[quote=“strop”][ooc] I probably should have set firmer rules from the outset, but as this was an impromptu exercise, I’m going to have to redact as I see necessary, which is always less satisfactory:
Nope, sorry, not allowing this to be televised live. That breaks the rules of the universe. Currently, Nordschleife is under military contention. Any civilian who is somehow in the area may be recording snippets of this as amateur footage, but the reason the area was eerily quiet (you may have forgotten I mentioned this in the story before), was because it was an international law enforcement ambush (with a very tentative cooperation that got completely broken when a lot of unauthorised parties started doing a lot of unauthorised things). And when something like that takes place, people in the surrounding area get evacuated. So those people will definitely be thinking something is up, but if a television crew even so much as approaches this area, they’re going to get shut down very quickly. And aircraft will be shot down (since everybody is already trying to shoot each other down).
The overriding law of the universe is consequence. If this goes on the news, and people manage to put two and two together beyond unfounded rumours, then you would think that there would be legal consequences for all participants involved. That’s too much, and I’m not prepared to foist that on everybody here. And it will completely screw up the bits I do have planned, and I’m not prepared for that either 
Trust me, there WILL be parts of this that do get televised, but sufficiently confusing and disjointed such that this won’t happen.
p.s. given that a BSLL 2 will happen, there will be just as much madness, but I will be setting actual universe rules, and they will actually be enforced. If anybody breaks those rules, they will face in-universe consequences with much more permanence, which may affect their tournament results. This will encourage people to think carefully with what they decide to do in character. For example, Tom adding those jump jets to the Brimstone after round 5? I’d go back and add about 250kg of internal weight to the model and alter the results from there. Flagrantly get into trouble with authority? You may miss any number of races or even, if bad enough, be ejected from the tournament. Rayyan hitting on other player characters, well, that won’t necessarily carry any consequence on the results That kind of thing.[/quote]
[OOC] But…what about all those interwebz videos and reports from Utah?
[OOC] I should say this is completely agreeable for me. If you RP it, you must consider the consequence of the actions. If, for example, I were to stab Moustache and The Bitch with my Ka-Bar, I would have consequences (although I really think it might actually pass the litmus for self-defense) to deal with. If someone starts WWIII by launching nuclear weapons or creating an International Incident, well, I’m pretty sure Russia, China, and the US (and any other modernized country on the planet) would retaliate with deadly force against the force(s) which created the issue. Strop, you have done a great job of being inclusive of our absurd versions of RP (as yours is quite absurd too!) into your story, and for this I thank you from the bottom of my heart. But, agreed, there has to be limits and boundaries to make it flow together. As for hitting on others, fuck that noise. I can handle myself (a sharp tongue and a quick wit to go along with a short fuse), and I only initiate intimate relationships with NPCs, so I’m not a risk. 
what happened to seba I wonder… excuse my absence… back pains and right shoulder pain makes being in the not at pleaseant
[Ooc] all the footage and the vaguely televised car chase from Utah have the same overriding feature: no-one can definitively identify the cars involved. Some who watch may put all the two and two together and know what’s going on, but proving it beyond reasonable doubt is a bit of a stretch.
The trail would have been much stronger through Europe, but since the mods twisted the EU President’s arm into voiding their warrants and wiping their files… Well you’ll see.
Right now, clearly Moustache and the bitch are using deadly force so if they croak, the main consequences would not be Reasonably Expected. However, there might be Unreasonable elements which would be a good incentive not to do so, but, well, right now it’s a fight for life so who cares!
Seba is currently heading along the straight, one of the few with a still working car. You will find out shortly where he is next!
[OOC] Yes, but the Utah event happened by surprise and involved the most direct contact with law enforcement until the Green Hell event. The other races were perhaps noticed, but not really direct interaction or notable events on a large scale (other than the car jumping ~15m in France). Utah was the only place where racers could have *actually *been identified, as they were apparently tipped off and laying in wait for the cars to come, as well as a hot pursuit by HASIRA involving The Bitch and Moustache! It would seem, also, the races were ALL posted on teh interwebz at some point. The dark web is an exciting and indiscriminate place, where anything goes. Just sayin’!
[ooc]Oh yes, I do wonder about that little discrepancy 
[ooc] Gosh, that was a long wait. I keep having to divide these updates into further pieces because things just keep, you know, happening.
On the plus side, we’re now up to the most fateful of clashes. Just hang tight, we’re almost there! (After the next update, I will release the final results of the other classifications and then we can wrap it all up and have a beer.)
[size=200]D[/size]ottinger Höhe looked more like a warzone than a road, littered with small fires, debris, the wreckage of several cars of all factions. Weaving in and out, Kai braked carefully, trying to bleed enough speed to turn around and follow the van again. The Mephisto’s body jumped around with the wheels trundling nearly entirely off the road. The SD-01R, Infernalis, Mutant, Emperion, Yacare, Griffin all passed by in a blur on his right. A flash in his mirrors had him glancing up, just in time to see the grille of the Achernar bearing down on him at speed.
“WOOOOOOOAAAAAHHHH!” Enry screamed as he realised he was about to run straight up the back of Mephisto, promptly slamming both feet on the brakes. Instictively, Kai yanked the handbrake again, sliding Mephisto around an upturned wreck to pull another U-turn, just as Enry blew past the other side.
“Why you gotta change your mind so much man?” Enry griped at nobody in particular, slowing to a coast before hitting the brakes again. In front of him, the road was completely blocked off by a wall of police cars, lights all flashing enough to give him an epileptic fit. “Oh, no go!” Unlike certain other James Bond cars, though, Enry did not have jump jets in his hatchback, so he hauled on the wheel and went back the other way.
Approaching T13, Kai scanned for the van, but either it was too far ahead or- no, wait, it was sitting in the unused pit lane, alongside some other empty cars. Why had they all stopped? He slowed down further, scanning the area for police cars and debating whether to get out and investigate. His internal debate was cut short by a loud crack and a whistling noise, followed by more loud cracks. He barely caught sight of a streak whizzing past, before he realised some kind of gunfight was unfolding just around the corner. Nope, not going to stay here and get shot, that was for sure.
His eyes alighted upon the open bit of road ahead of him. For some reason, the road onto the main straight of the Nurburgring GP course was now open. Well, anywhere was better than here!
Decision made, Kai let the clutch out and launched, tyres spinning, Mephisto shrieking off down the road, with the other remaining cars closing on its tail.
In the van, several heads slowly raised to peek over the windows and windshield, everybody having hit the deck when the stray bullets started whizzing over their heads and pinging off the barriers. Second after second ticked by in comparative silence. Suddenly, the sound of a woman screaming pierced the air.
Hannah bolted upright. “Okay, roll call! Tesla! Der Bayer! Noah! Strop!” Three of them replied with a muffled “Present!” Only three. “Where’s Strop!?” She kicked open the hatch to the rear cargo hold, where Noah was still cowering, in fetal position, head buried between his knees. “Noah! Get off your ass and tell me where Strop went!”
“I don’t know!” Noah whined, “He was here when I last looked!” He then added, mumbling, “Which was sometime before we started getting shot at.”
Hannah growled, then hopped out the rear doors, her diminutive dimensions affording her plenty of cover behind the pit wall of T13. Tesla, too, opened the passenger door and spilled out the side, flopping onto the ground doggishly, before shrinking up against the wheel of the van. Hannah stood on tiptoes, peering over the wall, and her blood curdled. Moustache guy was holding a gun to the blonde girl’s head, Ponytail bitch was beating up the blonde girl’s friend… and Strop was sprinting towards them, like no sensible person would do, ever. She dropped back behind the barrier.
“What a dumbass!” she hissed. “Oi, Tesla!”
Tesla’s head peered timidly out from behind the van. “I think Sam crashed on the straight, go see that he hasn’t died or something. See if you can cut through the trees.”
Tesla peered around the van warily, then keeping low, she loped off, disappearing behind the garage. Hannah pointed at Der Bayer, who was twiddling with the radio, flipping through the frequencies. “You! See if you can find everybody else!”
Der Bayer blinked, unperturbed, not least because that was because he was already doing. “And what will you be doing?”
Hannah was already taking off down the pit lane as fast as her stubby little legs would take her. “What do you think? To help a certain idiot before he gets himself killed.”
The moment the racers entered the main straight Nurburgring GP track, they realised why the road had been opened. A bevy of police cars, lights flashing, merged onto the road, lights flashing and sirens blaring, like a net closing around a school of fishes.
