Encounterlogs
Ambers Odd Encounter Sr Sylas 250503
In a scene that fits a thrilling noir narrative, Officer Elijah and Amber find themselves in a perilous dance with unseen adversaries. The tranquility of their chaotic living space is abruptly shattered by the silent infiltration of syndicate agents, skilled and shadowy figures who move with practiced efficiency. Elijah is swiftly incapacitated, a needle delivering a potent toxin that renders him momentarily helpless. Meanwhile, Amber, caught unawares while tending to her duties amidst a mountain of books, is abducted by these intruders, who emerge from and disappear back into the ether with their prize, leaving Elijah and their living quarters in disarray. This breach sets off a desperate race against time, with Amber's fate hanging in the balance, her life reduced to a mere transaction in the syndicate's shady dealings.
Elijah, upon recovering, wastes no time and gears up for a rescue mission, embodying the archetype of a determined protector against the underworld's menaces. His preparation is meticulous, his resolve unwavering. Amber, meanwhile, is subjected to the cold efficiency of the syndicate's auction process, her dignity stripped as she's assessed and sold. However, clever and resourceful even in captivity, she does not resign to her fate easily. Elijah's daring rescue, enveloped in tear gas and gunfire, is a testament to his dedication and skill. The duo's escape is a narrow one, a harrowing flight through smoke and chaos that culminates in the relative safety of Elijah's patrol vehicle. As they flee the scene, leaving the terror behind, they are enveloped by the early morning's light, a symbolic emergence from darkness to dawn. The story concludes with Amber's painful recovery in motion, the nightmare receding in the rearview mirror as they drive into the day, a reminder of the resilience and unspoken bond shared between partners against the backdrop of a city waking up to a new day.
(Amber's odd encounter(SRSylas):SRSylas)
[Fri May 2 2025]
In A Chaotic, Orderly Living Room
The living room is the apex of this house's chaos. The longside wall on one side if dominated by a large, expensive looking TV, with scuffed edges as if it had been obtained second hand, and the other side is dominated from wall to wall by a overburdened series of bookshelves. The shortside wall, opposite the entry into the room, has a cork-board up on it, there's a bench-press bench underneath a squat rack pushed into the corner of the room, and the room center is strewn with lazboys, a leather massage chair, and exercise equipment left where it fell.
Exercise equipment aside, the chief chaos in this room was that the books did not remain contained to their booksheld. Piled up on the floor in front of the shelves, as if to be used as steps for someone shorter to reach the higher levels, books almost hid the floor around the bookshelves completely from sight. No other surface was left untouched either, the lazyboys, the bench press bench, and even the TV stand in front of the TV were all piled up with ungodly numbers of books
The corkboard at the far end of the room lay above a short work desk that bore a lamp that always pointed up at the board. There were more mundane things pinned on it, work schedules, and (obviously ignored) chore rotation, a recipe of some description. But, almost all of that was hidden by the sprawling expanse of printed photos arrayed across the board, the colored tacks that held them there, and the mess of red string weaved from one tack to another, indicating connections. The photos are numerous; a comely woman with blond hair and blue eyes, An aristocratic looking blond woman, a middle-aged man with weathered features, a ratty looking girl with trinkets in her hair, a nerdy redhead with cat-eye glasses, a pastel galway academian, a mousy, mild-mannered middle-aged man, a tanned, blonde, herculean brute, an able-bodied blond woman with sunkissed skin, a curvy lass with wide eyes and chestnut hair, a tall, athletic man with tan skin and blond hair, a young plump redheaded woman. All of them lay splayed across the board, half covered by the mess of red strands webbing over them.
It is morning, about 52F(11C) degrees,
(Your target has been abducted by the syndicate for potential sale offworld, they must escape or stall their abductors long enough for their allies to be able to come rescue them before the transaction can take place.
)
Elijah makes his way into the room, giving Amber a hearty clap across her ass as he makes his way past her "Heading on patrol, coming?" Elijah asks the woman in his usual stoic voice
Elijah makes his way into the room, giving Amber a hearty clap across her ass as he makes his way past her "Heading on patrol, coming?" Elijah asks the woman in his usual stoic voice
A low crack at the rear window, subtle but surgical, preceded the breach. The soft hum of a dampening field rolled through the chaotic room like a silent wave. The lights stayed on, but every sound, TV hum, clock tick, refrigerator rattle, vanished. Only the shallow breathing of those inside remained.
Two black-suited figures emerged from the darkness. Their movements were practiced, quick. No wasted steps. One brushed past the dumbbells and workout bench like a shadow made solid, weaving through scattered books without a sound. Another stepped directly onto a lazboy, barely disturbing the pile of paperbacks stacked across its armrest.
