The Catalyst

Okay, so I've been on Empire a lot lately, and I can't really go on the computer on weekdays, so Part 6 may not come until summer.

Hey, I should finish this, shouldn't I?

Probably

PiEdude wrote:Okay, so I've been on Empire a lot lately, and I can't really go on the computer on weekdays, so Part 6 may not come until summer.

PiEdude wrote:Hey, I should finish this, shouldn't I?

Especially since you are a lieing bastard.

I wasn't really lying.

Scene six has been about two thirds of the way done since May 16 2009.

Regardless im still waiting to see what happens next ;)

Act One: Scene Six

Often times a situation is called a “Powder Keg” when there are multiple contributing factors or individuals either come together in close proximity or if there is a great tension between them, but there is a certain balance that keeps the situation from becoming violent. When something comes along to disturb that fragile balance, it is known as a “Spark”. In some cases, the spark can be more like a slow burning fuse.

One such fuse was lit when in the streets of Reggino a young Levo officer saw a man walking down a street, not making eye contact with anyone, trying to avoid bumping into anyone, and tried to keep his face concealed with an old hat. The officer had earlier heard the order to report any activity that could be perceived as unusual in any way, shape or form. This man seemed somewhat unusual in his behavior, so he called it in, and then thought nothing more of it as he continued his patrol.
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Brian Jynne watched the road, and kept taking glances at his dashboard. Gas was about full, he had just topped off the tank at the first gas station he saw after leaving the airport, and he was cruising along at 75 mph (the Don had been courteous enough to allow the speed measurements on the dash to change from metric to Aptocian with one extra turn to the window wiper dial on the blinker stick) and traffic was light around this time of year.

“You are roughly 2 miles away from your destination,” announced the small LCD display that was both the GPS system and a two-way video phone. “Thanks for remindin’ me babe.” Brian responded to the Voxitian accented female voice of is GPS system. Not even an hour now.
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“Now, I want to make this perfectly clear to you, this man is wanted alive. He must be captured at any and all costs, but he must NOT, under any circumstances whatsoever, die. You must not kill him, or let him die. Whoever captures him will be richly rewarded, but if he dies, those who are thought to be responsible will be dealt with severely. Do I make myself perfectly clear?” Company Sergeant Bilco stepped down to allow the Voxitian translator to his left explain in excruciating detail to the men what he had just said.

Bilco adjusted his collar, and heard a chorus of men yelling “Sì il Signore! “ as he walked towards the other end of the local police station. “I don’t suppose you have a helicopter pad?” he asked his Aptocian speaking guide that had been assigned to him. “No sir, but we can use the one at the hospital if you like.”

“Not as private as I’d like, but I suppose it will have to do. Can you tell me the address of this hospital?”

“Naturalmente Signor.” Of course sir.

“Good. Just write it down for now, I need to make a call.”
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The Fugitive was getting close now. He had walked briskly through several upper and lower class neighborhoods, constantly changing direction and taking random turns to try and throw off any potential tails the Levo might have on him.

He walked on as casually as he could. All he had to do was reach some kind of bus station, or train station, something like that. Then he could ride on to any fishing port or black market dock he wanted, and finally leave Europa. What could possibly go wrong?
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Levo throughout the city mobilized, along with Bilco’s own people, and all were given high-powered rifles and shotguns loaded with rhino tranquilizers. When they asked why it was rhino tranquilizer, they were told the truth: the target had intentionally immunized himself to normal human grade tranquilizer, and even up to horse tranquilizer.

Snipers mounted throughout Reggino, taking up positions on various rooftops. They were set and ready to mobilize at any time. The trap was set, and the fuse was burning.
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“Where to next?” Brian asked as he left the ramp heading towards Reggino.

“The GPS will change accordingly as you reach each new destination. Give it time Mr. Jynne; it may take a minute or two.” The Don calmly announced over the two way com in the GPS.

Brian tapped the steering wheel impatiently as he waited for the device. Finally, after nearly three minutes, it announced the new location, and the small map on the screen showed a full layout of Reggino, and the exact spot he was to go next.