“COMING THROUGH”, Kai yelled, flicking Mephisto through the shrinking gap. Behind him, Matt in the SD-01 R, Lothoren in the Infernalis, the mystery Italian driver, with Rubik and Mister Greasepaws now unwilling passengers of the Mutant, Seba in the Yacare, Absolution of the Griffin, Sturt of the Annihilator, Jason of the Emperion followed in close succession, a two hundred kilometre per hour blur punching a hole through the line of cops. In response, they took off down the stretch, trying to chase them down but rapidly left behind, to many a disdainful guffaw.
Enry, late to the party in his Achernar, barrelled onto the straight and straight into the throng of cop cars just as they were forming up. “Why are you picking on me!” he whined as the cop cars moved to block his path. Using the diminutive stature of his hatch, he squeezed through on the grassy verge right next to the pit wall, catching up to the other racers. “And what’s the plan now?” he radioed to everybody in general.
“No plan, just drive!” The mystery Italian driver shot back. They piled into the tight hairpin at the end of the straight, tyres smoking as cars pointed sideways and every which way in general, burning a trail out of the corner just as the cop cars entered on the other side. Roaring up the incline, the blind cresting left hander punished their fraying tyres, pushing wide and running over the slippery brick strip next to the kerb, before they almost came together in a pinball cascade under hard braking for the tight S bend. Almost slowed to a crawl, the racers started to realise why the cops had persisted in chasing them: with cars on the more sensible side of power to weight ratio, the tyre wear of the cop cars was a fraction that of the BSLL racers, and after nearly a hundred kilometres of hard racing, the performance in the corners was really beginning to show. After the first technical segment, forced to feather the throttle almost to nothing, the cop cars were right on their tails again, the “WEEEEOOOOEEEEOOOO” multiplied several times over increasingly irritating ringing in their ears.
Even after another straight, the brakes were also starting to fade on even the toughest of the cars. Hearts jumped into mouths as the noses of the cars dipped down over the left handed crest, the front ends sliding out and pushing wide, threatening to run into the sand trap, then plummeted into stomachs going out the other end, levelling off under a hard right handed corner to slingshot onto a longer straight, cops still pushing at them harder than before.
“Shit, are they just going to ride us until we run out of fuel or tyres?” Kai muttered, his old habit of the density of his right foot correlating with his rising temper rearing its head. “Then bring it!” The gearbox of Mephisto banged off the limiter as the power overwhelmed even the traction control, and cutting loose entirely, he jabbed the brake hard, yanking the handbrake and throwing the car into a slide, before flooring it. All four wheels spun, Mephisto drifting almost completely sideways around the arena. Following his example, the other cars disregarded the braking point, pitching in hard and drifting the bend, the chorus of “VRAAAAAAAPSUTUTUTUTUTUTU” of several turbos and the rumble of a lone naturally aspirated V8 reverberating through the field and echoing off the empty stands. Behind them, the cops stuck to a neat and tidy line, biding their time. But the racer blood was up and with renewed fervor, the cars snaked a line up the hill, unperturbed by the incline, but stumbling through the high speed chicane, bumping over the kerbs and kicking sand up running the wrong lines. Just a few more corners in the lap, and they could… they could what?
Winding all over the road and struggling to keep it together at the top of the hill, the downhill stretch seemed to beckon just past the cambered right hander. Shaking on the downhill of a rollercoaster ride, wheels skipped out over the bump and bodies nosed in. Hauling at the wheel, the drivers fought to keep the steering balance, using the throttle to push the angle but having to exercise restraint lest the wheels let go completely and plow the car off into another sand trap. Rattling over the kerb, they straightened out and kept it pinned. Two hundred, two hundred and fifty flashed by at the bottom of the slope, drivers squashed into their seats as they pulled through the right handed kink and bore down upon the tightest chicane, lined by high kerbs and tyre barriers.
That was when the cops plan was laid bare before them. Just beyond the chicane, where they were obliged to slow down, else rip the undertray from their cars on the grass, or become a flying missile and presumably explode upon impact, more cops were waiting for them, completely blocking the road.
“It’s a trap! Take evasive action!” Enry stated the obvious, panicking but unable to pull another U-turn because of the cops that happened to be on their six.
“I won’t back down!” Seba cried, speeding up instead and leapfrogging several cars in the queue.
Kai gnashed his teeth. “Forpulede lort!” As the lead car, he chose to attack the chicane anyway, wheels lifting off the ground as he cut over the kerbs, and headed directly for the police cars. But having slowed down to barely more than suburban street speeds, the police cars did not flinch, and promptly formed a box around his car which sealed tight. He tried the gas, the brakes, but the tyres had given up and didn’t have enough in them for him to force his way out. Stopping as one, the cops dragged Mephisto back until finally, for the first time since the race started, Mephisto came to a standstill.
Defeated but not caught, Kai popped the door, ripping off his harness in an attempt to make a getaway. He flung himself out of the car and over the bonnet of the nearest police car, spilling onto the road. Behind him, he was vaguely aware of a door opening as he scrambled to his feet, making a blind dash for it. About ten steps later, something heavy landed on his back, flattening him onto the grass and knocking the air out of him in the process. He tried to kick free but his limbs were grabbed and held tight. Screaming and thrashing, he was bodily lifted off the ground by several pairs of hands, and uniforms swarmed around him, voices yelling back. The last thing he saw before the cops bundled him into an empty police BMW, were several other drivers being wrested from their cars and cuffed, but also a pair of tail lights disappearing around the corner and back into the Green Hell.
Vos awoke to rumbling and vibration.
His eyes cracked open, and realisation of sensation came flooding in. His joints and muscles hurt. He felt cooped up in some unnatural position, somehow lying on his back on a hard floor. As his eyes became accustomed to the light, he could make out several shapes in a closed space. Slowly, the details of uniforms and badges, and guns became visible. Automatically, he noted their number and position. Four agents, carrying M4A1s, seated on either side of him. Him being on the floor. With his hands behind his back. Experimentally, he tugged at his arms, and confirmed his suspicions.
He was handcuffed.
Anger surged through his blood, the adrenaline flushing out the remaining vestiges of blurriness in his consciousness. Fully alert now, he remained still, playing dead while his senses strained to make sense of the surroundings, and piece together his recollections. All he remembered was being chased in the Kodiak, but it wasn’t so much a chase, as his car was slowly dying, dying, while the vans closed in all around him. There were guns, lots of loud bangs and explosions, and feet diving through the passenger window. Then there was feeling like every nerve in his body was dancing and his muscles with it.
They fucking tased him, bro!
Vos frowned, struggling to put all the pieces together. Clearly he was in an armored van. With Americans. And despite the fact he was shooting at them, they went to that length to secure him alive and, it seemed, mostly unharmed. He had many enemies, but enemies who wouldn’t kill him at all costs? He wracked his brain over his lengthy list of contacts, wondering who would fit the bill, in fact, wondering how everything from this crazy last fortnight fit together. He wasn’t really in the habit of keeping track of anything he did, ever, but now seemed like a really good idea to- oh.
With a new sense of urgency, he tugged at his restraints, testing them. As per his suspicions, they were plastic zip tie. Good. Fiddling with the cuff of his jacket, he slid his fingers along the seam until they found something metallic: His best friend, the hidden scalpel blade, swiped from a hospital trolley. Lying perfectly still, with the practiced skill of somebody who had been tied up far too many times, he sawed at the bonds until he felt them loosen. He almost sighed in relief as blood flowed through his hands again, the rush of pins and needles making them numb before they started feeling normal once more. The agents all stared into space, none the wiser. That’d give him maybe one second’s worth of surprise. Surreptitiously, he positioned himself, ready to move.
Go time.
In one movement his arm lashed out, stabbing the agent next to him in the shin. With a cry, the agent dropped his gun and doubled over, allowing Vos to grab the agent by the neck, hauling himself up off the floor and pivoting around to his back. The other agents jerked in surprise, but by the time they had brought their guns to bear, Vos was using the first agent as a shield, scalpel blade held to his carotid artery. But a hostage was useless without an exit. The agent next closest to him was within striking distance, hands raised to disarm him. He flicked the scalpel blade at his face, and when he flinched, he kicked the agent he was holding towards the other two, where he landed with a thud, an “oof” and a clatter as the other two agents lost their guns. Vos swept up the rifle from the bench, turning around and whipping the butt into the second agent’s jaw, dropping him like a stone. As the three remaining agents recovered, charging across the cargo bay towards him, he twirled the rifle in his right hand, jamming the butt under his armpit, finger on the trigger. Where these Government flunkies had orders to keep him alive, he had no such compulsion, and did not care.