Elijah stirred too late, a needle jabbed his neck before the grunt could become a shout. Numbing cold spread down his spine, muscles locked, hed hit the floor with a dull thump, eyes wide but unblinking.
Amber preoccupied by whatever she was doing, reaching for a book, adjusting her duty uniform, rearranging her mountains of books was soon lifted from her feet mid-motion, a gloved hand clamped tight over her mouth. Her flailing struck a bookshelf, sending volumes crashing in slow, papery chaos.
The corkboard lights flickered once as the silent invaders scanned it. Package confirmed, one said through a throat mic, words clipped and sterile. A shimmer opened against the wall, thin, tall, ringed in green. A gateway, in seconds, they were gone, only falling books remained, like feathers dropped after the kill.
"sure, give me a moment" Amber pulls up her skirt and grabs her service pistol and badge "there i am ready" Amber said to Elijah
It'd take a few minutes for the toxins to purge from his body enough for him to move, thankfully he was quite large so there was a lot of blood flowing through him with which to dilute the poison. When he eventually gets the capability, Elijah slowly sits up with a sigh, rubbing his neck where he'd been needled and reaching for his radio "We've got an officer in enemy hands, suspected syndicate agents." Elijah glowers into the radio before clipping it back to his belt.
Getting to his feet he makes his way over to the corkboard on the room's far wall, and the table in front of it. He brushes away the few files that had been messily lay strewn across the desk to find the one he was looking for "Right then ..." Elijah mumbles as he lifts up the file labeled "Syndicate" and starts to leaf through it "Where would you have taken her to ..."
Amber was kidnapped...of all things, who would kidnap an orphan policewoman, she thinks deeply and ofcourse...the syndicate would love to nab someone as unimportant as her for low stakes abductions, this is pretty bad, what can she do right now, if they arent smart they would probably have disarmed her of everything she can use to escape right now, such as her service pistol.
The room feels wrong: the lights are too bright, flickering in a slow pulse that hums against his temples. His mouth tastes like copper and burnt plastic, the aftertaste of whatever cocktail had slammed him to the floor still lingering on his tongue. The air smells of ozone, sweat, and something oily, like gunmetal recently fired, and each breath drags in the grit of disturbed dust. someone
The corkboard is silent, but the photos twitch in the corners of someone blurred vision. Not movement, just the weight of absence: one figure missing, one connection severed. His phone vibrates. The buzz rattles against the tabletop, loud in the sterile quiet. A notification glows on the cracked screen: Syndicate Notice: Auction: Lot #003 | Status: Active | Location: Town Hall.
Amber is nowhere near, but she sees too much: white fluorescence cuts through slatted metal, her skin sticks to synthetic leather, something buzzes above her head: a vent, a light, a machine. Nearby, voices speak in low tones, languages blend, laughter scrapes the walls. Perfume, sweat, cologne, fear. The scent of predators gathered in a polished cage, no wind, no windows, just the sharp tang of formality and the slow approach of being priced.
The radio crackles. A dry voice cuts through: "Carrington, we read you. If its Syndicate, thats out of our hands. No jurisdiction, no support. You know how it works." A pause, static humming. "Only way you get her back is if you pay the price; no amount of paperwork can touch this. You want her out? You foot the bill." The transmission ends.
The room feels wrong: the lights are too bright, flickering in a slow pulse that hums against his temples. His mouth tastes like copper and burnt plastic, the aftertaste of whatever cocktail had slammed him to the floor still lingering on his tongue. The air smells of ozone, sweat, and something oily, like gunmetal recently fired, and each breath drags in the grit of disturbed dust.
The corkboard is silent, but the photos twitch in the corners of someone blurred vision. Not movement, just the weight of absence: one figure missing, one connection severed. His phone vibrates. The buzz rattles against the tabletop, loud in the sterile quiet. A notification glows on the cracked screen: Syndicate Notice: Auction: Lot #003 | Status: Active | Location: Town Hall.
Amber is nowhere near, but she sees too much: white fluorescence cuts through slatted metal, her skin sticks to synthetic leather, something buzzes above her head: a vent, a light, a machine. Nearby, voices speak in low tones, languages blend, laughter scrapes the walls. Perfume, sweat, cologne, fear. The scent of predators gathered in a polished cage, no wind, no windows, just the sharp tang of formality and the slow approach of being priced.
The radio crackles. A dry voice cuts through: "Carrington, we read you. If its Syndicate, thats out of our hands. No jurisdiction, no support. You know how it works." A pause, static humming. "Only way you get her back is if you pay the price; no amount of paperwork can touch this. You want her out? You foot the bill." The transmission ends.
