Blackhawk
Mar 31st, 2012, 04:13:55 AM
The night was dark. Or at least, it was as dark as the city ever allowed it to be. Street lamps cast pools of light, bathing the buildings and pavements in a pale golden glow that starved them of much of the colour they would have had in daylight. Few and far between, people moved as quickly as they dared - as fast as their often inappropriate footwear would allow - hopping from one light pool to another, avoiding the shadows as best they could. It was a wise choice.
In the shadows, something stirred.
A quartet of voices sounded from further up the street. Four thugs came into view, strolling with confidence - borderline arrogance, even - down the centre of the roadway. The traffic was absent, but even if it hadn't been they looked prepared for it: muscle-bound and battle-scarred, the planks and chains and baseball bats they carried gave the air of barbarians ready for war, not citizens out for a moonless night stroll.
The sound of rolling glass drew their attention to a side-street. A short two-story trench of building-lined walls opened into a broader vale of generic-looking garages, the bricks and steel-slat doors addled by age and graffiti and violence. The thugs entered without a second thought, their confidence weighing so heavily on their shoulders that it bowed their legs into a swagger. Without a word they fanned out, their movements still casual, and yet bearing the grim hallmarks of battle tactics. An open garage beckoned, it's gaping shadowed maw almost like a black hole, projecting an unseen force that drew them in and yet not letting even the faintest light escape.
One of the group - shortest, hairless, and yet undeniably their leader - stepped up to the entrance, a nine millimetre that he made no attempt to hide held in his fingers. "We know you're in there," he baited, his voice thickened by his south-of-the-border accent. "There's no point hiding."
His words hesitated for a menacing moment.
"Come out where we can see you."
Silence and stillness screamed out at him from the black; they dragged out awkwardly, and the leader shuffled to match. A hint of frantic thought crept behind his mind as he searched for something more threatening to say; relief came when the darkness finally responded, but it was short-lived.
"You want to see me?"
Light exploded from the garage, so intense that the quartet of thugs were forced to recoil and stagger back. Through squinting, bleary, watering eyes, the thugs could make out a vague silhouette, framed by the array of high-intensity headlamps that peppered the humvee he stood before.
"Holy shit!" the one with the baseball bat exclaimed. "It's fucking Batman!"
The voice that replied was gruff and chilling; more gravel and menace than any Hollywood feature could ever hope to convey. "Not Batman," the voice countered, his movements still largely unseen in front of the wall of light.
The all-too familiar sound of a pump-action shotgun clicked it's way through the night air.
"Blackhawk."
The night exploded into activity as the shotgun fired, a riot-issue beanbag hurled through the air. It slammed into the gang leader's arm with a sickening crunch, the pistol tumbling from his fingers as pain radiated from the break point. The figure - Blackhawk - surged forward, crossing the distance between them in a fraction of a second. A heavy, booted foot collided with the leader's head, and he crumpled to the ground.
The one with the baseball bat tried to run; a nightstick flew from Blackhawk's hand, colliding heavily with the back of his head. Chains was braver, trying to fight back on behalf of his fallen comrades; an armoured sleeve let the chain wrap harmlessly around it, a solid yank hauling it's wielder close enough for the plated glove of the other hand to flatten his nose.
Plank swinging wildly, the last thug tried to catch him unawares. A swing of the chain snagged hold of his two-by-four, pulling it to the ground; a booted foot stamped the makeshift weapon in half in a shower of splinters. The thug recoiled but Blackhawk caught him, a fist wrapped tightly around the scruff of his shirt.
"I'm watching you," Blackhawk snarled, drawing the thug close to his face. "When your buddies wake up, tell them - and anyone else that will listen - that the streets aren't safe for your kind any more."
The thug's lips curled into a retort, but his voice didn't get a chance to unleash it. A sculpted helmet smashed into his forehead, and he too slipped into unconsciousness.
Blackhawk held him upright for a moment longer, rummaging through his pockets for a cell phone. He dug it out, punching in the digits for 9-1-1, before tossing the thug unceremoniously into the heap of his friends.
"You need to send an ambulance to the Barnes Street garages in Los Santos," he growled, as the operator answered. There was a pause as they spoke back. "I'm fine," Blackhawk assured her, "But the crooks I just beat up are probably going to need stitches, and handcuffs."
