Taerkasten
23-10-2007, 22:36
Twelfth "Undercity" Precinct, Taerkast City, February 12th, 1989
The Twelfth Precinct of Taerkast City West, somewhat ominously referred to as the 'undercity' by locals, was not the nicest place to visit, and one would certainly dislike to live there. Surrounded by a particularly dense packing of tall skyscrapers, the entire area gave the impression of being bathed in eternal darkness, and not just literally. Filth was the order of the day, with almost all of the buildings being plastered with blackened exhaust fumes, unflattering graffiti, and other unidentifiable marks which probably did not bear thinking about. For decoration, the local residents appeared to have chosen burned out cars and piles of scrap metal or household refuge, which were all piled up on the pavements in alarming quantities. To make matters worse, the near-tropical temperatures that this region of the country received acted like an oven, causing a rather unpleasant smell to fill the streets.
The residents themselves were no better. Their grubby bodies stood huddled in alleyways where the draft kept them slightly cooler, the scent from their unwashed bodies intermingled with that of the trash that littered the surrounding area to create a unique amalgamation of aromas. Their old, torn clothes were dirty and patchy, and appeared to be either stolen or cheap knock-offs, and rarely did they match. Most of these unfortunate souls found solace in drugs and/or alcohol, habits with often drained them of what little cash they had at their disposal and spurned them into the real problem with the Undercity, along with the true origins of its nickname - crime.
This was not the sort of place one would choose to live in safety, even if one were fortunate enough to live in one of the surrounding skyscrapers. It wasn't even the sort of place where one would feel safe stopping one's car at the traffic lights. Heck, it wasn't even the sort of place that one would drive through at speed. Even the police did not come here, for they often found themselves outnumbered by a hostile, unforgiving populace who bore a grudge against 'The Establishment' and all who represented them, believing that those with power had let down those without it. If these surroundings were anything to go by, they probably weren't wrong. Thieves mugged passers-by in short order, who, ironically, were then either mugged themselves by 'bigger' thieves, or forced to hand their takings over to powerful organised crime syndicates, for the purposes of either paying off a debt or simply to earn their trust.
Through all of this, a dark figure wandered through the alleys alone. While he deliberately wore torn and grubby clothing to give off the impression of somebody without anything to steal, his confident, elegant stride betrayed him - this man was not from around here. Every step was calculated to the point of perfection, and his swagger implied the nature of somebody with plenty to be proud about, both traits which were not common in this area. Perhaps the biggest give-away by far was simply that he was able to walk in a straight line at all, a feat rarely accomplished by many residents of the Undercity. Regardless, the mysterious figure went by unnoticed, and reached his destination - a seedy bar, hidden away in a dark back-alley. The flickering neon sign above the rotten wooden door crudely depicted a particular part of the female anatomy, and the name of the place was similarly unrepeatable.
Inside, he found a distressing scene. Patches of vomit lay unattended on the wooden floor, often with their creators lying somewhere nearby, and even worse was what looked looked like a puddle of urine resting calmly near a damp wall. A rustic wooden stage had been set up on the far side of the room across from the bar, where women who were clearly mistreated and high on drugs danced clumsily to an audience of drunken louts. The bar itself did not look like the sort of place where one would like to buy a drink, although the tender did not appear to be the sort of person one would dare say such a thing to. Several degenerate men sat around the bar, either hunched over their cloudy drinks or resting their faces against the grubby wooden plank, having lost the will to even hold their own heads up anymore. Over all of this, a thick cloud of smoke lingered in the air, giving credence to the image of Hell that was being portrayed so far.
The man stepped cautiously down the creaking steps, making an effort not to cough as he hit the wall of smoke, and strode across the room, right past the bar. He approached a small alcove where a group of men sat, who looked almost as out-of-place as he did. Each wearing long leather jackets, which bulged obviously where their guns were kept, they had a muscle mass that was not ordinarily afforded to somebody in this poverty-stricken and drug-infested area of the city, and they too sat with a certain confidence. Theirs was a different kind of confidence, though; whereas this mysterious figure walked with a boastful stagger, they gave simply gave off an image of danger.
