Vandal

Chapter one: Revalations

The Winking Virgin danced atop the streets of Nul Sina with a thumping 808 at her back. Crimson-infused shadows lept across the surface of her walls, and the LED lights that hung in her rafters shook to the bass of the music. Crowds of clubbers glided effortlessly across her dancefloor at the barking orders of their Dj, their naked skins covered in dry coats of paint, and their dark eyes glinting underneath white woolen scarves like pieces of ebony as they jibed to the erratic beat. The smell of cheap alcohol stuffed Gyro's nose as he stood behind a tinted, hidden window overlooking the nightclub. One gloved hand resting on top of a soda-stained desk as he stared at the flashing black and white screens displayed before him. A heavy black hoodie hung from his broad shoulders as his carbon-fiber sneakers slapped against the plastic floor of the security room in small squeaky taps. A broken AC unit hung above him precariously, its fat-faced mouth spitting out gusts of cold air that danced atop his jet black scalp.

With practiced efficiency, he pulled out a delicately folded locket from the depths of his jacket and carefully slid the small token underneath the red mask that adorned his face. He pressed the pendant against his lips and breathed in the intoxicating perfume. The sweet smell of Devil's spice danced across his nostrils, setting his senses on edge. We're losing this fight, he thought, his lips contorting into a cruel snarl. The raiding party had been a gamble from the outset, and he'd pushed his luck every step of the way. With only one small screamer bomb, an equally small crew, and a late start, hindering his efforts, it wasn't enough to succeed; and nothing short of a rousing victory would impress his client back at Vor Sira. So they had lingered around the back alleys and empty buildings that surrounded the Winking Maiden. The observer hired by his patron had complained bitterly that waiting around until the dead of night would only jeopardize the life of Mr. Takeo's daughter. Maybe he was right, after all, Gyro thought.

Even with the cover of darkness, the raid had already cost seven reavers their lives. Their flesh being torn apart by the club's black armored security forces, who met the raiders with hails of withering gunfire. While at the same time, their bones were pulverized by flashing screamer bombs that ripped apart the blue-tinted cars they used for cover. His fighter's luck only changing with the arrival of Gyro and his squad of personal retainers. His elite team dropped upon the shocked guards in a torrent of steel, their elven-crafted blades separating flesh from bone with brutal efficiency. His Warband followed in the squad's wake, their pistols and axes culling civilians and enemies alike as they all raced towards the central Security station, storming the room in a burst of flaring shadow fields and dancing vampire blades. 

Yet, even with his swift progress, his men had only managed to clear the club's upper floor. His advancing forces, only halted by the single elevator that led to the night clubs underground facilities. A lift that also sat at the end of a heavily guarded hallway. Gyro could hear the muffled roars of gunfire as his reavers attempted to breach the enemy's defensive position for the sixth time, their efforts changing nothing. They were stalemated, plain and simple, and time was running out for Serena. He imagined her being splayed out atop a surgical table. Her rib cage pried opened, and her organs being removed by the club's medical staff. Gyro bit the bottom of his lip in frustration, I won't let them have the satisfaction of killing my prey, not while she remains useful to me, he thought angrily. 

"You'll hurt your vision looking at the tv all day." spat a gleeful voice. The highborn turned on his back foot to find a single armored figure standing within the narrow doorway of the security room. Just beyond blades' reach - the proper distance for lieutenants and favored retainers. The dual hilts of elven steel rode high on his hips, and a fine onyx vest of thickened kevlar sat underneath a puffy tangerine bomber jacket. The fat ivory words of Petite and Plenty adorned his left sleeve, while the skin of his black suede sweatpants was haggard with gashes from recent battles. He was almost as tall as Gyro, With a head of wavy jet hair that sat atop his pale scalp like a perching bird, while the sides of his skull were encrusted in a light fade. A Violet combat masked worked into the shape of a snarling demon rode atop his low-boned face, and even with the terrifying visage, Gyro could make out a hint of mockery that danced within Jinx's emerald eyes. A year ago, his retainer was nothing more than an outlaw that hid in the hills near Vor Sira. That was until Gyro found him, and after witnessing his murderous talents firsthand, gave him a comfy position as second in command to the Reavers. A title that he's solemnly held throughout the months, even with the numerous assassination attempts on his life.