The room feels wrong: the lights are too bright, flickering in a slow pulse that hums against his temples. His mouth tastes like copper and burnt plastic, the aftertaste of whatever cocktail had slammed him to the floor still lingering on his tongue. The air smells of ozone, sweat, and something oily, like gunmetal recently fired, and each breath drags in the grit of disturbed dust.
The corkboard is silent, but the photos twitch in the corners of Elijah's blurred vision. Not movement, just the weight of absence: one figure missing, one connection severed. His phone vibrates. The buzz rattles against the tabletop, loud in the sterile quiet. A notification glows on the cracked screen: Syndicate Notice: Auction: Lot #003 | Status: Active | Location: Town Hall.
Amber is nowhere near, but she sees too much: white fluorescence cuts through slatted metal, her skin sticks to synthetic leather, something buzzes above her head: a vent, a light, a machine. Nearby, voices speak in low tones, languages blend, laughter scrapes the walls. Perfume, sweat, cologne, fear. The scent of predators gathered in a polished cage, no wind, no windows, just the sharp tang of formality and the slow approach of being priced.
The radio crackles. A dry voice cuts through: "Carrington, we read you. If its Syndicate, thats out of our hands. No jurisdiction, no support. You know how it works." A pause, static humming. "Only way you get her back is if you pay the price; no amount of paperwork can touch this. You want her out? You foot the bill." The transmission ends.
Amber's belt is gone, stripped clean of her badge, gear, and sidearm. Her overloaded police rig: radio, cuffs, taser, pistol, all missing. Her glasses remain, but skewed. Her pockets are empty, seams checked and rechecked. Even her loafers have been inspected for hidden blades. They've left her with only her uniform shirt, skirt, and the weight of being watched.
"shit..." Amber mutters under her breath, she wanders aound in her cage briefly and looked at the vent and backing away for a moment ran to the wall and kicked herself off it up to the vent to grab it and see if she can just rattle it off and run from there or atleast find a way out of here, then again she has her doubts that this vent will lead her out if it even goes anywhere.
Elijah lets out a sigh as he gets the reply. "Alright, nothing for it then." Elijah responds, his hand removed from the radio so only he would be able to hear it as he makes his way through to the front door, walking slowly with a limp that was gradually walking off as he moved.
Steely faced, he makes his way to his Tahoe, opening up the boot to reveal his SWAT suit neatly laid out and prepared for just a moment like this. He knew he had at least a few minutes so the man makes sure his t's are crossed and his i's are dotted as he adjusts his straps and tugs the plating into optimal position. He's not done with just the ballistics armor either, tactical webbing is strapped to all four limbs, as well as over his front and back, pockets stuffed with tasers, extra clips, grenades, adrenaline shots, and all kinds of gadgets that might ruin a syndicate agents day.
Suited up, the boot door is closed with a heavy, padded, thud and he makes his way over to the driver's seat of the vehicle, stepping in and waking the engine up "Another day in paradise." Elijah grumbles under his breath as the car slowly rolls out ...
Metal tingles beneath Amber's fingers, then snaps: a jolt of electricity bites into her palm. It's not enough to knock her down, but enough to sting sharp, leaving her nerves buzzing and her teeth clenched. The vent hums low, now obviously live. The air behind it smells sterile, filtered, not fresh. No breeze. No promise. Just heat, wires, and a warning.
Elijah tablet buzzes against the dash as the Tahoe rumbles toward downtown. A blinking pin confirms the location: Town Hall, basement level. Syndicate shell auction, unregistered, temporary. A listed lot appears on-screen. #003 - Human Female, Olive, Petite, Unremarkable. Unmodified. Low Yield. Bidding was sluggish. Notes marked her as "submissive, nervous, likely clerical, not combat-useful." The price hadn't cracked four figures.
Elijah narrows his eyes, scans the side street map. One building across the square: a shuttered community center. Two floors, windows intact, north-facing view, rooftop access, brick exterior, and enough foliage for concealment. He pulls the wheel, turns hard into the alley, engine cuts.
Amber drops down and just nurses her stung palm "crap...bunch of bastards..." Amber is getting a little bit anxious but there isnt a point in giving up so early looking at the machine she wonders what is that for and again jumps up to it to inspect it, it is probably surveillance honestly, not that a machine can help her get out of her current predicament at the moment anyways.
Pulling into the building, Elijah does his best to park someplace where his brightly coloured patrol vehicle was not so noticeable. He pauses in his driver's seat, closing his eyes as he offers up a quick prayer as he always did before an operation, it was an act of habit, not desperation. Elijah was well aware of the risks involved with his occupation, but he'd been doing this far too long to still be getting spooked by them. His final act before leaving the car is to press his fob key to the rifle rack above his head on the car's upper dash, a small beep coming from the rack before the barriers preventing the rifle from being retrieved clunk out of the place. Elijah snatches the weapon on his way out of the vehicle.