“There, you see? Good hunting Mr. Jynne.”
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There. There was exactly what he needed. The Reggino Stazione Degli Autobus (Reggino Bus Station) was in sight, just down the block. All he had to do was walk in, evade security, and sneak onto one that was going anywhere near the coast.

The Fugitive walked towards the station, still alert, and scanning the area with his eyes constantly. It was a low sound at first, but he heard it. A small “buzzing” sound, he couldn’t quite make it out. He quickly focused all his concentration to his (potentially, but usually dulled by himself) extremely sensitive Aurisar hearing onto that small noise. He recognized the sound of radio static almost immediately. He then heard the voices that came with it.
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“Ripetere l'obiettivo è di serie. Richiesta di autorizzazione al fuoco.” The young Levo marksman said into his radio. Repeat, target is in range. Requesting permission to fire.
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The man’s eyes widened. He listened closer to the frequency as he formulated a plan. He looked to a nearby vendor that was selling a various assortment of hats. The Fugitive pulled some cash out of his pocket.
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“Il bersaglio muove.” Said the Levo to one of his superiors. Target is moving.

Currently, the man was conversing with a hat vendor. He observed him handing over some cash to the man, and receive a hat when he heard his superior reply: “Lei potrebbe licenziare quando pronto.” You may fire when ready.

The Levo wasted no time in following his order. He quickly lined up a shot on the target’s upper back. As he squeezed the trigger, he noticed a quick motion, before observing the target fall down. Several people ducked reactively, and began to panic at the sound of gunfire.

“Il bersaglio ha neutralizzato.” The Levo tried to say as coldly as he could manage. Target neutralized.

“Gli ufficiali muovono in ora di confermare.” His superior informed him. Officers are moving in now to confirm.

The young Levo observed through his scope as several plain clothed Levo moved through the quickly dispersing crowd. A small group had gathered around the fallen man, but the Levo were forcing their way through to the center as they pulled adrenaline shots from their bags, meant to ensure that the fugitive did not go into shock. The marksman saw one of them kneel down to him, and apparently hold up a picture of him to the man.

The Levo was surprised to see the plain clothed Levo shake his head erratically as he jabbed his syringe into the other man’s chest. The marksman watched in horror as the man he had shot jolted upwards, an expression of pain and surprise on his face. The marksman had the fugitive’s face memorized.

He had shot the wrong man.
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“Ten minutes to destination.” Announced the GPS. Brian tightened his grip on the steering wheel. Fifteen years ago, he may have begun to sweat. Not now though.
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The Fugitive grinned just slightly at his cleverness. He was purchasing a hat when the sniper fired. The Fugitive had grabbed a man at the very moment he heard the first scrapings of glove on metal before the man had pulled the trigger.

He had quickly grabbed the man with one hand, grabbed his hat with the other, and used the small window of time when the sniper’s vision would be obscured to place the other man where the Fugitive had been, and place his newly purchased hat on him as well. The man had then run away with the rest of the frightened civilians as the other Levo moved in.

The Fugitive was using the back alleys now, darting up short walls and around tight corners, trying desperately to find a new route of escape.

He did not notice, however, that he had been spotted again as he ran out onto an older sidewalk.
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“Il bersaglio ha distinto, movendo lungo il Viale di Trebello” said a Levo officer into his radio. Target spotted, moving along Trebello Avenue. “Oscurare il bersaglio ora” Shadowing target now.

The officer began to trail behind the target, less than five yards behind him, but still never losing sight. He was certain that the target hadn’t noticed him.
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The Fugitive had noticed the Levo following him. The uniformed officer couldn’t have been making himself more obvious if he tried, with his heavy boots clunking along, pistol jangling around in its holster, various keys ringing in the Fugitive’s ears.

He figured he’d let the Levo play his little game for now, although the man would be listening closely to that little radio of his. The Fugitive hadn’t heard what the Levo had initially said, but he would hear anything else.
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The marksmen lined the rooftops along Trebello Avenue. They all searched for the target, using a slightly different description than they had before. Almost simultaneously, the ten marksmen found their target. It was a man a few yards ahead of the officer that had called it in.

