Burn The City, Burn The World

The snow was falling heavily, coating the tall buildings in a suffocating blanket of bright white splendor. However, there was little to suggest that the city was alive, save for the lights filtering through drawn curtains in an attempt to stave off the chill in the air. Despite the poor conditions, there was a group of individuals moving like a pool of bodies, weaving between warehouses and shipping containers.

Dressed in a ragtag assortment of supposedly intimidating clothing, the only consistent article being the extravagant top-hats, occasionally knives, bats, guns and various other weapons, both legal and illegal shift from pocket to pocket or exchanges hands. As this procession reaches a central open area, another congregation emerges from a shipping manifests office. They are dressed in waterproof gear with antique gas masks completely obscuring their faces.

Meeting in the middle, both parties stop as though waiting for a signal. Eventually, a voice breaks the tense silence. "Well, now that it seems all the players are here, we can begin." From an alley between two warehouses, a figure dressed in an open black biker jacket with a black tee emblazoned with a red depiction of the anarchy symbol saunters out. His leather bondage pants creak and his well-heeled combat boots clink with various straps and buckles.

After an expectant pause, one of the masked men speaks. "We came at your request. Now, would you kindly tell us what this is about?"

The cocky biker grins. "Sure. You're here because neither one of you has made any sort of progress with regards to the other." He turns to look at the obvious leader of the so-called 'Hatter' gang. "I know you said you'd rather die than work with some scum-sucking snorkeler with an unhealthy animal fetish." He then faces the leader of the purported 'Whaler' group. "I am also aware of your desire to not cooperate with, as you so emphatically stated, a bunch of frilly ponces who secretly take it up the ass every opportunity. But I think we can work past such disagreements, don't you?"

There's rumblings of anger and discontent that steadily pass among the rank-and-file from both sides. Turning, the respective leaders try and quell the bubbling maelstrom that threatens to blow out of control. Grinning, the figure vanishes. Satisfied for the time being, they turn back, only to be staring at each other. Unsure of what to do, there's a tense shifting before a voice from near the back of the 'Hatter' organization yells out.

"We ain't working with no whale-fuckers!" A bottle with a flaming rag is tossed over their heads, sailing to explode at the feet of the masked leader who vanishes and reappears closer to his men. His gloved fist comes up, a clear sign for them to make no moves. The tension becomes even more pronounced through this momentary silence before a voice spoken through a mask filter exclaims. "They tried to kill Dueth! Death to the Hatters!"

There's a whistling as a tiny bolt projectile is sent sailing over the leaders shoulder, and, with a dull thud, buries itself into the extravagantly dressed leaders throat. He goes down gurgling. A moment of shocked silence before a collective roar escapes and the first group charges. Weapons drawn and there's the sound of gunfire. The other collection draw their razor-thin swords and start vanishing as miniature crossbow bolts start flying through the air.

As the bodies start falling from both sides, the first voice calls out again. "Quick! To the city! Someone get the word out! The whale-fuckers have declared war!" A small contingent breaks off, making their way towards the city centre. They're quickly pursued by a posse of the masked men in similar numbers. The retort of guns and the whistles and clattering of bolts flying and hitting walls fades away from the docks where it first began.

Running with the pursuing individuals, his smile masked by the headgear, the biker grins. Pivoting, he fires off a quiver from the wrist-mounted, hand-sized crossbow into an empty window and calls out. "The buildings! They're taking cover inside! Burn them out!" Unclasping a hexagonal cylinder from the belt of the waterproof gear he's wearing, the biker hurls it into another window. There's a satisfying boom followed by screams as flaming bodies hurl out into the cold air.

Falling back a little, the biker looks around before vanishing. He reappears on the top of an aerial situated on one of the buildings, watching the chaos unfold beneath him. His biker jacket flaps in the wind. There's the distant sounds of explosions, screams, and gunfire. A lot of the buildings are now belching fire out of the shattered panes of glass. Pulling a cigarette from his jacket pocket, he puts it between his lips.

Snapping his fingers, a flame erupts from his forefinger. Using it to light the smoke, he shakes his hand off and it snuffs out. "Well," he muses to no one in particular. "this is the prettiest sight I have ever seen. Much better than all that filthy white snow all over the place. I could just watch it burn."