Making his way into the building, Elijah scans the area slowly, surveying the insides for tactical significance as he idly chews away at his gum. He heads to the second floor, and sitting himself down carefully, not being quite as athletic as his partner after all, he places his back to the wall besides the window still seated. Reaching behind him, he retrieves and under barrel grenade launcher and starts to affix it to the rifle, and then after that, a tear gas grenade, sliding it down the barrel of the launcher. A little something to give the crowd a reason to disperse. He'll have to get Amber something nice to eat later to make up for it.
A flush-mounted screen flickers on the wall above Amber's cage, numbers scrolling in dull green text. $112. $164. $200. Then back up. No sound. Just a sterile rhythm of disappointment. Each bid is met with a soft blink, the amounts never breaking into four digits. No faces. No names. Just commerce. No buttons, no interface: nothing to touch. Just glass, steel, and indifference. Amber watches the numbers cycle again. $198. Then lower. $145. Shes not even worth a thousand.
The screen blinks once more. Final bid: $275. Confirmed. The numbers vanish. Amber's cage buzzes, filling with a gas that knocks her out, then clicks. A side panel hisses open, no warning. Footsteps echo down the corridor. Polished shoes, heavy coat, the man is tall, lean, dressed in tailored gray, a gold pin gleams on his lapel: a stylized fist. No words are exchanged, he offers no smile, only a nod toward the exit, as she is escorted out bound and blinded.
From the rooftop across the plaza, Elijah sees her, one guard, one buyer, clean line of sight, and no crowd yet. No noise, just the moment before chaos.
Amber was knocked out
Elijah doesn't waste time. As the cage is opened, he takes aim, and with a sharp /THONK/ the fist sized metal canister is lobbed through the air. The guard and and buyer would have only a few seconds to recognize what the sound of the metallic klinking on the ground might be before a heavy stream of smoke is spraying out of both sides of the grenade. Elijah follows up quick, aiming down his sights as he lays down short, controlled bursts towards the two of them. With sanctuary he was unlikely to kill either of them, but they'd both be in hospital for a while if they didn't run for cover ...
The grenade bounces once, then rolls to a stop beneath their feet. Hissing fills the hallway. Gas spills out in thick, blinding curtains. The Hand agent recoils, a sharp grunt muffled behind gloved hands as he stumbles back toward the stairwell. The Syndicate guard isnt so lucky: caught in the first burst, he crashes into a wall, clutching his face, eyes streaming.
Gunfire crackles. Bullets punch into marble and glass. One zips past the buyers coat, grazing his shoulder. He vanishes down a side passage, cloak trailing through the fog.
Amber doesn't move. Then, the coughing starts: wet, desperate, involuntary. Her body jerks once, then again, wracked by spasms. Her eyes open, but barely. Red. Blinded. Tears streak down soot-smeared cheeks as she claws at her throat, choking.
Boots hammer across tile. Elijah moves fast, lungs burning as the tear gas rolls into the stairwell behind him. Through the smoke, he sees her: small, curled on the floor, shivering. One arm loops under her legs, the other around her shoulders. Shes light. No more time, the building roars with alarms; Elijah bolts, vanishing into the smoke with his partner cradled in his arms.
Elijah appears to have been written for, so he does that I guess
He in fact does do that, as the scene is coming to a close, pose as if fleeing instead of a grand John-Wick wushu scene of bullets and bullshit!
Amber choking and coughing first she gets knocked out and the next a face full of tear gas, she is starting to regret being alive right "hack cough hrgh cough!?" well she thinks she is saved, she cant tell, tears are filling her eyes right now afterall.
Elijah is by no means a John Wick, he'll leave those kinds of antics to his partner. Instead he stays low to the ground, remains inside of the cloud of tear gas in order to keep cover, and hopes to high heaven his gas mask will protect him enough for his motor skills to not be impacted. Scooping Amber up, he makes his way back into the building, and then through the building towards the patrol vehicle, wordlessly throwing her into the passenger seat before sitting down into the driver's vehicle and rolling out, into public streets, where the syndicate would dare not chase him.
Leather squeaks beneath her as the seat cradles her limp form. The cab reeks of rubber, sweat, and the sharp bite of residual gas trapped in their clothes. Engine hum vibrates faintly through the floorboards, a low growl barely louder than her labored breaths.
Streetlights streak past the windshield, blurred halos of orange and white. Horns honk in the distance, distant and unbothered. Asphalt stretches ahead, smooth, cracked, real. Behind them, the sirens fade, swallowed by alleys and shadow.
Amber tastes salt, bile, smoke. Her lungs twitch with each breath, every inhale coated in ash and regret. Her hands tremble. Cold air from the vent cuts across her damp skin, carrying the scent of burnt fabric.
