Incline 39: Ivahstar

"Pull up here." I tell the driver. My fingers shift over the trigger and the darkness of the car hides my actions. My mobster chauffeur comes to a stop, a gulp catching in his throat. It makes him cough and he can't seem to get it under control.

I pull the trigger.

The door opens up and I step out onto the hidden road as his body slumps to his side. I pull out the map he showed me and double check it. Whatever details it has, it's intentionally done shorthanded. Only enough to take you on the route to this outpost or whatever he called it.

I glance around, checking the cave for ledges and vantage points. The shine of the outpost's lights keep the area well-lit, the curving tunnel making it a non-factor. A lengthy 'hm' leaves me and I nod. Going around to the car boot, I heave it open and start gearing up.

My shoulders slump with the weight of my extra killing power, and I get walking. Keeping to the shadows, I eye the depleted complex and take in what I can. Chain-link fences, some movable barricades and even a pole arm as a simple courtesy. And the best thing of all, barely any guards.

Putting one foot onto the ledge, I test my weight on the rock. I snort and heave my way up, following it along and simply hoping for the best. My right eye squints at the obnoxious light, and I jog to the upcoming rock outcrop. I shed weight and set up my immediate gear, binoculars entering my tense paws. 

Scooting back into the open, I keep to my belly and put the glass to my eyes. Outside of the guard posts set up at each tunnel, there's not a whole lot infrastructure wise. Lack of weather means no warehouses like it does on the surface. At most, just some walls and fences for organisational purposes. I cock a brow and focus on the few buildings this place actually has.

A fairly large one with at least some courtesy given to the mobsters who'll use it. Nothing special, but a reinforced roof and stable construction helps with loyalty. Criminals, police, soldiers, people... Doesn't matter how far away you are, so long as they're comfortable. 

I move onto a shoulder and move my eyes with it. An easy handful are moving equipment from an old husk of a van and into the building. Electrical equipment at that. Water, too.

"Mmmm." I let out, pushing myself up, my back arching slightly. What an odd combination of equipment to be taking indoors. One mobster comes out and his attire strikes me as peculiar. He's all bloodied up, and he's not in pain. Someone's being held here.

Heiya...!? No. No, there's too few cars here for it to be her. I barely got a view of that convoy that had me, but I know what a convoy is. The other guard post certainly has signs of being used recently, too. A lack of effort has kept the furthest barricades all loose and untouched.

Overconfidence or unmistakable assurance of safety? Seems like I'll have a safe enough path to test that theory. As far as this outpost is concerned, I should be coming here. Either as a corpse or a prisoner, though. Not a man armed with all his aged body can carry.

I instinctually check my weapon and its loaded munition count. It snaps back up and I get running along the ledge. As space runs out, I toss a picked hook ahead. Lodging it into a secure cranny and I dive.

The short rope catches, tensing itself as hard as a cable. I keep on swinging, the momentum defying the stubborn reaction. My fingers find the hook and let it go. Diving forward, I roll ahead and find my feet again. A sprint taking me for a full circumference of the outpost.

I note all the bodies I can and slide behind another rock. It lingers between the shadows and the edge of the light. Tentatively, I slip a foot out and follow it up with crouched walking. The barrel of my gun sniffs the path, guiding my instincts in the event I need my best friend.

I turn my head back down the road, eyeing where it goes from the safety of an unused hut. No one's coming and no one is going to be leaving. I'll make a fine trail of blood until I get back what is mine. I peek out, showing my humility before Death himself.

Overconfidence and ignorance are their killer, not mine. He will find more mobsters, not me. A single breath passes through my lungs and I move on out. My trigger finger already stressing its name with the thunder of a falling body.

I grip the corpse, pulling it along with me. It flops on the gravel and I pat around, looking for anything notable. Nothing at all. I shove the body, giving it a little more of my hatred before we part ways.

"Hey, Bareback, get in here!" a mobster calls out from a window above and around a corner. I double check my surroundings and find no door. My knees travel slowly and I creep up to the obstructing brickwork. My ears see ahead of my eyes and a swearing gangster slams the door shut. Muffled words carry on coming to me and I lift myself up.

The windows are odd, if only for the fact they've been painted over. The redundancy given the location, however, makes it all the more telling. Whatever's got the torturer's hands working is in this end of the building. Enough to motivate someone into hiding the butchery.

I switch positions and linger, checking each mobster I am familiar with. The count has not changed, and neither has all the positions. A fairly static task. My head moves up and my inspiration follows suit.

Quickly and silently, I climb the building with some stacked crates and set myself up. I find the most isolated mobsters and pick them off. Taking out one after another until all that remains is a clueless gambler's table. My throwing arm finds itself disappointed, and I take a calming breath as I line the shots.

The breath comes back out and I snap open my weapon's front again. If a firefight breaks out on the inside, I am in a negatively sided situation. However, I'm more than equipped to deal with a mess indoors. With the outside a graveyard to be, I only have to worry about how many rooms this place has.

I try my luck and smash my way through a window to get to the lock. I throw it up and do the same with my person. My back goes against the nearest bit of cover and I lean out. Gun at the ready. I nod as my lungs empty and get going. No noise fills the top floor, and it answers all I need to know.

In fact... There are only echoes from downstairs. Someone's moaning about having to check the noise. It could only be an accident from some boredom induced ball game, surely?

