|𝙵𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝟷𝟷𝚡|
There's a war in London. No one knows how it started, but those caught in the fray can either struggle or thrive due to the nation-wide influence of two formidable factions: the Crimson Syndicate and the Brotherhood of the...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
┏━━━༻☆༺━━━┓
𝚁𝚎𝚗
┗━━━༻☆༺━━━┛
𝘛𝘶𝘦𝘴𝘥𝘢𝘺, 𝘓𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘈𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘯𝘰𝘰𝘯
Lethal shots were some of the most shocking of them all. Perhaps it was the ominous bang the weapon made or the clatter of empty cartridges falling to the dusty, barren ground. Maybe it was the rush of the air, the electric racing of the heart. But no matter what, the euphonious melody of death's longing embrace was Ren Ryker's sweet, twisted reality.
Oh, how he loved it when this essential organ pounded in their chests as he dealt the final blow from afar.
Some liked to kill up close and personal, but he could see their fear for a kilometre as they were sacrificed for the Verita Aser's foolish goals. Today was just another mission to him, taking out a few minor playing pieces on the great board of war.
Ren watched their bodies hit the ground with a thud that he could only imagine he heard. His job was done; it was time to prepare for tonight.
He got down from his post above mighty Big Ben and slung his sniper rifle over his shoulder, climbing down the titanium ladder to a deserted civilian area. There, he slid out a light metal sheet that he had collected a few months back. This was where the fun began.
By the time he had surfed down the hundreds of stairs, the bell was chiming again, as it did every fifteen minutes. He was running out of time. As a seasoned member of the Crimson Syndicate, missing a meeting meant a death drop down the hierarchy ladder, mission or not. Trixcia would quite literally destroy him at the first slip-up, however clingy she was. And with her heels, no less.
A multitude of other Syndicate members would undoubtedly take a grab at his spot in the social stratum as well.
He couldn't fathom why so many people were after his limited success. After shaking his head and subconsciously gripping the handgun attached to his belt, he slinked into a gas station to change for the festivities. Since the war, such establishments weren't used anymore, and Ren could go days undisturbed for the most part.
One of several multi-coloured duffel bags held his change of clothes. Ren retrieved a navy one from behind the counter, grimacing at his only way to shelter his clothes from Trixcia's meddling. Once, in the distant past, Ren was offered one of the limited lodgings at the Syndicate settlement, but before he could blink, all the rooms were filled. Ren found that it was better that way. He couldn't have his secret to be let loose over a round of drinks or a deep conversation at an unholy hour. So, instead, he'd stay at the station until a better opportunity arose.
He shucked off his ammo bandolier, form-fitting leather breastplate, Syndicate jacket, undershirt, and black leather pants. Just to be safe, Ren readjusted the familiar cloth strips that he had swathed around his torso and downed his last reserves of pills.