Tires hiss along the wet road. A breeze pushes through a cracked window, rustling papers tucked between the seats. Somewhere far off, gulls cry over the bay. A boat horn echoes. Sunlight, weak and rising, edges over the skyline. It warms the edges of the cruisers hood, spills across the dashboard in soft gold, the city wakes, the nightmare recedes, and no words: just motion, breath, and the road ahead.
Elijah, upon recovering, wastes no time and gears up for a rescue mission, embodying the archetype of a determined protector against the underworld's menaces. His preparation is meticulous, his resolve unwavering. Amber, meanwhile, is subjected to the cold efficiency of the syndicate's auction process, her dignity stripped as she's assessed and sold. However, clever and resourceful even in captivity, she does not resign to her fate easily. Elijah's daring rescue, enveloped in tear gas and gunfire, is a testament to his dedication and skill. The duo's escape is a narrow one, a harrowing flight through smoke and chaos that culminates in the relative safety of Elijah's patrol vehicle. As they flee the scene, leaving the terror behind, they are enveloped by the early morning's light, a symbolic emergence from darkness to dawn. The story concludes with Amber's painful recovery in motion, the nightmare receding in the rearview mirror as they drive into the day, a reminder of the resilience and unspoken bond shared between partners against the backdrop of a city waking up to a new day.
(Amber's odd encounter(SRSylas):SRSylas)
[Fri May 2 2025]
In A Chaotic, Orderly Living Room
The living room is the apex of this house's chaos. The longside wall on one side if dominated by a large, expensive looking TV, with scuffed edges as if it had been obtained second hand, and the other side is dominated from wall to wall by a overburdened series of bookshelves. The shortside wall, opposite the entry into the room, has a cork-board up on it, there's a bench-press bench underneath a squat rack pushed into the corner of the room, and the room center is strewn with lazboys, a leather massage chair, and exercise equipment left where it fell.
Exercise equipment aside, the chief chaos in this room was that the books did not remain contained to their booksheld. Piled up on the floor in front of the shelves, as if to be used as steps for someone shorter to reach the higher levels, books almost hid the floor around the bookshelves completely from sight. No other surface was left untouched either, the lazyboys, the bench press bench, and even the TV stand in front of the TV were all piled up with ungodly numbers of books
The corkboard at the far end of the room lay above a short work desk that bore a lamp that always pointed up at the board. There were more mundane things pinned on it, work schedules, and (obviously ignored) chore rotation, a recipe of some description. But, almost all of that was hidden by the sprawling expanse of printed photos arrayed across the board, the colored tacks that held them there, and the mess of red string weaved from one tack to another, indicating connections. The photos are numerous; a comely woman with blond hair and blue eyes, An aristocratic looking blond woman, a middle-aged man with weathered features, a ratty looking girl with trinkets in her hair, a nerdy redhead with cat-eye glasses, a pastel galway academian, a mousy, mild-mannered middle-aged man, a tanned, blonde, herculean brute, an able-bodied blond woman with sunkissed skin, a curvy lass with wide eyes and chestnut hair, a tall, athletic man with tan skin and blond hair, a young plump redheaded woman. All of them lay splayed across the board, half covered by the mess of red strands webbing over them.
It is morning, about 52F(11C) degrees,
(Your target has been abducted by the syndicate for potential sale offworld, they must escape or stall their abductors long enough for their allies to be able to come rescue them before the transaction can take place.
)
Elijah makes his way into the room, giving Amber a hearty clap across her ass as he makes his way past her "Heading on patrol, coming?" Elijah asks the woman in his usual stoic voice
Elijah makes his way into the room, giving Amber a hearty clap across her ass as he makes his way past her "Heading on patrol, coming?" Elijah asks the woman in his usual stoic voice
A low crack at the rear window, subtle but surgical, preceded the breach. The soft hum of a dampening field rolled through the chaotic room like a silent wave. The lights stayed on, but every sound, TV hum, clock tick, refrigerator rattle, vanished. Only the shallow breathing of those inside remained.
Two black-suited figures emerged from the darkness. Their movements were practiced, quick. No wasted steps. One brushed past the dumbbells and workout bench like a shadow made solid, weaving through scattered books without a sound. Another stepped directly onto a lazboy, barely disturbing the pile of paperbacks stacked across its armrest.
Elijah stirred too late, a needle jabbed his neck before the grunt could become a shout. Numbing cold spread down his spine, muscles locked, hed hit the floor with a dull thump, eyes wide but unblinking.
Amber preoccupied by whatever she was doing, reaching for a book, adjusting her duty uniform, rearranging her mountains of books was soon lifted from her feet mid-motion, a gloved hand clamped tight over her mouth. Her flailing struck a bookshelf, sending volumes crashing in slow, papery chaos.
