TellMeAStoryGuy
Really Experienced
- Joined
- Apr 8, 2012
- Posts
- 227
Martin Grimes hurried through the streets, dodging debris being tossed about by the approaching hurricane. You shouldn't still be here, he reminded himself for the thousandth time. What the fuck was going through your mind...? Dedication's gonna kill you finally.
He wasn't a stranger to hurricanes; this was his third. And he wasn't a stranger to his dedication threatening his life; now approaching his twelfth year in the Undercover Division, he'd been shot six times, once spending nearly six months in a near-coma state, and when it had seemed he was just minutes from apprehending the subject of a three year sting operation, he wasn't about to let a little wind push him away from the biggest arrest in his life.
In the end, the drug distributor he'd been after abandoned the drug sale and disappeared inland like the fucking coward "Marty" took him for. By the time he knew the operation was suspended, it was to late to get out of town; the best he could do was head for home, Tipton Tower, probably the safest place in town with its Category Four construction rating.
It took Marty four hours to cover the twenty blocks by foot, and by the time he got there, he was limping, cradling his left arm which was likely broken, and bleeding from a dozen places, the result of debris slamming against him every few seconds. He fought the rear entrance of Tipton, managed to force it open, and entered, dropping to the floor to catch his breath.
When his energy had returned to him enough to take stock of his situation ... he found that he wasn't alone. He was surrounded by unfamiliar faces ... unfriendly, unfamiliar faces.
He sat up slowly and looked about himself. There were at least six, maybe more people about him, some deep in the shadows, visible only as mysterious shapes. But to one side, a man was leaning over a railing, staring at him with an amused expression. And to that man's left, Marty found an older man with the same interested look.
In any other situation, Marty wouldn't have thought twice about the expressions, about the feeling that the men were studying him; he would have returned the smile, greeted them, introduced himself maybe. But there was a fucking hurricane ripping the city apart, and there two didn't seem to be aware of that fact ... or, simply weren't didn't care.
That bothered Marty. Experience told him that when people were unconcerned with dangers around them, it was because they usually knew of a greater danger ... one that Marty was ignorant of.
A soft cry caught Marty's attention. He turned his head quickly ... and found what he first thought was a couple engaged in an intimate act. The woman was laid back, her knees raised a bit, causing her long black dress to spill back to her hip exposing a long leg, at the end of which was a tall, stiletto heel. Her head was back, her mouth open as if releasing a pleasured sigh.
The man, in whose lap the woman's head laid, had his mouth at her neck, seeming to kiss her erotically. He cradled his lover's head in one hand and -- Marty saw, letting his gaze shift lower on the woman -- the other below her dress, between the woman's thighs.
Then ... a horrible gurgling sound surged from deep within the woman's throat ... and where the man's mouth pressed against her, dark red fluid began streaming down her neck, slowly pooling at her collar before dripping off to the dirty concrete of the back room's floor.
Marty stood quickly, simultaneously shooting quick looks at the two men and some of the others while reaching for the holster at his back -- only to find the small .38 missing, knocked loose sometime during his fight through the storm. Marty began to panic. No one in the room moved toward him, which should have been a consolation but wasn't; it simply meant they did not see him as a threat.
He looked back to the couple behind him again. It didn't take but a moment to know the woman was dying -- that the man was killing her. Her arms slowly fell limp to her sides; her raised legs relaxed, falling apart to better reveal the man's manipulations of her at the meeting of her thighs.
Marty's stomach -- empty and stressed already from the storm and some of the most tension filled days of his long term undercover work -- tried to turn over. He dry heaved, then again. He turned to look back at the two men specifically, finding that they were indeed studying him.
"Who the fuck are you people...?" Marty called over the noise of the storm outside. Turning to look at the now dead woman, just as her killer raised his head and released a pleased sigh from his blood drenched mouth, Marty hollered, "What the fuck is going on here...?"
He turned to look at the older of the two men who were taking such an interest in him. After a moment, the man glanced toward the Fire Door that lead to the stairwell and said politely, "You should go home, Martin. It's not safe for you down here."
Marty looked to the door, considering the dangers of staying here versus turning his back and running for what had to be safer surrounding upstairs; in his condo, he had weapons -- fire arms of all types, blades, and more -- and a radio that just might work well enough to call for help, although it wouldn't be coming of course. Then, he realized...
"Who are you...?" he asked the older man. "How do you know my name?"
Marty wondered if these people were connected to the Hernandez case, if perhaps his cover had been blown. They're here to kill me. How the hell did they find out who I am, let alone where I live...?
