The Library

Street Menagerie: Common belief was that certain traits swam through Cara's blood stream like parasitic gods. The war and chaos of Grecian lore, and the feudal ages of sadistic hierarchy through a Japanese legend. Edged only in white skin and the separation of ink drawn tattoo's, this human conspiracy theory lived the land of the sheltered zombies. Nose stuck through the obituaries, searching for her name like it belonged there and she deserved to be a ghost, haunting the plains of mortal systems. Instead, the names scrawled out were familiar. All split faced bastards hung up to dry by a meat hook and a machete, brutally massacred with no mercy. Now, though, their black and white judgment pictures of Hallmark smiles were plastered up in the back of the paper. It always worked to amuse the Valkyrie. Smearing her rabid mouth into a calling card for a smirk, dimples emerging at the graves of her cheeks. Spindled smoke halo's surfacing to coil around one another above her crown of red, red, red hair. Big Jimmy served up another brew a long with that shot of tequila. Easy enough sacrifice for the voodoo hexed bitch, considering alcohol tamed her rather than whipped her into wild submission of intoxication. Brimming with limelight eyes behind lash and lid, letting them slit to the side and give a look to the noise the door made when it opened. Paranoid, yet no one could read that in how loose and lax the beautiful butcher was.

E Unum PIuribus: Just wind. Beyond the door, where weather stirred tiny whirlwinds of leaves and a coke can, a car was parked across the street. It was black, maybe a Cadillac. Something with tiny accents of chrome and government markings. It was the kind of car that managed attention with the only intention of staying beneath the attention of others, aside from those that owned it. Two men emerged from the car. One significantly larger than the other, where the larger used his sheer difference in size as a shield for that of the smaller. They were both on complete opposite ends of the spectrum, and first glances did well at conveying this principle. Cara's first glance, came through the slit of her eyes. The first thud to the door, was the wind's incredible ability to suction it from its cradle into the frame. It literally shuddered. As if it anticipated the brutality of the man who squeezed the handle and jerked it open. Fatigues, though different from the traditional look of American military. Something more personal and at the same time menacing. It was the privilege that came with wearing full black fatigues instead of cookie dough desert styles or splatters of moss. Swat. Special Forces. Seals. But only one came in this image. Just Mac. The other still hid in the tower of Mac's shadow as he let the door fall close behind him. For now, Mac did the speaking, "We were just checking up on you, baby."

Street Menagerie: "Fuck." It was the utterance of something like a whisper, though grueling in it's short but sickening grind of teeth against one another. Eye contact was held for a moment before Cara was slow in her movements, thinking not about the men that crowded near the door. Big Jimmy arched a brow in the direction of the pair and then skidded a knowing look to Cara before moving into the back storage room to disappear. The red-rider arched the chainlink of her spine and had her mouth engulfed in the sour twist of tequila when that shot was inhaled. Cigarette snubbed out within a moment after it's last perk of nicotine into her lungs, thus her exhale was the aftertaste of liquor and tobacco. "I'm still in one piece, love. Guess that means your check up is done, no?" British afterglow in the pit of her throat. The London fog of her accent holding something gritty a long with sweet, and tantalizing to the ears. Venom of sound, hypnosis of notes reserved for a grim reaping angel missing her barbedwire wings. The paper was rumpled, crumpled, and tossed down the side of the flat edge of the bar. Where they were fancy in their fatigues which were beyond familiar, her body was a caked mess of vintage faith and a mess of glamour smeared makeup. Cara was far from a stick insect like most women craved to be. Her essence was in sheer sinew, a power struggle between being feminine and keeping your wits and judgment in how people read you. The control of her lips failed, and that sneer, infamous for it's taunting, bloomed when body tilted to face the men. "I see Bahn's got himself some new toys. Be a doll and give the bastard my regards?" Sarcasm at it's finest hour on her tongue.