The corkboard lights flickered once as the silent invaders scanned it. Package confirmed, one said through a throat mic, words clipped and sterile. A shimmer opened against the wall, thin, tall, ringed in green. A gateway, in seconds, they were gone, only falling books remained, like feathers dropped after the kill.
"sure, give me a moment" Amber pulls up her skirt and grabs her service pistol and badge "there i am ready" Amber said to Elijah
It'd take a few minutes for the toxins to purge from his body enough for him to move, thankfully he was quite large so there was a lot of blood flowing through him with which to dilute the poison. When he eventually gets the capability, Elijah slowly sits up with a sigh, rubbing his neck where he'd been needled and reaching for his radio "We've got an officer in enemy hands, suspected syndicate agents." Elijah glowers into the radio before clipping it back to his belt.
Getting to his feet he makes his way over to the corkboard on the room's far wall, and the table in front of it. He brushes away the few files that had been messily lay strewn across the desk to find the one he was looking for "Right then ..." Elijah mumbles as he lifts up the file labeled "Syndicate" and starts to leaf through it "Where would you have taken her to ..."
Amber was kidnapped...of all things, who would kidnap an orphan policewoman, she thinks deeply and ofcourse...the syndicate would love to nab someone as unimportant as her for low stakes abductions, this is pretty bad, what can she do right now, if they arent smart they would probably have disarmed her of everything she can use to escape right now, such as her service pistol.
The room feels wrong: the lights are too bright, flickering in a slow pulse that hums against his temples. His mouth tastes like copper and burnt plastic, the aftertaste of whatever cocktail had slammed him to the floor still lingering on his tongue. The air smells of ozone, sweat, and something oily, like gunmetal recently fired, and each breath drags in the grit of disturbed dust. someone
The corkboard is silent, but the photos twitch in the corners of someone blurred vision. Not movement, just the weight of absence: one figure missing, one connection severed. His phone vibrates. The buzz rattles against the tabletop, loud in the sterile quiet. A notification glows on the cracked screen: Syndicate Notice: Auction: Lot #003 | Status: Active | Location: Town Hall.
Amber is nowhere near, but she sees too much: white fluorescence cuts through slatted metal, her skin sticks to synthetic leather, something buzzes above her head: a vent, a light, a machine. Nearby, voices speak in low tones, languages blend, laughter scrapes the walls. Perfume, sweat, cologne, fear. The scent of predators gathered in a polished cage, no wind, no windows, just the sharp tang of formality and the slow approach of being priced.
The radio crackles. A dry voice cuts through: "Carrington, we read you. If its Syndicate, thats out of our hands. No jurisdiction, no support. You know how it works." A pause, static humming. "Only way you get her back is if you pay the price; no amount of paperwork can touch this. You want her out? You foot the bill." The transmission ends.
The room feels wrong: the lights are too bright, flickering in a slow pulse that hums against his temples. His mouth tastes like copper and burnt plastic, the aftertaste of whatever cocktail had slammed him to the floor still lingering on his tongue. The air smells of ozone, sweat, and something oily, like gunmetal recently fired, and each breath drags in the grit of disturbed dust.
The corkboard is silent, but the photos twitch in the corners of someone blurred vision. Not movement, just the weight of absence: one figure missing, one connection severed. His phone vibrates. The buzz rattles against the tabletop, loud in the sterile quiet. A notification glows on the cracked screen: Syndicate Notice: Auction: Lot #003 | Status: Active | Location: Town Hall.
Amber is nowhere near, but she sees too much: white fluorescence cuts through slatted metal, her skin sticks to synthetic leather, something buzzes above her head: a vent, a light, a machine. Nearby, voices speak in low tones, languages blend, laughter scrapes the walls. Perfume, sweat, cologne, fear. The scent of predators gathered in a polished cage, no wind, no windows, just the sharp tang of formality and the slow approach of being priced.
The radio crackles. A dry voice cuts through: "Carrington, we read you. If its Syndicate, thats out of our hands. No jurisdiction, no support. You know how it works." A pause, static humming. "Only way you get her back is if you pay the price; no amount of paperwork can touch this. You want her out? You foot the bill." The transmission ends.
The room feels wrong: the lights are too bright, flickering in a slow pulse that hums against his temples. His mouth tastes like copper and burnt plastic, the aftertaste of whatever cocktail had slammed him to the floor still lingering on his tongue. The air smells of ozone, sweat, and something oily, like gunmetal recently fired, and each breath drags in the grit of disturbed dust.
The corkboard is silent, but the photos twitch in the corners of Elijah's blurred vision. Not movement, just the weight of absence: one figure missing, one connection severed. His phone vibrates. The buzz rattles against the tabletop, loud in the sterile quiet. A notification glows on the cracked screen: Syndicate Notice: Auction: Lot #003 | Status: Active | Location: Town Hall.
