Fashion Streak

by Lorenzococo

Rating: everyone
Tags:
Length: 15543

Moroccan Spice and all things Nice.

A biomedical breakthrough has the world's medical innovators teaming up with the hottest brands for Milan Fashion Week 2017. Naturally they need security and naturally, Jim from the call centre makes a very bad decision in finding them.

Published 1970-01-01 00:00:00 UTC
Last updated 2017-04-27 12:33:01 UTC

Abductions, Angling, and Androgens.

“Ease up darling, you’ll tire yourself out.” She held the man’s collar as he leaned over the floorboards on his knees. His eyes stayed fixed on the bakery’s door just a few metres away,  dim yellow light poking through the gap onto the orange floor. His left eye fluttered, trying to keep open against the trickle of blood coming from the cut in his forehead.

“Stop fidgeting. I’ll have that wound dressed and you on a plane back home in no time.” He heard a pair of handcuffs click open behind him. He tried taking a deep breath but spluttered as he inhaled. He started coughing and was dropped onto the floor, a foot placed into his back.

“Jacques say that again, over.” The radio on Juliet’s shoulder buzzed.

“I said I have the, package, I’ll be with you—

“Now.” The door behind them swung open, a voice coming from behind them.  “I see you’re still with our friend. Hurry up, the police will be here soon.”

Juliet let out a long sigh,  “Sorry. Looks like there’s been a change of plans.” He felt the cuffs close around his wrist, and heard the clips of a briefcase open and close. He tried looking over his shoulder, but Juliet put her hand on his head, lifting it up. He gagged even more as a strip of white fabric was forced into his mouth before being covered with duct tape.

“Bit much, isn’t it, Jacques?”

“Not at all.”

In the small pool of red congealing by his head, a drop of purple fell from above. He felt a prick in the back of his neck before Juliet pulled him up to feet. Hanging upright, he saw Jacques stroll over to the door, opening it slowly. He could hear a long breath drawn behind him.

“You’re sure about the package?”

“Naturally.”

“I thought Italy vas supposed to be sunny.” The water splashed higher against Vernher von Brawn’s leg with each step he took along the alleyway.

“It rains everywhere, eventually,” The man next to him said, looking forward. They heard a crash behind them, and turned around to see a man in a suit come staggering out of a bakery and stumble across the alley into a wall.

Vernher’s face lit up. “Vell look at zis…” The man was kneeling on the ground, clutching his head with his eyes closed. The man let out a long groan as Vernher seized the briefcase handcuffed to his arm. “Domerater! Ve found ze courier!”

Domerator stepped through the puddles towards Vernher’s soft chuckling, pulling a long knife from his jacket. It made a cracking noise as something in the handle was bent. The courier started moaning and shaking his head, looking up at Vernher as his arm was lifted higher.

Domerator forced a wry smile as he looked at the gag. “This,” he pointed at the gag, “is a good thing.”

The fabric suppressed a howl erupting from the courier as Domerator severed his left hand at the wrist. It fell into the water, steam wafting off the cut. Vernher smiled as he watched the courier stagger upwards and take off towards the street. He fell onto his hand, resuming his howl. Domerator placed a foot in the courier’s back as Vernher reached into his coat. One hand holding the briefcase against his chest, Vernher aimed his Walther at the courier. The courier made one effort to stand up, pushing off with his right hand as Vernher softly breathed,

“Nein.”

One bullet buried itself into the the back of the courier’s head, which snapped to the ground, the blood starting to mix with the water running through the ancient cobble of the alley. The two started walking away from the alley, contented. Domerator stopped and turned for a moment, the rain pinging off his stalhelm.

“Hmph.” He turned back around and caught up with Vernher, who had taken to hailing the Mercedes in the dim yellow light of the street they had walked onto.

“Yooooooooooooooouwhoooooooooooooooooooooooo!” Vernher called over. “Ve have ze package!” They crossed the empty street quickly.  Leaning against the car were two more, one dressed in a vest and jeans—

“Domerater, thank gott. I’m sick of vaiting here vit zis LARPer.”

The other one wearing a great helm and surcoat. The great helm swivelled to look at them, but said nothing.

“Skulls!” piped up Vernher before he was interrupted.

“It’s Von Teufelheim to you.” Skulls opened the driver side door and made a muffled click through his glove to the other side. “Domerater. Get in the front.” Domerator swung into the car after Skulls and heard the doors behind him click shut. Skulls checked his rearview mirror, looking at Vernher with his hands folded over the case in his lap. “seatbelts gentlemen, we don’t need the police finding us for something stupid.” He swung the mirror to look at the opposite rear seat, looking at the Templar’s great helm scraping against the roof of the car.

Skulls looked down as he keyed the ignition, letting out a long, slow breath. The Templar looked at the side mirror in front of him, watching his purview grow smaller.

“Vuela!”

Jim looked through his real Ray-ban sunglasses up at the bright blue sky.

“Vuela!”

He smiled at the salty wind blowing off the azure Ligurian sea.

“Vuela!”

He laid back in his boat as he took another drink of his Slovenian Brandy.

“Vuela Pal-o-ma!”

“Vue—“

Jim grimaced at the phone at his right, now ringing. He let out a sigh and picked it up. “Conquistadores Limitado, This is Jamie Martins, please hold.” He put the phone back down. He was about to cast his rod when the phone rang again.

He shook his head and looked at the phone again, lip curled.

Brigadier Hugo Afonso.

Looking at the name he froze in place, then suddenly began scrambling to his left to grab it. He managed to knock over the bottle of brandy and was forced to watch in despair as it carried the phone off in a stream of “premium” liquor. He righted the bottle and slowly took his view away from where the phone had fell into the deep blue sea and looked right ahead of him, far over the horizon. He took a deep breath as his wellness advisor had instructed him.

“What a beautiful day!” He smiled, easing up and getting ready to cast. As he lifted it high into the sky the phone to his right began flipping about the boat, vibrating madly.

“No!” with his both his hands he clutched for the phone, holding it firmly in triumph.

“Brigadier Sir! I was wasn’t expecting a call!” His fake smile faded as he saw his fishing rod float away from the rear of his boat.

“What?” Came a female voice, “It’s not Afonso it’s Fiona, I’m signing the contracts in your office today and you’re the only one with the keys so get the bloody hell down here and open the place up!”He laughed nervously,

“Well Fiona… I’m ahh…” he looked around, ocean as far as he could see, “In Genoa at the moment… coming all the way up to Milan could be a hassle…”

“I know where the other eight bottles are Jim, don’t think—“ hearing this Jim yelped and lost grip of his phone, watching it sink into the blue. Jim stood up in his boat, glaring at the sun.

“Fuck.“ He thought to himself.

“Oh wait.” He said, “I’m by myself.” He looked up and took in a deep breath.

He sighed.

Jim stood up in boat, heading for the front. Looking at the souvenirs from all over Europe arranged around the helm he smiled a little. He gave a Colosseum snow globe a playful flick. It became unstuck and fell on the boat and into the ocean.

“Should we knock?”

Konrad Ford looked to Rouge, who was staring emphatically at the glass door, silent.

“It should be open by now,” Konrad looked at his watch. “It’s 9:30.” He looked around the empty street.

Rouge kept looking through his sunglasses at the door. “I don’t have time for this.” He said in a low growl before outstretching one arm and grabbing the door handle. He shook the door back and forth to no avail. They had a scraping sound on the footpath behind them.

“Hullo!” They turned around to see a small man in a grey jumpsuit dragging a mop and bucket behind him. “Name’s Scruffo, Is this where we sign the temp contracts?”

The two at the door were silent for a moment, “uhh… yeah.” Said Konrad eventually. Rouge took his sunglasses off and immediately put them back on.

“I don’t have time for this.” He said again, walking down the road away from the office.

“Um!” Konrad yelled after him, trailing off.

“Oh no.” Said Scruffo. “Is it locked? This must be some kind of test.” He took a keyring from his breast pocket and starting trying the keys.Konrad looked from the keys to Rouge in bemusement,

“Umm, how did you get the keys?”

“I didn’t. When I was a cleaner in the pentagon there was one more key than there were locks. I feel it, this has to be the one it fits!” The lock stayed put as the key wormed it’s way around. Suddenly a loud cry erupted from behind them.

“Oi!”

The birds in the trees around the street took to flight.

Scuffo and Konrad spun around.

Rouge kept walking away.

Konrad looked to the back of a blonde woman who had emerged from the gate a few metres along the building, “Excuse me!” The woman turned around. “The door is locked.” She looked at him for a few moments.

“Yeah.” They stood in the quiet for a few moments. “The dickhead supposed to open this place up is screwing around in Genoa or some shit, come into the carpark, we’re doing the contracts there.” She walked around the corner, Scruffo and Konrad following her into a mostly empty carpark going around the rear of the office. There was another building at the edge of the lot. She sat down one side of the trestle table set up. Scruffo and Konrad sat down on two of the three chairs on the other side. “These are your contracts with the DYAD Group. You’ve already seen them you just need to sign a paper copy.” Scuffo began flipping through his contract, pen in hand,

“Hmm.”

“Oh! Name’s Fiona by the way.” She straightened her hair.

“Fiona!” Konrad looked up from his contract, “As in Fiona Taylor?”

“Yup.” She nodded with a smile. Konrad closed his contract,

“What happened? You rocked a tank top in Venezuela, now it’s a pantsuit and a bob cut.”

“I was indie back than, now I’m handling for—“

“Lucius Blackwood Happened!” In the gateway behind them there stood a blonde androgen, posing determinedly, his line being slightly too late for effect. He began strutting towards the table. Behind him followed Rouge and another, hulking figure.

