Post by Ransack Manson on Feb 10, 2021 23:19:16 GMT -6
 The following is an excerpt from the files of Pete Harper: I have allocated a great deal of resources to this search over the past several weeks. Between my work and that of the private investigators I’ve contracted, efforts have doubled and redoubled time and again. The longer these madmen are in the wind, the longer they remain unsupervised…then the greater the odds that their instability will result in abject chaos and destruction of innocents. When they first arrived at Devil’s Gate, each man presented deeply troubling pathological conditions. Each was prone to violence, sociopathy, and to unpredictable outbursts of rage. I was supposed to paradoxically both ensure that they received treatment and to sharpen their already deadly skills toward even more violent ends. They started as dangerous but ultimately vulnerable men, and by the time we were forced to set them loose upon the world, the program had achieved much of its aim to hone their tendencies in such a way as to...weaponize...their particular, uhm, skills...for the benefit of our organization. While that timebomb hasn’t quite exploded in our faces yet, we’re clearly dealing with weapons gone rogue, location unknown. During my time in the service, we’d call them Broken Arrows. I am desperately trying to stop what I’ve set loose upon the world from crushing it before I can make the appropriate moves to fix things. Given the training they received at Devil’s Gate, I am focusing my search on any organization that stages fights and/or wrestling matches. I am convinced that the comfort of the familiar in wildly unfamiliar times will be too enticing to them and that they will be drawn back into that orbit. I just have to hope against hope that something turns up soon. Ransack stood at the edge of the tunnels looking out into the surface world of Las Vegas. As little as he wanted to depart his adoptive home for the surface, he knew he had to seek out what the tunnels didn’t offer, namely clean water and food. On weeks when he was booked, it was easy to double dip and make his supply runs when he went up to fight, but on the weeks in between, he had to make arrangements to get up to the surface to scavenge for resources. Ransack climbed out of the tunnels and walked toward a neighborhood. The homes in what used to be the nice neighborhoods were usually good for a healthy haul, because they had been empty since anyone rich enough to bribe their way out of town got the hell out. They couldn’t take much with them, so assuming the mercenary security forces the rich paid to patrol their homes didn’t discover someone in the act of scavenging, the bounty the rich left behind was free for the taking. As Ransack approached the neighborhood, he sunk closer to the ground and used the dark of the night to camouflage his movements. The patrols were out heavier tonight than they had been any of the other few nights he’d been prowling in search of supplies. Perhaps the patrols were aware he was pilfering goods from those far above his economic and social station. He knew this easy pool of resources would dry up sooner than later. Crazy or not, even Ransack saw policing in America for what it was: the last line of defense for those who live in the belly of privilege and advantage. These security guards may not have been carrying municipal badges at this stage, but the overwhelming majority of them were doing so before the virus drove the world to the point of undisputed dystopia. Ransack watched as a patrol car passed on the street, and its spotlight illuminated everything it touched like the noonday sun. The madman hid himself against a retaining wall as the light cascaded over everything around him. He was pretty sure the patrol didn’t see him slinking around, but the risk was not zero. Unfortunately, he didn’t have any option but to forge on and get what he needed: water, non-perishables, and any useful medications he might be able scrounge together. Living in what amounted to an open sewer meant the persistent threat of infection for even the most minor of wounds, so every time Ransack went out on a supply run, he had his eyes peeled for any kind of antibiotic he could find. The house Ransack had selected for that night’s search, and when he approached, he discovered the door itself was already open. Ransack entered into the kitchen without giving that open door a second thought. As had become a pattern at this point, Ransack immediately set out to find some kind of bag--a backpack or gym bag--that was abandoned in the house that he could use to gather resources. He took for granted that he would find something of use in the houses he ransacked, but thus far, it had been as reliable as gospel. It seemed that rich people accumulated things so often that many of the things they collected were simply repositories for their other things, and as such, he quickly found a duffle limply discarded on the bed in the master bedroom. As Ransack picked the bag up, he heard something loud hit the floor in the kitchen and every hair on his body stood on end as the endless parade of worst case scenarios started running through his head. Ransack carefully and silently padded to the door of the bedroom and stuck his head out to see nothing. He’d expected the beam of a patrolman’s flashlight or, even worse, the barrel of a gun to be staring back at him, but instead, there seemed to be nothing. “Hmm.” It made him think of the night he became Ransack Manson, the night at the church where he was caught brutalizing a chapel and received the prize of 50,000 volts to the neck as he was taken into custody. Ransack did not want to experience that again, so he treaded lightly down the hall just in case he had an unexpected visitor and hastily collected a few cans of food and a several bottles of water from the refrigerator before making his way to the door. As he took his last step toward the open door, he felt something soft give way under his step and heard a pair of terrible sounds, first a sickening crack and second the gut wrenching howl of a pained cat. The madman had just enough light to see a wounded cat lashing out in pained fear against Ransack’s boot. He reached down and scruffed the cat before shoving it, frantic and wounded, into the duffle. “Fresh meat.” Under normal circumstances, Ransack would have feared that the cat’s howls would draw attention, but with the chaos all around them--even in the nice neighborhood--no one would think twice about Fluffy’s pained squawking. Besides, it’d all be over soon enough anyway. A cat made for fine eating, and Ransack wasn’t one to waste such a momentous treasure. A knock at the door of Pete Harper’s office pulled his attention away from the stack of material laid out across the desk. He stared at the door as if to see his visitor straight through it. Harper rose from his seat and approached to take a look through the peephole. On the other side stood a nondescript man holding a manila file folder. While Harper watched, the man impatiently knocked again and muttered to himself as he looked at his watch. Harper didn’t recognize the man, but he was certain the stranger was the P.I.’s courier. “Just slip it under the door!” The courier sighed before squatting down and easing the file into the tight gap below Harper’s door. Once it was through, Harper stared at the file resting there on the floor for a tension filled moment that felt much longer than it was. He more or less already knew what was inside of the file, but he wasn’t entirely certain if he was ready to do what was required of him once he’d confirmed it. After Harper finally grabbed the file, he returned to his desk and opened it as dread washed over him. His face turned white as a sheet as his fears were confirmed: photographic evidence that Ransack Manson was, in fact, alive and thriving in the chaos that was Las Vegas. Harper closed his eyes and hung his head as he reached into the drawer of his desk. His hand lingered in the drawer as he thumbed through the photos with his free hand. Harper let out a deep sigh as he pulled his hand and something else from the drawer. It was a Beretta M9, the same model he used to carry as a sidearm in the service. Harper set the gun down on top of the stack of photos. “I helped make this mess; I’ve got to clean it up.” |