Call The Shots ||Open||

[Szarka Null]

^{i believe...
that the demon's comin' after me}

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^{The Anchorage Bar, August 2522.}

Outside was an endless, blinding blizzard. Thick sheets of falling snow-- large, pure-white flakes. They covered footsteps in seconds, tracks in minutes, and unwise to land a medium-to-small sized ship out in it for too long. The average-sized settlement of Anchorage was, of course, named for the Earth-That-Was location. It was a series of large shelters, connected with tunnels. Heated fans kept the place from being buried in the snow, and the grey structures could be just about visible against the falling whiteness. A couple of the largest of these buildings were ship hangars. A multitude of ships hidden within on various jobs-- mostly trading ones. Supply runs made by locals, too. Transports sometimes brought in visitors and the like. It was rare, but not completely unlikely.

Anchorage was all those things, and something else. It had been-- and technically still was-- made the little 'home base' for the not-quite-so-notorious mercenaries and bounty hunters called Szarka Vencel and Otto Null. A nice cold, quiet and out-of-the-way place where people who tended to get a few 'comeuppances' from jobs liked to hang out. Szarka had claimed to always like the snow, and Otto had complained constantly, which usually sparked some kind of half-joking sadistic mirth in the former. Many a time she had told him where, when and how he could take his leave, but of course, he never did. Not.. of his own accord, anyway.

The firm, angular jawline of the red-cloaked female hardened just a little bit more than usual as she stepped into the bar. They knew her well, here. Mostly just her name and face. As well as anyone could, then. Even her own mother and father would barely be able to recognise their daughter in this day and age. Lord rest their souls, right? Not that Szarka was at all the religious type. Though, her cloak-like jacket had raised the few assumptions she was a travelling monk of some kind. She let people believe what they liked, because being assumed a 'good' person was better than assumed a killer. Meant that people left you alone, yeah?

Unfortunately, life and choices made will always catch up with you, eventually. Szarka was not exempt from the rule, and wouldn't live the way she did if she was. Though, realistically, she'd live it either way. A small, short nod was given to the bartender, Moriarty, as she took a seat at the bar. The same nod and expression was returned, the slim, tall barman eyeing down at her in a subtle manner. Even after two years, it was strange to see the woman on her own-- even with her previous attitude and her abrasive manner.

"The usual?" He asked, like he really had to.

"Da." She affirmed with another quick, barely noticeable nod.

"Hold tha' order, 'tender. I'll take one."

Szarka's gaze narrowed, eyes almost turning to slits as she shot the male that took it upon himself to sit beside her with a look of utter contempt. There was nothing recognisable about him. Just some washed-out grunt in the usual St Albans get-up of thick coat and goggles. There was snow on him, which meant he hadn't come from a ship. Not one in the hangars. Her quick assessment was done, and the drinks arrived. Szarka plucked up hers in thin, black kidskin gloves. Still wary.

"So about that job on Santo..." He began as if continuing a conversation from an earlier time. Szarka was certain they'd never met, and the fact he knew about a job that was done and dusted was not something comforting.

Thing was she knew exactly which job and why anyone would come to bring it up. Another example of the earlier musing of 'comeuppances'. So it was no surprise she swiftly and without hesitation, grabbed the back of his head and slammed it down onto the shot glass he was about to pick up. Of course, with his other hand he'd been drawing a pistol. Glass shattered against his face, pieces jutting from his forehead and nose. It was surprising she hadn't blinded him, but she guessed his large nose stopped that...

Moriarty hadn't moved an inch, and chose to pay it no mind as the two took it to blows. The man was apparently used to physical pain, and was about to feel some more. Szarka twisted to elbow him firmly in the throat, making him choke before grabbing his head in her hands. Her knee swiftly met his stomach twice. The position was used to grab her about the waist, and he charged forwards. Szarka's back met a table that promptly collapsed, grunting as she grit her teeth. She smashed the last, intact bottle over his head and kicked him aside.

As they both rose, they drew a pistol each, Szarka's a handgun with a long silencer attached to the barrel. Otto had often chided her on trying to be so subtle when most of their jobs always ended in all-out firefights. He fired first-- and missed. She fired second, and twice. One shot in each leg. He fell to his knees. The gun remained trained on his head.

