Gun-Ghost: Rain of Lead Intro
#1 of GG: RoL
_**GUN-GHOST
Rain of Lead**_
Introduction
Sun's descending behind the shattered horizon; the streets of the clockwork city are bathed in the shadows of its thousand towers. Each reached nearly a league into the sky, their summits disappearing beyond darkened clouds.
A well-dressed old goat hurries his way through the winding alleyways, hoofed footfalls echoing off the sooty brick walls of the labyrinth he ran. His every breath hissed out between yellowing teeth situated betwixt a sea of matted gray fur.
With bleary brown eyes, he can see his destination just ahead. Wrought of iron and rusted into the color of copper, the metal door into the side of a cinderblock-walled structure seemed like the gateway to relief.
The goat slid to a stop, nearly losing his balance on the rain-soaked tiles beneath his hooves, the rain in this city blackened by the rivers of smoke exhumed into the air daily. He catches himself and straightens up, fixing the tie nearly concealed under his workman's apron. It was rare to be seen without his apron, but nobody went out into public without first trying to look their best, in Nethyrmoor. Cautious hands pat every pocket to ensure his tools are still in place, and then finally set to work ensuring the leather strap diagonally crossed over his torso hadn't loosened; attached to a massive socket-wrench fastened to his back.
Finally, he rapped his knuckles against the door. Each impact rattled the rusted slab of rubbish, resonating all through the alleyway.
A slot popped open with a loud click and a pair of rough-looking, beady eyes peered through. The goat waved, the stranger behind the door nodding and shutting the slot. Locks and chains came undone on the other side, the door's hinges mewling out when it is opened.
Startled, the goat raised his eyes to fully take in the intimidating form of the suit-wearing ursine who answered the door. The exchange was short: the ursine knew why the visitor had come. Behind him, two others only momentarily looked up from the card-game they played.
It was one of the shittier-looking boiler rooms, illuminated by a few exposed bulbs overhead that gave the place a sunset-quality. The shadows were deep and the immense machinery totally obscuring most of the walls rumbled almost as loud as thunder.
It was difficult to hear anything, but the ursine was certain of the mechanic's trustworthiness.
He was easily deceived by the chicanery involved.
The truth was revealed as the goat's body suddenly vanished into a wisp of beryl mist, right before the bear's eyes. Before the ursine could reach inside his suit for the pistol concealed within, the barrel of another gun was thrust up into the roof of his mouth and the trigger pulled.
A roar of ignited gunpowder sounded out, a flash of smoke and the ursine's crown exploded. Shards of bone flew in every direction, while the blood previously contained by his skull sprayed all over the door; bits of brain splattering against the ceiling or the wall.
The corpse started to fall; nothing left of its head but a blown-open jaw and fragmented excuse of a tongue. His comrades launched to their feet, reaching for their own guns; but the assailant was too sagacious for their instinctive reactions to be of much aid.
A hand shot up to grip the ursine's tie, flesh made into a shield and propped up on only a shoulder. Two revolvers unloaded into the body's back, each impact of lead-on-furred-flesh erupting into a cloud of red mist.
Their attacker's gun pointed out from under the ursine's arm and returned fire only twice, the first bullet tore through the loins of the furre on the right; while the second found home in the eye of the other. Howls of agony overtook any other sound in the room; but only added to the cacophonic noise produced by the machines. The wounded furre dropped his gun and attempted to halt the flow of blood from his masculinity. His legs buckled beneath him and he fell with a metallic thud onto his side.
He'd never been on the floor before, but now suddenly understood why labor unions so-often complained of using metal flooring.
The other corpse was now missing half its face, slumped back against the wall and sliding down with a trail of smeared blood to mark its movements. As it dropped into a sitting position against the wall, arm caught on the table beside it at an uncomfortable angle; the attacker tossed aside the no-longer needed barrier; argent-white furred ears swiveling to catch the wet smack of its fall.
He entered the structure, the gun-vulpe responsible for the carnage. Right, gloved hand, gripped the long-barreled silver six-shooter utilized for the fun. Every step was silent, feet clad in formal black loafers; matching the nigh all-black outfit. His clothes were silk, including a pair of many-pocketed chinos. Those shoes were all that the survivor could look at, as his enemy casually approached.
Having screamed himself hoarse and been driven to pathetic convulsions, the wounded furre gave an extra twitch when those fancy shoes stopped before him. He amassed what remained of his strength to raise his gaze higher, crossing over the jet-black shantung vest and rising above the neatly tucked-in white tie that held the collar of the obsidian-shaded shirt under it. At last, while saliva bubbled out of his lips, the injured individual was able to look upon the youthful and utterly stoic face belonging to the hitman.
It could almost have been an angelic face, young vulpine with a short-cut silver hairstyle and startlingly electric-blue eye; had it not been for the black-leather eye-patch over his left orb. Three leather straps crossed over the face to keep that patch tightly bound.
In some way, seeing his murderer was soothing to the condemned furre. His eyes shut, and he figured the final bullet was about to be fired. There was an unusual click near his head, his eyes opening to find a knife-like blade had emerged from the front of the shoe; shortly kicked into and swiped through his jugular. As the blood began to fountain out and his vision was quickly devoured by darkness, he watched the hitman turn around to begin collecting his bullet-casings off the floor.
~X~