E Unum PIuribus: "I'm pleased to see how well you are thriving." The voice rang from behind Mac. Mac smiled, knowingly. As if he'd held the ultimate card in the deck, or the last prized fighter of the ring of rings in his corner. It showed pride, and not the kind that came when children came home with straight A's. It was the pride of a man who would die for another. "But you really don't need to have Mac do anything." There was his eye, dark as if it filled with blood from massive trauma. The whole of the eye was black, from the soft gelatin tissue that should have been white, to the filled black of the iris. Its lid remained perpetually open, in an endless gaze similar to the calm of a dark sky without clouds. It was the first thing that she saw, and the familiar scar tissue that followed. One side of his face was far more charming than the other, and it was not the side that harbored the blackness of an eye, and the pain of fire. The suited Mr. Bahn stepped from behind the protection of Mac, with his arms neatly tucked in the slanted packets of creased slacks. "Afterall, I'm right here, darling."

Street Menagerie: Where Cara was pale to begin with, it was almost like the rouge on her cheeks failed miserably and sunk deep beneath her pores. Pupils slit in the sudden clash of brain waves, the excitement and the drop of the floor from beneath your feet. Telltale signs of common shock therapy. Her elbow slipped slightly across the bar top and mouth formed from a gawking slant to a tight, stitched purse. Frenzy of flashbacks, the feeding of memories into an already unbalanced mind. Composure settled on the outside of her skinshell, yet inside was turmoil and childish spurts of aggression. Nails hooked into the wooden surface of the bar, getting a grip on something solid that was unfortunately, not Bahn's or Mac's neck. "Well, then. I guess it's just a bloody party now." Slowly edged from the lines of her lips with some sharper handle to their sides. The canal of her London language twisting up just faintly. "Good to see you're still the same, Bahn. Though they do wonders with plastic surgery nowadays." A tap of a finger towards her cheek to indicate the mass of abnormality that was Bahn's features. Smug crash and burn of her smile. "Maybe you could actually land yourself a woman, instead of a bunch of kids." The last, growled.

E Unum PIuribus: Mac tensed his stomach. The pitbull on the leash of his master descended into a silent sentry and shadow. Strangely, in spite of their significant difference in size, Mr. Bahn became taller. His calm and countenance did wonders for stature, and it showed. There was steady breathing, even a steady smile. Scar tissues was stiff in the creases of rubbery skin, but the opposite side of his face conveyed nothing but joy. Even the creases of crow?s-feet in his eye's underskin. It was through the steady smile, on the left side of his face, that he chose to project his speech. In reference to his face, he ignored her comments. Not simply because he found himself at the butt of her jokes, and wounded, but because he felt them secondary to the matters at hand. "In the Valkyrie Program, we had intentions of setting you free so that we could see your development in other environments." He neared closer, leaving Mac behind, and took a seat on the bar, facing her. His bad eye, fought the lack of nerves to search the door leading to the kitchen for Jimmy. "Now that I see you are faring so well, I feel that perhaps your leaving was more than just a fight of your will. Perhaps it was fate." He smoothed his left hand over the bar, casually resting his body into the stool as if were a patron awaiting business from the tender. "You look stronger."

bIood machine: What his bad eye found was the bead of a laser sight, drawn only a few millimeters from completely (but impermanently) blinding him like a thread between the square muzzle of an unfathomly common Glock. Another thread in the web that wove them all together. It was not her firearm--the lipstick-sized sights strapped over the top of the gun with electrical tape giving as much away. Only a portion of her face showed through the port-hole in the kitchen door, cracked open to permit her arm extending through it, bare-skinned up to the shoulder where a black tee creased and wrist behind the gun wrapped in a band of leather with a watch face refracting a prism of light that shimmered through the atmospheric layers of smoke, only occasionally making it all the way to a wall on the far side of the bar. Mia muttered under her breath, and craned her neck to get a better view of the motherfucking Hulk lurking in the background, but she wasn't trying to hide--and pasted a cheery smile on her face falsely when it eclipsed the edges of the port hole, in case anyone was looking.