Fiona blinked at Lucius and looked back at the table, “Oh, Scruffo, sorry about the run in with customs.” She clicked her fingers and a man came from around the corner of the building holding eleven kilograms of steel. “This must be the “Heavy Polish Machine Gun” you listed. The man dropped the WKM-B on Scruffo’s lap. “We got this back from customs though, you’re welcome.”

“Ahh…” said Scruffo as he struggled under the gun’s weight, “I mean a heavy polishing machine, like a floor waxer.”

“Yeah yeah,” said Fiona, tracking Lucius as he came closer. “Floor Waxer, Street Sweeper, whatever.” She picked up the signed contracts and put them in a folder.

“You don’t get it, I’m a cleaner, not a mercenary!”

Fiona held up the folder. “Too late. Up you go!” The chair Scruffo was sitting on tipped over to the side. Konrad stood up and walked away, putting his hand to his ear.

“Call me.” He mouthed.

Rouge and Lucius sat down, the large figure standing over Scruffo. Konrad stopped when he was behind Fiona, he look at Lucius and mouthed “call me.” Rouge had already signed his contract and slid it over to Fiona. She looked at him quizzically. He slid his glasses further up his face.

“I don’t have time for these distractions.” He stood up and starting walking out of the carpark. He stumbled as his hip hit a car but swung back into alignment and kept walking straight.

“So Miss Taylor…” Lucius laid back as he flicked through the contract, “I knew DYAD had hired a woman but I didn’t think it’d be the legendary Fiona Taylor.” Konrad started to walk back over,

“I know right? I’ve already tried,” Fiona smiled nervously, “But you” Konrad sat down on the table, running his eyes over Lucius , “Please tell me you’re not accounted for.” Fiona pulled Rouge’s contract away from Konrad,

“Hate to tell you guys this but I’m… just the handler. Not actually working with you.” Lucius  cast his eyes at Fiona, Konrad threw his eyes over to Lucius.

“Girl is me.” Ragana clicked her pen and handed Fiona the contract. Konrad gave Lucius another look and gagged before standing up and heading for the gate. Lucius glowered at Konrad as he left the carpark. “Is okay.” Said Ragana, turning to Lucius. “I think you look like girl too.”

Lucius turned his glare to Ragana. He quickly scrawled twelve numbers onto the front of his contract and passed it to Fiona before standing up. As he walked away he put his hand to his ear and looked at Fiona,

“Call me.” He mouthed.

Fiona looked up at the giant Lithuanian Woman. “I like your hair. Mine looked like that before I sold out to corporate.”

“Thanks.” She looked down to her feet, seeing Scruffo wheeze under the machine gun. “Would you like some help little man?” Scuffo nodded. She took the machine gun off his chest with her right arm and pulled him up with her metallic left arm.

“Ah... Thank you.” Scruffo coughed and looked at the ground. “Nice… arm.”

“Made in Poland by Kozio Limited. Is good arm.” She turned her head to the side. “You are not pig like other men,” she pointed at him with her prosthetic, “I keep you safe.” Ragana grabbed Scruffo with her left arm and walked out of the car park. As he Scruffo was dragged away he looked mournfully at his now abandoned bucket and mop.

Bob had a smile on his dial. He was getting paid an extortionate amount of money to do his normal job, in Milan of all places. He checked his day planner, “oops! I’m running late!” He quickly finished straightening his white shirt, tightening his tie and fastening his belt before stepping out of his rented Fiat onto the street, making sure he took his lunchbox off the passenger seat. Bob took off down the street walking quickly, a spring in each step. The Australian lady said that he’d meet the rest of his team behind an old bookstore. Unable to read any of the signs Bob grew worried, peering down a series of empty alleys and backlots until he heard bouts of arguing. Bob took in a deep breath and powered down the alley the yelling was coming from. As he rounded the corner he was met with:

“You defile yourself!” In the rear lot there was a southern European man in army fatigues leering at an old man in a suit.

“You ignore the future!” Both of them were held from behind by an armoured man each,

“Cut it out you two, we have a job to do.” The two men restraining them said in unison. Parked in the lot there sat a white Alfa Romeo. More distracting than the argument or the many prosthetic arms glinting in the sunlight were the rifles hanging from slings over each of their necks. Bob froze in the entrance to the alley, shaking his head.

Suddenly the 800,000 dollars made sense.

With his arms held behind him, the European managed to kick the other man in the knee. Both men restraining swung their charges away,

“That’s enough!” They said at the same time again.

Bob skirted around the fight nervously, towards the Alfa Romeo. The phone on its bonnet started ringing, flipping side to side on the carbon fibre.

“Uhh…” Bob looked from the phone to the fight, all four men still engaged. As it was on its last ring Bob swept up the phone and put it to his ear. “Hello?”

“Mister Watson, we need your help.” It was the Australian woman he had spoken to before.

“Um, which… one?” None of the others noticed him.

“You’re not Wat— Oh! You must be Bob!” She let out a laugh. “I know you haven’t signed your contract yet but the client has requested your assistance immediately— Welcome to ChennaiCare inspired by (((((((((Calvin Klein)))))))))™ by the way.” She said dryly.

“You!” the old man piped up particularly loudly, “know nothing of what is ‘supposed’ to be!” Bob put his other hand over the phone before the other man could shoot a reply.

“Is…” Started the woman on the other end of the phone, “is everything alright?” Bob looked over and saw the European had gotten an arm free,

“Yeah! Yeah, just some office drones yelling at each other. I don’t think they’ve had their coffee yet.” Suddenly there was a cough on the other end of the line, loud enough to make him drop the phone. The other four had stopped arguing.

The two men had let go, “Who are you calling a drone?”

Bob was rubbing his ear, looking at the speaker icon now coloured in.

“Alright guys,” came the voice on the phone, “Chennai just caught wind of a package they’ve been chasing. They were supposed to be picking it up last night but their courier got hit; they’ve reckon it was some goons working for PrimaBiomed, the German Biotech company here with North Face. Apparently they’re holed up at a mechanic shop at 12 Via Pasenetti, similar team to you guys but you should have the drop on them. Get moving.” The old man picked up the phone and the European took a key ring out of his pocket and started walking towards the car, the other three behind him.

“Ahh…” Bob looked unsurely at the white sedan, “Can we all fit in there?”

The man in the suit turned to Bob. “We can. You’re not.” Now that he wasn’t yelling it became clear he was Scottish. The other men started snickering.

“Thanks for the offer,” the European said, standing over the driver side door, “but we won’t be needing you and your tactical lunchbox for this one.” Bob narrowed his eyes at them, his lunchbox had two ham sandwiches his wife back in America made him, possibly the two best ham sandwiches present in the world. He raised his unloaded sidearm,

“I’ll take point.” He proceeded to walk to the other side of the car, pushing the old man much harder than he planned on before sitting down into the middle of the backseat. The other four stood around for a moment but started filing into the car.

“So.” Said the European, keying the ignition, “what experience do you have…”

“My name is— They call me Bob. And my background? Need to know. What I do call you clowns?”

“Polis.” Said the driver, medic with the Croat 103rd Infantry Brigade, four years with the Hellenic Army and I switched sides a fair bit in the Syrian Civil War.”

“Oh my…” said Bob, looking between the rifle and shotgun in the laps of the men next to him, and the lunchbox in his. “That must have been really interesting, Croatia.”

“Yeah, it was fun until the Serbs started shooting Muslims on sight. I just couldn’t kill Serbs when they were doing God’s work. That’s about when I left and joined the Hellenic Army, I have dual citizenship and it looked like they were going to actually get into the war then.”

“Well I,” said the Scot in the passenger seat, hand on chest, “Actually stayed somewhere, namely Her Majesty’s Royal Scottish Dragoons.” The more Bob heard the more his spontaneous machismo began to ebb. “Name’s Watson by the way. I was there for much of the research into human augmentation that led to what Sweet and Eric are wearing right now. I prefer the metal finishes though, why have a new arm made out of beige polymer when you could be seen with cold hard steel! ” The car pulled out onto the road, Polis’s hands clenched tightly around the steering wheel.

“My name is—“ The two men either side of him glared at each other. The one to the left started again,

“I am Eric Segura,” the car hit a bump his helmet hit the roof, “US Army Engineers,” he lifted his prosthetic arms up, “lost my arms disarming an I-E-D.”

“Don’t you have robots for that sort of thing?” Asked Bob.

“Yeah… but ahh… the software to run the console was on a zipped file.” He looked out the car window, “Winrar is free software… until it isn’t…” Bob watched as he continued to stare out the window at the passing buildings. He looked at the two prosthetic legs to his left,

“Did you lose those disarming an IED?”

“Actually that was a snake bite, you know how around about 2014 they said you can’t use belts to make tourniquets?” He pointed his thumb at himself. “Had these for almost three years now.”

“You see,” started Polis, “some people like Eric or Sweet Sweet here lost part of themselves in battle, unlike others…” Silence hung over the car for the rest of their journey.

“Go on, you said you’d take point.” Pressed against the building’s wall Eric hung back from the door.

“I did say that didn’t I?” Bob held his gun in sweaty hands as he moved up to the door.

“Us three are in position.”  Said Polis over the radio, “how are you two?”

“Ahh… all good here.”

“Okay then, three,”

“Three.”

“Two.”

"Two,"

“One!”

“Oh god.” Bob kicked down the door and swept into the dark room, Eric right behind.

“We’re clear so far. No sign of movement.” Stepping over a ground hoist Bob continued to look through the shop floor. On the far wall he spotted something.

“Fuck!” Bob fired three rounds, breaking the silence. He barely heard the other three come into the middle of the floor over his own breathing. Four torch beams lit up the spot where he had been shooting.

“Eric, Sweet, on the doors.” Polis continued walking closer. “He’s dead, that’s for sure. It wasn’t you Bob though, this blood is at least twenty minutes old. Watson find a lightswitch.” After a few moments of staring at the corpse the lights came on, illuminating a long stream of blood pasted onto the floor.