The jackhammering of the M4A1 thundered around the enclosed bay, the strobing muzzle flash lighting up the interior unnaturally. Casings clanked to the floor, metal jacket rounds smacked into Kevlar and trauma plate, and the agents staggered back, falling over in a heap.
Then Vos was dry, and the cabin fell into silence and darkness. He dashed forward, in time for the hatch from the driver’s compartment to burst open, another agent, wide eyed, pointing his sidearm through the window. Vos charged in, ramming the butt of the rifle into the agent’s face, where he fell back and cracked his head on the dash and slumped to the floor. The driver took his eyes off the road long enough to see Vos poke him squarely in the eyes. While he reeled back, Vos burst through the open hatch, undoing his seatbelt and kicking the door open, then with a grunt, shoved him out. Settling into the driver’s seat and slamming the door shut, he could see the driver tumbling over and over on the road. He could also see a bunch of vans presumably identical to the one he was now in, swarming over the back of his van like an angry bunch of… more like bulls than hornets to be honest. There was no doubt they had seen what happened.
Time for part two of his non-existent plan! Now driving something even tougher than the Kodiak, he planted his foot to the floor. The van roared and lumbered forward, picking up speed along what he now remembered was the long straight of Dottinger Höhe. The road was completely blocked by cop cars, all arranged in a messy circle. What the hell was going on? He didn’t care to know, and he didn’t really care to slow down either.
The van plowed into the road block, shattering glass, crumpling metal and shoving cars on top of each other. Sirens wobbled and then dropped out as the van rode up, crushing several cars before getting wedged fast. Cursing, Vos kicked the door open and picked his way over the wrecks, seeing the other vans behind him screech to a stop, agents piling out. He hopped over the other side, noting the curious absence of cops, and spared a single glance, realising they were all piled in the middle of the circular road block, surrounding a long green car, and occasionally, flying backwards. Vos shook his head, not bothering to make sense of it all, then picked a random cop car, yanked the door open and swung himself inside. Just as the agents cleared the blockade, he put his foot down and screeched off down the remainder of the straight.
Some minor setbacks, perhaps, but he was back in the game. Nothing was more important than finding those two wannabe agents and giving them what was coming to them. Given just how the day was turning out, it he made it out of this place in one piece, that would be an even bigger bonus.
[ooc] OKAY! LET’S GET READY TO RUMMMMBBLLLLLLEEEEEEEEE!
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[ooc]Cops flying backwards? Oh man, I hope Vos and Reece will have to work together. Either they kick the asses of everyone who steps to them, or they begin arguing about which one should is really for real, and then duke it out. Regardless of which one would happen, it would be epic.
[ooc] Oh man, I don’t know if this version of BSLL is going to be able to withstand that degree of madness. In my mind it would play out something like this:
OMG! Finish this thing already.
I’m sorry I’m sorry! It’s happening! My weekend on call was more eventful than I hoped and I had to finish this audit presentation (lost a heap of sleep to that), so that’s why I’ve been dragged back a week.
Rabble rabble rabble rabble!
Jk: get your rest strop, we’ve waited a few months now, what’s a few more day.
[ooc] This is it. The climax, the final action scenes. Contrary to that advice, I pulled an all-nighter so I could get this mutha out. Be warned, it’s massive, but if you’ve been following BSLL, you don’t want to miss a thing.
**[size=200]D[/size]**ottinger Höhe looked more like a warzone than a road, littered with small fires, debris, the wreckage of several cars of all factions. Weaving in and out, Kai braked carefully, trying to bleed enough speed to turn around and follow the van again. The Mephisto’s body jumped around with the wheels trundling nearly entirely off the road. The SD-01R, Infernalis, Mutant, Emperion, Yacare, Griffin all passed by in a blur on his right. A flash in his mirrors had him glancing up, just in time to see the grille of the Achernar bearing down on him at speed.
“WOOOOOOOAAAAAHHHH!” Enry screamed as he realised he was about to run straight up the back of Mephisto, promptly slamming both feet on the brakes. Instictively, Kai yanked the handbrake again, sliding Mephisto around an upturned wreck to pull another U-turn, just as Enry blew past the other side.
“Why you gotta change your mind so much man?” Enry griped at nobody in particular, slowing to a coast before hitting the brakes again. In front of him, the road was completely blocked off by a wall of police cars, lights all flashing enough to give him an epileptic fit. “Oh, no go!” Unlike certain other James Bond cars, though, Enry did not have jump jets in his hatchback, so he hauled on the wheel and went back the other way.
Approaching T13, Kai scanned for the van, but either it was too far ahead or- no, wait, it was sitting in the unused pit lane, alongside some other empty cars. Why had they all stopped? He slowed down further, scanning the area for police cars and debating whether to get out and investigate. His internal debate was cut short by a loud crack and a whistling noise, followed by more loud cracks. He barely caught sight of a streak whizzing past, before he realised some kind of gunfight was unfolding just around the corner. Nope, not going to stay here and get shot, that was for sure.
His eyes alighted upon the open bit of road ahead of him. For some reason, the road onto the main straight of the Nurburgring GP course was now open. Well, anywhere was better than here!
Decision made, Kai let the clutch out and launched, tyres spinning, Mephisto shrieking off down the road, with the other remaining cars closing on its tail.
In the van, several heads slowly raised to peek over the windows and windshield, everybody having hit the deck when the stray bullets started whizzing over their heads and pinging off the barriers. Second after second ticked by in comparative silence. Suddenly, the sound of a woman screaming pierced the air.
Hannah bolted upright. “Okay, roll call! Tesla! Der Bayer! Noah! Strop!” Three of them replied with a muffled “Present!” Only three. “Where’s Strop!?” She kicked open the hatch to the rear cargo hold, where Noah was still cowering, in fetal position, head buried between his knees. “Noah! Get off your ass and tell me where Strop went!”
“I don’t know!” Noah whined, “He was here when I last looked!” He then added, mumbling, “Which was sometime before we started getting shot at.”
Hannah growled, then hopped out the rear doors, her diminutive dimensions affording her plenty of cover behind the pit wall of T13. Tesla, too, opened the passenger door and spilled out the side, flopping onto the ground doggishly, before shrinking up against the wheel of the van. Hannah stood on tiptoes, peering over the wall, and her blood curdled. Moustache guy was holding a gun to the blonde girl’s head, Ponytail bitch was beating up the blonde girl’s friend… and Strop was sprinting towards them, like no sensible person would do, ever. She dropped back behind the barrier.
“What a dumbass!” she hissed. “Oi, Tesla!”
Tesla’s head peered timidly out from behind the van. “I think Sam crashed on the straight, go see that he hasn’t died or something. See if you can cut through the trees.”
Tesla peered around the van warily, then keeping low, she loped off, disappearing behind the garage. Hannah pointed at Der Bayer, who was twiddling with the radio, flipping through the frequencies. “You! See if you can find everybody else!”
Der Bayer blinked, unperturbed, not least because that was because he was already doing. “And what will you be doing?”
Hannah was already taking off down the pit lane as fast as her stubby little legs would take her. “What do you think? To help a certain idiot before he gets himself killed.”
The moment the racers entered the main straight Nurburgring GP track, they realised why the road had been opened. A bevy of police cars, lights flashing, merged onto the road, lights flashing and sirens blaring, like a net closing around a school of fishes.
“COMING THROUGH”, Kai yelled, flicking Mephisto through the shrinking gap. Behind him, Matt in the SD-01 R, Lothoren in the Infernalis, the mystery Italian driver, with Rubik and Mister Greasepaws now unwilling passengers of the Mutant, Seba in the Yacare, Absolution of the Griffin, Sturt of the Annihilator, Jason of the Emperion followed in close succession, a two hundred kilometre per hour blur punching a hole through the line of cops. In response, they took off down the stretch, trying to chase them down but rapidly left behind, to many a disdainful guffaw.
