Bladeraver (pt48) (222 hits)
Category: NoneRating: 1.66 on 14 reviews (Rate this item) (V)
Submitted by Tactile Ire (View user info) at 2007-04-17 18:42:51 EDT
"Aiya, man thinks he's a clubber."
"Naww, meat's just tenderising i'self. No sandfloor in that. Just sandfool." The giggling rose to a cackling whoop at this last sally.
The Mantling turned and faced the noise. He was idling time away in an open plaza, deep down in the pile. It was late in the night; hard-working, honest citizens were in their beds and only the nightbreed were out and about. The square was crowded. Most of the people were sallow skinned and lean, like the group who accosted him now.
The trio had been trying to find a lead on a bladerave. Like any underground organisation, the bladeraves were protected by open secrecy. If you were part of the scene you didn't need to ask where and when to be. If you were not, nobody was going to tell you. Strangers were not welcome. The trio had been stymied. They had no friends on the 'inside' and if their low fame had penetrated this deep into the pile you wouldn't know it from the receptions their inquiries were getting.
Drewhldt - with his visit to his family fresh in his mind - had suggested he and Flens try the next bar alone. People found the armoured Mantling a disturbing presence. Not this group though. These youths were either so drug-addled they didn't notice or so vicious they didn't care. Either way they were not daunted by his weapons or his demeanour. 'Like honeysalve from on high,' thought the Mantling as he turned his attention on the youth who had spoken first. "You speak of bladeraves. Speak on," he said.
The wiry youth, all jittery quickness and burning eyes, spat at his feet. "You're no clubber, farm-boy. Ya got two blades, one head, no clue. Bladerave sli-zice you. Hurts direct from the House of Pain. Best we bleed you now - take y' weird lookin' blades 'n' nice shiny plating 'n' whatever cash y' got. Reduce y' pain; help y' on y' way."
Mantling set his teeth, judging the men and their numbers as they closed around him. These idiots were actually mugging him. He smiled as he drew the right hand blade in his favoured lifting strike.
The blade entered and exited the chest of the youth who had spoken. The man burst apart in a squalling spray of crimson. The meat and blood collapsed back into a pathetically punctured form as the jittery youth curled himself around his brand new sucking chest wound.
It was the first time the Mantling's blades had taken one of his own species.
"Tell me of the bladerave." His voice was deep and as forceful as ever. He was in the stepped guard position - right hand sword high, the other still undrawn. His standing assailants had fallen back from him. The piteous whining and gurgling of the thing at his feet kept them from bolting.
A young man - short of breath, with whites showing in his eyes and pimples standing red on pale skin, reached a trembling hand forward. In it was a flyer. "Give us our man back, okay?" said the flyer holder.
The Mantling growled.
"Okay," said the youth as he tossed the flyer forward. The Mantling snatched it out of the air and stalked off towards the bar his companions were in.
The crowds around them studiously ignored the exchange. Witnesses had a habit of winding up dead. They very carefully kept their minds on their own business.
The youths crowded around their dying friend, whispering in awe at the gaping hole in his sternum. They shot nervous glances at the receding back of the armoured man. "Oh man oh man oh man," babbled one. "Wait till he gets on charge. I'm telling you there's a new bitch in clubland tonight."
"Shut up man, what about Mier?" said another.
"Fell Mier. Mier's dead. Did you see how that guy moved? Major new bitch. One falls nasty bloodbag."
********************
The trio studied the flyer. It was a gaudy thing. Colours brighter than any dye they'd ever seen suffused its surface. The lettering was artfully tailored to the message and was set aginst a background of such abstract device that the eye hurt to follow its looping spirals.
It told of a bladerave occurring that night, called Immolate, starting after midnight. It gave an address, some coded directions and entry costs. One for spectators and another - much higher - for entrants.
They arrived at the venue in the small hours of the morning. It proved to be a long hall in an old warehouse district. Lights played through the front windows and heavy bass drumbeats penetrated the wall. There was a small crowd of people taking their ease outside the warehouse, standing in loose groups, chatting, drinking and smoking.
Guarding the entrance were ten huge, well-armed men. The bouncers. They gave each of the trio a perfunctionary search. They ignored the weapons the three were carrying. They were looking for charge. Only the sanctioned in-house dealers were allowed to serve up. Anyone else carrying the substance would be turned over to the troopers, or worse. Since the small group carried nothing more than their cash and weapons they were quickly waved through with easy, insincere smiles and instructions to enjoy their evenings.
Inside was madness.
People already in the throes of their night's drug-hit cruised the floor, exuding raw animal power. Tension, both sexual and violent, stretched the air till the unadjusted Mantling found himself aroused and jumpy all at the same time, despite his mental discipline. Drewhldt and Flens were equally affected.