“W-what the fuck happened here?” Bob’s gun started shaking in his hands. Polis snapped a rubber glove on, kneeling down next to the body.

“Looks like a crater wound…” said Polis as he unzipped the man’s tactical vest

“What?” Watson strolled over, “you mean he was bitten by a shark?”

“No… the skin’s not torn,” Polis poked the edge of the wound, “it looks like it’s… mashed?” Bob tried looking at the wound but quickly turned his head away.

“So… something blunt? That’s pretty normal, right?”

“Not…” Polis rubbed his hands together at the palms, “like this… It’s not important.” He suddenly declared, standing up. “He’s dead, and the blood streaks indicate more than one person bled here, and it can’t be the assailant, he couldn’t move himself with that much loss.” He held his gun in the air and walked towards the door, “uhhhh… Bob. Call the Australian, have her tell ChennaiCare that our snatchers have been snatched.

“Moulay Youssef Alaoui, cousin to King Mohammed VI of Morocco vas found dead by Milanese Police last nice, shot through ze head in an alley…” Vernher looked up from the laptop, “ze courier vas the King of Morocco’s cousin?”

Skulls looked around the busy café to see if anyone was particularly interested in their conversation, “Nein,” he pulled the laptop closer to his side of the table. “I think ve hit ze wrong man. Have ve actually inspected the contents of ze briefcase?” Across the table the Templar shook his helmet, holding up the case and tapping the clips. Skulls watched Domerator come back to the table with three cups of coffee and a milkshake.

“Herr Domerator, our courier turns out to be cousin of Mohammed ze sixth, and now I’m not sure that ze contents are really,” he looked around the café, “it. I think ve should open it.”

“Well,” Domerator began, watching the Templar tap the front of his helmet. “Hold on.” He went back to the counter.

“I’m telling you,” Skulls began again, “someting’s not right. Ve need to check before ve tell ze Australian woman anything.”

Domerator came back to the table with a straw. He sat down next to the Templar who nodded, poking the straw through a hole in his helmet. “I agree” Said Domerator, looking at Vernher. “We didn’t examine why he fell out of that bakery.”  All them of them looked at the Templar, enjoying his milkshake. “Open it.” He took it off his lap and onto the table, opening the clips.

“Fuck!” Domerator slammed his fist onto the table. Everyone in the café turned their heads to look at the normally quiet Canadian.

“Vhat is it?” Asked Skulls. The Templar spun the briefcase around to reveal its contents. “Paper und  a rolling pin. Damn.” Vernher put his head on his hand.

“Ve have to call ze Australian woman, ve did the right thing at the right place at the right time. If ve failed it’s because Prima Biomed didn’t tell us enough.” He took the laptop back from Skulls. They were silent for a while, save for the slurping of the Templar’s milkshake. Skulls turned to look at Domerator,

“Vhy is he even here?”

“Ahhh, Frau Taylor!” Vernher said to the laptop, hands together. “I’m sure you’ve heard ze news by now.”

“Yeah I heard you iced the King of Morocco’s cousin!” Skulls began mashing the volume down key. “That was sick.”

“Ja, unfortunately it vas not ze courier. He vas intercepted earlier it seems, zere’s nothing of value in ze case.”

“Shit. Do you guys have any idea who did it?” Skulls sighed.

“Nein.” The Templar grabbed the laptop and turned it around to face him and Domerator. He held up his hand to the camera in a static wave.

“Hey… Templar.” Skulls began to turn the laptop back around but the Templar began to furiously tap the top of it, and after scrawling on a serviette, held it up to the camera.

“I saw.”

Fiona took off her sunglasses and put her hand above her eyes, “saw… what?” The Templar took another serviette and held it up.

“The one who took it. Flat-chested lesbian.” Vernher looked at the note,

“How do you know she vas a lesbian?” The Templar wrote some more. Domerator stood up.

“I’ll get more serviettes.” The Templar showed his new note,

“Tall. Wide. Short hair. Flat chest.” Skulls snorted,

“Sounds like a man.” The Templar shook his head. “You said short hair,” Skulls narrowed his eyes, “How short?” As the Templar put his hand level to just above his shoulder Fiona cast her eyes to her shoulder-length hair and coughed nervously.

“What colour?” She asked. The Templar pointed to the cross on his surcoat. “Red? It was dyed?” He waved his hand horizontally. “Not sure, okay…” she started laughing to herself, much to Skulls’ annoyance.

“Something funny Frau Taylor?”

“Yeah… you got jumped by Lauren Jackson.” She started cackling as the Templar tilted his head. “A netball player, that’s what she sounds like, a net—“ The Templar closed the call and searched for “netball courts Milan.” When it loaded he pointed at the nearest pin. Skulls raised his eye brow.

“Ve are going to a netball court?” The  Templar nodded emphatically.

“Herr Domerator,” Vernher called over to the counter. Ve are moving.” As they stood up Skulls looked to the Templar,

“Vhy didn’t you tell us zis before?” The Templar shrugged. “Ahh, I see, you just like looking at zese lesbian netball players, ja?” The Templar leant in close to Skulls, and shook his head very, very slowly.

“I—“ Juliet winced and inhaled sharply. “Am fine, stop asking.” She put the phone on speaker and walked across the bloodied tiles to the lightswitch. “We both got hit, but I’ve taken it fine, Jacques is a bit worse, as your results predicted. I think he needs to go back to Morocco.” She stopped and put a hand against the wall, the other against her side.

“I think you both need to go back to Morocco, you don’t sound very well at all.” She resumed her plodding across the room,

“No, I’ve gotten the package and the Moulay but I’m not finished, and I don’t need Jacques’s help me do them. Just call for the drop, okay?” A loud sigh came off the other end,

“Sure, Juliet, just don’t get yourself killed. We’re all very proud of you.” The call ended. Juliet flicked on the light switch, illuminating a small room. On the bed there lay an unconscious man in a torn suit, several empty blood packets lay on the table next to him, two Vektors lying over each other. Juliet walked back over to the window and peered through the blinds. She picked up one of the Vektors on the table and loaded it, sitting down on the rug next the windowside chair.

“Keep breathing Jacques…” She gave the chair a playful spin. She moved back across the rug a bit, resting against the window side wall, aiming her Vektor at the door.

Bikes, Bionics, and Bob.

“When are they getting here?” Blackjack looked from his watch to the sky. “It’s almost dark.”

“Yeah,” said the African American next to him, playing on his phone. “I don’t like just standing on some street corner, especially considering…”

“Considering what, Sage?”

“Well we’re getting funny looks, from all these I-talians.” He looked up from his phone to the cautious passers-by, giving them worried glances. “Don’t want them getting the cops on us.”

The Blackjack took out some cards from his mechanic’s jumpsuit and began flicking one from hand to hand, “We’ll do fine. We’ve got all the paperwork.”

“Yeah, well,” said Sage, watching the cards, “it’s different for you.”

“How?” Sage pointed at himself as Blackjack looked on in confusion. The silent exchange continued for a few moments before Blackjack turned to the side and kept playing with his cards.

“What are these two scientists doing, fucking each other in a taxi?”

“Hey! My mom’s one of them—“Sage stopped as he saw a figure in a trenchcoat walk up to them. “Who the fuck are you?”

“I’m the fashion police.” The figure looked out from beneath his brim before turning to Blackjack, “And I’m here to arrest your jumpsuit.”

Blackjack snorted. “He’s our third, ‘TBM’ as he likes to be called. Why the fuck are you wearing a trenchcoat?”

“My left arm’s a sub machine gun. Can’t go in banks, airports, schools or shopping centres without it on. Still can’t go to schools with it on though. Schools are a constant no-go.” He turned to face Sage, “I assume the dick in the jumpsuit is Ellis Blackjack Bradbury, who—“

“Captain Ellis Blackjack Bradbury, I earn—“ He was cut off by an Italian with a large camera around his neck pushing past him, his straw brown jacket billowing in the wind. The man kept running away from them.

“Someone’s in a hurry,” Said Sage, turning back to TBM. “I’m Cameron Cir. Call me Sage.”  Blackjack pointed at TBM,

“And call me Captain.” He started picking up the cards on the floor. “Sage call the handler, this is taking too long.”

“Calm down, one of the brains is here.” A taxi pulled up and out stepped a tall man with a red beard and a pale brown sweater. “Doctor.” Blackjack gave a wave as he picked up another card. The taxi pulled away as the Doctor adjusted his glasses,

“Afternoon gentlemen,” he extended his hand, “Doctor Charles Sti—“ His head was inverted in a cacophonous flurry as two shots glided out across the street. The cards Blackjack were picking up scattered and flew around the corner, floating down gently. TBM pressed himself against the wall, revealing a prosthetic right arm to Blackjack, who was still bent over on the ground,

“Oh, so your decision making skills are only half—“ Sage pulled him back around the corner, the three stayed next to the wall for a few moments, before hearing a motorcycle roaring away. Sage pulled out his phone,

“Come on mom, pick up.”

“Well shit.” Said Blackjack, still sitting on the ground. He looked at TBM. “The… contract did say that we were only responsible from the point of coming into contact with them, and he didn’t finish his name so…”

“He’s on the corner. We were said to meet him on Via Fontano. He’s on the corner of Via Fontano and Via Bianco.” The pair looked at each other for a moment.

“Sage.” Blackjack looked up to see him tap his phone furiously. Make sure no one takes any pictures. Sage kept looking at his phone, and put it to his ear again,

“Come on mom, please, please!” The phone rang out again. “Fuck!”

“Fuck yeah!” Sage turned around the corner to see Blackjack and TBM drop the dead doctor by the side of the road. Ellis took put his phone in his right hand, “We can still claim our cancellation fee!” He raised his left arm to high-five TBM.