She asked for his name. He didn't give it. He simply tossed the phone - the call still live - back towards it's owner, calmly walked back to his humvee, climbed in, and drove off into the night.
In the shadows, something stirred.
A quartet of voices sounded from further up the street. Four thugs came into view, strolling with confidence - borderline arrogance, even - down the centre of the roadway. The traffic was absent, but even if it hadn't been they looked prepared for it: muscle-bound and battle-scarred, the planks and chains and baseball bats they carried gave the air of barbarians ready for war, not citizens out for a moonless night stroll.
The sound of rolling glass drew their attention to a side-street. A short two-story trench of building-lined walls opened into a broader vale of generic-looking garages, the bricks and steel-slat doors addled by age and graffiti and violence. The thugs entered without a second thought, their confidence weighing so heavily on their shoulders that it bowed their legs into a swagger. Without a word they fanned out, their movements still casual, and yet bearing the grim hallmarks of battle tactics. An open garage beckoned, it's gaping shadowed maw almost like a black hole, projecting an unseen force that drew them in and yet not letting even the faintest light escape.
One of the group - shortest, hairless, and yet undeniably their leader - stepped up to the entrance, a nine millimetre that he made no attempt to hide held in his fingers. "We know you're in there," he baited, his voice thickened by his south-of-the-border accent. "There's no point hiding."
His words hesitated for a menacing moment.
"Come out where we can see you."
Silence and stillness screamed out at him from the black; they dragged out awkwardly, and the leader shuffled to match. A hint of frantic thought crept behind his mind as he searched for something more threatening to say; relief came when the darkness finally responded, but it was short-lived.
"You want to see me?"
Light exploded from the garage, so intense that the quartet of thugs were forced to recoil and stagger back. Through squinting, bleary, watering eyes, the thugs could make out a vague silhouette, framed by the array of high-intensity headlamps that peppered the humvee he stood before.
"Holy shit!" the one with the baseball bat exclaimed. "It's fucking Batman!"
The voice that replied was gruff and chilling; more gravel and menace than any Hollywood feature could ever hope to convey. "Not Batman," the voice countered, his movements still largely unseen in front of the wall of light.
The all-too familiar sound of a pump-action shotgun clicked it's way through the night air.
"Blackhawk."
The night exploded into activity as the shotgun fired, a riot-issue beanbag hurled through the air. It slammed into the gang leader's arm with a sickening crunch, the pistol tumbling from his fingers as pain radiated from the break point. The figure - Blackhawk - surged forward, crossing the distance between them in a fraction of a second. A heavy, booted foot collided with the leader's head, and he crumpled to the ground.
The one with the baseball bat tried to run; a nightstick flew from Blackhawk's hand, colliding heavily with the back of his head. Chains was braver, trying to fight back on behalf of his fallen comrades; an armoured sleeve let the chain wrap harmlessly around it, a solid yank hauling it's wielder close enough for the plated glove of the other hand to flatten his nose.
Plank swinging wildly, the last thug tried to catch him unawares. A swing of the chain snagged hold of his two-by-four, pulling it to the ground; a booted foot stamped the makeshift weapon in half in a shower of splinters. The thug recoiled but Blackhawk caught him, a fist wrapped tightly around the scruff of his shirt.
"I'm watching you," Blackhawk snarled, drawing the thug close to his face. "When your buddies wake up, tell them - and anyone else that will listen - that the streets aren't safe for your kind any more."
The thug's lips curled into a retort, but his voice didn't get a chance to unleash it. A sculpted helmet smashed into his forehead, and he too slipped into unconsciousness.
Blackhawk held him upright for a moment longer, rummaging through his pockets for a cell phone. He dug it out, punching in the digits for 9-1-1, before tossing the thug unceremoniously into the heap of his friends.
"You need to send an ambulance to the Barnes Street garages in Los Santos," he growled, as the operator answered. There was a pause as they spoke back. "I'm fine," Blackhawk assured her, "But the crooks I just beat up are probably going to need stitches, and handcuffs."
She asked for his name. He didn't give it. He simply tossed the phone - the call still live - back towards it's owner, calmly walked back to his humvee, climbed in, and drove off into the night.