Pulp
Even in a new world, old faces can be found. Booker DeWitt, private eye, is hired by the government of the Republic of Columbia to track down a mysterious assassin linked to the growing Vox Populi movement, led by Daisy Fitzroy. However, when he meets an agent of a resistance separate from either side, his life is changed forever...
A love letter of sorts to the grindhouse genre, this tale combines aspects of noir, thriller, and steampunk stories into one bloody good tale.
Rated M for brutal, graphic violence, mild sexual content, and language.
Chapter One: A Man and a Gun
If his reaction time had been but a fraction of a second slower, he would have been dead. The man charged him with the cry of a banshee, brandishing a lead pipe in one hand, a revolver in the other. After about three strides, the first of crack a gunshot was heard, though it did not come from the attacker, but rather, the would-be victim. The bullet slammed into the man's shoulder, tearing through his red shirt and blowing out the far end of his torso in a cloud of blood and fragmented bone, sending his body flying back onto the street, gun-arm now detached. It, along with his weapon, landed a few feet beside the man's now writhing, supine form.
Booker Dewitt slowly strode toward his now-docile attacker, his hand cannon still outstretched, poised to fire again. Appearing to take no heed of the man's agonized screams, he knelt down next to him, the gun's still-hot barrel now pressing against his tear-stained cheek. The blood flowing from the remnants of his shoulder had not yet abated, and it ran into the ground, forming in rivulets between the cobblestones, and creeping across his red clothing, staining it a deeper shade of maroon.
Damn Vox.
"Well?" Booker grunted, pressing his weapon harder into the side of his attacker's face, "What does the Vox Populi want with little old me, huh?"
The man did not respond at first, and then a maniacal smile slowly spread across his features. A small chuckle escaped from his lips, and slowly grew into a full-on laugh. "G-go to hell." He coughed, red trickling from the corners of his mouth. With that, Booker pulled the trigger.
A geyser of blood and brain matter exploded skywards, splattering Booker's suit red. For a moment, he just stood there, over the corpse, breathing heavily. Then, he averted his gaze away from the gristly scene, and looked around. The streets were silent, except for the constant lapping of the waves against the docks. For all the quiet though, Booker knew, the city of Columbia never slept. Someone had to have heard the gunshots, and the police, or perhaps more of the Vox would be coming. Without looking back, he turned and ran. It took a few blocks before he saw people again, a group of couples gathered at a dockside cafe. Ducking into an alley, he removed his jacket, and did his best to wipe away as much of the blood as he could. The sun had already set, and the darkness would partially obscure the scarlet stains covering his face, as long as he avoided going near streetlights. He returned to the main road, inconspicuously passing the group, turned a corner, and soon entered the busy market district, vanishing like a specter into the buzzing, moving crowd.
He deftly navigated through the crowd with practiced casualty, and made his way towards a building at the far end of the square. As he reached the doorstep, he gazed skywards, studying the building. The rent was cheap and the rooms were clean, but for some reason, very few people resided within.
The door was slightly ajar, and Booker simply shouldered through, into the warm light of the building's foyer. It was quiet, apart from the crackling of the fire. Dewitt glanced towards the receptionist's desk, which was empty.
That's odd. Thought Booker. The almost painfully cheerful secretary, Christabel, was usually at hand to greet him, optimism radiating from her like some sort of emotional sun. Today though, the lack of her presence was... Unsettling. He approached the desk, and when no less than five paces away, paused.
Jesus Christ.
Obscured by the front of the table was Christabel, her once light-blue uniform now soaked dark red. A bloodied pulp was all that remained of the woman's face, now spread twice as wide and half as thick. It took a moment for him to recover from the shock, but Dewitt was a detective, and his training soon took hold. Looking around, he searched for a cause, a hint, anything. Yet, there was nothing. Her corpse was the only thing out of place, a stain on an otherwise pure-white canvas. A phone stood on the desk, and Booker reached for it, and dialed for the police. However, no sound came forth, no ringing, no voices. The line must have been cut.
Damn.
He had to contact the authorities. Now that this phone was useless, the closest one was... In his room. Instinctively, he withdrew his pistol, turned on his heel, and sprinted down the hallway which led to his room. The signs outside each apartment flashed by.
Room one.
Room two.
Room three.
Room four.
Room five.
Room six.
Room seven.
Room eight.
Room nine.
Without hesitation, he unlocked the deadbolt, and burst through the door, gun at the ready. A man, to Booker's surprise, was already in his room. Metal flashed through the air, visible for only a moment, and Booker felt a searing pain in his hand as a small crossbow bolt slammed straight through it, ripping a hole in his hand and embedding itself into the wall opposite to him. A scream escaped from his lips and he collapsed to the ground, doubled over in pain.
"Hello, Mr. Dewitt." The simulacrum said, smiling.
Review responses:
1. T. Alana M: Thanks for the great advice! I will make sure to follow your advice in the future.
2. Guest: Thanks to you as well. I will endeavor to limit my bitching, and I hope I did not irritate to the point of you not wishing to continue.