“Very funny.” The two turned around when they heard Sage’s phone smash on the ground.

“Oh.” Blackjack cast his eyes away, “I forgot about your mom. Let’s hope she doesn’t show up alive on Via Fontano for the next thirty minutes then get the fuck out of here!”

Sage stared at him.

“Fine, we’ll hope she doesn’t show alive for the next hour.”

They heard an explosion a block away.

“I was joking! I swear!”

People flooded out of the buildings around them, stepping on the playing cards on the ground. Sage pulled Blackjack up as he went down to pick them up,

“Get your stuff Blackjack.”

TBM smiled smugly. “Okay. Done.”

“Fine.” Said Blackjack. We’ll go back to the lockup.”

 TBM watched Blackjack and Sage walk away. “I’ll spend that time getting a sandwich. Oi Captain, Who has poor decision making skills now?”

Blackjack started to run to catch up to Sage,

 “Don’t worry, I’m sure your mom is safe, we’ll find who did this.”

The pine trees stood stiff, pointing to the air in perfect straightness. Through their leaves the brilliant light reflected from the Italian Alps poked through. Amongst the trees there stood ten soldiers, standing as rigid and motionless as the trees. From the south, behind them came the rumble of a land cruiser. It stopped, and one door glided open and shut. One set of footsteps, slow and deliberate, circled around in front of them.

“Men.” Jim addressed the soldiers with his hands behind his back, continuing to pace.

“You may be wondering why I had you come out here, at the base of the, beautiful Italian alps,” His walk took him to the other rear side of the soldiers.

“You may think that you, Conquistadores, are from the best special forces in the world. Well I think that you’ve been inside for too long, that you’ve gone soft.” He emerged from the left side again, carrying a pack.

“So to test you,” he dropped the pack in front of the Conquistadores.

“We’re going camping.” The file stood stoic, hiding their disappointment.

“Packs are behind you, fall out.” He sternly pointed out towards Milan, watching his soldiers head towards the land cruiser and taking their packs off the roof rack.

“You, soldier there, what’s your name?” Jim pointed at one operator.

“Corporal Stephano, Sir!”

“Corporal!” Jim started jingling his keys around his finger. “Get the esky out of the truck.” Just as the keyring circled the tip of finger he saw it glint in the sunlight.

“Nononononononononono!” He grabbed the keys and pushed past the Corporal. He threw himself against the car window and began hitting it desperately. There on the passenger side seat lay a pair of land cruiser keys, complete with Eurocar tag. Jim then took his desperate assault to the door handle, though it was as fruitless.

“I can break the window sir,” offered Corporal Stephano.

“No! Don’t do that, I can’t write off another company vehicle.” He turned around and put his hand through his hair.

“What do you mean another company vehicle?” Asked the Lieutenant next to Stephano. Jim recognised him,

Salazar.

They had bumped into each other at a train station in Lisbon once and Jim had never forgotten his face since then. Jim remembered that Salazar probably hated him for some other reason involving his promotion from call centre operator to site manager and six month stint as company director due to a clerical error but that wasn’t important.

“Well, Sir?” Seeing Salazar narrow his brow, Jim watched his life flash before his eyes, but it ended with a shot of a company vehicle full of Slovenian brandy in a self-storage unit in Genoa.  Jim snapped back and looked at Salazar, narrowing his eyes.

“That information, is need to know. Now.” He turned to address the wider group. “You have encountered our first planned challenge. This is a fieldcraft test, whoever can enter the vehicle without damaging it wins.

“Wins… what?” Asked Sergeant Riaro, standing at the back.

“The first to gain entry to the vehicle gets the first pick from the esky inside.” A couple of men looked around at each other and then started to amble forward, inspecting the vehicle’s doors. Lieutenant Franco stepped from behind Salazar and started working a pin into the passenger side door.

“Sir.” Asked Stephano, stepping away from the circling Conquistadores. “What’s in the esky?”

“All of our food.” He whispered. Franco swung his head up from the door.

“What!” His pin broke. Jim cast his eyes to Salazar and continued,

“I said, it has all the food to satisfy a man!” He thought for a few moments and then continued. “Sandwiches, and steak, and BEER!” Instead of seeing the expected chorus of approval he saw the enthusiasm drain from his men, and a few noses rising.

“Shit.” He thought. “I thought I told the supplier this was for Southern European men!” Jim could see that they had given up on gaining entry to the vehicle. “Come on Jim, think!”

“Welcome, ladies, to the March meeting of the Lombardy LGBTQIAMX-132’s association, where will be discussing how Fashion Week is a patriarchal imposition on us women, and men pretending to be women.” One “woman” stuck her hand up.    

“Excuse me, Chairperson, but the transgender, genderfluid, genderqueer, non-binary—“

“Norane,” the Chair replied. “You may refer to them as T-onwards for brevity.”

“Right. The T-onwards have decided to form their own sub association ever since out newest member Alex coughed in their general direction. This is just the LGB Wome00n’s association.” The chairwoman looked out across the roof. The amount of denim and short haircuts in the room seemed to corroborate.

“Thank you Norane. On with the agenda, we’ll start with last minutes, then half of the motions before we go to lunch—” she looked down at the table.

“Of oysters, cheese and chardonnay? That can’t be right.” The entire room gasped in shock. Alex slammed her phone on the table. Norane started literally shaking.

“You—“ a bullet entered the doe’s leg.

“Are—“ a bullet hit the doe in its torso.

“Not—“ another round hit the doe, again in the leg.

“Getting away—“ two shots flew into the doe’s neck.

“This time!” The final round of Jim’s burst hit the doe in the head. Lubricated by its own blood, the doe began to slide downwards. Jim stood up from the ditch he had made his firing position. Corporal Stephano kneeled next to him and peered at the remains.

“Sorry, sir. I don’t think we can eat that. I think you shot it just one too many times.”  Jim lowered his M70 in dejection.

“Well last time I shot a deer just once it managed to run away.”

“Salazar finished it off though. Too bad that a rock fell down the mountainside at the same time and pushed it right off the cliff.” Jim zipped up his jacket and put his hands in his pockets.

“I’m sure Salazar just shot it too many times.”

“Oh no sir, a big large rock just came flying out of the trees right as Salazar was about to dress it, nearly took him right off the cliff.” Stephano held his arms out to show its size. Jim stared at Stephano, then looked around, seeing that Salazar’s team were not in view.

“You know Stephano I really ought to have done a risk assessment before telling the men the next challenge was hunting, the chances for a hunting accident are strangely high.” Two shots rang out in the distance.

 “Got one!” cried out Sergeant Riaro just as loud as the bullets.

“Um…” Corporal Stephano took a step back. “Sounds like Lieutenant Franco’s team got one.”

“Come on, we can get something better.” Jim and Stephano carried on up the mountainside. They came across two Conquistadores.

“Sir.” They were sitting down.

“Weren’t you two supposed to be with Salazar?” Asked Stephano.

“A good question Corporal,” said Jim. ‘Why aren’t you two doing anything?”

“Salazar’s just keeps running, we couldn’t catch up with him. He’s gone crazy.”

“Yeah.” Said the other one. “Why the hell do we have to hunt anyway?”

“Because you all failed!” Everyone looked in surprise at Jim’s sudden outburst. “If you had passed the fieldcraft exercise we wouldn’t have had to do a hunting challenge. It doesn’t end until you find something we can eat. Get moving.” Both soldiers grudgingly stood up and walked away mumbling.

“Come on Corporal, just the two of us.” He pointed upwards, “To the snow line, the others wouldn’t have gone there yet.” They headed up the mountain between the pine trees. Jim adjusted his beanie and Stephano put on a second pair of gloves as the ground turned white, and the air started to chill.

“I feel good.” Jim whispered. “I got this. Third time lucky.”

“Fourth time. You’re forgetting the deer you shredded.”

“Technically,” Jim turned back and whispered, “that one counts—“ he stuck up his hand.

“Movement.” The two began to creep through the trees, their boots crunching softly on the snow. Jim stopped, Stephano stopping right behind him. Jim extended his hand excruciatingly slowly.

The doe stood by the patch of grass. It was on a lone patch of dirt surrounded by snow. It was populated with a few enterprising strands of new grass. The doe called her young over, which started to playfully dance around the grass, eating with delight. The doe was about to eat some itself when1

“Shit!”

The doe shot her head up and surveyed the land around herself. It caught a glimpse of something in the trees and shot forward, right behind her fawn.

“Up-side, in-side out!”  Jim finally forced his zip open and he pulled his phone out of his pocket, nearly dropping it.

“She’s living La Vida Loca!” Jim tried to hit the phone’s sleep button but couldn’t press the small button through his gloves.

“Fuck!” He threw his phone, but it bounced off a tree and hit Stephano, who went tumbling down the mountain.

“Acceptable losses.” Jim advanced undettered.

Jim charged forward and threw himself into the snow, to the left of his M70’s sights was the doe and her fawn, running almost out of view. To the right of his sights was the moustache of Lieutenant Salazar.

“Quintessentially tomorrow.”

Bob walked through the parting frosted glass doors to be met with the marble letters dominating the room they stepped into. Polis shuffled away from the door’s sensor so it closed.

“It’s warmer outside.” He looked around the lobby, barren and polish white and grey tiling. Watson pointed to the desk at their left,

“Let me handle this. You can all soak in the interior.” He walked over to the large, unoccupied desk. Frankie and Eric sat down uncomfortably in the small chairs.

“Ugh. I hate modern architecture.”

Bob cast an eye to Watson, still standing patiently at the desk. He then looked at the central column in the room, and the mezzanine overlooking them. “Wouldn’t have to worry about any teenagers working here…” He breathed.

Polis, who was almost shivering, narrowed his eyes at him. “T-teenagers? W-what did you say your experience was exactly?”

“Uhhh… Not… teenagers, mean majors, we had some really nasty battalion commanders in… North.”