Amber is nowhere near, but she sees too much: white fluorescence cuts through slatted metal, her skin sticks to synthetic leather, something buzzes above her head: a vent, a light, a machine. Nearby, voices speak in low tones, languages blend, laughter scrapes the walls. Perfume, sweat, cologne, fear. The scent of predators gathered in a polished cage, no wind, no windows, just the sharp tang of formality and the slow approach of being priced.
The radio crackles. A dry voice cuts through: "Carrington, we read you. If its Syndicate, thats out of our hands. No jurisdiction, no support. You know how it works." A pause, static humming. "Only way you get her back is if you pay the price; no amount of paperwork can touch this. You want her out? You foot the bill." The transmission ends.
Amber's belt is gone, stripped clean of her badge, gear, and sidearm. Her overloaded police rig: radio, cuffs, taser, pistol, all missing. Her glasses remain, but skewed. Her pockets are empty, seams checked and rechecked. Even her loafers have been inspected for hidden blades. They've left her with only her uniform shirt, skirt, and the weight of being watched.
"shit..." Amber mutters under her breath, she wanders aound in her cage briefly and looked at the vent and backing away for a moment ran to the wall and kicked herself off it up to the vent to grab it and see if she can just rattle it off and run from there or atleast find a way out of here, then again she has her doubts that this vent will lead her out if it even goes anywhere.
Elijah lets out a sigh as he gets the reply. "Alright, nothing for it then." Elijah responds, his hand removed from the radio so only he would be able to hear it as he makes his way through to the front door, walking slowly with a limp that was gradually walking off as he moved.
Steely faced, he makes his way to his Tahoe, opening up the boot to reveal his SWAT suit neatly laid out and prepared for just a moment like this. He knew he had at least a few minutes so the man makes sure his t's are crossed and his i's are dotted as he adjusts his straps and tugs the plating into optimal position. He's not done with just the ballistics armor either, tactical webbing is strapped to all four limbs, as well as over his front and back, pockets stuffed with tasers, extra clips, grenades, adrenaline shots, and all kinds of gadgets that might ruin a syndicate agents day.
Suited up, the boot door is closed with a heavy, padded, thud and he makes his way over to the driver's seat of the vehicle, stepping in and waking the engine up "Another day in paradise." Elijah grumbles under his breath as the car slowly rolls out ...
Metal tingles beneath Amber's fingers, then snaps: a jolt of electricity bites into her palm. It's not enough to knock her down, but enough to sting sharp, leaving her nerves buzzing and her teeth clenched. The vent hums low, now obviously live. The air behind it smells sterile, filtered, not fresh. No breeze. No promise. Just heat, wires, and a warning.
Elijah tablet buzzes against the dash as the Tahoe rumbles toward downtown. A blinking pin confirms the location: Town Hall, basement level. Syndicate shell auction, unregistered, temporary. A listed lot appears on-screen. #003 - Human Female, Olive, Petite, Unremarkable. Unmodified. Low Yield. Bidding was sluggish. Notes marked her as "submissive, nervous, likely clerical, not combat-useful." The price hadn't cracked four figures.
Elijah narrows his eyes, scans the side street map. One building across the square: a shuttered community center. Two floors, windows intact, north-facing view, rooftop access, brick exterior, and enough foliage for concealment. He pulls the wheel, turns hard into the alley, engine cuts.
Amber drops down and just nurses her stung palm "crap...bunch of bastards..." Amber is getting a little bit anxious but there isnt a point in giving up so early looking at the machine she wonders what is that for and again jumps up to it to inspect it, it is probably surveillance honestly, not that a machine can help her get out of her current predicament at the moment anyways.
Pulling into the building, Elijah does his best to park someplace where his brightly coloured patrol vehicle was not so noticeable. He pauses in his driver's seat, closing his eyes as he offers up a quick prayer as he always did before an operation, it was an act of habit, not desperation. Elijah was well aware of the risks involved with his occupation, but he'd been doing this far too long to still be getting spooked by them. His final act before leaving the car is to press his fob key to the rifle rack above his head on the car's upper dash, a small beep coming from the rack before the barriers preventing the rifle from being retrieved clunk out of the place. Elijah snatches the weapon on his way out of the vehicle.
Making his way into the building, Elijah scans the area slowly, surveying the insides for tactical significance as he idly chews away at his gum. He heads to the second floor, and sitting himself down carefully, not being quite as athletic as his partner after all, he places his back to the wall besides the window still seated. Reaching behind him, he retrieves and under barrel grenade launcher and starts to affix it to the rifle, and then after that, a tear gas grenade, sliding it down the barrel of the launcher. A little something to give the crowd a reason to disperse. He'll have to get Amber something nice to eat later to make up for it.