Street Menagerie: "Setting me free?" There was a nearly blanched scoff, and it was strictly aggressive. Though Bahn crept closer, the Valkyrie pinpointed her eyes on Mac. The bruise a long her jaw still there, though diminishing as the days passed. Every step Bahn took had Cara taking another back, keeping a good distance of space. Trust was a fickle thing and resided in the hands of two people, one that lived as her bobcat counterpart. The other, a doctor that she wasn't sure even existed. "You're so full of shit, Bahn, it's seeping right out of that ugly eye of yours." Snarled was the bittersweet symphony that Cara professed. A hated spell of her python hissing behind those teeth while limelight kept a firm track of Mac. With the appreciation of a sister killer, a smile was soft to spread like butter across her lips with the safety net of being paired off with her second half. Mia was close, which meant Caramia was one. Finally, she looked to Bahn and had another dose of the past slap her in the face. "Want to test that theory out?" Murmured, much like a lover would to their blessing in disguise. Quick to register another smile that wasn't something you saw through a Vogue magazine, but rather, slapped across the grill of Ramirez right before his execution. "We're not going back, Bahn. I don't give a shit if you bring ten of these bull headed, lap dogs of yours..." A motion of a blown kiss to Mac while her fingers stretched into the fire brand of her hair. "... but we'll win. You said it yourself: we are the perfect weapon. So, you can just take your beefcake boyfriend over there, and mosey on back to Valentine with the evidence that we're still around, and we aren?t going anywhere."

E Unum PIuribus: The nerves behind Mr. Bahn's eye, too dead to buckle under the pierce of Mia's laser. The muscles in his face did not flinch, but the skin showed hint to his mild irritation in Cara's words. His face itched. With his lips pursing, he brought a gloved hand to the tattered texture of his cheek and scratched. Rubbed smoothed leather over burned leather, and an ease settled over the fire of sensory nerves. They seemed more acute, as the death of the motor nerves heightened his feeling. Mr. Bahn was quiet for a spell, sharing a moment of eye contact with the kitchen window with Mia, after the tilt of his head to move beyond the beam of red light. Mac stepped closer, though made good in keeping out of Mia's sights. His naked hands un holstered the Mossberg shotgun strapped to his thigh, and racked the slide once to provide as much intimidation as the Mia's sidearm. The sound, a familiar clack-clack, followed Bahn's momentary silence. It seemed louder, and more present in the open space of the room. Mr. Bahn, let out a sigh, finished with the itch. "I am not here to provoke." His good eye forced Cara to pull her gaze from Mac and -look- at him. "Your success is my glory. If you defeat Mac and myself today, you will only fuel my desire to want you all the more." His mouth twitched. "I came to be civilized. I am asking you, as your father, to come home."

bIood machine: Mia's lips skinned back from her mouth--no lipstick ever present to smear against the gloss white teeth--only a breath after Bahn had looked away. The initial thump was her fist panging off of the thick kitchen door, and the second was her foot kicking it open. The red bead traveled in the trench of one of Bahn's worrisome forehead creases, and drifted over to Mac. In an unnervingly similar fashion, her head canted to the side (as much to escape the fringe of bangs as dragged by the gravity of thoughts), and the snarl had already fallen out of place. By the time that her neck straightened out, she was smiling again--and this time very genuinely. "Do you think I'm fucking retarded? You're not going to fucking shoot her, Kofi." The semantics were superfluous: Bahn held no gun, but Mac's hands were puppet's hands. She knew because she remembered the feeling, and it burned bitter in the back of her mouth still, like bile.

Street Menagerie: Nostrils flared much in the replica of a bull seeing red, though she was far from a Ferdinand. Eccentric in her own wiles of growing up through tubes, machines, splicing of what was human now something different. Encouraged to struggle from her bindings of memory and reach out, clench hands over Bahn's throat, and snap it like that of a chicken. No where to be found was the strength to do so. Manipulation came easy from Kofi's tongue when it reached Cara's ears, hypnotic and under the snake charming spell he weaved before Mia's feral froth came snapping her from that path. Eyes narrowed down beyond the horizon of lashes and a far away look was given to Bahn when she spoke. "Don't patronize me, Bahn. I'm not here to fucking please you anymore. Neither of us are." Cara pushed from the bar ledge and stream lined a backwards prowl to get closer towards Mia, more towards her side and out of any range of fire should the bobcat find that trigger happy finger of hers. "Take your fucking new toy and get the fuck out of here. Seeing the Caramia Code in perfect poise for attack must have been tear jerking for Bahn. "By the way, I'm definitely thinking that hunk of junk over there won't last as long as us, Bahn. Guess you lost your touch." Autograph of a serial thrillers smile. It might have looked like Cara was unarmed, compared to the glock wielding Mia, though they all knew different.