Then, he looked back to the couple again. The man stood, allowing the corpse to simply slip out of his lap and thump upon the concrete at his feet. No ... this isn't about Hernandez. This is ... this is ... oh, god ... what the fuck is--
"Martin!" the man behind him called out louder, firmer. When Marty turned again, the man nodded his head toward the Fire Door again and said, "Go home, Martin. You and your neighbors have a long day ahead of you. You should spend that time tending to your affairs."
"Tending to our...?" The last time Marty had heard phrase, he and his brother had just learned that their father -- currently upstairs braving his eighth hurricane -- would be dead in less than two months from the cancer he'd been battling for nearly six years. He shot the man a hard glare, asking, "What the fuck is going on here...? Who are you people?"
Suddenly, to his left, the younger of the two men leaped over the railing like some Olympic gymnast and hit the ground running, right at Marty. The detective instinctively took a defensive posture, preparing to use the man's momentum against him, as was his training. And yet, a moment later, Marty slammed against the wall behind him, his breath rushing from him in a loud gasp.
He was disoriented for a long moment, and when he regained his senses, he could hear laughter in every direction. His blinked the tears from his eyes and looked down to find the younger man directly before him, holding him several inches off the ground against the concrete weight-bearing wall ... with the fiercely gripping hand of an extended arm grasping him around his neck.
The man moved closer to Marty, until only an inch or two separated their faces. He smiled, amused, as he studied the cop's face. Then, his smile widening, he said just loud enough for Marty to hear his words over the storm, "I'm going to kill you last ... after I turn your woman."
Izzy, Marty suddenly remembered. She's here ... oh my god, I forgot ... she's here, with Dad.
The man closed the distance between his face and Marty's until their noses were almost touching. He opened his mouth a bit, then spread his lips ... exposing long, fang-like canine teeth that gleamed. The man hissed softly -- barely audible over the horrifying wind continuing to build outside -- then, still pressing him against the wall, lowered Marty back to his feet, released his grip around his neck, and backed away.
"Go home ... Marty!" the younger man said, backing slowly. "Go home ... before I kill you ... and spoil the fun."
Marty looked to the older of the men and, finding him nodding and gesturing toward the Fire Door once more, sprinted for the exit. He didn't look back until he was at the third floor; no one was following him. He continued upwards, taking the stairs two steps at a time until he reached the eighth floor landing. He stopped at the Fire Door there, suddenly realizing that he was exhausted. He slipped down the wall to his haunches ... and began sobbing.
What the fuck...? What ... the ... fuck ....?
He flinched at a voice and looked up to find Izzy looking down at him through the window of the still-closed Fire Door. She pushed the door open and dropped to embrace him, doing all she could to comfort him without having any any true idea of what he'd just gone through.
When he came to, he was in his bed, stripped to his boxers. Izzy sat in a chair near him, watching the storm beyond the hurricane-proof windows. Marty glanced about him casually, finding his brother standing in the doorway, his gaze on ... The storm...? Or Izzy...?
Marty was very aware that Taylor had a thing for Elizabeth that dated back years before she and Marty became lovers. With Marty disappearing undercover, sometimes for days, weeks, or even months, Izzy and Robert had become closer, supporting each other not just through Marty's occupational hazards but through their father's bouts of cancer. Marty doubted that Izzy had cheated on him, although he couldn't be certain. He wouldn't blame her if she had; she was a very sexual woman, and Robert was a very good looking man with a chain of gyms that had made him a wealthy man.
Suddenly, he sat up, remembering what had happened in the back room of the building's lobby. He blurted out, "How long have I been asleep...?"
Izzy jumped, surprised by her lover's sudden outburst. She moved to sit next to him, again comforting him. "It's okay, Marty. You're here now. You're safe here." She glanced over her shoulder to Robert, then back to Marty. "We're all safe here. Nothing can hurt us here."
Marty lifted a hand to his true love's cheek and, leaning in, whispered, "Oh, Izzy. If only you knew..."
(OOC -- This role play is going to be graphically violent, graphically sexually ... and not always via consensual acts. Characters will die; in addition to long term characters -- the "turned and "unturned" -- all writers must also write at least one character who they are willing to sacrifice. The Vampires will almost always have the upper hand; they are hunters looking for both "blood donors" and "mates". I will start out writing the vampires, to establish the Family's history. Once I have written the basics, the vampires who have only barely been mentioned are available to other writers. If you are only interested in writing vampires, those characters should be available soon. In addition, the Family will include the residents-turned-vampires. More info to come with future posts and the creation of the OOC. Obviously, don't post here until you have PMd me for information about joining. Essentially, I am looking for people in the building: residents, transients, shelter-seekers, who will come face to face with the vampires.)
