World on Fire -Cutscene

February 23, 2016:

Revelations and the burning of pasts

Former Bungalow/Croton-on-the-Hudson


NPCs: None.

Mentions: Ripclaw


Mood Music: Les Friction - World on Fire

Fade In…

Between booted feet a sword presses down into the carpeting of the living room in the bungalow, the couch claimed as a throned seat for the woman clad in straps, buckles and leather body suit, the sides in metal scale maille. Both hands rest on the pommel of the sword, a cigarette braced between fingers while a bottle rests in front of her. No glass, uncapped and waiting.

Mismatched eyes, one of blue, one of an empty milky white stare dead ahead, all the while the shorn whisps of shortened white hair blow in the breeze… From inside.
The heat washes around her as the flames arch up from the rooms above and follow the trail of spilt alcohol downward and out in a fan behind her and then around her and that couch to reach up towards the ceiling in effigy of her own personal hell. But not in her mind, in truth.

No attachments.

A final drag of her cigarette comes to lips and she rises, dropping the butt on the pooled moonshine that rested just before her on the coffee table. Who was she to think attachments were wise. Let alone getting comfortable. No wonder this worlds Deathstroke mocked her.

Fuck him.

Fuck them all.

She did not need any of this, nor did she ask for it.

Blood money bought it, and it was nice while it lasted. But it burns with those bills as easy kindle.

Everything burns.

Tucking the duffel over her shoulder the sword is holstered across her back with its mate and she walks through the building flames out the door, leaving it open behind her to have the flames belch outward behind her like trapped limbs waving departure to their captor while pressure built. There was a Mother to hunt and kill. This Cyberdata Ripclaw had spoken of.

The Tomahawk pulls up and veers off the road to hide behind bushes, tucked far off the road before she steps into the abandoned dojo and drops her bag, calling out to it's denizen.

“When do we start?”

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