I prove the mobster wrong and catch him before his spiked body can fall. I heave him out of the way and linger at the top of the stairs. No voices follow him. My steps are silent, not a bang erupting despite my haste. Even my back hitting the wall is louder.

Shuffling closer to the corner, I check the hallway I can see. A piece of glass catches a reflection and I draw my knife. It plunges into the neck of a mobster, choking him in fear and surprise. The blade comes out and I flick my hand clean as much as I do the blade.

A door opens at the far end of the hallway, the bangs of other doors following it. One thing breaks out between it all: the screams of someone. The screams of a friend. Hrurim.

My neck moves my head to a satisfying crack, and I look up. The hallway is still clear. Throwing myself out into the open, a pair of mobsters drop dead. A third one, lost in confusion and never to escape, collapses right after. I keep my back to the door, thankfully a push one from this side.

No noise erupts beyond it and no one steps out in front of me. I spin around, checking my rear and throwing it behind me. I waste two spikes on one mobster, nailing his head and neck into the doorframe of some office. Panic erupts within.

Switching to a more determined sprint, a grenade enters my paw. I pull the pin and toss it in, barely finding a scratch on me as gunfire finds me. The room falls apart with a bang and the doors reveal more mobsters. I draw my knife again, meeting the eyes of one clueless corpse-to-be.

His friend dies, his sub-machinegun firing off under the pressure of a dead man's trigger finger. A neck bursts open at my side and I knock the body ahead. It catches talentless shots and I return a handful. The bloodied man comes out, handgun in paw. He catches my knife between his brow and falls.

"This better be your handiwork, Ivahstar...!" Hrurim struggles to get out as his heaving becomes clear to me. I come to a halt, looking around as only silence meets me. I nod in satisfaction and take back my knife. The torturer finds new purpose as a doorstop and I rummage across the table.

Finding Hrurim's conveniently placed lighter and pack of sticks, I prepare him one. I light the relaxing drug dosage, slipping it into his puckered mouth. He nods up in thanks and I mock my friend with a quick tut. Slicing up his restraints otherwise.

The pain-covered human hisses and rubs his wrists, getting to his affectionate cigarette right after. He leans back onto his chair, the smoke and fire in his lungs a healthy distraction from the cuts and burns. A thoughtful noise leaves me as I eye what seems like an attempt to make an Eusorochii Invasion. Get the victim wet and shock them to varying degrees.

Closest most around here ever get to being involved with the continent of the Lightning-Mountain.

"Heiya's not here?" Hrurim is almost stupid for asking, and I shake my head. Facing my human friend, I offer him a paw up and he shakes his head. He digs around a small fridge, pulling out a bottle of excessively sealed water. My eyes dance about, taking in all the tools still unused in this room.

"Mm, clever. Keep the victim around longer." I say, realising it's magic-rich water. Hrurim drinks heartily, setting his body on the path to healing. Though I am clearly not injured, my friend offers me a clear plenty, anyway.

I accept it without much fuss, only taking a single gulp. I still got bashed in the skull, after all. But I'm otherwise fine. My grip tightens on the bottle.

"Do you know if there's more?" I ask, uncertain of my daughter's state. Hrurim sighs and shakes his head, retrieving some of his clothes.

"Far as I can tell, that is all." he answers, his nodding almost pre-emptive.

"This is for Heiya." I say, not taking no for an answer and he keeps nodding.

"They know it's you for certain, Ivahstar. They know they had you specifically." Hrurim clarifies and I nod slowly, a tinge of despair going through me. Not regarding Gamtambo. Not regarding how my life is going to be for the future. But because my daughter is in all the more danger because of it. A sniffle holds back the wet rims of my eyes and I glare.

"Do you have any idea where there might be maps? Anything?" I ask and my friend holds back what is no doubt a want to smirk.

"Second floor. Far away from where your grenade was," he explains, and I sigh in some relief. Wouldn't have mattered much, anyway. My grenades aren't all that powerful. Fuel will still go up in a ball of fire, but it's no smuggled good from the Moonlit Plains. It's appropriately matching the magic intensity of the underground. All I have is.

I look back at my friend, twisting around with a question in my throat, "And Nin?"

"About him... Apparently, the local boss is actually interested. If they didn't do what they did, you might've ended up selling Nin to one of Gamtambo's lesser lieutenants or whoever the pricks-a-lot is." Hrurim explains, his cigarette losing so much form to a deep breath. I watch the embers eat the paper and filling up. A burp of ash and smoke taking so much more away. 

"That is good. Makes them easier to track." I say and my friend nods, giving me a quick wave as he takes a moment to catch his breath.

"Thanks for coming... Ivahstar. Lucky as it is for me..." Hrurim huffs and puffs, his breath as lost as my daughter is. I linger at the doorway, my foot on the bloody doorstop. The pressure makes the blood squelch. I turn back to my friend, both paws clenching my weapon. My hands start to hurt.

"I'm glad I could help." I tell him, two-faced in so many ways about it. When my daughter is in danger, she comes first. Not him, not anyone else. Only her. Were it not for the path taking me here, he'd die with chains around his ankles if his mind couldn't think of anything.

I'm also relieved he's no turncoat even with my mind already settled on the matter... Now he's all the more driven to help me solve the Gamtambo problem. You don't just torture a man like that and expect him not to hold a grudge. Grudges are good in our business, scars even more so.

They drive us on to commit so much cruelty right back at those who we owe it to!