Enry, late to the party in his Achernar, barrelled onto the straight and straight into the throng of cop cars just as they were forming up. “Why are you picking on me!” he whined as the cop cars moved to block his path. Using the diminutive stature of his hatch, he squeezed through on the grassy verge right next to the pit wall, catching up to the other racers. “And what’s the plan now?” he radioed to everybody in general.
“No plan, just drive!” The mystery Italian driver shot back. They piled into the tight hairpin at the end of the straight, tyres smoking as cars pointed sideways and every which way in general, burning a trail out of the corner just as the cop cars entered on the other side. Roaring up the incline, the blind cresting left hander punished their fraying tyres, pushing wide and running over the slippery brick strip next to the kerb, before they almost came together in a pinball cascade under hard braking for the tight S bend. Almost slowed to a crawl, the racers started to realise why the cops had persisted in chasing them: with cars on the more sensible side of power to weight ratio, the tyre wear of the cop cars was a fraction that of the BSLL racers, and after nearly a hundred kilometres of hard racing, the performance in the corners was really beginning to show. After the first technical segment, forced to feather the throttle almost to nothing, the cop cars were right on their tails again, the “WEEEEOOOOEEEEOOOO” multiplied several times over increasingly irritating ringing in their ears.
Even after another straight, the brakes were also starting to fade on even the toughest of the cars. Hearts jumped into mouths as the noses of the cars dipped down over the left handed crest, the front ends sliding out and pushing wide, threatening to run into the sand trap, then plummeted into stomachs going out the other end, levelling off under a hard right handed corner to slingshot onto a longer straight, cops still pushing at them harder than before.
“Shit, are they just going to ride us until we run out of fuel or tyres?” Kai muttered, his old habit of the density of his right foot correlating with his rising temper rearing its head. “Then bring it!” The gearbox of Mephisto banged off the limiter as the power overwhelmed even the traction control, and cutting loose entirely, he jabbed the brake hard, yanking the handbrake and throwing the car into a slide, before flooring it. All four wheels spun, Mephisto drifting almost completely sideways around the arena. Following his example, the other cars disregarded the braking point, pitching in hard and drifting the bend, the chorus of “VRAAAAAAAPSUTUTUTUTUTUTU” of several turbos and the rumble of a lone naturally aspirated V8 reverberating through the field and echoing off the empty stands. Behind them, the cops stuck to a neat and tidy line, biding their time. But the racer blood was up and with renewed fervor, the cars snaked a line up the hill, unperturbed by the incline, but stumbling through the high speed chicane, bumping over the kerbs and kicking sand up running the wrong lines. Just a few more corners in the lap, and they could… they could what?
Winding all over the road and struggling to keep it together at the top of the hill, the downhill stretch seemed to beckon just past the cambered right hander. Shaking on the downhill of a rollercoaster ride, wheels skipped out over the bump and bodies nosed in. Hauling at the wheel, the drivers fought to keep the steering balance, using the throttle to push the angle but having to exercise restraint lest the wheels let go completely and plow the car off into another sand trap. Rattling over the kerb, they straightened out and kept it pinned. Two hundred, two hundred and fifty flashed by at the bottom of the slope, drivers squashed into their seats as they pulled through the right handed kink and bore down upon the tightest chicane, lined by high kerbs and tyre barriers.
That was when the cops plan was laid bare before them. Just beyond the chicane, where they were obliged to slow down, else rip the undertray from their cars on the grass, or become a flying missile and presumably explode upon impact, more cops were waiting for them, completely blocking the road.
“It’s a trap! Take evasive action!” Enry stated the obvious, panicking but unable to pull another U-turn because of the cops that happened to be on their six.
“I won’t back down!” Seba cried, speeding up instead and leapfrogging several cars in the queue.
Kai gnashed his teeth. “Forpulede lort!” As the lead car, he chose to attack the chicane anyway, wheels lifting off the ground as he cut over the kerbs, and headed directly for the police cars. But having slowed down to barely more than suburban street speeds, the police cars did not flinch, and promptly formed a box around his car which sealed tight. He tried the gas, the brakes, but the tyres had given up and didn’t have enough in them for him to force his way out. Stopping as one, the cops dragged Mephisto back until finally, for the first time since the race started, Mephisto came to a standstill.
Defeated but not caught, Kai popped the door, ripping off his harness in an attempt to make a getaway. He flung himself out of the car and over the bonnet of the nearest police car, spilling onto the road. Behind him, he was vaguely aware of a door opening as he scrambled to his feet, making a blind dash for it. About ten steps later, something heavy landed on his back, flattening him onto the grass and knocking the air out of him in the process. He tried to kick free but his limbs were grabbed and held tight. Screaming and thrashing, he was bodily lifted off the ground by several pairs of hands, and uniforms swarmed around him, voices yelling back. The last thing he saw before the cops bundled him into an empty police BMW, were several other drivers being wrested from their cars and cuffed, but also a pair of tail lights disappearing around the corner and back into the Green Hell.
Vos awoke to rumbling and vibration.
His eyes cracked open, and realisation of sensation came flooding in. His joints and muscles hurt. He felt cooped up in some unnatural position, somehow lying on his back on a hard floor. As his eyes became accustomed to the light, he could make out several shapes in a closed space. Slowly, the details of uniforms and badges, and guns became visible. Automatically, he noted their number and position. Four agents, carrying M4A1s, seated on either side of him. Him being on the floor. With his hands behind his back. Experimentally, he tugged at his arms, and confirmed his suspicions.
He was handcuffed.
Anger surged through his blood, the adrenaline flushing out the remaining vestiges of blurriness in his consciousness. Fully alert now, he remained still, playing dead while his senses strained to make sense of the surroundings, and piece together his recollections. All he remembered was being chased in the Kodiak, but it wasn’t so much a chase, as his car was slowly dying, dying, while the vans closed in all around him. There were guns, lots of loud bangs and explosions, and feet diving through the passenger window. Then there was feeling like every nerve in his body was dancing and his muscles with it.
They fucking tased him, bro!
Vos frowned, struggling to put all the pieces together. Clearly he was in an armored van. With Americans. And despite the fact he was shooting at them, they went to that length to secure him alive and, it seemed, mostly unharmed. He had many enemies, but enemies who wouldn’t kill him at all costs? He wracked his brain over his lengthy list of contacts, wondering who would fit the bill, in fact, wondering how everything from this crazy last fortnight fit together. He wasn’t really in the habit of keeping track of anything he did, ever, but now seemed like a really good idea to- oh.
With a new sense of urgency, he tugged at his restraints, testing them. As per his suspicions, they were plastic zip tie. Good. Fiddling with the cuff of his jacket, he slid his fingers along the seam until they found something metallic: His best friend, the hidden scalpel blade, swiped from a hospital trolley. Lying perfectly still, with the practiced skill of somebody who had been tied up far too many times, he sawed at the bonds until he felt them loosen. He almost sighed in relief as blood flowed through his hands again, the rush of pins and needles making them numb before they started feeling normal once more. The agents all stared into space, none the wiser. That’d give him maybe one second’s worth of surprise. Surreptitiously, he positioned himself, ready to move.
Go time.
In one movement his arm lashed out, stabbing the agent next to him in the shin. With a cry, the agent dropped his gun and doubled over, allowing Vos to grab the agent by the neck, hauling himself up off the floor and pivoting around to his back. The other agents jerked in surprise, but by the time they had brought their guns to bear, Vos was using the first agent as a shield, scalpel blade held to his carotid artery. But a hostage was useless without an exit.
The agent next closest to him was within striking distance, hands raised to disarm him. He flicked the scalpel blade at his face, and when he flinched, he kicked the agent he was holding towards the other two, where he landed with a thud, an “oof” and a clatter as the other two agents lost their guns. Vos swept up the rifle from the bench, turning around and whipping the butt into the second agent’s jaw, dropping him like a stone. As the three remaining agents recovered, charging across the cargo bay towards him, he twirled the rifle in his right hand, jamming the butt under his armpit, finger on the trigger. Where these Government flunkies had orders to keep him alive, he had no such compulsion, and did not care.
The jackhammering of the M4A1 thundered around the enclosed bay, the strobing muzzle flash lighting up the interior unnaturally. Casings clanked to the floor, metal jacket rounds smacked into Kevlar and trauma plate, and the agents staggered back, falling over in a heap.