One of them decided to confirm this, and contacted the Levo on his radio.
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The Fugitive heard the message. The Levo’s radio loudly asked if the snipers along the rooftops had the right target, and the Levo answered “Si”. The man heard several clicks as the marksmen prepared to fire.

He had to do something fast. Without hesitation, the Fugitive turned on his heals to face the Levo who had been trailing him. The sidewalk was mostly empty, with nobody in between the man and the Levo. The Fugitive clapped his hands together, sending a visible wave arcing towards the officer.

While not close enough to cut anything, this technique was still enough to hit the man with such force that he flew backwards a few feet, but more importantly, distracted the snipers long enough for the Fugitive to run off.
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“Is this it?” asked Bilco upon reaching the helicopter pad. “Si signore Bilco, this is our only helicopter.” Replied the Voxitian man.

Before them was a Eurocopter EC135 equipped for air ambulance missions. It was rarely used, Bilco had been told, and was currently only good for showing off to the local press and running up the hospital’s maintenance bill.

It was white with a red trim, and like most other medical helicopters, bore a red cross on either side, and the front.
“Where’s the pilot?”
“On his way signore. You caught him on his day off.”
Bilco looked to his left, surprise on his face. “You mean to tell me that you people only have one medical helicopter pilot?”

The man laughed, and replied, “No signore, we have two. Our primary pilot is a five year veteran; he’s been around since we got the copter. He’s the better of the two, and works longer hours. It’s not a difficult job in this town anyway, as we rarely have use for this leak in our budget anyway. He spends most of his time doing practice runs around the city.”

Bilco grunted. It had been a long time since he had worked in such a poor area.
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“Five minutes to destination.”
Brian smiled. It wouldn’t be long now.
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The tranquilizers whizzed past as the Fugitive rounded a corner. More snipers appeared on the rooftops as he ran, and he thought the heard the distinct sound of Voxitian Levo cars off in the distance.

The shots repeatedly missed, landing and exploding around him. The Fugitive rounded into another alley, and headed for a square that could lead off into several different directions. The Levo were gathering on most of the rooftops now, waiting for their chance.
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Brian was surprised by the sirens. He ignored them, and kept heading to where he was supposed to go: a small square near the heart of the town. Only two minutes now. He saw movement on the rooftops, but he again, ignored it.

It probably wasn’t his concern.
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The engines began to whine as Bilco entered the passenger seat of the chopper. He checked his rifle to make sure all the tranqs were undamaged, and told the pilot to take off.

Dust was strewn about the roof of the hospital as they gained altitude. The pilot already knew where to go, which was comforting to Bilco. The pilot only spoke Voxitian, and he was getting tired of using a translator.
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The Fugitive could see it clearly now. The square was bigger than he thought, but it gave access to several different alleys, roads, and even a few abandoned shops. There was a fountain in the center as well, giving him potential cover. The square was also full of sand for one reason or another. There was apparently not much of it, but the Fugitive had no time to worry about it.

He was about halfway through the square when he heard a voice yell “PUZO!” through a megaphone. STOP!
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The marksmen were all around the square. Twenty in all, they had all sides covered, and they were all aiming at the same target. They watched the Fugitive stop in his tracks. They had him now.
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Everywhere he looked, he saw only snipers. On every rooftop, and probably in a few windows. They were all aiming square at him. The Fugitive had no choice. He stuck his hands in the air, trying to think of a way out.

He could imagine none.
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The square was in sight. Apparently something was going on, as he could see movement, but apparently this was to be expected. He floored the accelerator, looking to see if the man was where he should have been.
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They all heard it. The approaching sounds of a large V8 engine. The Fugitive looked to see what it was, but only saw a massive blob of color skidding to a stop. A door opened, and the Fugitive saw a man dive out, and grab handfuls of sand.
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Mr. Jynne grabbed the sand, and with all his strength, felt it cling together in his hands. He pulled it up, and like a blanket that had had the same thing done to it, a sheet of sand billowed up into the air, and filled the square like a cloud.