E Unum PIuribus: He sucked a slow breath, inhaling through the nose and out the mouth with the close of his eyes. As if he were a jogger turning the corner and willing the last burst of endurance from spent lungs, the long haul. He knew it was coming. But made the approach of kings, readying terms for battle for the sake of formality. I am a gentleman, despite my purpose. Mia's weapon did not scathe him. Much like Mac's shotgun did nothing to spur the blood in Cara. "I admired your silence in better days, Mia. It served you better." Mr. Bahn's glance set to the side and over his shoulder, to finally give Mia the same regard he had Cara throughout the duration of their confrontation. "You grow without guidance. We'll be changing that shortly." The latter directed to Cara, as he rose from his perch on the stool, finished. "I'll be expecting you." ... to change their mind. He turned his back, as if he trusted the girls to do nothing but bask in the glory of his retreat. Breathe another breath of free air. "Mac. We move." An order to the obedient dog. Mac kept the shotgun trained on Cara, leverage to keep Mia from shooting his own prize as he back peddled behind Bahn. "Bye, sweetheart," to Cara.

bIood machine: There was no telling which straw was the one that broke her back--but something snapped. Something more than the tendon that reported back into place when her arm swiveled six degrees left, drawing Bahn as a target again. Maybe she didn't mean to kill him, or maybe she thought that poetic justice could play the executioner instead; the motives were many, but the trigger only pulled once with a trajectory that headed straight for his shriveled, black heart. It may have been the only target too small and too dark for her to hit with a bullet. And truthfully, it was his laissez faire disregard for the stalemate. Soft-handling Cara, and she got nothing but the stiff upper lip and a shut-the-fuck-up. She had much more practice suffocating the scream of frustration than she did the instinct to do exactly as she was designed--and the scream was always caught between breaths, between heartbeats. And when she exhaled again, the gun swung back at Mac. Cara retreated. Mia advanced. Temporary role-reversal. She was staring Mac down, blocking the buck-shot that he had trained on Cara, daring him--begging him in some well-recessed half-conscious cluster of her brain, to just go ahead and do it.

Street Menagerie: There was cold blood in the air, yet none of them were bleeding. It was from their breathing patterns, all coolly laced up and locked away in the cellars of their chests. Ice king and queens, programmed for nothing but glory, destruction, the oncoming onslaught of an apocalypse they could all see and feel beneath their skin. When Mia fired, it was instinct: Natural insurance that one would always have the others back, and it's exactly what Cara was doing in the flash work of fire the bobcat relied on. Extension of fingers were in slow motion, scene by scene, a fractal type of imagery to where everything ticked in notches rather than speeding up. Injection of a grab, lulling Mia to buckle with her in a dive for over the counter of the bar. There was no stubborn grunt at Mia's request for gunshed, yet Cara knew the two of them would not be the only intruders in their Lounge. Mac was a good shot, as good as Mia,and open range filet of skin from the Caramia Code was not a choice decision to stick with. This way, at least the bar would act as cover for what Cara knew would be a tornado of shotgun blasts.

E Unum PIuribus: There was shadow in Mr. Bahn's good eye. Shreds of disbelief that spiderwebbed in the gamma bridges behind his eye and through the tissues of his brain. His genetic makeup served memory on plates of images, rather flavor-bites of feeling. There was no possible truth in the blood that pooled in collared shirt, through the heart, and bloomed plumes of red. His chin dropped to his neck, his back still to the girls, spying the slow spread of his own blood through the cotton. His good eye fixed to it, watched each thread stain with red, and his brows knitted tight. Before he dropped to the floor. As Mr. Bahn fell, Mac's first slug left the chamber. It exploded with enough energy to defy the cold barrel. No buckshots here. No pellets to wound and maim. These were killing shots, as that's what killers were trained to do. It splintered the wood of the bar, like a heavy metal hammer crushing hard to a head chunk of wood. It left a large hole, primarily through the back as its ballistic energy grew with flight, and a possible precarious position for the girls. Exposed, unless they were quick for the scramble, another shot. Something that would impair Mac from racking the slide and taking another aim with the twelve gauge, ironically sharing the same project namesake as himself: Persuader. While he aimed for his next shot, he called for Bahn, who by now had died. "Kofi!" Mac shouted, and received no vocal response, but the hiss of his the man's tissue wilting to nothing as is rapidly decomposed, withering to piles of black tar-like substances. Mac's radio crackled, and he answered. "KB6 down, request immediate evacuation. Over." It crackled again. "KB6, repeat orders to confirm. Transport is waiting."

