I'm the one and only king, baby
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Jun 10, 2016 15:14:59 GMT
Post by MIDAS on Jun 10, 2016 15:14:59 GMT
 Missions in Arkham was never nice. The placed reeked of despair, simply setting foot on the place gives you a different feeling you won't be able to explain. As if depression made the air you breathe around the place.
He just finished battling a superhuman druglord and was another successful mission, he was then off to report his success to the initiative. Not that they needed any report anyway, the news had it all covered for them. As always, his main method of transportation was by foot. He ran, ran as fast as an ordinary car. He can run for miles without end, it was no hassle at all having running as his main method of transport as Midas.
But as he was on his way, he heard gunshots. Aldrich didn't want to bother, it was common for people on Arkham to get in all sorts of trouble. But something felt really wrong, he never felt this way before, as if he can't stop thinking of the gunshot. Ah, what the heck. He might as well check it just for the heck of it. If someone's dead due to that gunshot then he's not to blame. He'll just carry the corpse, if any, over to the morgue or something.
jack
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Jun 10, 2016 16:09:31 GMT
Post by jack on Jun 10, 2016 16:09:31 GMT
Contrary to popular belief, Arkham was perfectly inhabitable if one happened to be one of its citizens. Sure, it wasn't glitzy and glamorous like Old Town, and neither was it elite like Dunwich. For some, it was home. It was the only place they could call home, and boy, were they determined to do whatever it was to make sure they were the ones who had power in their hands.
Sometimes, it involved dragging kids into trouble. Kids like Jack.
Being a kid who hung out with mafia members meant all sorts of connotations, and people pushed to the brink of desperation (and not just in Arkham, Jack thought to himself grimly), did things they wouldn't do normally. Like bring out the guns. Have them pointed at a kid's head and threaten to blast his brains out if he didn't work his 'connections' to loosen the noose around their necks.
'Can't do shit about it,' Jack had insisted, but he might as well have been talking to air. That was a cut across his upper arm. He insisted again, and shots were fired. Next time, that was going to hit him.
Jack had laughed. He was still laughing, showing his teeth as if they were fangs, as he ran out from the alley with people hot on his trail. He vaulted over a low fence, his gait steady and smooth from practice. His arm no longer hurt; it had healed almost instantaneously, but Jack wasn't thinking about why it had healed.
More importantly, he needed to get away.
MIDAS
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