You know how, on the news on the trid, when talking about something violent happening, at some point the slot on the screen says 'police responded', even if it's a bald-faced lie? Well, 'police responded' to the violent explosive fracas that went down between me and the four goons, apparently. At least, that's the only way I can figure how I wound up like this. I woke up - which is good - with the smell of disinfectant clogging my nose - which is bad. I didn't even have to open my eyes to know where I was. I'd been in hospitals before, usually because of some body I know dancing with death and barely coming out a winner, but I'd never been in one, in one, if you catch my drift. And if you haven't been in a hospital lately, let me tell you, the trids lie; there's no beeping, no intercom messages. If you think about it, why would there be?
Another unpleasant fact of returning to the land of the living was the cold metal wrapped around my wrists and ankles. This was not going to be a fun awakening. 'Police responded' and arrested the only bastard left alive. Makes you wonder why they didn't just leave me for dead; usually corpses that're still breathing get left to stop. Maybe they wanted to talk to me about my illegal guns and the blood- and brain-stained axe. I felt for the handcuffs; they were old style, and I understood. I had a Dudley on my case, the kind of cop who'd violate orders to preserve the sanctity of life even if it means he doesn't get paid. Those were the only ones who still used old style metal handcuffs like this, and not plasteel. I'd met a lot more Dudleys in my time as a dick than you'd think, and they always get on my nerves.
So I opened my eyes, and nearly went into cardiac arrest. The Dudley was right above me, watching me, probably wanting to interrogate me the moment I opened my eyes. I should have gone back to sleep; everything hurt, especially in places I didn't even know I had. Eating a rocket will do that to you. The Dudley had the sort of face that makes you wanna believe in a better world; open, honest, innocent, having seen the worst humanity's got to offer and still smilin'. You've either got some serious brass balls and faith, or you're a crackpot. Time to see what kind this was.
"Mister... Chuck Finley, is it?" the officer said, checking a notebook. An honest-to-slot pen and paper notebook. Talk about old-fashioned. Probably a cop family. "At least, that's what your SIN reads, but we both know it's a fake, don't we, Mister Finley?" He smiled at me, probably trying to put me at ease, but an ork smile always looks threatening when you're looking up at it.
"Got a smoke?" I asked, stalling for time, wincing at the sound of my own voice. Frag; I sounded like a runt that'd been drowned at birth and gone on to become a famously atrocious lounge singer. Also, I was jonesing for a distraction from the agony beating in my veins.
"It's a hospital, Mister Finley. Smoking isn't allowed here." He gave me what I assume was meant to be a playful jab, but when a tusker's doing it, it feels more like he's trying to shatter your shoulderbone.
"Great," I muttered. "Got a drink?"
"Mister Finley, I'm here as your friend - for now." His voice dropped into lower bass registers, and he gave me a look that wasn't very friendly at all. Ah. Faith, but trying to look demonic. "If you don't cooperate, however, I can quickly become your enemy. Now," and here he moved back to his regular, upbeat voice, "I'm trying to figure out what happened at the Nk'ongo residence early this morning, and as you're the only person involved in the dispute still alive, I have some questions for you."
My eyes must have went wide, because the Dudley quickly said, "Oh, sorry. Mister Nk'ongo and his daughter are still alive, and I understand that's in no small part thanks to you. Why were you there, Mister Finley?"
"Job," I croaked, head turning to the side. "Got hired. Protection d'tail."
"I see," the cop said, noting it down in his notebook; I could hear the scritching of the pen, an infinitely annoying sound. "And who hired you, Mister Finley?"
"No idea," I answered promptly, loyally; you don't get far in this business by naming your clients, but at least this time my denial had the benefit of being true.
"And why are you in possession of a B&K MP9, a Shiawase Arms Tactical Model 79, and a spring-loaded folding combat axe?" The pen scritched along the paper.
"Self-defense," I muttered. Damnit. They'd gotten into my car. Probably broke a window or two in the process.
"Well, I think that's all I need," the Dudley said, standing up. "I trust you won't mind being handcuffed to your bed. You need your rest, Mister Finley; you lost a lot of blood, and you can consider yourself a person of interest in this matter, so we don't want you up and vanishing." He smiled a tusky smile down at me, trying to be reassuring, but all I saw in his eyes and smile were the words 'You're going to the slammer, and not a very nice one'.
Once tusky was gone, I set to work. Old handcuffs like these had a fatal flaw, after all; they weren't built with orks in mind, especially not midget ones. I brought my hands together slowly, keeping an eye on the door, pulling steadily at the cuffs, crossing arms over my chest. It hurt, the metal biting into my wrists, but I'd been hurt worse. Gradually, the links in the chain began to give; the railings on the bed were tougher stuff, meant for restraining even trolls. With a quiet 'ping' sound, the weak links of the chains gave up, and my hands were free, even if they were still encircled by the cuffs themselves.
"I'll mail 'em back to you," I grumbled to nobody in particular, sitting up and having to stop. Nausea swam through my vision, darkening it, but I fought it - I fought it as hard as I could. I couldn't afford to be passed out now, because next thing you know I'd be in a cell with Bubba the Love Troll. A few minutes later, the chains of the other pair of cuffs snapped, and I hopped out of bed, hitting the floor hard. Face-first, in fact. Once I got my limbs and brain working together, though, I was on my feet and moving to the door, listening at it. Of course it'd be guarded, and here I was, in a flimsy paper gown with my arse hanging out. Well, easy enough to solve - well, not entirely easy. Two guards, from the way they were breathing. Okay. I could handle two.