"Tis a lovely morning," the mysterious figure said. He tried to speak in a gruff voice in the Spanish-esque accent that was common in these parts, but he failed and his received pronunciation rang out like a ship's foghorn. The group of men looked up at him lazily, and one of them smirked.
"I think it's gonna rain in an hour," the smirking man said, with another smirk. "What kinda gay code is that anyway?"
"Nevermind that," the figure said quietly. "I trust you are the man I spoke to last week, over the telephone?"
"Yeah, I'm Cam," the man said, drawing a puff from his cigar briefly and blowing the smoke at him. "Take a seat, we'll talk business."
"I would... rather not," the figure said after cautious look at the free seat. He assumed that it used to be red, but... it wasn't anymore.
"That wasn't an invitation, richy - take a seat," Cam said, more forcefully. The mysterious figure, whose wealth was implied by the nickname Cam had unofficially allocated to him, hesitated for a moment before ultimately complying. Though this 'Cam' fellow projected an air of apathy and joviality, he sensed that he was anything but either of them, and it was probably best to stay on his good side. The moment his buttocks were planted on the seat, all three men smirked at their victory of intimidation. "There. Fancy somethin' to wet yer whistle?"
"No, thank you, I wish to get this over with sooner rather than later," 'Richy' said. He had absolutely no desire to remain in this venue - nor its neighbourhood - for any longer than was absolutely necessary. Aside from anything else, his presence here could easily arouse suspicion.
"Straight to the point, a man after my own heart," Cam said with a chuckle. Even as he seemed to compliment his prospective customer, he flicked ash at him from his cigar casually, as though attempting to provoke him. Or assert his dominance. Either way, it was annoying. "You get what I asked you for?"
"I most certainly did," 'Richy' said. "I placed the suitcase in the trunk of the car you specified. Are you certain it will not be stolen?"
"See, people 'round these parts know that car," Cam said. He leaned back in his seat, and downed his entire pint of beer in one swig and wiped his mouth dry before continuing. "So they know, if they touch it, they get bits of themselves mailed back every week. It'll be fine."
"Good," 'Richy' said with a nod. "The organisation I work for -"
The man was interrupted by a round of sniggers from the three large men, who appeared to doubt the credibility of his story. Nevertheless, they had dealt with circumstances like these before, and quickly silenced and allowed him to continue.
"As I was saying," 'Richy' said sternly. "The organisation I work for has certain... qualms, shall we say, with the next leader of our illustrious country. For the sake of us all, we desire him to be quietly 'removed' from the equation. I was informed that you are amongst the most competent at what you do, and so -"
"We are the best," Cam snapped, grabbing the man by his collar and pulling him across the table. Despite all he had seen on his way here, this was the first time that 'Richy' had feared for his life. "Don't you forget that."
"Apologies..." 'Richy' said in a panic. Cam glared at him for a moment, before roughly shoving him back into his seat. Whether his apology had been accepted or Cam was simply too lazy to bother with him, was unclear. It did not appear to matter.
"You want 'His Majesty' Prince Benjamin killed," Cam told the man. "We get that. We don't give a shit what yer reasons are. You've paid us half now. When he's dead - and he will be dead - you pay us the other half, or you follow him pretty soon after. You don't want any traces back to your 'organisation' either - that's cool, we can do that. Biggest prob' in my mind is, how you expect us to get in?"
"Have no concerns regarding that," 'Richy' said. "I can get your men appointed to the Royal Guard without issue. From there, you should be able to accomplish your goal without suspicion and retreat immediately afterwards without resistance. I shall contact you in the previous manner to deliver infiltration details to you. All you and your men have to do is ensure Prince Benjamin dies, as soon as circumstances allow."
"Heh," Cam smirked. He leaned back in his chair again and took another puff of his cigar. "You get us in, and he'll be dead. You got my word on that, richy."
