The Getaway Slivers of the Past, a misc. games fanfic

Note: It's actually been too long since I played the Getaway (haven't played Black Monday at all yet) and I can't remember that much. That's why I was originally planning to just use the environment of the Getaway, but then I got writing (It's already Wednesday night and I've written 5 lines xD) and well, it just developed that way Oo I really wanted to recreate the atmosphere (no other game has come close to getting such a perfect environment) but meh...

This contains no real spoilers - the ending is before the start of the game.

(The street-name is completely fictional )

The Getaway - A sliver of the past

Blood splattered across the wall. As more punches were dealt, the boy being flung around like a doll between the aggressors, the white stone turned crimson, and as if the room itself was taunting him, the crimson liquid painted a grotesque face with a grin on its lips. Another soul for the fiery pits. Stretch your arms and the soul is yours, it could've been thinking. If this demon existed - whether he did not because of some divine intervention, or because he could see the future in the brown eyes, a bright red glowing deep within, no one knew. But the outcome was clear even as the face began to melt away, even before the reign of bloodied knuckles against a broken nose and crushed jawbone had ended, even before they left him to drown in his own blood. Charlie Jolson will not die today.

Pulled from the memories of a youth bound with innocence by the mellow click of a hammer cocked, Charlie's face was wrapped in wisps of smoke. It couldn't contain the glimmer in his eyes, nor hide the set of yellowing teeth displayed in a grin. The sound triggered something more than the gun. A shiver of pleasure running down the decaying body, wrinkled and frail from years of smoking and mistreat.

Satisfaction. It was the only word that could describe it. Violence was like a drug that had coursed through his body throughout all these years. What had started as a rush was now essential. Those who didn't know him called him a monster. So did the ones that did. Some said that he was the Devil himself, some said that he had a demon by his side. And perhaps they were right, but it was of no consequence. What Charlie Jolson was, was the Kingpin. The man who unquestionably should rule London. He was the one with the talent, the power, the past.

The hammer flung back down, igniting the gunpowder and the bullet went through the chamber. As the bullet left the pipe, the power behind it snapped back, and the recoil pushed the hand and arm high in the air. But it didn't stop there. Through the tip of his fingers, along the veins in his hand and arm, following the bloodstream throughout his body.

It's true what they say, he thought as he exhaled deeply, his grin splitting his face in two, Life is the best drug.

"Remember me?" Charlie said, shaking fingers behind his back, trailing the waistband. Feeling the touch of cool metal eased the steel-claw like grip around his neck that disabled his every movement. The power that had faded with every syllable was rejuvenated. "Remember me?"

The four in the alley in front of him was but a few years older than him, but it might as well have been a lifetime. Eyes as coloured stones, what they had witnessed had turned the liquid surface into a rocky wasteland, devoid of life and humanity. Movements that were not a professional's, but nonetheless belonging to a body that had stolen life.

"Little Charlie Jolson, back for another round? I must say that I - no- we are amazed that you are still alive." French's accent was thick, tearing, as if someone were clawing at a blackboard. It annoyed Charlie greatly. More for every word he spoke.

"It was quite a beating you got all those weeks ago. And all that pain just to protect your girl. A real knight in shining armour. But alas, my dear Charlie-boy, your armour was of tin, and the big bad ogres had their way with the wench despite your noble attempts." The voice burned in his ear, igniting a spark in his heart and a black flame begun to rise in unison with French's laughter. "Do you remember, Charlie-boy? She begged for you, cried for you. Even between her muffled groans as we all fucked her arse, over and over again! Hah, I bet that bitch loved it." The three that had stood silent and grinning burst out laughing.

The walls around Charlie caught fire, the black flames licking the bricks as if they were drenched with oil. It wasn't long before the whole world had turned to ash, and from the ashes Nothing rose. All that existed was himself, French and his friends, and the cold metal his hand was rubbing intently, afraid that it'd vanish if he stopped.

"But my most favourite part -" French stopped to dry his eyes, still chuckling-" was how she begged for her life. I've never taken greater pleasure in anything before."

Finally. It was such a relief. The sound of French's voice had been ear-piercing. And ironically, it was drowned by something that was soundless. For a brief instant, a voice in his head asked him if this was the right thing to do, but something greater overpowered him, a voice that didn't even seem to belong to him, urging him to go on. This was the cornerstone to his future...

A rush unlike anything he had ever felt before. The first kiss, first time he had had sex - trivial compared to the pleasure that surged through him. A broad smile was on his lips as he watched life withering away, seeping out through the cracks forming in the craggy pools. French's eyes closed and he fell to his knees, still staring at Charlie with disbelief written in his pale face.

But Charlie had already diverted his attention to French's former gang. They were on their knees, begging him to spare them just like the fluttering fragments of his memory told him that Monica had. But the fragments vanished like wisps of smoke, and he was left with the guttural voice in his head. What was revenge, when he could have power?

"Get up, you fools."

The Collins boy had given him all he needed to set his plan into motion. Charlie sat down in his chair and pulled out another cigar. Seeing the crimson on his hand he reached for a tissue but stopped halfway. The coagulating liquid was always a nice reminder. Instead, he reached for the phone, kicked the round number-pad in motion with a flicking finger.

"Eyebrows? Wallton Street 24A. Bring Yasmin. I don't want any fucking screw-ups, you hear me! Get me Hammond's bitch and kid!"

Unfortunately, I don't think the repetition of the gun-paragraph works with the piece being the size it is. But oh well (: There's also the matter of the ending being rushed, but I always do that. At one point, I'm going to fix it.

For those of you that has read it, I'm not looking for "good" "bad" "blahblah". If you do give me a comment, write me something constructive so I can improve.