Three... two... gunshots? I pressed my ear harder to the door, listening as gunshots rang out in the halls beyond, and the two guards rapidly spoke - well, subvocalized - and I could hear the moving away, likely responding to whatever mess that was. Alright then, out the door, and into flourescent bright lights that made me hiss in agony. Slot it, I needed to move.
But, right next to the door, surprisingly, was a box labeled 'evidence'. No. Okay, no. This wasn't happening. This was idiotic. But I checked the box, and what do you know? My rifle, my gun, my axe, my earrings, my link, and my coat. I tossed the paper gown away, not caring how stupid this was, pulling the coat on and slinging the rifle over my shoulder, checking the clip on the pistol. How nice; the Dudley had reloaded it for me. Probably expected me to get out and wanted me to do it with minimal bloodshed. The sounds of gunshots were drawing closer, and I heard a scream that caused me to swear. I recognized the voice, at least; it was Fatman's daughter. Hell was she doing here? Well, I was still on a protection detail - and besides, much as I hate kids, the thought of someone doing the sort of things you hear about on the trid to one I knew was enraging. So, instead of the smart move, I went towards the gunfire.
Two cops were down in the hallway as I rounded the corner, and two guys in full mil-spec armor were holding assault rifles, one with the girl over his shoulder. And they opened fire soon as they saw me. Shit. I went back around the corner, diving into cover and stuffing the pistol into my coat. Right. Screw the idea of finesse, I needed dakka. Folding stock unfolded, tucked against my arm, and I went around the corner with the rifle, trajectories and aiming patterns scrolling through my field of vision, a red dot showing me where the gun was going to fire. I opened up with a full auto burst at the guy without the girl. I don't care how heavy your armor is; ten rounds of Stick-n-Shock is enough to put anybody down, and down he went, twitching and spasming as the electricity ripped through his body, out for the count, and likely dead from that much non-lethal shock.
Unfortunately, his friend took umbrage with me gunning him down, and he turned, bracing the rifle against his hip and squeezing off a full load in return. Back behind the cover I went, as fast as I possibly could, taking a few rounds across the back of my coat as I went, having them hammered into my skin through the armored fabric. Heavy booted footsteps retreating, the girl's screaming growing fainter - the bastard was running away!
I went back around the corner, cautiously peeping into the room he'd come out of. There lay Fatman on the floor, with a lead enema. The drugs in my head were making it hard to think; why kill the Fatman and take the daughter? She must be important, somehow. Alright, if she's important, then I need to get after Mister Mil-Spec right now. So I chased him, not the smartest thing to do when I could round a corner and get a face full of bullets, but he seemed more interested in getting away with the goods than killing me. The Dudley still had to be around here somewhere, or had he gotten gunned down by the bastard too?
Breaking glass ahead; this was not going to be pleasant. I caught the tail of the guy going out of the door the hard way, with the girl still screaming her fool head off over his shoulder. Just outside, an Ares Roadmaster was waiting, and he hurled the girl in through an open side panel door, leaping in after her and closing the door after himself. The tires screamed as the driver peeled away, shoving the massive vehicle down the road without caring what was in his way.
It started to get silly, and I started to have suspicions, when I saw my car waiting for me, parked neatly near where the giant armored vehicle had been a moment before. Not a single broken window, too. But I couldn't think about that - my money was getting away in the APC. Into the vehicle I went, starting it up, and hit my foot on the gas. I felt a brief moment of pride when my wheels screamed louder than theirs had, and in a cloud of smoke, I was in pursuit. Of course, I had to avoid what they wrecked, twisting the car left and right in sharp jerks to get around battered cars and fallen streetlights. But I was gaining on the Roadmaster, which, when compared even to a piece of drek Jackrabbit, is slow.
I really didn't have anything I could do against it, which was a problem. But I could follow them, and once they were out of their armored shell, I could get at them easier. So I pulled back, let them get further ahead, following them at a distance. As I did, I reached back into the back seat of the Jackrabbit and popped open the back bench seat, starting to pull out things I'd need. At the very least, I needed to cover myself; I must have terrified a few nurses with my open jacket and naked self going through the hospital like that.
By the time I was finished, I looked like a complete dweeb; but this drek had saved my ass countless times before, and I needed every bit of it. Armored coat, armored skin-tight bodysuit, armored over-sleeves and leggings, and a mask I'd had done special, which was white, with red circles on the cheeks and a permanent happy face with sharp teeth. I found it worked better than the stereotypical black, featureless masks - at the very least, people who saw me coming in full kit thought they were being assaulted by a clown.
The Roadmaster pulled out of town, getting further and further away from the more populated areas. By the time it stopped, we were deep into the Mojave, outside of a burnt-out building in one of those towns that dot the desert, now abandoned. Mister Milspec and friends hauled the unconscious girl out, while I watched from a half mile away, and hauled her into the building. Right. Fortified position, with at least two guys that I could see in full armor. This was... not going to be fun in the least.
Didn't have a choice, though. Fatman was dead, and saving his daughter was the only way I was getting paid - and now I had a hospital bill to pay. At least it wasn't a ghoul den. In retrospect, though, that was kind of a stupid thing to think; there's a school of thought going around that says the moment you think of the worst thing that can happen, it happens. Or, as a guy I knew once said, "When it comes down to it, bad days get worse. It's what bad days do." If only I'd listened.