"Please.. please.. jus' lemme g--"

Pihtoo.

The silenced shot went off, right between his eyes, and the man flopped to the side. Szarka regarded him a moment, before holstering her gun and returning to her seat.

"So what was that all about?"

"Eh.. Didn't follow the rules." She noted nonchalantly in her thick, Russian accent.

"No change there... So who was he?"

The bartender motioned with his head towards the body on the floor. He'd clean it up eventually, but it was a natural, normal, and everyday occurrence for him. A motion was made to one of his workers-- a big, burly bouncer-type. He knew what to do. Throw him out in the snow.

"A messenger. They'll probably send more."

Szarka downed her drink and tapped in on the bar top, signalling for another.

^{don't sleep
don't dream somethin'
you don't believe}

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[Corran Boid]

Corran Boid had been dropped three miles away from the settlement. The captain had asked if a bit closer would be better but Corran had chosen the spot. He did not want the Iron Maiden known in his 'Tin Man' ways. Many of the poorest settlements and outer rim planets gave him this name for he protected them from the one thing the Alliance could not and that was the Reavers.

Yet since the culling of the numbers of Reavers just some few times back Boid has had little word about those nightmares of the black. So he signaled an old contact about Reaver movements. They made arrangements to meet at a local bar on St. Albans.Although it was a bit out of the way Boid agreed and paid for the fuel to get him here.

An hour and a half later a snow covered being emerged from the blinding snows. Step by step he walked onward to the information and maybe some thing warm to drink. Entering the compound was not fully hard for Corran, he was so covered in snow that many didn't see him until it was to late. He always had it hard except when in situations like this. The more death defying of his goings the easier time he had.

A bright lit area showed him the way to the bar a beacon in the darkness and a haven in the deadly storm. As Corran came near to the main doors a gruff looking man was dragging another into the icy cold darkness. If he knew anything he knew that the other fella was dead.

Ah a scuffle.... seems like my kind of place.

The snow must have been near blinding for the one who looked like a bouncer, because Corran was on him and had to stop nearly so that he would not have a corpus thrown at him. What was more the bar keep didn't see him as he threw the body in his direction. The bouncer turned and headed back inside and Boid followed silent making now big moves. Upon opening the doors Corran said......

Nice loft, but you need to work on your distance. Or was the sun in your eyes?

He didn't care whether he scared the bouncer or not. A watchful bouncer often made for the best informants, and he wanted this one to keep an eye on him.

Walking over to the bar...Hey 'keep, honey-spiced beer if you got it.

This was the signal drink to his contact. As Corran looked about he kinda wondered how long will he have to wait. The place although now having it's floors mopped had never really seen a clean rag in years.

Dropping his furred hood and pushing back the white out lenses Corran let one and all see his face and his dishevel hair. He never gave importance to looking good for man nor woman. Yet in this cesspool of male bravado stood one. From the look of how the men were giving her a wide birth of space she must have been the cause to the ending of the human Popsicle outside.

Corran dropped a large gold coin on the bar and told the keep to keep them coming. He walked over to a table on the far right side of the bar counter. This gave him a good view of the door and access to the bar as well. Also it gave him view to the weapon the woman had used, a nice silenced model. Corran leaned back in his chair a bit putting his right leg in the next chair.

Nice weather you are having here, a man could freeze to death faster than falling on bullets. None would feel wronged in saying that many a man had a bullet comin' fer them, in most cases of womanly ways. Respect to all and to all a good fight, unless you're faster.

[Szarka Null]

The sound of a voice had startled the stalwart bouncer, but as his hand dipped for the chinese pistol at his hip, the man paused. No one was coming to gun him down, and the other was probably just another patron. Maybe it would be a little more lively in there, now. Still, the bouncer had to say something, ignoring the quip Boid had given him.

"If'n yer here for Null-- she's already killed one a' ya an' probably won' grieve much ova' killin' 'nother." His accent was thick, probably just about able to be understood, especially over the noise of the blizzard. He didn't know if Corran was with the dead man or not, but he figured a warning would be nice. Also saved him carrying out another dead body if that was indeed the case. Boid was allowed entry, all the same.