Then Vos was dry, and the cabin fell into silence and darkness. He dashed forward, in time for the hatch from the driver’s compartment to burst open, another agent, wide eyed, pointing his sidearm through the window. Vos charged in, ramming the butt of the rifle into the agent’s face, where he fell back and cracked his head on the dash and slumped to the floor. The driver took his eyes off the road long enough to see Vos poke him squarely in the eyes. While he reeled back, Vos burst through the open hatch, undoing his seatbelt and kicking the door open, then with a grunt, shoved him out. Settling into the driver’s seat and slamming the door shut, he could see the driver tumbling over and over on the road. He could also see a bunch of vans presumably identical to the one he was now in, swarming over the back of his van like an angry bunch of… more like bulls than hornets to be honest. There was no doubt they had seen what happened.
Time for part two of his non-existent plan! Now driving something even tougher than the Kodiak, he planted his foot to the floor. The van roared and lumbered forward, picking up speed along what he now remembered was the long straight of Dottinger Höhe. The road was completely blocked by cop cars, all arranged in a messy circle. What the hell was going on? He didn’t care to know, and he didn’t really care to slow down either.
The van plowed into the road block, shattering glass, crumpling metal and shoving cars on top of each other. Sirens wobbled and then dropped out as the van rode up, crushing several cars before getting wedged fast. Cursing, Vos kicked the door open and picked his way over the wrecks, seeing the other vans behind him screech to a stop, agents piling out. He hopped over the other side, noting the curious absence of cops, and spared a single glance, realising they were all piled in the middle of the circular road block, surrounding a long green car, and occasionally, flying backwards. Vos shook his head, not bothering to make sense of it all, then picked a random cop car, yanked the door open and swung himself inside. Just as the agents cleared the blockade, he put his foot down and screeched off down the remainder of the straight.
Some minor setbacks, perhaps, but he was back in the game. Nothing was more important than finding those two wannabe agents and giving them what was coming to them. Given just how the day was turning out, it he made it out of this place in one piece, that would be an even bigger bonus.
The sparse leaves fluttered overhead in a blur. Chest burning, breaths coming ragged, Tesla pelted through the tree line, struggling to ignore the urge to keel over and die. Ears tuned to every single siren, nose picking up the thousand scents of spent rubber, burning, blood and sweat, eyes straining to find the wreck of Sleipnir, with Sam presumably still inside. This was a world far from the confines of the factory, of civilised people and their complacency as the years morphed them into couch potatoes. Her father’s strident reminder, she was a dog, and with that came natural attributes she should never turn her back on, rang through her ears louder than the thump of her heartbeat. Pa was an army dog, but hell, this was a warzone, and each gasping lungful of air was an agony of regret. If she lived through this, she resolved to be truer to her roots and actually pay attention to her fitness.
In the distance, the sight of a twisted wreck caught her eye, and immediately she homed in on it. It was the characteristic smoky blue of the Sleipnir prototype, at least, she thought it was but being a dog, well, she couldn’t ever be entirely sure. Nonetheless she struggled over the fence, flopping ungracefully over the side onto her face, dragged herself back to her feet and took off, hoping a thousand things at once. Each second the wreck wobbled closer into her view took longer and longer, the pain in her chest and legs magnifying until finally, she collapsed, panting and tongue lolling out, next to the wreck. The cold and damp of the grass seeped into her, binding her to the earth and freezing her joints. With a singular effort, she rolled over and came face to face with the wreck of Sleipnir.
For the incredible rigidity of carbon fiber, the body was cracked all over, but had still maintained some semblance of shape. At least, allowing for a very liberal interpretation of shape. Actually, it was a complete mess. The car was completely wrecked and through the broken vents and cracked and folded ridges of the monocoque body shell, bits of the engine block were visible. The windows were smashed, but because the cabin had caved in, it was still impossible to see in. And all around the car, was an eerie silence.
Fearing the worst, Tesla gathered her breath, and called out: “Sam?”
For a heart stopping moment, there was no reply. Then, from the impenetrable darkness, “Tesla??”
Tesla’s breath caught in her throat at the sudden realisation that Sam was talking. She took another moment to regain her composure: “Are you alright?”
This time, Sam didn’t skip a beat. “I was starting to wonder if I had died without noticing, but if you can hear and see me, I must be alive. Or you are a medium, in which case, I have this great idea on how you could earn some extra cash.”
A palpable weight lifted off Tesla’s shoulders and even as out of breath as she was, she felt her chest and shoulders relax with a sigh of relief. “Hang in there, we’ll get you out soon.”
Kristina and the ponytail wasted no time. Hardened by battle and fuelled by fury, they rushed at each other, boots a stomping flurry and clashed together, arms locked. Lips curled back in a snarl, they glared at each other, straining and circling while trying to find the angle in. One stumbling half-step and Kristina dived in, dropping one shoulder and lashing her leg out, sweeping Black’s feet from under her. Over she turned, and Kristina kept her vice grip, pulling Black’s shoulder down in an attempt to slam her onto her back. But at the last minute, Black stuck her hands out and slammed her palms into the ground, breaking her fall. Kristina automatically went for the head stomp, her boot rushing down, but Black caught it in both hands. Her face strained, the veins popping out on her forehead and her arms shaking as she held the boot up, then with a grunt and a scream she twisted Kristina’s foot. Ligaments jerking tight, Kristina’s body reacted automatically, lurching to the side, and she rolled, landing in a crouch just as Black rolled over to the same position. Slowly, they rose to their feet, still staring each other down.
Behind them, Strop and Decker painted a contrasting picture, standing almost still. Decker, a malevolent grin plastered over his blackened face, had his fists up, standing in a slightly crouched position. Strop was also crouched, weight slightly on the back hoof, his palms up and open as he studied Decker, and tried to shake his head clear from the thousand thoughts rushing through every moment.
[size=85](Image drawn by Cen. Give the man some props.)[/size]
“Whatever happened to kicking my ass, gimp horse?” Decker taunted. Strop said nothing. “You think I don’t know you’re faking that kung fu stance?”
Strop’s muscles were stiffening up, and every little niggle and ache from the day already gone was reminding him of their mounting presence. And he was pretty sure he hadn’t actually gotten in a proper fight for… well it was a while now. And now was not a good time to vaguely reflect on how ridiculous he looked in his form-fitting ninja suit.
Shit.
Breathe.
Strop’s nostrils flared, the air rushing into his lungs as he expanded slowly, holding it in, then released it, feeling the flow of the energy freeing up, power filling his body.
“Why don’t you come over here and find out?” he shot back.
Decker, hands still up, started moving forward, menacing closer and closer. Briefly, Strop allowed himself to look back. He was still positioned perfectly between Decker and the fight behind him, good. He fought the urge to stiffen up again, keeping focused on the shrinking distance between them, envisioning the length of a jab, the territory circumscribed by their reach. Barely two feet, a half step, if he didn’t move, it would be his territory invaded, but he still stood frozen. Decker’s hand almost touched his and then slid past it, on the inside, feet crossing. Well in range now, just waiting for the explosion.
Decker’s hand snaked out, pivoting around the elbow, wrist catching Strop’s and hand latching hard onto his forearm. In an instant reflex, Strop whipped his arm around, completing the circle and breaking the grip, his hand now on the inside, he pushed forward, pivoting in with his knuckles flexed in spear hand. Knowing it was not enough, he lowered and widened his stance, front hoof sliding forward, and after his knuckles, his wrist bent and he drove that into the vest, followed by his elbow, giving a combined force of three blows in one motion. Decker staggered back, arms waving a bit until he caught his footing and righted himself.
“Not bad,” he smirked, patting his vest. “I felt that a little.”
A cry rang out, halfway between a grunt, a roar and a scream. Kristina and Black had picked up the pace, raining down a flurry of blows at each other, wailing away with fists and elbows, parrying and blocking and attacking all in one as they pursued the singular purpose of dishing out pain. The air rushed out of Kristina’s lungs as Black slipped under her guard, one arm pushing her arms up with a high block and diving in to land a body blow to the liver. Pain gripping her body, Kristina hardened up and breathed it out, but the moment’s delay was an opening Black seized, ducking down and tackling her, picking her up and slamming her bodily against the side of her M3, in an attempt to crush the life out of her.