He wasn't a stranger to hurricanes; this was his third. And he wasn't a stranger to his dedication threatening his life; now approaching his twelfth year in the Undercover Division, he'd been shot six times, once spending nearly six months in a near-coma state, and when it had seemed he was just minutes from apprehending the subject of a three year sting operation, he wasn't about to let a little wind push him away from the biggest arrest in his life.
In the end, the drug distributor he'd been after abandoned the drug sale and disappeared inland like the fucking coward "Marty" took him for. By the time he knew the operation was suspended, it was to late to get out of town; the best he could do was head for home, Tipton Tower, probably the safest place in town with its Category Four construction rating.
It took Marty four hours to cover the twenty blocks by foot, and by the time he got there, he was limping, cradling his left arm which was likely broken, and bleeding from a dozen places, the result of debris slamming against him every few seconds. He fought the rear entrance of Tipton, managed to force it open, and entered, dropping to the floor to catch his breath.
When his energy had returned to him enough to take stock of his situation ... he found that he wasn't alone. He was surrounded by unfamiliar faces ... unfriendly, unfamiliar faces.
He sat up slowly and looked about himself. There were at least six, maybe more people about him, some deep in the shadows, visible only as mysterious shapes. But to one side, a man was leaning over a railing, staring at him with an amused expression. And to that man's left, Marty found an older man with the same interested look.
In any other situation, Marty wouldn't have thought twice about the expressions, about the feeling that the men were studying him; he would have returned the smile, greeted them, introduced himself maybe. But there was a fucking hurricane ripping the city apart, and there two didn't seem to be aware of that fact ... or, simply weren't didn't care.
That bothered Marty. Experience told him that when people were unconcerned with dangers around them, it was because they usually knew of a greater danger ... one that Marty was ignorant of.
A soft cry caught Marty's attention. He turned his head quickly ... and found what he first thought was a couple engaged in an intimate act. The woman was laid back, her knees raised a bit, causing her long black dress to spill back to her hip exposing a long leg, at the end of which was a tall, stiletto heel. Her head was back, her mouth open as if releasing a pleasured sigh.
The man, in whose lap the woman's head laid, had his mouth at her neck, seeming to kiss her erotically. He cradled his lover's head in one hand and -- Marty saw, letting his gaze shift lower on the woman -- the other below her dress, between the woman's thighs.
Then ... a horrible gurgling sound surged from deep within the woman's throat ... and where the man's mouth pressed against her, dark red fluid began streaming down her neck, slowly pooling at her collar before dripping off to the dirty concrete of the back room's floor.
Marty stood quickly, simultaneously shooting quick looks at the two men and some of the others while reaching for the holster at his back -- only to find the small .38 missing, knocked loose sometime during his fight through the storm. Marty began to panic. No one in the room moved toward him, which should have been a consolation but wasn't; it simply meant they did not see him as a threat.
He looked back to the couple behind him again. It didn't take but a moment to know the woman was dying -- that the man was killing her. Her arms slowly fell limp to her sides; her raised legs relaxed, falling apart to better reveal the man's manipulations of her at the meeting of her thighs.
Marty's stomach -- empty and stressed already from the storm and some of the most tension filled days of his long term undercover work -- tried to turn over. He dry heaved, then again. He turned to look back at the two men specifically, finding that they were indeed studying him.
"Who the fuck are you people...?" Marty called over the noise of the storm outside. Turning to look at the now dead woman, just as her killer raised his head and released a pleased sigh from his blood drenched mouth, Marty hollered, "What the fuck is going on here...?"
He turned to look at the older of the two men who were taking such an interest in him. After a moment, the man glanced toward the Fire Door that lead to the stairwell and said politely, "You should go home, Martin. It's not safe for you down here."
Marty looked to the door, considering the dangers of staying here versus turning his back and running for what had to be safer surrounding upstairs; in his condo, he had weapons -- fire arms of all types, blades, and more -- and a radio that just might work well enough to call for help, although it wouldn't be coming of course. Then, he realized...
"Who are you...?" he asked the older man. "How do you know my name?"
Marty wondered if these people were connected to the Hernandez case, if perhaps his cover had been blown. They're here to kill me. How the hell did they find out who I am, let alone where I live...?