He looked at his target, and didn’t even have to speak. After considering his options for less than a moment, the man jumped in the passenger’s seat. As Brian put the car in drive, he started speaking rapid fire Voxitian.
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“Dobbiamo uscire da questa città al più presto possibile.” The Fugitive said as he buckled his seat belt. After that stunt, he knew that with this driver, he’d need every precaution possible.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. I may work for Voxitians buddy, but I don’t speak a word of it.”

The Fugitive was stunned to hear him speak Aptocian, but was even more surprised to hear the Parvulan accent.

“I said we need to get out of here as soon as possible. There’s a highway over by-“

Brian was also surprised to hear the language and accent, but had no time to revel in his discoveries at the moment. “Look, don’t tell me how to drive kid. I’ve been doin' this since you were playin’ with Hot Wheels. I know what to do.”
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Bilco listened to the radio patiently. His face showed no emotion, but he felt rage. The target had gotten away. No, no he didn’t. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t. Bilco wasn’t going to let this happen again.

“Tell the pilot to head to that square, and tell him to follow my directions from there. We’re going to find this bastard.” Bilco snarled. As his Voxitian guide translated to the pilot, Bilco opened the passenger’s window, and peered through his scope.
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The big F-150 wasn’t built for riding through narrow alleyways like this, but that’s exactly what it was doing. The truck rolled right through, crushing most of the obstacles in its way, and smashing through several gates. The GPS displayed the only possible route that led to a road, and Brian followed it.

That was when he saw the final obstacle between him and smoother driving. At the end of the alley, there was a sharp turn, one that tilted off about 45° off to the left. Brian knew this wouldn’t be easy. The truck was too wide, and there wasn’t enough clearance to make a proper turn.

He began to floor it again. The turn was approaching faster now, and at the last second, Brian swung the steering wheel hard to his left. The truck hit the corner hard on its right side, and was badly scratched on the left. The right side mirror was sheared off, and the driver’s side door was badly bent. But they were free now.

Brian was then surprised to hear the sound of helicopter rotors.
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“There they are.” Bilco told his guide as he aimed at the big pickup truck that had just burst out of an alley and into traffic. “Tell the pilot to follow that truck, the one with all the damage.” As his guide relayed the message, Bilco tried to figure out which one of the men was his target.
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“Repair protocols activated.” Announced the GPS’s electronic voice. Brian looked at it for a moment, but quickly returned his attention to the road. There weren’t many other cars out right now. Brian used the relative emptiness to his advantage, as he sped down the road to his freedom.

He continued to search for a helicopter in his mirrors, but he couldn’t see it, if there was one at all.
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Bilco didn’t know whether he should’ve been amazed or horrified. The large, glaring scratches on the truck were sealing and repairing before his eyes. The driver was apparently oblivious to it, but the door on his side was straightening out as well.

The sergeant took aim at one of the tires. With the angle of the chopper, he was able to get a good line of site to the two left-side tires and still not be seen by anyone in the car. They didn’t have a sunroof, which was just good luck for Bilco. He squeezed the trigger, and as he used the bolt-action to chamber another round, he observed the dart implant itself in the tire, and quickly roll into the road. The tire showed no signs of losing air.
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“What the hell was that?” Brian asked. They had all heard the muted popping noise. It was the only sound to rise above that of the rotors. “Someone just shot us.” The Fugitive answered, trying to see out the rear window on the cab.
“Well did they hit anything?”
“Doesn’t feel like it.”
“Actually, they did.” Announced a new voice from the GPS. Both men looked down to see that the map on the LCD screen had been replaced by that of another man, this one well dressed.

“The tires on this vehicle are both gel flapped, and filled with foam. Somebody just tried to shoot out one of your tires, but they failed to do so.” Brian thought the Don would’ve looked complete if he were petting a cat, though he was careful not to think this too loudly. “Most likely, they’re following you by air.”

