others back," he ordered. "We must conduct a raid on this man's address to obtain his equipment. If we cannot secure product from an outside source, then we must learn to manufacture it ourselves. Hopefully, this will lessen the interference coming from our mysterious friend in the future... if they survived, of course."
Jarek gave him an odd look. "Um, no offense, boss... But weapons is our thing. None of us knows how to cook-"
"Then learn," snapped the larger man, and he turned and strolled back towards the truck before the other could reply. Jarek hesitated, watching his superior sidle into the passenger's seat with the awkward lack of grace posessed of a rhino trying to do ballet - it would have been funny, had that same man not just sunk a building under the earth. Then the younger man shrugged and reached for his walkie-talkie, reasoning that hey, at least there hadn't been any Kobbers around.
They'd been lucky with that, so far.
-------
Damn. Just managed to get out of that. Ugh, and now my skin is dry - she's definitely gonna notice now. Ah, well, that's one less meth dealer to give the Black Dragon leverage on this city. Kobbers wouldn't even have thought of that - if they'd bothered to turn up, that is. Which they didn't, of course.
Well, whatever. Here's the to-do list - get home without being noticed, which is no small feat. Get showered and moisturized to hide the ashes, then rub these clothes down to get rid of the smuts. Find the time to re-fill that canister so that I'm not caught the next time that ugly fuck Tremor rears his head. And then, in the morning, guzzle enough coffee to keep me awake so I can do a news report on how some pretentious, goody-two-shoes caped asshole suplexed a giant robot through a warehouse, but won't even lend a penny to fund the repairs.
Cthulhu below, I hate heroes.
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