“North wha—“ The two stopped and started at each other, both holding the same magazine in one hand. “I had it first!”

“Guys,” Bob looked at the stack of magazines, “there’s like, a hundred magazines there.” From across the room there came a very conspicuous throat clear, coming from the desk.

“Oh no…” Polis mumbled, walking over to Watson. “Not again.”

“Of course you know who I am! Without my work your company wouldn’t exist!” The startled receptionist started shrinking into her chair. Eric and Frankie stood up and followed Polis,

“Calm down Watson!”

Eric put a hand on Watson’s shoulder, “This isn’t helping.”

Frankie slid up to the desk, “We need to see Mister Landgraph.” Polis punctuated it with a smile.

The receptionist nodded and reached for the phone.  “Mister Landgraph, we have some… people here to see you—“

“We have nothing of the sort!” From across the lobby on the mezzanine stood a man in a black turtleneck, holding onto the air dramatically. He held his pose for a few moments then cast his eyes towards the desk on the ground floor when he realised no one was walking towards him. He started to click his fingers in the air. The receptionist put down as her phone and the team walked towards the turtleneck, who was addressing the ceiling.

“It is I you want, Landgraff!” He looked down,

“With an f. Two, in fact. Mister Landgraph is… occupied, right now but I have everything you need to know.” He procured a brown envelope and peered down at the assembled team. He flicked the envelope down at them with his eyes closed. He opened them again to see that it had been sucked towards the roof by the air conditioner and stood nestled in the giant “Q” of “Quintessentially Tomorrow.”

The team looked at Landgraff and he looked at the team. The team then looked at the Q, and Landgraff looked at the nearest reflective surface, the ceiling. The ceiling looked back. It was very interested. Watson however stared in disbelief,

“After all I’ve done for this industry… they replace me with a… a… Fop!” Frankie and Eric got ready to hold him back.

“It’s okay.” Said Frankie.

“He’s the fashion designer, not the cybernetic designer.” Said Eric. “They probably got him to deliver the envelope because our contact has something better to do.” Landgraff started snickering,

“Actually he’s not doing much right now, he’s not even at work today.” He started laughing softly to himself as he walked back where he’d came from, clutching the handrail as he left.

“Wow. What a fag.”Remarked Frankie and Eric. Watson turned his gaze to the Q.

“How are we getting that down?” Polis was already walking to the reception,

“Can we get a ladder, or something?” His shoe in his right hand Bob said confidently,

“No Polis, I’ve got this.” Polis raised an eyebrow as Bob threw his show into the loop of the letter Q, lodging it there next to the envelope.

“Nice work.” Said Polis. Bob took off his left shoe and aimed it at the Q. He threw it up, and it sailed through the air, hitting the toe of his right shoe. The right shoe fell from the Q and took down with it the envelope. All three items fell around the floor. Bob scooped the envelope up and began reading its contents.

“Looks like we’re heading to the Moroccan Consulate…” Polis took his keys from his pocket and began to jingle them around his finger.

“And I think we’ll need to pay a visit to the lockup too.” Just as Polis and Watson had gotten in view of the letter Bob thrust it back into the envelope and looked around the lobby, trembling slightly.

“We can read the rest of it in the lockup.” Frankie and Eric looked at each other as the group walked towards the door, quickly and close together.

Konrad looked through the car window at a mechanic’s shop, now surrounded by yellow tape and police. He reached for his radio just as it buzzed.

“Too late, the police—“ Came Lucius’s voice. Konrad looked through the front of the car window at Lucius.

“Oh Konrad.” Lucius looked back, “Sorry, you go ahead.” Konrad picked his radio up again,

“Oh no it’s fine, you go ahead.” The two looked at each other from their car windows.

“You know,” Ragana leaned forward from the back seat, holding her radio, “We would not have this problem if you chose one big car.” Konrad turned around,

“For the last time.” He picked up his radio. “For the last time, no one drives SUVs in Milan, we’ll get noticed.”

“Whoa, look at that,” said Lucius. The team turned their attention back to the police line as a gurney was slowly rolled out of the workshop, covered in a sheet.

“Fuck!” Konrad gripped the steering wheel. “Someone beat us to it.”

“Oh shucks,” said Scruffo, pressed between the car door and Ragana, “looks like we have to pack it in and go home. He put started pulling furiously on the handle only for the door to not move.

“It won’t open.” Said Ragana. “I turned on the child lock, you are the size of child.” She patted him on the head. Konrad was about to talk into the radio when there came a transmission of silence. He looked around the car,

“Ragana? Scuffo?” Neither of them were using their radios.

“Two detectives leaving now.” Konrad turned back around.

“Is Rouge going to do that every time he uses his—” There came another transmission of silence.

“Seriously.”

“They’re leaving. They found something.”

“Uhh…” Konrad watched their journey from the building, “how do you know?” There came another burst of silence.

“I always know.”

“Okay then… Lucius and Rouge, tail them and see where they’re going.” He looked at Ragana in his rear-view mirror. “You’re less conspicuous.”

“Of course.” The indicator on the car ahead of Konrad began to flicker.

“I expected more cars.” Sitting behind the stop line, Lucius kept checking his mirrors nervously. Rouge leaned forward, draping himself across the empty passenger seat.

“So were they.” He narrowed his eyes at the Fiat they were tailing. “Faster.”

“Tailing doesn’t work if you pull up right next to them—“ Rouge grabbed Lucius’s knee and pressed down.

“What the fuck is wrong with you!” Lucius slammed the brakes as the car shot forward, bringing it next to the detective’s car behind a red light.

“Leave this to me.” Rouge danced forward into the passenger seat and slowly lowered the window. Greeting him were two Italian detectives, watching him. Rouge looked back at them for a moment before tilting his head slightly.

“M’detective.” He raised the window back up. Both cars slowly rolled forward as the light turned green.

“Thank god.” Said Lucius, “Come on we’ve driven across half the city. Rouge do you think they know we’ve been following them?”

“It’s not over until they stop for fuel.” He replied, staring ahead.

“Can you say something intelligent for once, like what does that even mean?” They took a left around a sharp corner.

“I was going to jump one in the bathroom of a gas station.”

“Oh.” The car started moving to the start of the road.

“They’re stopping, just keep going and play it cool, like— he swung his head as if he had just come upon a revelation, “like— myself.” Their car passed the parked Fiat and turned the corner, slowing down. Rouge put up his hand as the car slowed, and got out.

“Keep it running.” He walked over to the corner and peeked around. “Team one, I’ve got something.”

“We hear you Rouge.” Said Konrad.

“They’re just standing here, we’re in a weird part of town, light industrial by the looks of it.”

“So—“ Rouge turned his radio off as he reached further around the corner.

“Senti quello?  C'è riproduzione di musica, sanno che siamo su di loro.” Rouge sunk behind the corner as the two detectives got out and back into their car. It peeled away from the kerb and started driving towards the corner Lucius had parked. Instead of hiding Rouge leaned against the wall, crossing his arms.  The detective’s car slowed down and the passenger window opened beside him, the detective put his hand inside his jacket.

Time slowed down.

Rouge reached for his collar.

The detective narrowed his eyes.

Rouge flicked his head down, Chanel 4221 108/3P™ glasses tumbling through the air and landing on his nose.

The detective put his other hand on the door handle.

Rouge flipped up his collar and bit his lip.

The detectives’ car went over a speed bump, and the visual exchanged ended with the detective hitting his head on the low ceiling of his Fiat.

The car reeled away, backs towards central Milan.

Lucius stepped out of the car and walked over to Rouge, who had swung around the corner and was staring at the building the detectives were in front of.

“It looks like a shitheap to me,” said Lucius. “What did you hear them saying?”

Rouge Crossed his arms. “Only word I recognised was ‘music’.”

“I don’t hear any music.” Lucius waited for a response but got nothing. He stepped forward to look at Rouge who kept staring ahead through his Chanel 4221 108/3P™.  “Hello?” Lucius began to click his fingers.

Rogue furrowed his eyebrow for a moment. He spun around and began walking to the car.

“Rouge?”

He kept walking, he made it to the car and opened up the rear door. He withdrew the parts of his HK416 and began assembling it.

“Woah man, what the fuck are you do—“

“The detectives noticed that there’s no music playing at this club which they regarded as suspicious, it’s obvious that this location is associated with the murder at our last location of interest. Therefore, we must assume that our next lead is here, I would then assume that the club owners are criminal elements and that the detectives left to allow the Carabinieri to go in.” Said Rouge, not looking up from his gun. He pressed his radio, “Konrad the police are gone, regroup.”

“Roger.”

“So…” Lucius began to carefully assemble his MP7, “How do you know it’s a club? It looks like a slum.”

“La Fossa del Suono, popular with young urban fops and specialising in Bavarian electronic dance music. There isn’t a single club on Eurafrasia I haven’t been kicked out of.” He inserted the magazine into his gun. “I disrupt the gender ratio, too much man for any club.” He clarified, without being asked to. Konrad’s car pulled up beside them and the rest of the team piled out.

“Why didn’t you tell us you were arming, what’s—“ Rouge closed the car’s rear door and pushed past Konrad.

“We have until a superintendent approves the deployment of the Carabinieri to see what happened to Chanel™’s prototype in there.

“Woah hold on, I think we need to talk about—“ Lucius also pushed past Konrad, except slowly, biting his lip as he did so. “Rouge!—“ Rouge kept walking to the door. Ragana and Scruffo were already going through the back of their car.

“Here little man, take this.” She handed him the P90. “Small man like you shouldn’t take machine gun into nightclub. Use this.” As Scruffo held the P90 backwards in his trembling hands Ragana assembled her rifle.

“Guys!” called Konrad as they walked away from him. “We don’t even know what— what kind of nightclub is open in the middle of the day?” Ragana stopped and turned around.