bIood machine: Mia had gone the other way--throwing herself over a table that toppled and tangling in a chair that had been evacuated smartly back when Mac had first drawn the shotgun. No one else seemed as eager for holes as Mia, who could only find herself staring in numb shock at the decomposing and decomposed husk of what had a few minutes ago been a man. Or, at least, had looked like a man. The radio static tickled the back of her brain, which shoved witty repartee out through her mouth robotically: "Don't ever call me!" The nine millimeter would be nothing but acupuncture for Mac, and if she had not been so aghast at the wilted Bahn, she might have shot at his hands from the flimsy cover of the table.

Street Menagerie: "Shit!" The explosion that sent wooden shrapnel to fly at Cara had the vulgarity of her mouth revving. Shotgun of her tongue leaking out those tainted bullets of not metal, but sheer grim growls. Scrambling with limbs flailing to move just before the blast countered in so close to her. Slivers of the bar now punctured into her cheek and sticking out like a horror movie d?but. The pain didn't bother her, it only surged the production of endorphins. Nostrils flared, and a cocktail of aroma's came flooding up through her sinus'. Blood (her own), broken bottles of heavy alcohol, old mold pits a long the floor, and something akin to charred flesh. Red-head would shift, snaring a glance to the bizarre misfortune of the Mr. Bahn that was ashing away as she watched. Time sped up and the decomposing wasn't even there: It was just dust. "What the f--..." The time for questioning was lost as she heard the radio. "Bloody cunts. I fucking liked this place. Big Jimmy is going to shit himself and beat my bloody head in." Snarling aftermath of her own monologue, crawling on hands and knees while hands shifted to collect up a rolling bottle of Bacardi 151. It was more gasoline than it was alcohol, and that suited the Valkyrie just fine. The sharp rip of her shirt was heard, bundled up and balled to flare in a fuse to the top of the bottle. Kicking back a long her spine and wrestling inside those denim pants for a lighter. When it was found, her eyes spared Mia a glance before it was lit and tossed. The homemade molitov cocktail splattering just near Mac and the broke down remains of Kofi. A fire to give them a wall and the breakthrough for movement. Smoke and orange, the highlights of the fumes as Cara vaulted the rest of the bar and stumbled-grabbed for Mia. "Let's go!" Because Cara wanted nothing more than to leave before a SWAT team of Mac's could arrive.

bIood machine: It's a good thing Mia didn't see the molotov being built, or she would have interrupted and demanded that Cara use some other liquor that she didn't like to drink. Like everclear, or something.

E Unum PIuribus: "KB 6. This is Victor 5. Repeat order. Out." The radio gave another dull response, by the sound of a dull woman's voice. Her voice did not mirror the chaos that warped the floorboards in flames, but added a calm soundtrack. "KB 6we need confirmation. Over." In the smoke, he choked the request, with liquid fire spreading just before his feet. It destroyed the remnants of Bahn before he could salvage a sample for the lab, and created a wall of safety for the girls. "Victor 5, we're moving. Meet at rendezvous point B." With shotgun still in hand, the second slug chambered, he angled around the fire, careful aim of the barrel in the general direction. He could not see. He could not hear them beyond the crackle of flame as it spread its disease. Smoke rose from the floors and pooled in churning clouds at the ceiling, the heat rising and browning whatever the flames did not burn of their own touch. Edging through the door, a cloud of smoke plumed after him with the sudden vacuum of air as he back peddled out. The Cadillac that sat outside was gone, but a military vehicle in its place, ready to move. He would return, unscathed, but without proof, without success. He would answer for them later.