Moriarty, the 'tender, had lifted his eyes from the glass he'd been cleaning for the hundredth time, and to the newcomer. He'd wait, wondering if this was another dead body-- just like the bouncer had assumed. Apparently it was common practice to assume anyone coming in was going to fall to Szarka's lack of moral restraint. If someone comes in with intention to gun her down, she doesn't allow people to get away.

Speaking of the woman, she was already sipping on her new drink, giving the newcomer the barest of glances from the corner of her eye.

"Sure thing, sir." Moriarty responded with a kind grin, seeing the coin go down on the bar, and hopping to it with the pouring of a drink.

At his last words, the man had perked a raised eyebrow from the bartender, and Szarka continued to focus on her drink as she responded.

"Then it's good thing I am faster." That thick Russian accent added coolly, downing the rest of her drink. It burned down her throat, but didn't phase her.

"If you're here for the same reason that dead man was-- I'd rethink your options. If not, enjoy your drink, da?" Almost coy in her deadpan threats, Szarka waggled her glass at Moriarty for another.

[Corran Boid]

Corran was going to come back with a quick quip but a pain hit him as he was sitting there.

Dag blasted chairs the most uncomfortable thing feels like I'm sitting on my gun.

Corran slowly realized he wasn't, his muscles were just warming up and what was more he was sitting on his left hip. 'No wonder it's feel like I'm on my gun ...blasted leg.-Corran spoke to himself. As he shifted to his right leg he quickly found his blade was on that side as well. Sighing, he held up a hand to the folks as a sign of surrender. The 'skink' of his Reaver style blade was heard before anyone saw the blade. Laying the long blade on the table he sighed.

That's much better. As for me and the bit of frozen flesh out there.... we have no connection to each other. Other than being dead inside.

His eyes went a bit glossy as he remembered the months at Serenity Valley.

At the loose thoughts that rose in his mind his left hand twitched a bit, as subconscious thoughts made their connections to his cybernetic arm.

"Dead and forever dying are we who are the men of Serenity."

Boid recited a quote from on of the many survivors. Then blinking his eyes, he turned back to the lovely femme-fatale.

So how cold does one's heart get when living on St. Albans?

[Szarka Null]

The stranger had continued to converse, making his presence duly known to those few that seemed to frequent this little watering hole. Not to mention he put the strange in stranger, too. He appeared harmless enough-- to Szarka, anyway. Maybe Moriarty was a little wary, and maybe the bouncer, but less so. What was his name again? Szarka always forgot because he was new. The last bouncer having fallen in an attempt to break up a heated fight. Moriarty had warned him not to get involved. Ms Null was always far better at solving those kinds of problems.

So when Corran got that far away look in his eyes and muttered out that cold and almost robotic response, Szarka had to pause, her shot glass held tight in her gloved fingers. A thoughtful frown had crossed her expression as she regarded the distant-minded man. She went to open her mouth to say something, but immediately closed it as he came back to the present. The mention of the war meant he was one of them. One of the many fighters in that big bad conflict. Szarka didn't mean 'them' like Alliance, nor Browncoat. It was a collective term the woman had used for both sides. The occupation and 'liberation' of her homeworld had caused her to despise both. These days, of course, the intensity of youth had left her. It was more a mild disgruntled disposition in regards to anyone of that nature. But Szarka wasn't one to hold onto grudges. Wasn't one to make anyone pay for what had happened to her. Far behind her now.

You pick up, and you move on.

The question that came forth from the stranger caused Szarka's usually bland features to crease a little-- almost like she'd tasted something bad. It was horribly romantic in a sense this woman had no care for. Her response was curt, and clipped.

"Cold enough.[/color]" She ended the sentence with a firm knock-back of the shot, downing the bitter contents.

[Corran Boid]

He was fairly good at reading people especially those like him, dark and foreboding. He knew he hit a spot with the poem from Serenity valley. He knew how hurt many people were about it on both sides.

Grabbing his stout half empty of honey spiced beer with his left hand Corran replied.

