S
sticky
Guest
Original poster
But Mousie, thou art no thy-lane,
In proving foresight may be vain:
The best laid schemes o' Mice an' Men
Gang aft agley,
An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain,
For promis'd joy!
Still, thou art blest, compar'd wi' me!
The present only toucheth thee:
But Och! I backward cast my e'e,
On prospects drear!
An' forward tho' I canna see,
I guess an' fear!
In proving foresight may be vain:
The best laid schemes o' Mice an' Men
Gang aft agley,
An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain,
For promis'd joy!
Still, thou art blest, compar'd wi' me!
The present only toucheth thee:
But Och! I backward cast my e'e,
On prospects drear!
An' forward tho' I canna see,
I guess an' fear!
All in all, it was a pretty good plan. As the Phantom Friend cradled Breezeblock's bloodstained head, gripping her hand tight in the performance of a lifetime, the armoured truck rolled to a halt. The driver and passenger got out, hands on their sidearms as they inspected the scene, but were quickly drawn in by the Phantom's charm. Where everything went wrong, though, was when the driver hammered on the wall of the truck's cargo compartment, calling for the medic inside.
For it was not a doctor that greeted them, when the doors swung open, but a butcher. The tall, heavily armoured figure stepped out of the van – the stag's skull mask made of polished wood giving him yet more height. Covered in living roots and protected by heavy wooden panels with cruel, curving spikes, Shrike stepped forth to survey the situation and immediately grew enraged.
"You. YOU!" He screamed, gravelly voice turning to a half-roar as he took angry strides towards them. "I told you, Breezeblock! I TOLD YOU TO GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY CITY!"
Inside, the two on the ground spotted their target – a Tinker holding onto what looked to be half of a bicycle, covered in wires. He couldn't be older than fifteen, they supposed, his slight figure looking mismatched with an outfit that reminded them of old-timey explorers – a kid version of Indiana Jones, perhaps. As Breezeblock grew resigned to her immediate death, however, a miracle occurred.
With Shrike's attention firmly upon the two stuck in the road, he didn't notice the flash of gold above his head. Nor did he notice the grenades falling from the sky, trailing smoke which rapidly filled the street. Chaos quickly claimed the moment, but the team quickly found each other, and managed to regroup by Stoneroller's truck… which was a little odd, considering that they were spread apart. What was more unusual, however, was the new addition to their party – a man in grey robes, wearing a gas mask with a bandolier of smoke grenades across his chest. He held one primed in his right hand, and offered an open palm of peace with the left.
"Saw your plan hit a snag. I'll keep it brief." he offered, looking over to the unfolding chaos within the smoke-filled street. "I'm Smokes – Erie Cabal – and if I hadn't stepped in right there, you'd all be dead. Now, I'm not gonna ask what you were planning with Kid Lemuria and his drill, but I am going to ask that you consider the Cabal when you are counting your spoils – including the valuable knowledge of what's going on in there. You do owe us, after all. Speaking of the Kid, here he comes. I gotta split. Good luck."
Sure enough, as Smokes disappeared, out of the smoke came the Kid escorted by a PRT soldier who promptly evaporated. Suddenly alone and surrounded, he held out a jagged metal spear, coated in copper wire.
"Hey, where'd you go? Who the fuck are you? Oh fuck. I'm so fucked." he stammered, looking backwards towards the armoured van as he clutched his strange bicycle. He looked across the costumed figures of the party, fear welling in his eyes, and spat forth the only statement he could think of. The only thing that might save his life:
"I'm the only one who knows how to use it."