“Watch the car… bitch!” Kristina gasped, bringing her arms up and slamming her elbows down squarely between Black’s shoulders. The grip loosened, allowing Kristina to grab her by the collar and deliver a vicious knee to the gut. As Black gasped, Kristina broke free entirely, stepping forward and picking Black up with a coathanger around her neck. Wedging her foot directly behind Black’s, she walked forward, breaking Black’s balance and sending her back to the ground, this time unable to break her fall. Still in control, Kristina immediately went for the mount and strangle, but faced with certain death, Black regained her wherewithal, bucking at the hips and throwing Kristina forward. As Kristina righted herself, Black slid her knee out, breaking free and clinching her legs around Kristina’s hips. Caught in guard position, they rolled around on the bitumen, trying to gain the upper ground.
Strop saw Decker’s eyes wander, his mouth kinked upwards in a perverted leer. Putting his faith in his horse power, he leapt forwards, knee raised and leg rushing out in a vicious jumping front kick. Unfortunately for him, Decker caught it deftly, pushing it aside with a shoulder and palm, then lashed out with the palm, belting Strop on the face with a backhand. Cursing himself, Strop swayed and backed off, only to be chased with a low kick from Decker. He checked it with his hoof, but almost didn’t see the snapback, Decker using the momentum from that impact to reverse directions and lash out with his other hand. The hand whiffed over Strop’s nose as he swayed back, and he whipped up and forward, pushing into Decker’s zone while his hand was still following through. He saw Decker’s eyes widen momentarily, watching but unable to do anything off balance for a moment before Strop cracked it with a short hook. But the impact went soft at the last minute, and Strop realised too late that Decker had used a head slip, pivoting in the same motion to bring his other elbow up over his back and drove it into Strop’s nose. Pain blossomed through his face, and Strop saw red as he leaned over from the impact, dropping his hips, widening his stance and twisting his hips, almost scraping his fist along the ground as he wound it up in a massive uppercut that drove deep into Decker’s hip. This time, Decker staggered visibly, buckling at the hip, and took several steps back. In the reprieve, Strop put his hand to his nose, and came away with blood. He snorted, and felt one nostril clog up.
That was going to be a problem for breathing. He had to either conserve his energy, or finish fast. But with somebody as obviously seasoned as Decker, he had a hunch the former would end badly. All or nothing it was.
Breaths came ragged and faces turned red as Kristina and Black grappled on the ground. Legs splayed and arms locked, their bodies ground against each other, turning over and over. Kristina was growing more and more impatient by the second, not accustomed to a fight dragging out this long as opposed to the quick series of actions that ended with her boot through her opponent’s face, like it should have done. But this wasn’t usual operating conditions and the bitch was as tough as they came. Kristina involuntarily flinched as Black’s lips curled back and she spat into her face. Dirty, too. The next thing Kristina knew, Black slammed a palm into her jaw, sending stars through her vision. Something pushed her side and she rolled over limply, and the next thing she saw was a boot rushing to her face. That wasn’t right.
Kristina crossed her arms, blocking the boot just inches from her face, then wrapped her hands around Black’s shin, pressing her thumbs in hard. Black screamed, flopping over backwards yet again, and keeping control of the leg, Kristina clambered to her feet, pressing the advantage, and threw herself down, hailing down hammerfists and bloodying Black’s nasty mug. Black managed to wedge her other boot in Kristina’s guts and sent her flying. Kristina landed hard on the ground, heaving great lungfuls through burning airways, and propped herself up on her elbow, trying to rise. There was throbbing everywhere, through her arms from blocking, her body and legs from rolling on the ground and the mounting damage from the hits she had taken. A few feet away, Black was similarly struggling. But she had to get up. The bitch was still alive.
Blowing hard through his one good nostril, Strop rushed in, one leg cocked and ready to fire. He knew he’d already been countered once but that was just a flying front, and the last time he tried something so hasty, a fourth-Dan nailed him in the jaw with a counter that sent him flying and he spent the next two weeks with a wry neck, so he should have expected no less. But this would be different. With the raised leg, he shot a dozen kicks in rapid succession, whipping and slapping away at Decker’s face, torso and legs. With one dead leg, Decker’s movements and balance was off, and he was pushed back, sweeping and blocking the kicks away as best he could. Strop snuck in a feint reverse hook, and as Decker went to block, he twisted his hip in harder, his hoof switching around and carving an unusually high arc in a Brazilian roundhouse that ended with Decker’s cheek. Taking a leaf out of Decker’s book, Strop used the impact to spin the other direction, jumping and torqueing, then unwinding all the power into a spinning side kick, bashing his hoof into Decker’s face. But Decker had tucked his face in at the last minute and taken the impact on the forehead. He stumped forward, and Strop scooted back, keeping him out of range, and turned around to fire another roundhouse into his bad hip. Decker winced, but was ready, catching Strop’s leg under his arm and driving his other elbow into Strop’s knee. It was Strop’s turn to wince, and he jerked back, feeling his leg go wobbly under the weight. Damn, that had probably pulled his posterior cruciate ligament. He could feel the breaths coming harder now, and his limbs getting heavier and heavier. He was running out of time, and raining combination kicks at Decker wasn’t really doing the job.
Ignoring the shaking in his knee, Strop cut a rapid zigzag as he charged in. Decker planted his feet and waited, following with his eyes as Strop cut around to his bad leg again, flicking out a low kick to catch behind his knee. Unable to lift his leg properly, Decker couldn’t maneuver away in time, and his leg was swept out, but he had prepared. Instead of losing his balance as Strop hoped, he pivoted on his good leg, the other leg swinging out, boot like a wrecking ball that swung straight into Strop’s side. Strop buckled as the steel toe dug into his pelvic brim, and once again, Decker used the momentum to reverse direction, back fist rushing at Strop’s face. Instinctively, Strop twisted and turned over, back arching as he almost flipped, pushing off his good leg and reaching over his head, planting his hand on the floor and inverting his body. Overhead, his legs whipped out, hooves battering into Decker’s exposed face. Decker stumbled back as Strop landed on his hooves, and kept going, pitching forward and jumping again, tucking into a front flip midair, extending his legs and axing his hooves relentlessly into Decker’s head. Decker had his guard up but the strike went through, and he sank heavily to his knees. Adrenaline pumping, Strop hardly felt the impact as he landed on his back, coiling and kipping back up. Seeing Decker almost down, he willed his body forward, jumping forward and cocking his leg back for a soccer ball kick to knock Decker’s block off.
Decker blocked the kick.
With a shout, Decker rose up, both hands gripping his leg, and pushed it up and back. Strop tried to hop backwards, but Decker pushed relentlessly forward and over he went, and Decker went down with him, slipping past to his side and smothering his movements, and before he knew it, Decker had pressed his knees down and straddled him in full mount.
Uh oh.
“Time to take this pony for a ride,” Decker chuckled, the whites of his eyes and teeth shining unnaturally through his sooty blackface. Strop couldn’t help but squirm internally, not just because he was pretty sure he was about to descend into a world of pain.
Behind the bitch, Kristina saw Strop go down with ex-Moustache on top. For an amateur, horse guy had some moves but now he was in the shit and it was closing time. If she could find a way to finish things any faster, that was. Her eyes darted around, looking for any advantage, and alighted on her discarded KA-BAR, lying just beyond the rear tyre of her M3.
Then she looked at Black and clearly saw that Black had shared her thoughts.
Instantly they were back on their feet, sprinting towards the car, in a race for the knife. Kristina, with two good legs, had more speed than Black, with the smarting shin. But Black was much closer, and lowered, fingers stretched out to snatch the knife up. In desperation, Kristina planted her boot firmly up Black’s posterior, sending her barrelling forward and headfirst into the M3, leaving a head-sized dent in the panel. Oh well, she’d apologise to the car later.
Dazed, Black rolled to the side, and Kristina picked her up by the neck and slammed her into the car again for good measure. Then she dived for the knife, but there was plenty of life in Black yet, and she lunged over and grabbed Kristina the hair, pulling her head back and wrapping an arm around her neck. Caught in a rear naked choke, Kristina gagged, trying to pull herself forward, just that last inch to grab her KA-BAR. Her eyes rolled back as Black put the hooks in, and her vision started going fuzzy, an unpleasant burning in her brain fraying her consciousness and willpower, but she finally felt her fingers close around a handle. She had the knife.
In a frenzy, she stabbed at the arms choking her. The damn bitch wouldn’t let go, so she flipped the knife around and started stabbing behind her. Black gasped and scooted away, clutching her abdomen, blood trickling out between her fingers. Chest heaving, Kristina rolled over, trying desperately to shove the pins and needles out of her head, struggling to her hands and knees, clutching her knife. She could see the wounded Black, her life force leaking out through her sleeve and her shirt under her vest. Just one more push and the bitch would be dead.
