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Joined: 12 Dec 2007
Posts: 9

PostPosted: Tue May 06, 2008 4:07 am Reply with quoteBack to top

James could hear the bullet slide into the revolver through the wall.

Russian Roulette, the game of chance, they thought they were playing. Mercenaries. Bored. They'd been stationed there to watch for pirates for the past six months, and hadn't seen a thing. A game of chance, well. James Frost could hear, from his position hanging on the side of the ship, over the lapping waves and the faint caress of the breeze, the exact position of the bullet as it spun. And then it stopped with a 'chink'. Poor bastard, the bullet was chambered. 'Some game of chance,' James reflected as the men chattered and encouraged the man with the pistol, 'Luck is only an inability to comprehend the variables.' Moments now until they pull the trigger. The bullet was going to be fired.

"Poor bastard." BAM. James used the cover of the gunshot and the resulting mercenary reaction to climb up onto the boat and slide his Colt Anaconda from its water-proof case, loading it with his back pressed to the outer wall of the cabin. Just above his head, a window offers a glimpse into a room with the four mercenaries in shock, standing over the corpse of their not so fortunate friend. James flipped his own revolver shut and slid up from the deck, a wet suit concealing his features as he slowly took aim. Breathe in, breathe out, hold. Steady. Steady.

He only had to fire two bullets. The rest of the ship knew the mercenaries on duty were playing Russian Roulette, they wouldn't come check until morning, and then it would be written off as an accident. He'd been watching this particular crew for the past month, making note of their shifts during the evening. They were grouped up, and the .44 rounds ripped right through them. Shooting fish in a barrel.

Pulling out his flashlight, James turned around towards the dark sea and flicked a signal on and off a few times. To his finely tuned ears, augmented even further by his vampiric state, he could hear the dull hum of an engine as it started up. His ship was coming.

The smuggling vessel began to make its approach, and James Frost wasted no time. Sprinting across the deck like a shadow fleeing from the sun, he races up the ladder to the crows nest near silently. The last thing the man feels is a revolver barrel being shoved against the back of his skull. Bam.

The crew was getting restless. He couldn't just feel it, he could actually hear them through the layers of metal." What were those fuckers doing?" "Shooting the place up?" "Had one of them died?" "Gun malfunction?" "A scuffle?" "Pirates?"

Far worse, my friends. Far worse. He could hear and feel his vessel accelerating to ramming speed through the swaying of the ship underneath him. The metal thrummed very faintly with the sound of the other approaching engine. Why?

Ships designed to police against smugglers usually have nice guns. Nice guns means extra profit. Sucks to be them.

They made it to their designated cove long before dawn. 'Nother day of work. He could do this job for eternity. Matter of fact..
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