“They are southern European. What else they do, work?” Her and the other three by the door tipped their heads back in laughter.

“Ow!” Jim grabbed his chest.

“Director Martins sir! Are you alright?” The soldiers stopped and began to close around him.

“I’m fine, I just felt something… wrong, for a moment.”

“Sir!” said another soldier, “Sergeant Riaro felt it too!”

“And Lieutenant Salazar!”

“And Franco!”

“And Stephano!” Cried more. Jim stopped and turned around to see Milan’s skylines through the trees and narrowed his eyes at the city.

“Ready.” Konrad pressed himself against the club’s wall facing Lucius, holding his AKM somewhat reluctantly.

“Clock’s ticking Katie-Eight!” he said.

“Now is not the time to start calling me th—“

Rouge grabbed Konrad’s collar and threw him towards the door. It swung open and the rest of the team filed in, Scruffo at the back. Konrad was able to quickly recover and stood behind Lucius.

“Enjoy the view.” Rouge held up his hand.

“Quiet you two, get your torches on.” The only light in the club’s entrance came from the sun spilling in from outside. Lucius and Konrad continued forward to the door leading into the club proper.

“We got this.” He looked at Lucius. “Three?”

“Two.”

“One!” The team flowed in through the open door into the club. It was completely dark, save for the light radiating off of the bar’s lamps. It was as still and silent as they’d had observed from outside.

“Careful,” said Konrad. “Still could be a trap.” The fanned out further, towards the dancefloor.

A burst of gunfire lit up the space between them and the bar.

“Ahh!” cried Sruffo.

“Little man!” cried Ragana, her sights hovering over the bar.

“It’s okay, I just fell over—“ he gagged. “Oh my god I can’t clean this—“

“Rouge, Lucius, doors!” Said Konrad, heading towards Scruffo. The two filed forward, crouching and surveying the room. Konrad pointed his torch down, highlighting the room’s floor.

“Fuck…” Ragana kept her eye on the bar and picked Scruffo up with her left hand. She peered down. “Don’t look, little man.” The dancefloor was covered with corpses, and the club’s icy blue decorative panels were covered in blood. Konrad shone his torch on a cube hanging from the ceiling. It was still bright red.

“They’re still here!” Konrad shouldered his gun again and dashed towards Rouge, who was shimmying behind a partition.

“Rouge.”

“Konrad.”

 “I Don’t think these guys committed the murder at the mechanic’s—“

“These guys were the victims, yeah. Whoever shot them isn’t some criminal tier outfit.” Konrad looked across to Lucius. He nodded back and shot up from the partition and crossed the dancefloor as Rouge and Konrad watched down their sights for movement. Ragana and Scruffo had circled over to face out behind Konrad.

“Doors,” said Lucius. “Trail heading through it.” Konrad stepped up behind Lucius, he could hear Rouge breathing close behind him. Konrad looked over his shoulder. Scruffo was nearly totally covered by Ragana as the two started walking backwards towards him. Lucius made it to the door and crouched by its left side. Konrad stood up behind it and filed through as Lucius eased the door open.

“It’s a staircase. Be careful.” Said Konrad as he stepped over a body. Lucius swung underneath him and the three of them slowly advanced down the stairs. As they got to the bottom they saw that the door had been smashed to splinters. Lucius stepped on the landing, over his shoulder Konrad saw a dark lounge with more bodies in it. He heard a wet cough across the room.

“Luci—“ Konrad tackled Lucius forward and they both landed before a couch as the spot Lucius was standing at was shredded by a burst of gunfire. Konrad looked up around the dark room and tried to get up off Lucius,

“Why thank you cowboy—“ Another burst buried itself in the stairwell after Rouge rolled down the stairs and stopped behind a pillar and Konrad ducked back down as three more went over his head. One bullet punched through the couch and into the floor just ahead of Konrad. Two more bullets hit the ceiling, shattering the lights as a series of wet coughs emanated from the other side of the room. Konrad rolled left off Lucius and came to a prone next to Rouge’s feet. He scanned the room for the source of the noise.

“Two o’clock!” Konrad swung his sights over a spec of auburn poking over a partition. He opened fire just as the lights came on, his eyes filled with bright blue and pink light. Rouge, with his Chanel’s still on, followed the movement of the target and fired a few rounds.

“He’s a fast one.” The rounds missed and Rouge lost sight as a passing strobe bathed the dance floor. Konrad got up to his knees and listened, heavy footsteps coming from around the room,

“Right,” Lucius headed towards the right of the room with his gun raised. Two bursts of fire rang out across the room, striking away from the team. There came another two, closer but still not striking either. Konrad responded by raking the other side of the room, obscured by the smoke machines starting up.

“Twelve o’clock!” cried Konrad, hearing heavy footsteps thunder away from them.

“I’ll take the side.” Said Lucius, strafing slowly.

“Right behind you.” Konrad tapped Rouge on the shoulder and they started moving to the other side of the room. As they got to the middle of the room they had started to navigate around the upturned tables, taking care to avoid slipping on the white power on the floor. They closed in on the retreating footsteps.

“They’re going left.” As the footsteps continued they were bombarded by electronic dance music from all around them.

“Konrad!” Said Ragana from behind, scowling. “Do we know who they are?”

“Negative,” Said Konrad as he waded through the smoke and noise. As the smoke floated around the room he saw a gap between two clouds.

“Contact!” He fired at a doorway seconds before its metal door slammed shut. “I think I got one.” Lucius let out a long burst to the right wall of the room, shredding its panelling. He heard a thud.

“That’s another.” Konrad and Rouge emerged from the smoke to the other side of the room. Konrad’s sights were hovering over a small splash of blood on the door.

“That’s where I shot him…” he murmured. The two looked around the rest of the clearing, seeing nothing. Rouge got caught on a zebra skin rug before catching it with his foot and flicking it behind him as he kept walking. Two shots penetrated the rug and hit a light on the celling.

“Sorry.” Said Scruffo from behind. Konrad and Rouge closed on the metal door, Konrad closed on it but stopped when Rouge held up his hand, he then tore into the door with half his magazine. Konrad resumed as the door sadly swung open. He stepped into a grey concrete corridor stretching out in both directions. To the left there were small splashes of blood leading away, and to the right a long streak. Konrad watched the left turn on the left side of the corridor, and Rouge came in to take position along the right. The walls were lined with lockers and cabinets.

“Hear that?” The room was quiet except for the music next door bouncing off the walls, and a groaning from one of the cupboards. Lucius filed into the room just as one of the lockers burst open and a body dropped from it onto Lucius.

“Fuck!” Lucius clocked the body and it fell onto the floor.

“Watch the corridor.” Said Konrad, and Lucius turned his eyes to the corridor. Konrad crouched down and turned the body onto its back.

“Half the jacket’s just been torn off. He pulled it off the man’s arm and inspected it. “He’s got a blue flask pin… that’s DYAD right?”

No one replied. Konrad continued to search the man’s pockets and found a small binder with one bullet lodged in it. The EDM track in the club began to fade. “Simon Handra…” he flicked to the last entry. It stood on yesterday’s page by itself, in messy handwriting. “Project Garm… spme numbers.” He read to himself. The words “Project Garm” had been underlined twice.

“What are those numbers?” Asked Scruffo as he peered over Konrad’s shoulder.

“I don’t know. Let’s flush the rest of them out. Rouge watch our rear, Ragana and Scruffo take left. Lucius, we’ll take right.” They dispersed, Rouge laid down, using the corpse as a support as the other teams departed.

Lucius held next to the wall as he rounded the corner and the pair continued in silence, Ragana’s heavy footsteps behind them. They followed the streak of blood running down the middle of the corridor. With every indent and office they swung their guns with the curve but didn’t hear anything.

“So Katie-Eight,” Said Lucius,

“Don’t call me that,” replied Konrad as he walked under the yellow lights.

“I looked you up, you once operated under the callsign K—“

“That was K-88, not— shut up.” Konrad started staring intensely at a spot on the floor, where the blood appeared to stop.

“What’s the matter cowboy?”

“Shut up!” He pointed to the spot on the floor and then looked up at the ceiling. After some tense seconds a drop of blood fell. He turned his head and looked at Lucius, before holding up three fingers. He dropped one of them.

He dropped another.

He dropped the last one and both he and Lucius opened fire on the celling panel, shredding the roof and sending wood clattering to floor. As the last shell casing hit the floor something heavy fell from it.

“Gotcha.” He landed face first on the floor.

“Hold on,” said Lucius, looking at the bright white and blue suit, now missing an abdomen. “He looks more like a club patron than a—“ Konrad saw a pin clatter down next to the body. “Katie!” Lucius grabbed Konrad’s arm and pulled him to the ground, covering him, as another pin clattered down.

His colour sense was spot on.

Rouge examined he clothing of the man he was using as a bipod.

But it has to be my style, no one else’s.

Actually, dead men don’t appear in fashion magazines. Rouge reached over with his supporting hand and tried to pull the man’s watch off his wrist.

“Raga!” From his right Rouge heard Scruffo exclaim, followed by two shots and a loud thud.

Shit.

Rouge took one last look across the club room and shot up, running down the hallway.

Come on!

He slid around a corner to see Scruffo leaning over a wounded Ragana, pressed up against the wall.

“Raga…” Ragana responded by tearing Sruffo’s P90 off him and firing it with one hand down the hallway. Rouge knelt and leaned around the corner, seeing nothing.

“Ragana are you alright?”

“I’m fine.” She wheezed. “I come around corner and he grabs my gun, headbutts me, takes my pistol, kicks me, shoots and darts off. He must have been bigger than me.”

She’s not small herself.