Good that at least makes you more than a Reaver, poor heartless animals. Sorry if I offend but I call it like I see em.

A twitched hit Boid's left arm again and he crushed the stout making beer gush over the rim. and spilling on to the table.

What the...? Frelling arm. Blasted war and to hell to who ever decided to drop the first wave of bombs on me.

Corran tried to remove the stout from his left hand but it had locked in place. Blasted cybernetics they need to be reworded. It wasn't until then did he also see his right hand start to shake.

Ah shiny not now. What's the next gorram thing is going to go wrong with me tonight. Where's my tranqs.

Patting himself down he worked every pocket and every hiddy hole his evo suit had until he heard it the sound of his tranqs hitting the floor and rolling over the the bar to the young lady's heels.

If ya don't mind. Could you had those here. I would but it seems like by body just won't co-operate with me tonight.

Corran ended his words as his right arm started to draw and his right leg began to tremor some thing fierce. He needed them soon or he might have to join the frozen wilds of St. Albans.

[Szarka Null]

In her time out on the Rim, drifting across the Border worlds and seeing countless injuries and personal impairments, Szarka rarely knew those with the platinum to afford anything as advanced as what became apparent about the strange male. Upon Corran's complaints, Szarka had once again twisted on her stool, feet still hooked on the circular bar around it's middle, as she frowned in mild interest. The Reaver comment had provoked a small grunt of a laugh-- something without humour-- before the woman muttered something low in Russian. Something that probably contained words concerning the monstrous lunacy and choice curses from her native tongue. Szarka didn't have much of a cold, dread-filled fear like any normal person would. It was more of a 'just stay away from them' or 'make sure to have many weapons and maybe armour if you're privileged enough'. Of confronted by one, or many, she would run --Of course, she wasn't stupid-- as well as shoot. As long as those options were provided. Other than that-- they were still remnants of human beings. It was proven at the time of the 'Signal'. Reavers were not monsters of some other form. Just the most inhuman of people-- people driven insane and cannibalistic by a failed experimental drug.

Still wouldn't go looking for them.

His complaints were duly noted, even causing Szarka to wonder how someone would have the balls to trust such technology. Then again, from his complaining, it obviously wasn't his choice. More like the only option other than remain lame for the rest of his life. Absently, Szarka rubbed gloved fingers over her left hand. The cold was making it ache a lot more than usual. Little spikes of discomfort travelling through the nerves. The miss-healed bones causing the joints to click as she bent to retrieve the small container. A stride or two was taken towards his place, holding out the vial so that his real, working hand could grab it.

"You are strange man. What could you possibly want out in this frozen over hell?"

She was blunt, and to the point in her words, but even Szarka could manage some small talk. Just something to pass the time before whoever wanted to make good on sending men after her sent a few more. It would take a while, but when the dead man outside in the snow didn't report in, they'd probably send more. For someone who knew all of this-- Ms Null appeared unconcerned. Anyone else would be offworld and away by now. Not to be confused with stubborn pride, though. Szarka just disliked being pursued...

[Corran Boid]

Snatching the pills from her hand and with unsteady fumbling fingers he popped two into his mouth. Crunching them to make them absorb faster Corran listened to her question. Finally someone who asked the right question, or at least stuck around to ask it.

Through clinched teeth and in anger-Like I said I'm looking for reavers, one in particular.

He's my father.

I've come to bring him home and settle the injury to the planet he was born on. That's what I'm looking for you......

He could feel the madness drawing him in, that insane reaver way of wanting to silence every thing. He had to fight it Ai told him how. He was to recite back all the stars he could remember and their position to where he was now.

Gritting his teeth and in a low tone he began. Out of the corner of his eye he saw someone move out from the darkness.

Alliance undercover officer-Corran Boid you are bound by law. You will be taken back to the Blue Star Correction labs for processing.

It finally happened those with blue hands had finally got a led on him. Those that had planned out his miserable life were still searching for him.

Trying to speak Corran said-Not in this life.