A flush-mounted screen flickers on the wall above Amber's cage, numbers scrolling in dull green text. $112. $164. $200. Then back up. No sound. Just a sterile rhythm of disappointment. Each bid is met with a soft blink, the amounts never breaking into four digits. No faces. No names. Just commerce. No buttons, no interface: nothing to touch. Just glass, steel, and indifference. Amber watches the numbers cycle again. $198. Then lower. $145. Shes not even worth a thousand.
The screen blinks once more. Final bid: $275. Confirmed. The numbers vanish. Amber's cage buzzes, filling with a gas that knocks her out, then clicks. A side panel hisses open, no warning. Footsteps echo down the corridor. Polished shoes, heavy coat, the man is tall, lean, dressed in tailored gray, a gold pin gleams on his lapel: a stylized fist. No words are exchanged, he offers no smile, only a nod toward the exit, as she is escorted out bound and blinded.
From the rooftop across the plaza, Elijah sees her, one guard, one buyer, clean line of sight, and no crowd yet. No noise, just the moment before chaos.
Amber was knocked out
Elijah doesn't waste time. As the cage is opened, he takes aim, and with a sharp /THONK/ the fist sized metal canister is lobbed through the air. The guard and and buyer would have only a few seconds to recognize what the sound of the metallic klinking on the ground might be before a heavy stream of smoke is spraying out of both sides of the grenade. Elijah follows up quick, aiming down his sights as he lays down short, controlled bursts towards the two of them. With sanctuary he was unlikely to kill either of them, but they'd both be in hospital for a while if they didn't run for cover ...
The grenade bounces once, then rolls to a stop beneath their feet. Hissing fills the hallway. Gas spills out in thick, blinding curtains. The Hand agent recoils, a sharp grunt muffled behind gloved hands as he stumbles back toward the stairwell. The Syndicate guard isnt so lucky: caught in the first burst, he crashes into a wall, clutching his face, eyes streaming.
Gunfire crackles. Bullets punch into marble and glass. One zips past the buyers coat, grazing his shoulder. He vanishes down a side passage, cloak trailing through the fog.
Amber doesn't move. Then, the coughing starts: wet, desperate, involuntary. Her body jerks once, then again, wracked by spasms. Her eyes open, but barely. Red. Blinded. Tears streak down soot-smeared cheeks as she claws at her throat, choking.
Boots hammer across tile. Elijah moves fast, lungs burning as the tear gas rolls into the stairwell behind him. Through the smoke, he sees her: small, curled on the floor, shivering. One arm loops under her legs, the other around her shoulders. Shes light. No more time, the building roars with alarms; Elijah bolts, vanishing into the smoke with his partner cradled in his arms.
Elijah appears to have been written for, so he does that I guess
He in fact does do that, as the scene is coming to a close, pose as if fleeing instead of a grand John-Wick wushu scene of bullets and bullshit!
Amber choking and coughing first she gets knocked out and the next a face full of tear gas, she is starting to regret being alive right "hack cough hrgh cough!?" well she thinks she is saved, she cant tell, tears are filling her eyes right now afterall.
Elijah is by no means a John Wick, he'll leave those kinds of antics to his partner. Instead he stays low to the ground, remains inside of the cloud of tear gas in order to keep cover, and hopes to high heaven his gas mask will protect him enough for his motor skills to not be impacted. Scooping Amber up, he makes his way back into the building, and then through the building towards the patrol vehicle, wordlessly throwing her into the passenger seat before sitting down into the driver's vehicle and rolling out, into public streets, where the syndicate would dare not chase him.
Leather squeaks beneath her as the seat cradles her limp form. The cab reeks of rubber, sweat, and the sharp bite of residual gas trapped in their clothes. Engine hum vibrates faintly through the floorboards, a low growl barely louder than her labored breaths.
Streetlights streak past the windshield, blurred halos of orange and white. Horns honk in the distance, distant and unbothered. Asphalt stretches ahead, smooth, cracked, real. Behind them, the sirens fade, swallowed by alleys and shadow.
Amber tastes salt, bile, smoke. Her lungs twitch with each breath, every inhale coated in ash and regret. Her hands tremble. Cold air from the vent cuts across her damp skin, carrying the scent of burnt fabric.
Tires hiss along the wet road. A breeze pushes through a cracked window, rustling papers tucked between the seats. Somewhere far off, gulls cry over the bay. A boat horn echoes. Sunlight, weak and rising, edges over the skyline. It warms the edges of the cruisers hood, spills across the dashboard in soft gold, the city wakes, the nightmare recedes, and no words: just motion, breath, and the road ahead.