The place was a torrent of the most basic human emotions. Already men and women were beginning to cruise past each other, eyes dancing in swift meetings and quick looks away that added yet more significance to their occasionally locked gazes. The whole place felt like a razor-edged bomb, a shrapnel impregnated keg of nitro-glycerine that could explode with fear and lust and wrath in any direction at any time. The gates had been open for half an hour - the matches had yet to start and thighs had yet to open but the atmosphere was already strange beyond anything in the Mantling's experience. Breathing deep and searching for his centre he tried to rise above the hardcore lush growing around him. Tried to ignore his own surging response.
He made his way through the tightening atmosphere and thickening crowds towards the floor, followed by his people. The sandfloor itself was an oval of six-inch deep sand spread across a three-foot high stage. The oval was about fifteen yards across its longest diameter.
The edges of the makeshift platform were crowded with other men and women carrying weapons. They were stretching and limbering up as they flashed hot glances at each other, trying to feel out the competition. To a man, their eyes were bloodshot and their pupils dilated.
A short, thin effete wearing a gold coloured top and carrying a clipboard was standing in the middle of the fighters chatting to a bald, broad-shouldered and badly scarred fighter. Mantling approached, stepping around the wide, scarred back to accost the smaller man. "I'm here to sign in," he rumbled.
The smaller man turned to him, taking his measure in one long glance. "Sorry ma'am," he said, "the ladies card is full tonight. Perhaps I can pre-book you for next cycle? I hope three weeks time doesn't clash with your period?"
The insult was so unexpected the Mantling was briefly shocked into silence. Growling he grabbed the man's expensive looking top and pulled him forward; face in face. "What is your problem, little man?" issued from between clenched teeth.
Before any reply could be made a heavy hand closed over the Mantling's trapezius muscle and a gnarled thumb dug down into the pressure point between there and the collar bone. The Mantling dropped his grip, then himself to one knee as he spun around and away, twisting out of the hold. He dropped his hands to his weapon-hilts as he regained his footing. Drewhldt and Flens surged forward, hands slapped to steelwood.
"Ah, Ah, Aaah," said goldshirt, waggling a finger back and forth as one might when scolding a child. "Not today, powderpuff."
Around them all a circle of dangerous intent was forming. It seemed every fighter here was ready to come to the protection of the small man. The scarred man he'd been speaking to, and who'd already laid hands on the Mantling, looked particularly ready for battle.
"Why won't you let me fight?" growled the Mantling.
"You really want to die so badly?" replied Goldshirt. "Fine. You can be a warm-up snack for Bresta," he indicated the scarred man. "You come on in an hour. You organise your own body's disposal. Stupid hick." With that Goldshirt turned and pushed through the ring of fighters.
Feeling awkward and confused the Mantling eyed his huge opponent. "What was all that about?" he breathed.
A lithe woman in light leather armour that bristled with knives regarded him with pitying amusement. "Simple newbie. You say you're here to fight and yet you're not even on it. Do yourself a favour - go and see Thule over there," she pointed with her chin, "and get some gear into you. It might give you half a chance against Bresta."
Bemused and feeling very out of place the three of them went in search of Thule.
Thule, it transpired, was one of the house dealers. He was amused to discover the Mantling was here to fight. He was more than happy to explain that all fighters took charge. It speeded reaction times, heightened senses and gave increased endurance. To fight without being 'on it' was tantamount to suicide.
Most fighters began taking the drug the morning of match day. By steadily increasing their dosage during the day they could gain the greatest advantage from the drug as its residues and oxidants built up in their systems. The little amount the Mantling could get into himself in the next hour would barely have time to have an effect, but how much did he want anyway?
When he declined to buy any at all, Thule burst into a laughing fit. As it subsided he called another man over. "Charke, my friend - what kind of odds can I get against this little fool? He's going to fight Bresta - straight."
"No odds," snapped the goateed Charke. "No-one'll bet on the little snot and I'd wind up just paying out. Is this a joke?"
"No joke, my man. Straight up suicider, right here."
"Hmmm," said Charke. "You wouldn't want to bet on yourself would you, meat?" he asked the Mantling. "How about your friends here, they good for a punt?"
By way of answer the Mantling pulled a thick handful of notes from his pocket. "What odds?" he asked.
"I'm feeling generous - how's ten to one?"
"Make it fifty to one and I'll give you the lot."
"Forty and done," came the response.
The Mantling exchanged his notes for a slip and walked away as the other two men fell into negotiation over Thule's odds on the reverse bet. Drewhldt looked extremely unhappy at this situation. Flens was also looking unsteady and out of sorts. The Mantling did not feel like volunteering explanations.