Scruffo was much less calm. “He shot her! Call an ambulance, wait can we do that? Don’t die Ragana, if you die I die! Please—“

“Little man,” Said Ragana with a weak laugh, cutting him off. “You are the one who has been hit.” Scruffo slowly looked down to see Ragana’s hand pressed against his torso, small rivulets of blood flowing through her fingers. “We’ll get them next time. Together.” She coughed. Rouge was about to reach for his radio, holding down the button before he spoke.

“K—“ he was cut off by the sound of an explosion rattling through the corridor.

Crossfires, Corpses, and the Carabinieri

As the Mercedes sputtered to a halt at the side of a deserted road Skulls slowly rotated his head to face the Templar, who was forced to sit in the back seat after refusing to take off his helmet.

“Your little shortcut has gotten us on ze side of ze road—“ Skulls put up his hand even though the Templar did not look like he going to interrupt him, “after taking us to three netball courts with zero attractive women in zem.”

The Templar pointed to a car dealership down the road.

“You’re buying?” Said Skulls. The Templar waved his hand and stepped out of the car, motioning for the others to follow. He was first followed by Domerator, then Von Braun and finally Skulls. He went to the back of the car and withdrew a guitar case, placing his M16 inside it.

Domerator looked at him quizzically for a moment and did the same, putting his L1A1 into a trumpet case. Von Braun held onto the laptop case that had been sitting on his lap.       

“Vhat are you doing?” Said Skulls, gripping onto the car door. The Templar put a finger in front of his helmet, and nodded slowly. Skulls narrowed his eyes and headed towards his AK-74, already in a case made to look like a folded a-frame. The Templar then started to walk away, followed by a stiff Domerator and Von Braun. Skulls trailed behind, glove tightening around the a-frame, eyes fixed on the Templar. Slowly the helmet rotated towards Skulls, and he swore that as the Templar held up his phone he saw a wink behind the helmet. The car behind them exploded as the Templar hit “call.” Domerator immediately holstered his L1A1 and began scanning the afternoon light around them, seeing nothing. Skulls however stood staring at Tathem, ignoring the ringing in his ears.

“Is zis your concept of a joke?” He said, unaware he was making no sound. Dom lowered his gun and helped Von Braun up.

“Oh, you were getting rid of the getaway car. I thought we were being tailed.” Von Braun sighed,

“At least I know vere zat low yield nu—“ Skulls cut him off as he stormed past the Templar away from the burning wreckage.

“I’m not vasting my time with an idiot who thinks ze best way to avoid heat is to bomb ze  getavay. I—“ he stopped as he walked past the alley.

“You can’t be serious.” The Templar skipped giddily towards down the alleyway. He stopped to sit astride a white sports bike, stroking the polished frame. Domerator followed, circling around to a similar bike in black as Von Braun hopped into a sidecar fixed to an older bike. He clicked and pointed to the seat on it. Skulls pointed fiercely at all of them.

"Not—” He stopped as something got his attention. On the other side of the alley he saw a man in a brown jacket kneeling behind an expensive camera. He quickly stood up and kissed his hand, holding three fingers together towards the sky. He said something in Italian but no one heard it over the loud clang of Skulls punching the Templar in the face, pushing him off the bike. The photographer looked down, and tore down the alley. With the others in the way, Skulls keyed the bike and shot it out of the alley, turning it around the block towards the other end of the alley. As he did a hard left he tucked his a-frame under his arm and began fiddling with the lock.

“I… did naht… consent...” After another left he found the photographer mounting his own motorcycle, checking over his shoulder before taking off away. “TO HAVING MY PICTURE TAKEN!” Skulls accelerated, tearing down the road after him. It was the only thing close to a shout Skulls had said in Milan. The traffic began to thicken and Skulls weaved between cars and lorries to catch the photographer. After a hard bank to the right Skulls peeled off into a much quieter street, He’d lost sight of his quarry, and came to a stop further at the head of an intersection going right. He could hear no motorcycle, but he smelled something.

Bread.

Skulls turned in his seat far down the road, he could see skid marks, smoke;

And a man in a pale brown top holding his head on a street corner.

“Fallen off, have ve?”

Skulls popped open the frame and grabbed his Kalashnikov. Just as the photographer turned around Skulls placed a round is his head. The thud of his body hitting the ground far away at the same time his a-frame clattered to the asphalt, the second cartridge rolling around on top of it soon after. Skulls slung his rifle and took down the street away from where he’d been shooting.

“Maybe I should have dealt vit ze ozers…” He thought back to the figures in the jumpsuit and trench coat by the corner.

Hm. Modern fashion.

As Skulls peeled away from the site of the shooting he began to slow down, enjoying the white facades of Milan as the sun started its decent. He was starting to enjoy the wind when something made him scowl.

To his left Skulls heard loud, obnoxious music.

EDM. Ze worst thing my country has ever done.

He thought for a few moments about how accurate that was, but couldn’t think of anything worse Germany was responsible for. As he prepared to turn left, preparing to circle back to the rest of his team, an explosion roared in front of him, He swung his bike as far as he could and the shockwave threw him off the bike. Skulls kicked the bike away from him and landed on his shoulder blade, rolling onto his back. Skulls groaned on the middle of the road, struggling to lift his head as a rapid exchange of gunfire crackled above him. He wiggled his toes.

Gut.

He began to crawl on his back away from the road, heading to the bicycle rack his motorbike had ended up on. In the clearing smoke he made out two figures racing across the street. One of them dropped something in an open patch of the cloud, a pair of sunglasses that shone in his eyes as they hit the ground. A silhouette rolled across the ground and picked them up, resuming its advance. Through the smoke Skulls caught a glimpse of bright red. His eyelids fluttered, making sure there wasn’t blood in them. The EDM continued to thump in his head. Skulls narrowed his eyes, trying to focus on the red dot as it bounced awkwardly. He reached for his AK, but the pain in his shoulder shot through him and he stopped, dropping his head on the concrete.  

Juliet hung off the ladder, listening to the sound of the explosion now roaring through the tunnels. She listened, telling herself she was savouring the sound despite what the pain shooting through her left shoulder told her.

Come on Juliet.

She pulled herself up another rung, and another; hearing the echoes of conversation spiral up the ladder shaft. She hung on for another moment, panting as drops of blood fell to the bottom of the shaft. With a last heave, she climbed up the ledge and pulled herself to stand on the concrete, coming to a metre away from a door, sunlight dancing around the edges. Juliet took a step towards the door and nearly fell forward and headbutted it. She straightened herself and leant on the handle, though it didn’t swing outwards. With a grunt, she leant in and forced the door open with her right shoulder, ignoring the “pull” sign and coming out onto the street. She stared absently across it, patting her left thigh. It took her a few moments to remember that the satchel was on her right. She began to fiddle with the Velcro before she tore open a hole in the canvas and pulled a wire from it. She threw the satchel to the ground and looped the wire along the base of a bollard before continuing to trudge down the street.

Making it down the street her breathing slowed. She dropped her Vektor and continued stumbling down the street. She heard the door behind her swing open again. She closed her eyes and kept walking, speeding up. The time it took for the charge to go off seemed to be an eternity of her heart pounding and feet thumping but eventually she felt the warmth of the exploding satchel billow out and warm her back. She heard and exchange of gunfire, though not after her, and breathed a sigh of relief. She pulled herself around a corner and caught the wall. She heard the gunfire continue and opened her eyes again. Juliet put her left hand against her side and kept trudging down the street.

“What… the… fuck?” Polis slowed the SUV  down and peered through the windscreen. Watson crossed his arms.

“It’s obviously a bleeding woman.” Bob looked up at Frankie and Eric, now a bit further away now that they’d gotten a bigger car.

“Is a bleeding woman walking down the street a festival?” Before he could get a reply, Polis slammed the breaks of the car and rolled out the now open door, Frankie doing the same. Watson rubbed his head, smirking,

“Clearly it’s only one in Spain.” He was cut short by a bullet that went through the windshield and his hands tore off his seatbelt and he scrambled out the car. Bob tried to follow suit but his seatbelt refused to unbuckle. Another two bullets shredded the seat Eric had vacated a second earlier.

“Shit, not now!” He tried twisting out of it but it only made it worse. One bullet got close enough to tear through Polis’s seat and smash the seatbelt. He heard Polis’s H&K open fire across the street. He looked at the left door and saw a stream of bullets whizz back by in response.

Not that way.

A high calibre round to his right cut off his other exit. Bob scrambled over the back of the seat into the car’s rear. He held his pistol and shot the lock on the back door and kicked it open, the hydraulic lifts making it glide open a lot slower than he’d like. Bob squeezed out the hole and dropped on the ground. The car had stopped in the middle of the road and Polis and Frankie had taken cover by some parked cars to his left, pressed against the wall to his left were Eric and Watson.  Bob shakily rose to peer over the glass just as the door the bleeding woman came from exploded, taking all the glass in the car with it.

That was closer to them. He peered over again and ducked back down as he was met with more return fire. A bullet came from his side and tore through the car’s tyre, almost hitting his knee.

“Polis! They’re coming from the side!” Polis didn’t hear him and continued to fire into the smoke across the street. Bob peaked around, he didn’t see any of the assailants but a motorcyclist on the ground, metres away from his bike. He looked around the left side of the car. Now that Frankie had joined in the suppressive fire there was time to move. Bob took a deep breath and dashed out of cover. He made it half way before pivoting and running back behind the car. A bullet found him and tore through his belt, taking a belt loop with it.

“Bob!” Cried Watson from the other side of the street. “What the hell are you doing?”

“I forgot my lunchbox! My wife will kill me if there are more lids than containers!” With that he scrambled back into the shredded car, his pants dragging as he crawled through the back. He made it to the back seat and he stuck his hand over it, feeling around the shredded upholstery for it. A bullet whizzed past his hand and he pulled it back on his side of the seat. He stuck it out again, straining to reach further as another two bullets entered the car. His hand found the red plastic and he clutched it and held it tightly against his chest as the engine block was hit by much larger bullets. He got on his knees and jumped off, rolling around his lunchbox. More bullets ripping into the car told him that his cover wasn’t going to remain viable. Bob took another look to the left and made his move.