With a battle-cry, Kristina launched herself forward and set upon Black with the knife.
Strop covered up with his arms as Decker mercilessly beat down with palms, fists and elbows. His forearms were both numb and screaming agony from taking all the impacts. Locked tight in position on his back, he did his best to weave side to side to avoid Decker’s blows, but he could barely breathe, let alone move. He bucked his hips and tried to turn, but Decker’s ground game was superior, riding him without skipping a beat, taunting him with yells of “Giddy up!” So he did the one thing left he could think to do. With the unnatural flexibility of a former ninja, he scissored his legs back, crossing them over Decker’s body, and forced himself straight.
Decker was caught by surprise, pitching back. With that, Strop managed to rise into a sitting position, pushing Decker’s legs aside, not even reflecting on the fact Decker’s hips were effectively in his lap. He just wanted Decker off him. Decker grabbed at his legs, forcing them apart, then rolling off and pushing Strop’s legs, swivelling him around on his back as he scooted forward. Strop tried to get his hooves under him to get back up, but having been smothered and beaten, he had run out of strength. Decker slid down, catching him from behind, and easily trapped him in a headlock. Strop clamped his chin down, squeezing his neck and opening his airway as much as he could, but between the arms trying to squeeze it shut and his bloody nose, it was a losing battle. He pried at Decker’s arms, but he couldn’t find a purchase, and his consciousness started fading to black.
In his distant awareness, a familiar shrill voice yelled “Don’t you dare!” and then the grip on his neck loosened. Utterly spent, Strop flopped back to the ground, vaguely wondering what the hell was going on. In the corner of his eye, he saw the diminutive round form of a shrew, hair flying as she set upon Decker with a flurry of claws, scratching up his face and hands. Then there was a screeching and doors slammed in the background, and there were more footsteps. Then he saw a South American rush in, fist cocked.
“THIS IS FOR CLARKSON,” Seba Machado III roared, as he balled all of his suppressed rage into his right fist and drove it straight into a confused Decker’s face.
More footsteps sounded on the road and more and more people flooded in, piling on top, and by the time the police cars approached with their sirens blaring, all the members of the Barely Street Legal League who had escaped arrest or injury were pinning Agent Decker face down on the road and pulling Kristina off Agent Black, wresting the knife out of Kristina’s hand before she actually killed her.
The first of the police cars to arrive scattered the circle of onlookers, and screeched to a halt barely a car length away from where Decker, Black, Strop and Kristina were lying, completely spent and in varying degrees of restraint. The door opened and to everybody’s surprise, the cruel draconic visage of Vos Roo’ka emerged. Boots clacking on the bitumen, he smirked as he surveyed the scene.
“What a shame I was late to the party,” he simpered. “But I can take solace in the fact that I got to see you like this.” He bent down, leering at Agent Decker and Black, both looking very much the worse for wear. “No?”
Decker spat a wad of blood at Vos’ face. “Well, we can take solace in the fact we know you won’t get away with this,” he shot back.
“Oh?” Vos straightened, dusting his jacket. “Then how is it that I am standing here, free, and you are down there, on the verge of death?”
Decker laughed bitterly. “You keep telling yourself that. It’s not surprising Langley want to bring you in, since you’re so deluded you think you can forget about the leash they have you on.”
At this, several ears pricked up and everybody started eyeing Vos with just a little extra wariness on top of what they had become accustomed to.
“Bullshit!” Vos hissed. “You’re the lapdog here, chasing petty scraps at your agency’s bidding. I do what I want.”
Unperturbed, Decker smirked and closed his eyes. “You mean, you do what you want as long as we let you. But like I said, you’ve been a naughty boy lately. Why do you think we’ve been tracking the league down? Those toys of yours were given to you for a purpose, and that purpose was not to flaunt them in public for your personal pleasure. You had those toys so you could work for us, Vos. But not after this.”
Seething, Vos drew a pistol from his jacket, jamming the barrel into Decker’s temple. Everybody else froze and shrank back, unsure what to do. “You think I care about this or that agency? It was no questions asked, and you had to go poking your nose in none of your business and fuck it up. But not after this, seeing as it’s time for you to die.” He cocked the hammer on the pistol.
“You don’t want to do that!” a voice rang out over a megaphone. The black armored vans had pulled up just beyond the ring of other cars, and a dozen armored agents were moving in, carbines raised and aimed squarely at Vos. “Drop the gun!”
“Fuck you!” Vos shouted, jabbing the pistol at Decker’s head for emphasis. “What you gonna do, shoot me?”
“Don’t make us.” The agents took up positions, and everybody else who could move started backing away from the mess, only for the agent on the megaphone to shout, “Nobody move!”
Just then, all the police cars that hadn’t been wrecked turned up all at once, and the cops poured out. Half the soldiers turned to point their guns at the cops and in response, the cops drew their guns, and pretty soon, everybody who had a gun had it pointed at somebody else with a gun, except Vos, who still had his gun to Decker’s head.
“Stand down!” The most senior police officer, a Polizeihauptkommissar sporting three silver stars on his lapels, commanded. “This may have be a joint operation but this area is our jurisdiction!”
“Lower your weapons!” the agent on the megaphone responded. “Our only objective is to extract the one named Vos Roo’ka.”
“Nobody is extracting anybody,” the Polizeihaup… Chief Inspector retorted stiffly. “Without due process.”
Just then, a three more police cars pulled up. From one emerged Rayyan “Balls ‘o’ Titanium” Rawat, flanked by three officers, from another emerged some more officers accompanying two rather dishevelled looking pilots, and from the third emerged… Kai Kristensen, Gryphon Gear’s tame racing driver. Accompanied by no police officers.
“Kai, what the hell?” Hannah asked him point blank.
“I’m sorry for lying to you,” Kai replied. “All this time, I’ve been living a double life. I’m actually a German Polizei.” Then his face cracked into his trademark cocky grin. “Just kidding. I stole this car.”
The Chief Inspector’s eyes bugged out a little, then he turned his attention to Rayyan, smouldering joint still in his mouth, and the pilots. “Who is this man? Who are these men?”
“That’s Marshall Rawat to you,” Rayyan took a drag and puffed out some smoke, British lilt slurring slightly. “Though the Marshall is an honorary rank. Actually, I own Sabre. Whose Aerospace division works in an advisory capacity to BAE Systems. Which is to say, I’m an advisor to BAE Systems.”
The Chief Inspector blinked. “What does that have to do with this? And why are you in handcuffs?”
“Polizeihauptkommissar!” The younger police officer stood forward and saluted. “This man was among the racers from the street league! He was driving recklessly and so we had to apprehend him. Also, he is in possession of an illegal substance.”
The gears started grinding in the Chief Inspector’s head, well aware that on top of all this new information, the American Agents had not stopped pointing their guns at him. The younger officer continued. “And these other men are Russian pilots who escaped when their helicopter was shot down.” As soon as the American Agents heard this, most of them switched their aim and pointed their guns at the Russian pilots, who glared back at the Americans.
“The airspace over Nordschleife is now secure,” Rayyan added. “You’re welcome.”
“Vos is ours!” One of the Russian pilots shouted in broken English, straining against his cuffs. “He must be tried for terrorism against Our Motherland! He’ll never get a proper trial in your corrupt America!”
“Oh yeah,” one of the Agents couldn’t help but fire back. “Nice try, trying to spy on us by seizing his assets. You’re the invaders here.”
“If I may,” Der Bayer stepped forward, his banhammer slung over his shoulder and drawing stares. “I suggest that control of this situation should be handed over to us.”
“And you are?” The Chief Inspector tiredly asked.
“Der Bayer Von Awesome, of the Mod Squad.” He flipped out his badge in as official a manner as he could muster. “We are-“
“No. This is ridiculous,” The Chief Inspector gesticulated. “I can’t allow everybody to say what they please and do as they please. We must do this properly. We-”
“What if I told you that there is no warrant for the arrest of any of the drivers you set out to arrest today? That every single one of the drivers here was part of a regular booking and had appeared in good faith to set a time trial on a closed track?”
“I would say you are skewing the facts,” The Chief Inspector retorted. “We have it on authority of Interpol that there is a known terrorist, as well as illegal street racers in this group.”