In a singular move he grabbed the table leg tossing the table toward the officer and swiping his knife off it. The officer fired off a few rounds mainly going wide as he dove for cover behind another turned over table. With a graceful and deadly throw, Corran heaved the long blade at the table top near to the officer's head. The knife parted the wood as if it were butter burying up to the hilt making the officer lung back and up from the table.

Now having his mind committed to a kill his shakes were gone and his left hand and leg were silent. Whipping his New tech desert eagle from it's holster Corran fired once sending the officer flying and slamming into the far wall. The officer hit the floor with a squish and a very big hole in his chest.

In a voice colder than St Alban itself-Sorry about the mess I'll clean it up.

Raising with unfocused glassed over eyes, Corran moved to the far wall and began to drag the copse outside. With out his gear he dragged it a bit further than the previous body. Walking back in with eyes dead to the world he ordered a triple vodka and rum. He stood there looking at the glass not moving. He fully thought that what had just happened was a bad dream, but it wasn't once gain the beast with in Corran Boid was unleashed.

[Szarka Null]

It was slowly becoming more and more apparent just how different this man was. Szarka tensed beneath that red cloak/coat, but not noticeably so, when he mentioned he was after Reavers-- one in particular being his own father. And there was Szarka thinking her own childhood was a little messed up. This man? He took the whole ëbanny cake. Her lips even pursed slightly in that semi-awkward fashion when she was literally at a loss for words-- Szarka didn't speak much to begin with, but this stumped her beyond belief. It was evident all she could say was the reflex response of, "Sorry."

Once the pills were gone and out of her hand, the loner woman stepped off and back towards her seat, listening to his words as she moved. Light, soundless steps of a woman not so heavy of build, or just good at moving that stealthily. Maybe both. There was lean muscle on her these days, but there wasn't much of a far cry from her wiry youth. That stature never left her. Only got tougher.

Szarka had had her back to the rest of the bar when the Alliance Official appeared out of nowhere-- they always did. Showing up to ruin things when you least expected and never really wanted it. So this Corran Boid was wanted by them? There was far much too this man to take in all at once, though Szarka disliked Feds on her-- well, kind of-- planet. Her hand had disappeared within her coat, just in case, and rested upon that silenced pistol. The entire exchange that followed wasn't stopped by her or anyone else within the sparsely populated bar. She merely watched, impassive, as the Alliance man fell. Her hand was removed from her coat, and she turned back to grab her forgotten drink. It was sipped lightly, a look being shot towards Moriarty as he watched everything unveil. This day was full of too much excitement. People coming in, making a ruckus.

"And I always thought it was just you that gave us a bad name." Moriarty commented dryly, his eyes meeting Szarka's briefly.

A hand waved him to silence idly, the Russian turning back towards the doorway, watching as the man returned. Two people dead in the passed half hour wasn't a record, but on a quiet night like this, it was quite a tally. Szarka wondered what would come next-- would those after her barrel down the doors in an uncoordinated fashion and shoot the place to shreds, or those after him lay down a tactical raid? Frankly, Szarka thought herself prepared for either. She and Otto had never expected anything less from each other.

Though, concerning Corran Boid, Szarka was wary. There was some sense of... underlying instability about him. Whether it was a passing moment of adrenaline.. or something to do with what he'd mentioned beforehand-- and what the Fed had also said. Correction labs?

"So I take it you're one of those like the rest of us. Problems.[/color]" Szarka noted dryly, but also very cautiously.

It was getting to that time, now. Getting to when that scout would probably have to report in-- whether he'd found Null or not. They weren't far from anywhere that could safely land a ship and not have it get snowed in. While he was still in that glassy, tranced state, Szarka decided to add, almost far too conversationally.

"You may either want to clear out within the next ten minutes, or take cover behind the nearest solid piece of furniture, da? Man I killed has friends. Should be here soon.[/color]"

She calmly drank her drink before giving him a sideways glance.

"Unless you're expecting more friends for your friend.[/color]" It wasn't much of a question, so much as a calculated assumption.

Szarka was always ready, though.




__________________

_{ëbanny ; f*cked-up}

[Corran Boid]

(Occ-sorry for the poor post lacking Muse-aline today.)

Boid listened to her words of comfort or what ever they were. His response was a dry honest one.

