The Scarman Enigma

[|Scarecrow|]

Starwood Hotel, Centre for Commerce, Floor 72

The elevator doors chimed and opened, and Kurt Manning stepped carefully onto the seventy second floor. He grimaced as he put weight on his left leg, a sharp pain from the bullet wound he had taken at ground level lancing across his body. By now, his entire leg was covered in a slick of blood. He had done his best to stem the bleeding, removing his much-loved leather coat and using the belt as a torniquet. It was holding, for now, but a thick black ooze was forming around the edges of the taught leather. The bullet had punched clean through, but Kurt suspected an artery had been struck, given the volume and colour of the blood. He didn’t have much time.

The space before him was relatively peaceful; the concourse at the elevator access point was devoid of any activity. Kurt readied his already loaded shotguns and moved cautiously forwards, his injury giving him a slight limp. The long corridor travelled in only one direction, as the elevator shafts were toward the front of the building. Behind Kurt, a wide panoramic window looked out toward the opposite row of skyscrapers. Far down below, the flashing blue and red lights of the local law enforcement seemed almost unreal.

Kurt advanced along the wide corridor, flanked by the doors of the other elevator shafts. At the end, an unoccupied desk sat inconspicuously awaiting the arrival of businesspeople and hotel guests. The elevator access area had hardly been touched at all by the chaos that surrounded the tower. From here, it was easy to imagine a situation where things were normal, as if a horde of pirates hadn’t descended on the city and hijacked the building. Kurt made his way past the desk and bore to the left, following the sound of muted voices.

Approaching the large set of double wooden doors, Kurt hefted his twin plasma shotguns; one in each hand. Step by step, he advanced, listening intently as he moved. He could make out two muffled voices, likely just on the other side of the door.
“The Tyrant has gone further upstairs; he had that red-haired woman with him.” The first voice spoke in a low tone.
“The man’s a lunatic. He’s gone further and further off the rails ever since he dragged us here. It might be time someone else took charge.” The second responded, taking a little less care in the masking of their voice.
“Maybe you’re right,” The first voice replied, “But who’s gonna’ take him on? Certainly not me. And not Raphael or Hawkins, those two are whipped.”

Kurt frowned. He spoke evenly so that his voice would be heard through the doors. “Shame. It’s a nice idea guys, it really is, but we don’t have time to orchestrate a coup from within.”
He then aimed his two shotguns at an approximation of the two Black Flag pirates through the door and unleashed furious plasma. The blat-blat of the shotguns shattered the relative peace, white-hot plasma shrapnel ripping the door panels to pieces and instantly lighting the dry wood on fire. Howls of pain sounded from beyond the threshold. Kurt smiled. Wallbang.

Gathering his courage and pushing the pain from his leg down as far as it would go, Kurt took a deep breath and lifted his right boot to the doors. His powerful kick brought the pair of them crashing open with a shower of flaming splinters. Kurt hammered his shotguns as he moved. As he stepped through the splintered doorway, he scanned for the next most dangerous targets. The room beyond had fallen into chaos, the gathered members of the Black Flag Corsairs scrambling for their weapons, or for better defensive positions. Kurt picked the next two nearest targets and opened fire.

Blat-blat. Blat-blat.
His shotguns screamed as they spat fire.
The first two Black Flag fell, then two more, and two more. Kurt barrelled into the room, catching the gathered pirates off guard. He hammered his guns between each devastating round of fire, swinging the shotguns in a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree wheel in the palms of his hands. The room was a large auditorium of some kind, its walls lined with inspirational quotes and the profile images of various company founders and accomplished heads of department. The eyes of the profile images stared sightlessly as the furious exchange of weapons fire began.

Kurt made for the nearest row of chairs for cover, moving as quickly as he could. His blood iced as a sharp stabbing pain cursed up and down his left leg. He almost stumbled, but he made it to the chair just as the enemy rallied. Projectile weapons fire opened up on him, reigning a mind-shattering volley of bullets into the rows of chairs ahead of him. The auditorium seats were light protection at best, and Kurt found himself forced into moving along the line to keep ahead of the onslaught. Behind him, bullets punched through the chairs, carving them to pieces in a mist of shredded plastic and material fibres.

Kurt’s leg complained again as he reached the end of the row and he dropped to one knee. Looking up briefly, he saw one of the pirates off to his left. The woman ducked down low and raised a long-barrelled rifle of some kind. The weapon shrieked as a bolt of laser energy tore from its muzzle and ripped into the seating Kurt was using for cover. The back of the chair exploded in Kurt’s face, temporarily blinding him. Simultaneously, the shotgun in his right hand was wrenched from his grip. He swore and spat, lowering himself as far as he could for cover and wiping his eyes with his now free hand. He squinted off in the direction of his lost shotgun. The weapon had been struck directly by the laser blast and had been sent skittering across the floor. He could just about see it through the moisture buildup in his eyes. It was damaged beyond repair, buckled in the barrel, and gently smouldering out in the open. Unretrievable. Kurt shifted his remaining shotgun to his right hand and blinked several times to remove the dampness.
“Asshole! I liked that gun!” He growled as he broke cover and returned fire.

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| S C A R E C R O W |

"See you space cowboy..."