“I would suggest,” Der Bayer fixed the Chief Inspector with a stare, “That you look at your warrant database once more. I’m afraid you’ve been had.”
“What gives you the authority to declare these things?” The Chief Inspector protested.
“The Mod Squad’s jurisdiction is universal. We solve everything.” Der Bayer folded his arms with finality.
The cogs finally clattered and fell out of the Chief Inspector’s brain entirely. Defeated, his shoulders slumped. “Fine. What solution have you got for us then?”
Der Bayer patiently explained: “While all… this has been going on, a separate team of Mods has been mediating a negotiation between the Americans and the Russians. There is now a mutual understanding that the actions of terrorism do not belong to any particular agency as it did to one individual. Furthermore, there is no pre-existing warrant for the arrest of any other member of the league, therefore aside from any charges to be processed from any unlawful action that can be proven not performed under duress and risk to life, which I would suspect is precious little, the only dispute left to be solved is the matter of custody of-“
“NO!” Vos yelled. “You will NOT hand me around like a sack of fucking potatoes!” With his free hand, he hauled Decker up by the collar, holding him up as a human shield, with the gun to his head. “Anybody moves, and I blow his brains out.”
“Vos, stop!” Der Bayer barked. “You won’t get away!”
“Fuck you!” Vos spat, before slamming Decker’s head into the doorway of the 911 police car, tossing him into the trunk, jumping into the driver’s seat and burning a path around the M3 and down the road, tyres screeching. Everybody else blinked, then scrambled for cover as the police and the Americans jumped in their vehicles and took off after him with a cacophony of engines revving and squealing rubber.
Trapped like a rat in a flooding sewer pipe, Vos seethed as he furiously sawed the wheel. The three hundred odd horsepower of the 911 seemed like nothing compared to the thousand plus he had become accustomed to over the last month. But that was not his plan anyway. He patched through the secret frequency on the radio and hoped to the devil it would go through.
“Fiona, come in!”
There was a pregnant pause, but praise be, a reply: “Boss, we’re kind of holed up here.”
Vos rolled his eyes. “I don’t care. So am I. Come bust me out or I swear I’ll turn your wife into a couch.”
The rear engine 911 was a tricky beast to handle under braking, but with traction and stability control, it almost made for a sedate drive if not for the line of vehicles chasing him. At least there were no more helicopters, only… there came Fiona, the marvellous black box, but flanked by at least four Harrier jets. That was going to be hard indeed.
“Fiona, use the magnet hook! You have to catch me by Aremberg or we’re all fucked.”
“Got it boss,” his staff were nothing if not loyal. On cue, Fiona rotated and burned the hover jets, this time nearly matched by the Harriers, equipped with their own hover jets. This was going to be tight. Flugplatz now, any moment it would be the kink of Schwedenkreuz and he’d brake, and that would be the time.
“Steady it on boss, we’re lowering the hook now.”
The 911 crested the kink, and Vos hit the brakes. “DO IT. NOW.”
A few seconds later, there was a loud clang, and the car suddenly lurched, and lifted into the air. The 911 swung forwards and up, wheels barely skimming the treeline beyond the barriers. Vos fought the dizziness, the car flying as it shouldn’t, and could only imagine what Decker was thinking, locked in the trunk. He deserved it.
The 911 was hauled into the bay and the hatch slammed shut underneath. Immediately, Vos was out and dragging a nauseated Decker along in a headlock. He strode to the deck and was greeted by his hapless, long-suffering pilot who had so often exceeded the bounds of law, duty and physics at the behest of his boss.
“Good to see you boss, we’re in real trouble here. The jets say they got a lock on us and if we don’t stand down in thirty seconds, they’ll blow us to high heaven.”
“Right, we don’t have long then,” Vos said, snapping his fingers. “It’s time to debut Evanescere.”
The pilot nodded solemnly, before pressing some controls on a side console. “Very well boss.” The 911 rotated out of the deck and was replaced by something altogether blacker, sleeker, a ballistic missile on four wheels. Vos tossed the mostly insensate Decker in for ballast, and strapped himself into the seat. “You know what to do. And if I don’t see you again…” He nodded at the pilot in the first, and possibly only, acknowledgement that wasn’t steeped in spousal threats. “Thank you for your hard work.”
The pilot saluted him. “It was an honour serving you, boss.” And with that, he sprinted back to the cabin.
Vos pressed the start button of Evanescere. It growled to life with a low rumble. He felt Fiona bank sharply, and then descend. He dialled in the revs, and waited, glowering at the rear viewport of Fiona’s hangar, directly in front of him, and beyond that, the Autobahn.
“I will not be bound,” he growled.
Evanescere exploded through the rear window of Fiona in a shower of glass, wheels spinning and engine roaring. With a spine-shaking thump, it hit the Autobahn, bounced once, and landed, leaving a long line of burning rubber as Vos floored it. Two hundred, three hundred, three hundred and fifty… this thing was pure speed and no control. Even the surrounding police on alert had no chance to catch him. The scenery blurred by, Fiona rapidly shrinking into the distance in his mirrors. Still gaining speed, there was a slight bend coming up, now was the real test to see if the car would even handle. Vos coaxed the wheel gently, and-
There was a clatter and a bang, and suddenly the rear end of the car blew into a million pieces. The engine, overstrained as it was, fell apart and shredded the entire bay. The wheels locked and the car slid sideways, spinning end over end, turning Vos’ world into a blur as Evanescere blew right through the barriers and off the Autobahn, plummeting into the surrounding tree line. The last thing Vos saw before impact was the sun breaking free from the clouds, basking everything in its warmth. It was going to be a lovely day.
In the distance, a mushroom cloud billowed up, shades of incandescent yellow and white, the leavings of the unholy nuclear-powered Normandy missile, setting the surrounding trees on fire, black smoke billowing out and marking the spot. By the time the emergency crews caught up and arrived at the scene, everything was burning, and there was nothing left to identify.
[ooc] HOLY SHIT that was the big one. So that brings a conclusion, at least, to the madcap action. You know what this means right? The next time I update (hopefully Sunday-Mondayish), I’ll be releasing the final results (finally) of everything, and bringing the story to a close. Sorry to make you wait so long. The more there is to write, the larger a block of time I need free to tackle it, and clearly, I just don’t have that often.
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And now I feel sorry for Agent Decker. Well done.
Thanks. And yes, RIP Agent Decker. You were an asshole, but you’re dead now, so we won’t hold that against you anymore
Very amaze-balls. I was kind of hoping for a card for Evanescere, but that’s not important. You are awesome.
Yeah I’m getting the story done. In actual fact I’d love to slowly work over proper graphics for this after it’s all done. Also I should get back to beta duties (I move back home in a week and a half), and writing that article from a long time back and a previous build… Remember my first thousand horses thread?
EDIT:
Almost forgot, for maybe the second last time, I would like to present you the list of…
(MORBIDLY) FUN STATISTICS!
Number of casualties by faction:
BSLL Participants: several minor injuries, 1 serious but stable, 1 critical condition, 1 missing presumed dead
BSLL Affiliates: crew of Fiona (unknown number) missing, location and status unknown
Mod Squad: 1 critical condition
The Agents: 1 critical condition, 1 missing presumed dead
The Americans: 4 serious but stable, 5 critical condition
The Russians: 2 minor injuries, 2 serious but stable, 4 missing presumed dead
The Germans: several minor injuries
Civilians: none
Methinks the ambulance service is going to be pretty busy!
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i kinda stayed quiet on this and let it played out… well played strop amazing story, So when is the book coming out?
Book? Haha goodness me no, I couldn’t possibly publish this. Fun fact, the story as it is now stands at approximately 100000 words, but to be honest this is the unregulated fantasy playground of (mostly) boyish action movie fantasies and the plot is a bit… well, it’s a mish-mash. You could say we made it work and got a crazy story out of it, but if I set out to write a novel, I wouldn’t have written it like this!!!
However as the beginnings of an Automation based fiction franchise, well, it’s got potential. You can watch this space over the course of the next several months and a world and concept will grow in detail and focus.
Who let that bitch live??? She should have been in Evenescere with that dickhead Moustache!!! When I heal up, I am going to hunt her down, shave her head, and heel-stomp that ugly mug of hers into a bloody hole!
[OOC] Awesome story, strop! Thanks to everyone who participated and sorry for my [seeming] absence over the past few weeks. I’ve just been really busy since Thanksgiving and had no extra time to speak of.