The Twelfth Precinct of Taerkast City West, somewhat ominously referred to as the 'undercity' by locals, was not the nicest place to visit, and one would certainly dislike to live there. Surrounded by a particularly dense packing of tall skyscrapers, the entire area gave the impression of being bathed in eternal darkness, and not just literally. Filth was the order of the day, with almost all of the buildings being plastered with blackened exhaust fumes, unflattering graffiti, and other unidentifiable marks which probably did not bear thinking about. For decoration, the local residents appeared to have chosen burned out cars and piles of scrap metal or household refuge, which were all piled up on the pavements in alarming quantities. To make matters worse, the near-tropical temperatures that this region of the country received acted like an oven, causing a rather unpleasant smell to fill the streets.
The residents themselves were no better. Their grubby bodies stood huddled in alleyways where the draft kept them slightly cooler, the scent from their unwashed bodies intermingled with that of the trash that littered the surrounding area to create a unique amalgamation of aromas. Their old, torn clothes were dirty and patchy, and appeared to be either stolen or cheap knock-offs, and rarely did they match. Most of these unfortunate souls found solace in drugs and/or alcohol, habits with often drained them of what little cash they had at their disposal and spurned them into the real problem with the Undercity, along with the true origins of its nickname - crime.
This was not the sort of place one would choose to live in safety, even if one were fortunate enough to live in one of the surrounding skyscrapers. It wasn't even the sort of place where one would feel safe stopping one's car at the traffic lights. Heck, it wasn't even the sort of place that one would drive through at speed. Even the police did not come here, for they often found themselves outnumbered by a hostile, unforgiving populace who bore a grudge against 'The Establishment' and all who represented them, believing that those with power had let down those without it. If these surroundings were anything to go by, they probably weren't wrong. Thieves mugged passers-by in short order, who, ironically, were then either mugged themselves by 'bigger' thieves, or forced to hand their takings over to powerful organised crime syndicates, for the purposes of either paying off a debt or simply to earn their trust.
Through all of this, a dark figure wandered through the alleys alone. While he deliberately wore torn and grubby clothing to give off the impression of somebody without anything to steal, his confident, elegant stride betrayed him - this man was not from around here. Every step was calculated to the point of perfection, and his swagger implied the nature of somebody with plenty to be proud about, both traits which were not common in this area. Perhaps the biggest give-away by far was simply that he was able to walk in a straight line at all, a feat rarely accomplished by many residents of the Undercity. Regardless, the mysterious figure went by unnoticed, and reached his destination - a seedy bar, hidden away in a dark back-alley. The flickering neon sign above the rotten wooden door crudely depicted a particular part of the female anatomy, and the name of the place was similarly unrepeatable.
Inside, he found a distressing scene. Patches of vomit lay unattended on the wooden floor, often with their creators lying somewhere nearby, and even worse was what looked looked like a puddle of urine resting calmly near a damp wall. A rustic wooden stage had been set up on the far side of the room across from the bar, where women who were clearly mistreated and high on drugs danced clumsily to an audience of drunken louts. The bar itself did not look like the sort of place where one would like to buy a drink, although the tender did not appear to be the sort of person one would dare say such a thing to. Several degenerate men sat around the bar, either hunched over their cloudy drinks or resting their faces against the grubby wooden plank, having lost the will to even hold their own heads up anymore. Over all of this, a thick cloud of smoke lingered in the air, giving credence to the image of Hell that was being portrayed so far.
The man stepped cautiously down the creaking steps, making an effort not to cough as he hit the wall of smoke, and strode across the room, right past the bar. He approached a small alcove where a group of men sat, who looked almost as out-of-place as he did. Each wearing long leather jackets, which bulged obviously where their guns were kept, they had a muscle mass that was not ordinarily afforded to somebody in this poverty-stricken and drug-infested area of the city, and they too sat with a certain confidence. Theirs was a different kind of confidence, though; whereas this mysterious figure walked with a boastful stagger, they gave simply gave off an image of danger.