“Not now!” Scruffo began to slap the borrowed P90 to get rid of the bullet stuck in there. Rouge had finished reloading and popped over the top of the garden bed. He was about to lay down more fire when he spotted something strange in his sights.

“What the fuck…” It was a slightly overweight, middle aged man running across the road, a hand clutching either side of his trousers. In one of them lived a red lunchbox, slapping against the man’s thigh as he ran. A rifle round hit a window above him and a piece of glass fell down and cut his forehead in its descent.

“Shit.” Rouge clutched his skull and ducked below cover, trying to make it look like he wasn’t in pain. He coughed over his grunts of pains.

“Shoot them, silly man!” Said Ragana, loosing of a few shots to the other side of the road. “Now is not time to pretend.”

Rouge took a deep breath and swung his gun upwards, looking through the blood running down his face to put his sight over Ragana’s head. His hand trembled with fury and his finger began to squeeze the trigger. As the blood started to flow down his Chanel 4221 108/3P™ he looked at the Lithuanian woman who had tried to expose him.

Not yet.

He ducked back down behind the garden bed and waited for the fire to pause.

“I’m running low, we’re going to have to move soon!” Polis finished reloading and resumed his barrage of the other end of the road.

“Right behind you!” Cried Bob, sliding into place. Frankie took advantage of the lull in fire and leaned to the left, firing into a window.

“Good job distracting them with… whatever that was.” Polis kept casting his eyes towards his vest as he fired, in slower bursts than before.

“Watson we need to move, get smoke out!”

“Actually…” Watson cried from the other side of the street, “You’re supposed to say “Smoke out” when you’re throwing it!” Eric kept firing across the road and used his left hand to rip a grenade from Watson’s pocket and throw it into the street.  Polis’s grenade hit the beaten zone a few seconds later and both began to hiss white smoke.

“Go!” Cried Frankie, pushing Polis upwards, “I’ll keep them down.” Polis, Watson and Eric began to sprint down the street, Bob stayed behind as he tried to pull his pants as high as possible without standing straight. Frankie kept staring down his sight, focusing through the smoke.

“Sneaky little…” Bob saw the large woman they were shooting at on the edges of the cloud, and Frankie’s finger on the trigger. His eyes began to dart between the two.

“Who was that... FRANKIE!” He yanked Frankie back just as he fired, the shot missing the woman who scrambled back into cover.

“You fucking crazy?” Frankie spoke to a flapping lunchbox as Bob joined the others, escaping down the street.

“Where… are… the others…” Watson began to pant as he ran down the street, hoping his years catching up to him didn’t mean that the bullets would. He dashed around a corner and leaned against the wall. “Who… the fuck… were they?” Polis squeezed uncomfortably close to Watson and leaned around the corner.

“I see them, the others are coming.”

Eric began wrapping his carbonate arm with electrical tape, covering a hole where a bullet had left its mark.

“Probably someone like us. I hear that Chanel has its own mercenaries. Hey, isn’t it funny how we’re supposed to be protecting Calvin Klein from Chanel’s goons?” With breath returning to him, Watson turned his head at Eric,

“What?”

“Well I mean, Coco Chanel stole her trademarks from the Jews, and Calvin Klein’s a Jew.” Polis kept surveying the street but snorted in amusement.

“Yeah, I guess that is pretty funn— “ He was cut off by the sound of pistol rounds sweeping across the street.

“3’o’clock guys!” Bob kept running, with one hand firing wildly into an alley opposite. Eric raised his gun but seeing a trenchcoat and jumpsuit he quickly relaxed,

“They’re just models, calm down—“ He dived downwards as the one not in a jumpsuit or trenchcoat opened fire. Polis emptied his last mag into the alley way and the rest of the team dashed from the street into an open alfresco.   One bullet smashed through a “no BYO” sign just as Bob and his lunchbox flapped past it. The tables had all been deserted, nearly all of them were covered in half eaten meals. Bob spotted a purse left on the ground.

“Gucci! Sally will love this!” Before he could grab it Polis grabbed him by his sagging pants and pulled him along, following the rest of the team.

“Fuck!” Sage dropped to the floor, clutching his abdomen. TBM stepped forward and opened fire on the now retreating squad, covering Blackjack as he started dragging Sage down the alley.

“I’m fine!” Sage stood up, one hand on his SKS and the other on his abdomen as they sprinted down the alley. Blackjack let go and ducked behind an alcove as the other two kept going down the alley, ejecting rounds down their approach. Sage laid beside a dumpster and made a few choice shots of his own as Blackjack broke cover and dashed down the alley, catching up to TBM.

“What’s going on?”

“They’re shooting at us.”

“Why?”

They got to the end of the alley and ran out onto the street. The panic that had emptied the blocks they’d passed through had only just spread to the one they had entered. As Sage caught up to them the team got a prime view of the small plaza as a craft jewellery market emptied out, the setting sun casting long shadows where the buildings let it through. As the final occupants flooded out, and the ringing had gone from his ears, Blackjack began to hear something.

“Sirens… SHIT!” Sage had just started to dart into the plaza when Blackjack grabbed his collar and pulled him back,

“You trying to get yourself killed?”

“I’m trying to get my mother.” The sirens grew closer. TBM started to watch the long shadows at the edges of the alleys, his eyes twitching.

“Really not the time guys.” Blackjack took out his phone and showed it to Sage,

“There’s a manhole 100 metres from here that takes us into some service tunnels, from there we can get to a train line and get the hell out of here.”

“How are we getting through security?”

“It’s 2017 Fashion Week, half the city is wearing stupid coats—“

“But what about—“ A shot rang out and Blackjack ducked and starting sprinting across the street towards the manhole. “Where—“ TBM picked up Sage in both his arms and started took off behind Blackjack. The facades in the evening light were illuminated by the blue and red of the sirens turning the corner.

“Shit!” TBM sprayed the manhole cover only to miss the lock. He dropped Sage and put the fingers on his right hand through some of the bullet holes and tore the cover off, sending it flying towards the approaching Carabinieri. Blackjack and Sage slid down the ladder and TBM jumped down after them, some of his coat getting caught and tearing on his way down. They landed at the bottom of a yellow lit tunnel, adorned with bright green exit signs. The sirens grew louder and louder, the sound tearing down the tunnel before getting quieter and passing away.

“Oh.” Said Blackjack. “They’re not coming for us.” TBM straightened his coat out, struggling to find the buttons in the dim light.

“Then who are they going for?” Sage dropped the magazine he was holding hearing it.

“Who do you think?” He said coldly. “They’re going for the hit squads that have got my mother—“

“Oh please,” said TBM, turning around and crossing his arms, “Can you stop talking about the danger your mother is in, ever since we started it’s been “mother this, mortal danger that, no one cares.”

“Dude.” Said Blackjack. “His mother is kind of a big deal…” They started walking down the tunnel, the faintest traces of EDM thumping through the ground around them. “We need to find her.”

“I never had much of a mother and look how I turned out?” Sage reached a heavy metal door and turned to face TBM.

“Unable to go in any public areas because of a—“ As Sage opened the door TBM saw the frame filled by a pair of white gloves on an AR70. TBM’s arm shot up and fired. One bullet bounced from a silver button, the second tore through a black jacket, the third passed through a neck.

“Submachine gun in your arm…” the white gloves dropped the rifle and clutched at the neck, he staggered backwards in the tunnel and his hat tumbled from his head. TBM lowered his arm.

“Shit…”

“TBM.” Said Sage, watching the blood spurt through the man’s fingers, “why did you shoot the man dressed like a Nazi. Wearing white gloves. In Italy. Who’s probably a cop.” Blackjack rushed forward and put his hands on the man’s neck, trying to stop the blood.

“You mean a fucking Carabinieri we are so screwed they’re going to fucking—“

“Well it’s not my fault he’s carrying an assault rifle in some random tunnel—“

“What’s wrong with you, you trying to finish the job—“ They all silenced themselves and stared intently at the radio on the Carabinieri.

“Anyone… speak Italian?” Asked Sage. Blackjack looked up at the circle of fading sunlight above them.

“This whole arrangement Milan had with the biotechs was on the condition that we weren’t going to cause undue damage to property or civilians…”

“Or,” continued Sage, “The police…” Both slowly turned their eyes to TBM.

“We can ahh… look for your mother now?” Sage and Blackjack turned away from him, walking around the Carabinieri lying under the amber light on the concrete floor. They continued to walk, making it the next metal door. Blackjack looked at TBM for a moment and spat on the ground, closing the door behind him.

Through shouts and gunfire, and a belching gas main somewhere, all drained out by the pounding in his ear three shots came through and bolted his eyes open. The shots came through his other ear, the one pressed to the ground. Slowly Skulls’ raised his head, he put a hand to his eyes and wiped away the blood.

Something had become clear to him. He stood up and walked over his motorcycled. He surveyed the street, shell casings littered everywhere, a doorway to his left missing half its frame, revealing a dark ladder shaft. He kept staggering forward. To his right he looked down the street, a perforated SUV lying empty in the middle of it. He took another step, walking into the cloud of billowing smoke coming from the ladder shaft. The street was empty save for him, the gunshots and sirens a block away distant in his mind. Skulls’ eyes were following a trail of blood, leading towards a discarded Vektor. He followed the trail with his eyes and saw it lead far down the street, away from the corner. Skulls closed his eyes, took in a deep breath and listened to the ringing in his ears with a hand on the cut on his head.

He put his hand on his radio. It still worked.

“Gentlemen.” He growled. “Ve are going to kill the red haired lesbian.”