Then, he looked back to the couple again. The man stood, allowing the corpse to simply slip out of his lap and thump upon the concrete at his feet. No ... this isn't about Hernandez. This is ... this is ... oh, god ... what the fuck is--
"Martin!" the man behind him called out louder, firmer. When Marty turned again, the man nodded his head toward the Fire Door again and said, "Go home, Martin. You and your neighbors have a long day ahead of you. You should spend that time tending to your affairs."
"Tending to our...?" The last time Marty had heard phrase, he and his brother had just learned that their father -- currently upstairs braving his eighth hurricane -- would be dead in less than two months from the cancer he'd been battling for nearly six years. He shot the man a hard glare, asking, "What the fuck is going on here...? Who are you people?"
Suddenly, to his left, the younger of the two men leaped over the railing like some Olympic gymnast and hit the ground running, right at Marty. The detective instinctively took a defensive posture, preparing to use the man's momentum against him, as was his training. And yet, a moment later, Marty slammed against the wall behind him, his breath rushing from him in a loud gasp.
He was disoriented for a long moment, and when he regained his senses, he could hear laughter in every direction. His blinked the tears from his eyes and looked down to find the younger man directly before him, holding him several inches off the ground against the concrete weight-bearing wall ... with the fiercely gripping hand of an extended arm grasping him around his neck.
The man moved closer to Marty, until only an inch or two separated their faces. He smiled, amused, as he studied the cop's face. Then, his smile widening, he said just loud enough for Marty to hear his words over the storm, "I'm going to kill you last ... after I turn your woman."
Izzy, Marty suddenly remembered. She's here ... oh my god, I forgot ... she's here, with Dad.
The man closed the distance between his face and Marty's until their noses were almost touching. He opened his mouth a bit, then spread his lips ... exposing long, fang-like canine teeth that gleamed. The man hissed softly -- barely audible over the horrifying wind continuing to build outside -- then, still pressing him against the wall, lowered Marty back to his feet, released his grip around his neck, and backed away.
"Go home ... Marty!" the younger man said, backing slowly. "Go home ... before I kill you ... and spoil the fun."
Marty looked to the older of the men and, finding him nodding and gesturing toward the Fire Door once more, sprinted for the exit. He didn't look back until he was at the third floor; no one was following him. He continued upwards, taking the stairs two steps at a time until he reached the eighth floor landing. He stopped at the Fire Door there, suddenly realizing that he was exhausted. He slipped down the wall to his haunches ... and began sobbing.
What the fuck...? What ... the ... fuck ....?
He flinched at a voice and looked up to find Izzy looking down at him through the window of the still-closed Fire Door. She pushed the door open and dropped to embrace him, doing all she could to comfort him without having any any true idea of what he'd just gone through.
When he came to, he was in his bed, stripped to his boxers. Izzy sat in a chair near him, watching the storm beyond the hurricane-proof windows. Marty glanced about him casually, finding his brother standing in the doorway, his gaze on ... The storm...? Or Izzy...?
Marty was very aware that Taylor had a thing for Elizabeth that dated back years before she and Marty became lovers. With Marty disappearing undercover, sometimes for days, weeks, or even months, Izzy and Robert had become closer, supporting each other not just through Marty's occupational hazards but through their father's bouts of cancer. Marty doubted that Izzy had cheated on him, although he couldn't be certain. He wouldn't blame her if she had; she was a very sexual woman, and Robert was a very good looking man with a chain of gyms that had made him a wealthy man.
Suddenly, he sat up, remembering what had happened in the back room of the building's lobby. He blurted out, "How long have I been asleep...?"
Izzy jumped, surprised by her lover's sudden outburst. She moved to sit next to him, again comforting him. "It's okay, Marty. You're here now. You're safe here." She glanced over her shoulder to Robert, then back to Marty. "We're all safe here. Nothing can hurt us here."
Marty lifted a hand to his true love's cheek and, leaning in, whispered, "Oh, Izzy. If only you knew..."
***********************
(OOC -- This role play is going to be graphically violent, graphically sexually ... and not always via consensual acts. Characters will die; in addition to long term characters -- the "turned and "unturned" -- all writers must also write at least one character who they are willing to sacrifice. The Vampires will almost always have the upper hand; they are hunters looking for both "blood donors" and "mates". I will start out writing the vampires, to establish the Family's history. Once I have written the basics, the vampires who have only barely been mentioned are available to other writers. If you are only interested in writing vampires, those characters should be available soon. In addition, the Family will include the residents-turned-vampires. More info to come with future posts and the creation of the OOC. Obviously, don't post here until you have PMd me for information about joining. Essentially, I am looking for people in the building: residents, transients, shelter-seekers, who will come face to face with the vampires.)
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