Oriphiel

Thanks for the encouragement, you guys. Shitposting in someone's journal is like second base here on MB.

On a hot summer night, the two motorcyclists stepped into a dive bar hidden in the abandoned section of the city, breathing in the atmosphere as loud Heavy Metal played through the illegal sound system. It was a wild and chaotic place filled with mirrors and red neon lights, where the dregs of society traded music freely. In the corner, a crowd of people were packing themselves around a table, intently watching a high-stakes bout of arm wrestling while shouting obscenities, as well as the odd word of encouragement. At the bar, an assortment of misfits were throwing beer bottles while hollering at the television as it broadcasted the end of a heated boxing match. The motorcyclists took off their helmets, setting them aside near the doorway, and fell in with the crowd. Taken by the energy of the song playing, the two of them couldn’t resist the urge to dance. After indulging in the infectious rhythm for a moment, the man forced his way past the crowd to procure drinks for the two of them. Naturally, the bar’s drinks were legendarily terrible, but they often served their purpose well enough.

Before long, he had returned. The two continued their dance, occasionally taking drinks from the cold bottles in their hands, each one making the atmosphere that much warmer. Of course, their “dancing” was little more than moving their hips and shoulders to the beat, and grew sloppier by the second. However, they were far too absorbed in each other and the music to notice or care. The neon lights around the bar seemed to grow more bright and bold as they continued to dance, their reflections flickering like fiery snakes in the mirrors on the wall. Eventually, however, the song came to an end, as most songs do.

After the song had faded, and they became surrounded by the ambient noises of the crowd, they smiled as they held each other in a tight embrace. Just then, another energetic song began to play, and their embrace was broken by a drunken dancer stumbling into them. Helping him to his feet before pushing him away, the motorcylists glanced at each other and laughed. They then began to make their way through the rowdy crowd, greeting old friends and pushing aside other dancing drunkards, heading for the back of the bar. As they did so, a man standing by a decrepit door noticed them, and opened it as he waved them in.

Stepping through, the motorcyclists walked down a hazy stairway packed with boxes of assorted electrical equipment, eventually reaching the pirate communication center beneath the bar. At first glance, it appeared to be little more than a cramped cellar filled with monitors, patchwork electronics, and tired looking men and women holding soldering guns and fistfuls of gaffa. Despite appearances, however, it was the bedrock of resistance within the city, a heart stubbornly still beating within a corpse, refusing to give up. The pirates within put aside their work and greeted the motorcyclists warmly, always eager to take a break to catch up with friends, as well as to pass along albums and recommendations.

After a few minutes of lively conversation, however, they were interrupted by a man rushing into the room with a distraught expression on his face. He urged them all to hurry upstairs, and what could they do but satisfy their curiosity? Running up the staircase, the motorcyclists and the pirates returned to the bar above. The music had been cut off, and the noise of the crowd had been reduced to whispers. On the television, a raid was being broadcasted live by IME, no doubt meant to demoralize any rebels that might be watching. The motorcyclists instantly recognized the building being raided; it was the headquarters of a large group of bootleggers, led by one of the figureheads of the movement.

Brutally suppressing the bootleggers, the IME soldiers efficiently disarmed and contained them, handcuffing them as they packed them into transport vehicles, likely planning on interrogating them at one of their detainment facilities. Before long, they had captured the leader of the bootleggers, and the officer in charge of the raid personally escorted him from the scene, putting him in the back of his private assault vehicle. Turning their attention from the television, the motorcyclists shot a glance at the pirates, who nodded in response. Seemingly all at once, every pirate and bootlegger in the bar pulled out a weapon and headed for the door, as the noise of the crowd began to rise. The motorcyclists briefly checked their own pistols before setting off, retrieving their helmets on the way out.

The rebels split up into two groups. One would focus on stopping the transport vehicles carrying the majority of the captured bootleggers and seized music to a "processing facility" near the IME headquarters, a large building where violent pirates and illegal music were quickly disposed of. The other group would go after the officer’s assault vehicle, fighting past his entourage of elite guards as they escorted him to the garrison on the outskirts of the city, a well guarded base where prisoners of value were often detained. The motorcyclists were of the former group, and led the pack as they sped fearlessly towards their destination. The asphalt beneath them had been covered in a thin film of moisture by a light summer rain that morning, and seemed to glow under the neon lights covering their motorcycles. Pushing their machines to their limit, they accelerated past the point of recklessness, until the transport vehicles finally came into view on the highway up ahead.

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|---Mic's Albums---|
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|---Deafbox Industries---|
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