The living have problems. Ghosts like me have only off days and restless nights.

He then listened to her next words with interest.

You may either want to clear out within the next ten minutes, or take cover behind the nearest solid piece of furniture, da? Man I killed has friends. Should be here soon."

Unless you're expecting more friends for your friend.

Sounds like a fun time coming. As for the friend they will either chase me with all they got or nothing at all. That was just a spook hunting whatever maybe on his list. If these others you are talking about come and start shooting at me as well then heaven help them and hell be awaitin'. Either way it's all shiny.

[Szarka Null]

So he didn't appear that bothered by it all, either. It was almost like an average night for them both, it seemed. Szarka didn't always make a habit of annoying people to the point of wanting to hunt her down, but it did tend to happen whether she planned it or not. Sometimes they showed up out of the blue, looking to settle something with Otto and having to deal with her instead. He'd always told her he'd handle his own problems, and probably wouldn't like her having to deal with it. Szarka just had to regretfully kill people. No biggie.

As for this situation, Szarka Null was also ready and able to take on those already on their way to the front door. Willing wasn't exactly a factor. It wasn't enjoyment for her-- she wasn't mentally defective. To survive? Szarka did anything for that. Though, it was hard to tell if there was ever any joy in her life. Maybe there was some small satisfaction from dispatching marks or pursuers? Maybe not.

Corran's words had been accepted as him not bothering to leave or extract himself from the problem that was about to befall this grotty little star-port tavern. Szarka stood at the bar, calmly checking her pistols and making sure they were loaded and ready-- safety off. A bullet winged passed her head, the noise causing it to jerk to the side just a touch. Moriarty ducked down. He was probably going to need a new Bouncer. Szarka held her pistols with a sigh.

"Very well then.[/b]" She spoke matter of factly, hooking the stool next to her with a leg, and spying the first man to enter reflected in the mirror behind the bar-- it was installed there for a reason-- whipped it around. The stool was hurled, knocking his arm and sending his bullet into the ceiling, and Szarka herself plugged him in the chest three times. She made sure to spare one for his head as he fell.

She shot at two legs of the nearest table, and it collapsed down into temporary cover as the next man came in, guns blazing. Bullets splintered wood as Szarka fired over the edge of her protection, then went about reloading.

There would be seven in all. One having already bitten a handful of Szarka's bullets. So six to go. She kept count for the future story. She had acquaintances in mercenary circles that liked a good firefight tale.

[Corran Boid]

The moment was near for the storm outside had slowed a bit. Corran unholstered his new tech desert eagle and quietly checked his clip. Resigned to a coming fight Boid could feel that mad animal side of him start to stir as the first bullet zinged between the two of them.

The words Miss Null said went unspoken in Corran's throat. He did not turn around until the end of the third shot from her this gave any on-looker the feel that he was not part of the fight until it was too late. Boid saw the forth shot hit between the eyes of the falling corpse. Then the second player came into the bar spraying the table she was hidding behind like an amature. Too fixed on his target and not looking for anyone who would come to her aide. Taking the eagle in his right hand, Boid aimed high on the dead-man's chest. I said dead-man because when Boid drew down on someone they were going to die. He had so little money to waste he hated to waste any thing even bullets.

Though thankfully for Corran one shot is usually all it took from his eagle. Firing the shot Boid let loose a very loud and startling single shot. The sound was near to a single shot shot-gun, yet the damage was more so. The force of the hit slamming into the man's chest was likened to getting kicked by a mule, but the frontal damage was small but as it exited was a whole other matter. They say a finger size hole in, a fist hole coming out.

The blast sent the dead man flying back to land in the door way making it a bit more hazardous for those entering the bar. As for Boid he used the power from his left leg to bound over the bar to hide with the barkeep who was all but digging his way to the otherside of the planet. The barkeep was a bit startled at Corran's landing but more so in that he took from a special collection of finer grade liquir. Uncorking the bottle with his teeth Boid said.

Don't worry put it as a loss for the damages accuring.

Taking a swig Corran looked into the large mirror finding Null safe and another peaking around the doorway's enterance.