“Zeventeen.” she said, or rather declared while seemingly nonchalantly sweeping her snow white hair. Under the surface though, a more aware person could see every move this woman did was carefully planned. Cold and calculating as her hair colour implied, she was attempting to grab dominance over the situation with every ounce of her body.
This did not go unnoticed by her bargaining adversary. One’s senses grow naturally more reactive in chaotic, survivalist environments like this 20th century London had turned into due dirty bomb attacks a few years backwards. “And twenty thousand was my latest offer, missy. You can’t imagine the amount of work, filler rod’n’nailpolish was invested on tinkering this armament”, girl, no, another woman in her early 20’s said imbued with such thick accent it was clear as day she had spent her childhood in this now war riddled city.
White haired woman continued with her confusing accent. Russian? Eastern European? It was hard to tell, as if she kept changing it on fly even in middle of sentences. These were the passing thoughts about the origins of her partner-in-trade this young woman, sitting opposite of her at the rugged wooden table scrapped from lord knows where to this abandoned naval warehouse now used as a temporary base for a band of mercenaries, while most of her focus was on the surroundings and actual bargain that was going on.
“Ve agreed on this earlier. I had the produkt, but no time nor ze knowledge to intensify it for more…versatile… form to be used on ze field. And do not lie to me, zis arrangement vas valuable for both of us.”
Momentary impression of getting caught could be noticed for a split second on the face of the welder mask wielding Londoner, before she managed to hide it under the same confidence with a spice of restlessness that seemed to be her natural trait: “Oi missy, I sure would’ve figured out life form detecting assets on my explosive arsenal soon enough anyway.”
She tried to keep all the cards on her hand, despite knowing the fact this cutting-edge tech this mysterious woman had brought to her workshop a few months ago had indeed helped her with the problem she had had with her own armament. Infantry mines she used to delay and damage unaware opposition, had to be extremely carefully used and documented for her squad mates to avoid…unfortunate…accidents. Medical tech lying between women on the table somehow distinguished between organic tissue and inorganic substances; heck it even could be set to repair cellular forms consisting of certain DNA and damage all others at will. Getting her hands on such tech had allowed her mines to detect mercenaries she was working with and only unload on any other poor life form that happened to trespass them. Impressive technology indeed.
“All in all I av done what you requested, amped the power up so it now burns through flesh’n’tissue whenever user wishes to. Fair to say such feat wouldn’t be achieved on a day, making my demand for, let’s say nineteen thousand, a nice offer towards your side. Speaking of you, where the bloody earth did you steal thi…”
Discussion between them was interrupted by quite a many loud noises appearing almost simultaneously. Ones induced by inanimate objects consisted of fighter jet low-gliding above them, followed by sharp whistling sounds of unloaded aerial bombing. Who was responsible of the man-made noises added into the mix, was standing at just a moment ago intact doorway. Despite both women being at the edge of their focus now that immediate threat was possibly approaching from air, it did not stop them from noticing how the force used to smash poor door open would’ve sent said piece of wooden garment into lunar orbit, let the wall not stop it to its launchpad. Huge man standing tall at above 2 meters in length, covering most of the lower part of his face in a collar, addressed them with a voice that surely wasn’t going to be seconded by kilotons of explosives flying in the air.
“AIRSTRIKE CALAMITY INBOUND LADIES! OUT of the CONSTRUCTION, into COVER, DA!"
“I swear Thunder, some day your shouting will shatter my eardrums into millions of lil’ pieces…”
Just a short-story that’s idea I came up with a while ago, and after enough of melon-co-holic beverages being consumed was able to produce in a form that I was willing to put up there to be criticed (no, really, do so, I’m still baffled how the bloody hell to write London-like accent) and given thoughts of. What we’re given from Mercenary bio’s and such backstory is just that Proxy did indeed make Sparks’s Revivr what is now, but exact story…well, my imagination of it is above. Hope you enjoyed!