User Reviews
Submitted by AshK (user info) at 2007-04-24 14:10:00 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
The fact that things like this don't usually fly on Uber, makes it all that much better. There are audiences for "Har Har Rabbit lost in Goatse" and there is obvioulsy an audience for this. I'm enjoying the series, thanks for continuing it.
Submitted by Fey (user info) at 2007-04-19 04:17:31 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Sorry, Snare. Sucks that Jonny doesn't have the maturity to go to the source of his petulance.
Submitted by Snare (user info) at 2007-04-18 19:12:27 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
Submitted by JonnyX (user info) at 2007-04-18 12:35:07 EDT (#)
Ranking: -2
I like your writing, but I am giving this a -2 because I know it will piss off Howard Stern.
Now, in terms on constructive criticism: Doing giant multi-part series rarely works around here, if ever.
'The Survivor' was one example, and Jack McCallum has pulled it off as well (mostly by breaking into 8-10 chapter segments, then changing perspective), and The Caes had an excellent ATP storyline as well.
Generally speaking, about 20 installments over the span of a few months is optimum.
I think you can write well, but your quality has been slipping lately. That is why I suggested putting this plot-line on the shelf, and trying something different. Otherwise, you run the risk of becoming irrelevant.
In any regard, I think I know who this is, and you already know of what I am talking about here...but I'm not writing this for you.
__________________________________________________________________________________________
Thanks for the criticism.
I've said before that I wanted to attempt something that had never been done on this site - a DC comics, Vertigo imprint type series of installments that almost stand alone, that fit into an overarching story arc, but that also give me the time and space to play with the world and the characters I've created.
This series is actualy much more focused on the main character than I had intended, and as a result is sticking to the central story much more than I had planned.
In any event, Ubersite is nothing more than what we make it, and amongst the SPT's and the "how do we fix Ubersite?" malarky and Desolate Dipshit and all the other alterboy crap, I decided to make an effort to sound one long clear note of decent writing.
Fixing Ubersite.
At the rate of one post a day.
I am concerned that you feel the quality of the writing has slipped. I've felt a few passages have been a little clunky, but on the whole I like the imagery I'm achieving. If you have any particular instance of things that didn't work, wehter from a craft, character or plot point of view please let me know. I need other people's perspective to improve my work. I'm tto close to it myself.
Oh, and the next time you wnat to piss Fey off, -2 one of her posts, not mine.
Submitted by rob_berg (user info) at 2007-04-18 19:08:59 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
OH!!!
Yay!
I have been so busy lately I haven't been able to waste my usual time on Uber and missed the return!
I will read the last couple entries soon- also I will reply to your thoughtful comment on my post.
Kick - ass.
(Retard below.)
Submitted by JonnyX (user info) at 2007-04-18 12:35:07 EDT (#)
Ranking: -2
I like your writing, but I am giving this a -2 because I know it will piss off Howard Stern.
Now, in terms on constructive criticism: Doing giant multi-part series rarely works around here, if ever.
'The Survivor' was one example, and Jack McCallum has pulled it off as well (mostly by breaking into 8-10 chapter segments, then changing perspective), and The Caes had an excellent ATP storyline as well.
Generally speaking, about 20 installments over the span of a few months is optimum.
I think you can write well, but your quality has been slipping lately. That is why I suggested putting this plot-line on the shelf, and trying something different. Otherwise, you run the risk of becoming irrelevant.
In any regard, I think I know who this is, and you already know of what I am talking about here...but I'm not writing this for you.
Submitted by genericIntent (user info) at 2007-04-18 10:46:20 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
"The whole place felt like a razor-edged bomb" Fun!
I can't wait for blood!
Submitted by rorrim (user info) at 2007-04-18 05:02:49 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
No time to read, have it in advance, this time...
i like your work!
Submitted by EmissionImpossible (user info) at 2007-04-18 04:14:00 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
When are you going to finish? I have been waiting for fucking ages so i can print them all off and read them in one go, I am not being kept waiting!!
Submitted by orph (user info) at 2007-04-18 04:09:00 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Kick ass
Submitted by Fey (user info) at 2007-04-18 03:55:29 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by TheUniter (user info) at 2007-04-18 01:53:11 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Submitted by Benny (user info) at 2007-04-17 23:20:59 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Nice cliff hanger.
Submitted by silent1 (user info) at 2007-04-17 22:58:37 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Yeah! Looking towards to the next one!
Submitted by NoMeD (user info) at 2007-04-17 19:26:06 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Awesome, make the next installment in five seconds PLEASE.