"Tis a lovely morning," the mysterious figure said. He tried to speak in a gruff voice in the Spanish-esque accent that was common in these parts, but he failed and his received pronunciation rang out like a ship's foghorn. The group of men looked up at him lazily, and one of them smirked.
"I think it's gonna rain in an hour," the smirking man said, with another smirk. "What kinda gay code is that anyway?"
"Nevermind that," the figure said quietly. "I trust you are the man I spoke to last week, over the telephone?"
"Yeah, I'm Cam," the man said, drawing a puff from his cigar briefly and blowing the smoke at him. "Take a seat, we'll talk business."
"I would... rather not," the figure said after cautious look at the free seat. He assumed that it used to be red, but... it wasn't anymore.
"That wasn't an invitation, richy - take a seat," Cam said, more forcefully. The mysterious figure, whose wealth was implied by the nickname Cam had unofficially allocated to him, hesitated for a moment before ultimately complying. Though this 'Cam' fellow projected an air of apathy and joviality, he sensed that he was anything but either of them, and it was probably best to stay on his good side. The moment his buttocks were planted on the seat, all three men smirked at their victory of intimidation. "There. Fancy somethin' to wet yer whistle?"
"No, thank you, I wish to get this over with sooner rather than later," 'Richy' said. He had absolutely no desire to remain in this venue - nor its neighbourhood - for any longer than was absolutely necessary. Aside from anything else, his presence here could easily arouse suspicion.
"Straight to the point, a man after my own heart," Cam said with a chuckle. Even as he seemed to compliment his prospective customer, he flicked ash at him from his cigar casually, as though attempting to provoke him. Or assert his dominance. Either way, it was annoying. "You get what I asked you for?"
"I most certainly did," 'Richy' said. "I placed the suitcase in the trunk of the car you specified. Are you certain it will not be stolen?"
"See, people 'round these parts know that car," Cam said. He leaned back in his seat, and downed his entire pint of beer in one swig and wiped his mouth dry before continuing. "So they know, if they touch it, they get bits of themselves mailed back every week. It'll be fine."
"Good," 'Richy' said with a nod. "The organisation I work for -"
The man was interrupted by a round of sniggers from the three large men, who appeared to doubt the credibility of his story. Nevertheless, they had dealt with circumstances like these before, and quickly silenced and allowed him to continue.
"As I was saying," 'Richy' said sternly. "The organisation I work for has certain... qualms, shall we say, with the next leader of our illustrious country. For the sake of us all, we desire him to be quietly 'removed' from the equation. I was informed that you are amongst the most competent at what you do, and so -"
"We are the best," Cam snapped, grabbing the man by his collar and pulling him across the table. Despite all he had seen on his way here, this was the first time that 'Richy' had feared for his life. "Don't you forget that."
"Apologies..." 'Richy' said in a panic. Cam glared at him for a moment, before roughly shoving him back into his seat. Whether his apology had been accepted or Cam was simply too lazy to bother with him, was unclear. It did not appear to matter.
"You want 'His Majesty' Prince Benjamin killed," Cam told the man. "We get that. We don't give a shit what yer reasons are. You've paid us half now. When he's dead - and he will be dead - you pay us the other half, or you follow him pretty soon after. You don't want any traces back to your 'organisation' either - that's cool, we can do that. Biggest prob' in my mind is, how you expect us to get in?"
"Have no concerns regarding that," 'Richy' said. "I can get your men appointed to the Royal Guard without issue. From there, you should be able to accomplish your goal without suspicion and retreat immediately afterwards without resistance. I shall contact you in the previous manner to deliver infiltration details to you. All you and your men have to do is ensure Prince Benjamin dies, as soon as circumstances allow."
"Heh," Cam smirked. He leaned back in his chair again and took another puff of his cigar. "You get us in, and he'll be dead. You got my word on that, richy."