bIood machine: Mia stuttered, having lost her momentum in a chronic compulsion to analyze and strategize. But the effigy of Bahn was burning, even if she would have been able to figure anything out of the dust bunnies he left behind. But with a clattering of chairs, she loped half-bent under the increasing fog of smoke with the collar of her shirt drawn over the bridge of her nose like a mask toward the back-alley exit that Cara had already started for. Big Jimmy was going to be more than pissed off--and the loud cursing and shouting that bounced around bodiless in the chaos was his voice. Who in the blue fucking.. who the Fuck was those guys! Jesus--motherFuckers. Motherfuckers... Messing with a man's livelihood was the quickest way to get on his shitlist, and while Jimmy had a roll that was already sizeable, he was rearranging the priority of punishments delivered while he stomped around and began to cough and choke on the smog, ordering some flunky to call the fire department. The thin wafts of smoke that licked into the kitchen were not enough to set off the chemical retardants that would ruin that whole section, but it was only a few seconds after Mia got through the door that the overhead sprinklers began hosing down the blaze. She shrugged off the sour, scolding and suspicious stares of the staff, shouldering through the men who thought they would stop her to demand some answers, to make sure that Cara hadn't been injured by the things that came flying from the Pandora's box she opened.

Street Menagerie: "Back the fuck off! Oi, don't you look at us that way, like you haven?t fucking done worse, you bloody cowards!" The Valkyrie had an on button that never turned off. Radio dial up to a volume to succeed amongst the crowd of men that wished to interrogate the femme fatale's with just the focus of their eyes. Shoulders bouldered through the piling up wall of muscle, and some went skirting down to their backsides from the power behind the red-rider's pages. Fingers were quick to loosen up and yank away thick, red painted slivers of wood from her cheek giving the alabaster of her skin a clash of vermillion liquid and scratches. Overall, the timebomb project was under control and far from injured. Though her aggression was a rowdy thing and rarely was kept underneath her lamb skin coat. "Fuck!" Fist shoved into a wall with the impact giving a backlash indent to the dry wall and stucco. Print of her knuckles forced into it, and the action seemed to cool down the brimming edges of the boys around. "Mia, did you see that!? What the fuck was that!?" Ranting about the fictional procedure Bahn went through in a matter of seconds. Wild eyed but not off the handle. This was the norm of Cara. Eyes sprinted back to the door, making sure that no junkyard dogs were going to come stampeding through to get to them, especially if the pack was full of brutes like Mac.

E Unum PIuribus: Mac is gone. Bahn is dead. That is all.

bIood machine: As an immediate answer, Mia pinched the magazine free from the handle of the Glock to inspect the rounds loaded into it. There was nothing unordinary about the bullets--no incendiary or chemical augmentations, not even hollow tips. Jamming the clip back into place, she let the firearm hang on the loose end of her arm beside her thigh and could only shrug. She stared at the wall that Cara abused impotently, curbing her cold logic that would have advised against it. And eventually all she could do was state the obvious: "I dunno, but regular dead bodies don't do that shit." Was Bahn an alien? She would have preferred to think robot, but there were no mechanics. Rubbing the back of her neck, and then folding her arms across her ribs below the meager curves of her tits, the muzzle of the Glock pointing parallel to her elbow. "But he's dead."

Street Menagerie: It was strictly out of the sadistic humor that Cara found in death, and in the loose ended eccentricity of Mia, that had her staring at the bobcat with a humored expression. Quirk of her lips in a twitch and her brows slowly arching upwards. The obvious statement Mia had made drumming down Cara's temper due to the short lived laugh that peeled away from her lips. Hands went upwards to scold through her hair and rub down her temples and cheeks, smearing some of the blood there. The last of Mia's words had Cara twisting to continue for the back door that would lead to a clear cut through an alley. "Nnm... Dead." Disbelief or serious convulsion to be too paranoid to think it would be that easy. It was too easy, in Cara's mind. It was a snap shot of a trigger, a roll over some splinters, and a jet back to the kitchen while the fire blazed out front. Something had her uneasy though it could have just been the stale taste in the air.