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Old 01-11-2015, 07:18 AM   #7 (permalink)
Oriphiel
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Join Date: Oct 2014
Location: The States
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Chapter Three



Cleo didn't have much going for her in life. And, considering that her table was littered with empty bottles and glasses, it was a fact that was readily apparent (although, to be fair, she wasn't solely responsible for the mess). She felt a cold sickness in her stomach, and began to get a headache as her eyes refused to focus on anything in particular for more than a moment. She leaned over her table on her elbows, running a hand across her forehead and through her hair, holding back the urge to vomit. After she had somewhat collected herself, she pulled the notebook on the other side of the table towards her and began to write in it. She was, after all, a writer by trade, though not by choice. You see, she was homeless, having been evicted from her apartment just a week ago, and had to settle for the first job that had revealed itself to her. After losing her home, she had drifted around the city, crashing on the couches of any friends that could spare the favor, and it was on one such couch that a friend offered her employment. His name was John, and he had been a co-worker alongside Cleo at the sketchy pizza parlor that they had both worked at last summer.

One night, as they were both sprawled on the couch in a heap of beer and popcorn while a truly awful movie flashed across the television, he asked "Cleo, you're a writer, right?" She smiled, snorted her nose, and said "No, i'm not. Not even close." He straightened up, saying "Hey, don't piss on yourself like that. I remember those stories you used to write, you know, when things were slow down at the parlor. They were awesome! Like the one about about the guy with the dancing robot that could-" Cleo cut off him with laughter, saying "Oh come on! Those were terrible, man! They were just a way to pass the time. I mean, the guys who write those paragraphs on the back of shampoo bottles have more chops than me!" "That's bull," replied John, "and you know it. Anyway, if you're willing to humor me and pick up the pen again, I think I know where you can finally hold down a job." Cleo said "Oh, do tell," as she raised her bottle to her lips. "My friend is a photographer for some local magazine, real seedy, you know? Anyway, he told me that their writers just got busted by the boys in blue, caught havin' a coke party with some hookers in a motel, so now they need new talent. How 'bout it? I could vouch for you." Cleo looked at John incredulously, asking "A writer for a skin mag?" He nodded, and she thought about it for a moment, before saying "Actually, it'd probably be a pretty easy job, getting paid to write up some shlock story in five minutes. Does it pay well?" He finished the drink he was taking, and replied "It pays something, which in my experience is way better than the nothing of unemployment."

And that was that. It was pornography, plain and simple, and her specialty was writing erotic short stories for those who preferred words over pictures. Tonight, one of the main causes of her apprehension was that she had a deadline tomorrow morning. Usually, when it came to simple stories for the magazine, she was able to force herself to think up stories and translate them to the page in time to collect her paycheck, however tonight she found herself unable to finish even the first paragraph. In the past, whenever she lost herself in a fog of depression that had clouded her ability to focus, she found relief in loud music and crowds, letting the chaos around her give her a sort of calming anonymity. So she had come to the nearest dance club, a place called the Three Fingers, hoping that the noise would give her relief. And, as a matter of fact, after an hour of sitting in the club and drinking, her inspiration was slowly starting to come back to her. She jotted down a few paragraphs, lost to the possession of the ghost of inspiration, and smiled as she finally began to see her paycheck taking form. Just then, two Red Sleeves walked into the bar; they were the same boppers who had just tussled their way through enemy territory, sans the new blood, who they had dropped off at the gang's hideout for a patch-up.

The Red Sleeves had come to the club for the same inclination that had brought the rest of the crowd around them; they were restless, unable to sleep or relax, and needed a night-cap. As the club was in their territory, they spotted a few fellow Red Sleeves amidst the chaos, and they greeted each other with laughs and light punches. However, the two Red Sleeves were of the sort that had trouble follow them as if it were their shadow. A blue shirt scout had witnessed their earlier fight, and tailed them all the way back into their territory. After the Red Sleeves stepped into the club and began to mingle, the scout used a pay phone outside to call a few fellow blue shirts, telling them what had happened and requesting reinforcements. Within a half hour, a warparty of blue shirts were stepping out of the nearby metro station and heading for the Three Fingers. They came across a few Red Sleeves along the way, and attacked them without any sense of caution, which attracted the attention of every nearby Red Sleeve scout. As these scouts ran to gather an army of their own, it became apparent that a great deal of blood would be spilled tonight, and the Three Fingers would be at the heart of it all.

Last edited by Oriphiel; 10-16-2015 at 02:38 PM.
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