“Who are you?” the Fugitive asked, almost angrily.
“You’ll know soon enough.” Replied the Don as he cut the transmission.
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Another dart was fired, this one hitting the top of the cab. Bilco was becoming aggravated now. He wasn’t about to let this target get away again. He fired the last three darts in the clip before reloading. Two of those darts deflected off metal, but the last one hit the driver’s side window.


Brian flinched when something impacted his window. He looked to see a small impression in the glass the size of a half-dollar, and not the “spider web” fracture that he was expecting. “Damn.” He said as he returned his attention to the road.
“They really didn’t waste any money on this baby, did they?”

After he had looked away, impression slowly began to close back in, and within seconds it looked as if the glass hadn’t been shot at all.

“That’s it.” The Fugitive said, taking off his seat belt.
“What are you doing?” Brian said, not turning his head to look.
“If this is who I think it is, then they’re not going to just let us leave. Most likely, we’re going to run out of gas before they do. That guy needs me alive, but he will not hesitate to kill anyone else who gets in his way.”
Why did I take this job again? Brian thought.

The Fugitive opened his window, and began to lean out the side.
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“To hell with this!” Bilco said as he ripped out the clip of darts. He actually had witnessed the “healing” of the window, and was done playing games. He loaded a single .30-06 caliber round into the breach before closing the bolt. He took aim at the driver’s side window again.

“Let’s see how you like this you slippery son of a bi-“

Bilco was surprised to see somebody leaning out the window on the other side of the car. “Quick!” he told his translator. “Tell the pilot to get us on the other side of that truck right now!” He was scrambling to get the live round out and to get a clip of darts in.
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The helicopter was maneuvering to try and get to the other side, just as the Fugitive had intended. He could see the Sergeant now, and he was still trying to load the rifle. Must’ve jammed or something. Thought the man as took in a deep breath.
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“There.” Bilco said as he finally loaded a clip of darts. They were on the other side of the truck now, and the sergeant could see his target leaning out the window. He knew what he was planning to do, and knew he didn’t have a whole lot of time.

Working as quickly as he could manage, Bilco lined up a shot. He pulled the trigger just as the air exploded.
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Just as he had done in the alleyway, the Fugitive screamed, sending what looked like dozens of ripples through the air. These ripples spread out in a cone until they hit the side of the helicopter.
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The pilot was screaming something, but Bilco couldn’t comprehend it. His entire upper torso felt like the front had been hit by a slow moving car, and there was a piercing ring that took up most of his hearing. His guide was saying something, but he could only see his lips moving, as the ringing was still too strong. The sergeant looked to the door he was just looking from to see that the scene was alternating between the sky and the city.

“We’re going to crash!” he finally heard the Voxitian man say, once the ringing had mostly subsided. “Okay.” Bilco said as he stood. “I heard you the first bloody time.” It was difficult to stand—whether that was a result of the helicopter’s spinning or the recent trauma, Bilco couldn’t say. He made his way to the door as best he could. The sergeant saw that their course had leveled out somewhat, but they still wouldn’t be airborne much longer.

He saw that there were rooftops only a few meters below him. Deciding he may as well risk it, Bilco got to the edge of the door, and tried to time his jump just right. He leaped from the copter, but had somewhat misjudged the distance. He was now falling two and a half meters, rather than the two meters he was expecting.

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“There.” The Fugitive said as he got back into his seat. “That should take care of them.”

Brian checked the rearview mirror to see the copter spinning away. He frowned. The man had hoped to get away from that business. “Whatever.” He said, keeping his eyes on the road. “There’s something in that glove box for you, if you even need it.”

The road stretched out for miles, and into the setting sun. The Fugitive looked into the sunset, and saw the one thing that he feared and despised most: his destiny.

Read it, loved it

Well... *sigh* I tried to read it but I just couldn't keep with the tale with all those sideways comments going on. Wrestling on Monday? Calling one another lewd names... arguing that you are commenting and discussing the story with one another, rather than actually commenting or discussing the story with one another....

What I did get to read sounded cool... not sure what it was really about but I guess I liked it well enough.

Maybe later, when I have less cotton in my head, I'll come back and try it again.....
-Etsharrin Hopsarrith

Yeah, there's a lot of infighting in this thread

Act II: Scene I

The Fugitive watched out the window as the Apennine Mountains of Voxity zoomed by. They had been driving for only an hour, but it seemed a thousand times longer from lack of dialogue. He glanced at the driver again. Brian Jynne kept his eyes firmly attached to the road. The expression on his face was almost bored. The Fugitive impatiently tapped his fingers on the doorframe, just below the window.

“So…” He began, still looking at the mountains. “Who are you?”

“The one driving the car.” Brian replied blankly, still watching the road ahead. The Fugitive shifted his eyes back to him for a moment, before moving them back to the window.

“Okay…Where are we going?”

The driver replied by tapping the GPS and saying, “Wherever the lady tells us to go.”

The other man looked at the device quizzically. She?

The Fugitive wondered if he should thank the man for helping him escape, or just dive out the door while he still had the chance.
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“No sir, it won’t happen again, I assure you.”

“It damn well better not happen again! That little show in Reggino has got the Voxitians asking a lot of questions. Do you have any idea the kind of shit storm you could have stirred up if that were a major city?”

Bilco remained silent. He knew far better than to answer the rhetorical question.

“Thank God the real Aptocian military still has its head up its ass on this whole thing. I want this handled quietly next time, am I perfectly clear on that Sergeant?”

“Yes sir.” Was Bilco’s reply as he heard the click that signified the other end hanging up. It had been too far of a distance for any type of radio, so they had resorted to long range, portable, secured phone lines. Bilco stared at the wireless receiver for a moment. He gripped it tightly in his hand.

Without warning, he swung back his arm, and tossed it across the room. It smashed violently into a cabinet with a glass face. He screamed in anger as he slammed his fist down on the counter before him. He breathed heavily, each seeming forced and fueled by rage. But then , just as suddenly as the storm had began, Sergeant Bilco took a deep breath, and exhaled.

He calmly walked around the counter, and into the living area of the small hotel room. Bilco approached a small cabinet located directly next to a mirror. The mirror was on the left, and the cabinet opened to the right. Bilco kneeled before the mirror. He opened the cabinet, revealing a shelf, the top half of which containing a large, unlabeled bottle of strong Scotch whisky, and several shot glasses.

The sergeant pulled a glass from the shelf, followed by the bottle. He poured the shot, nearly to the top, and drank it straight, closing his eyes as the familiar burning sensation flared up, but quickly died out. He poured another, in a similar fashion, and downed it, with more vigor this time. He tossed the glass over his shoulder, ignoring the audible shatter, before placing the bottle back in the cabinet.

The door remained open, and Bilco reached down to the bottom half of the shelf. He felt around the more heavily shadowed area for a moment before pulling a large knife into the light. Its blade gleamed for a moment as the dim light from a lamp on the ceiling, the single source of illumination in the room, hit it. The blade bore an inscription in Latin.

Again, Sergeant William P. Bilco inhaled deeply. He exhaled, before snapping his fingers and igniting the space between is forefinger and thumb. He brought this flame to the edge of the blade. Bilco kept it there until the tip was glowing bright orange. He shook the fire off his hand, before unbuttoning his white undershirt.

A full time soldier, Bilco’s time concerted on his own physical agility, muscular endurance and strength had made him more intimidating, at the very least. His form was closer to a recruit fresh from two stays in boot camp than that of a long time NCO.

Marring this, however, were twelve deep scars, arranged from right to left, in tally marks, the first ten on top, the next two directly underneath. The first three were slightly crooked, signs of hesitation, but by the fourth, they seemed orderly, and uniform.

Bilco kept his eyes fixed firmly to the mirror. His face was stark, and emotionless, the anger from earlier completely overshadowed. There was no fear, no hesitation, no mercy for what he was about to do.
He brought the knife up to chest level, exactly three centimeters from the twelfth deep cut.