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Sep. 11th, 2013 10:44 pmThe silence should be reassuring, but Frank's an old pro, and he can feel the silence is hanging in the air a little too thick tonight. It's charged, positively electric, and he just knows that something's about to happen. He can feel it in his bones.
Ah-- there it is. The familiar blare of the alarm as an intruder passed in the path of a security camera, the blast of the guns attached to the Security Bots. Frank had never liked those; he'd always been cynical of their effectiveness when compared to a human. Stick one of those robots in a town like Brockport: tell it to go drop by the mall parking lot and disperse the kids who were out after curfew; tell it to sober up the town drunk in a cell - but treat him kindly, after all jail's the warmest place he has to sleep; tell it to do a hundred tiny things that supported a community and made it keep ticking, gave it heart. Rapture wasn't like that, he thinks bitterly, for the millionth time since Mike had dragged him down here. Here he's just a body in a uniform, a faceless representation of the supreme authority of Andrew Ryan. Still, he could hardly expect a sense of community in a city full of determined individuals. Instead he'd had to create that feeling for himself, looking within his own home rather than the wider township he'd been so used to - it was the reason he'd ended up with so many kids.
As the noise of the alarm and the whirring of the bots subsides, Frank rounds the corner, one hand hovering over the handle of the pistol in his holster, expecting to find the bullet riddled corpse of the would-be thief in the center of the floor. Instead-- nothing. He glances round cautiously, and when he continues to see only shadows steps forward into the room, figuring that the body must be slumped in some dark corner. But as soon as he steps in view, the security alarm begins to blare again, and the bots head straight for him.
It's a trap. Son of a bitch spliced Security Bullseye.
The curse that escapes Frank's mouth is lost in the wailing of sirens, the volley of gunfire. He dives under a desk, then fans out his palm and hits the camera with Electrobolt, hating himself for having to resort to the plasmid even as the sparks fly from his fingers. The camera fizzles, and then the red light on it goes out. One down. The security bots circle above him, hovering just above the cover he's found, waiting for him to come out. He begins counting down the seconds in his head, knowing they'll go away after a set amount of time, glancing round the small part of the room he can see from where he's ducked down to see if he can pinpoint his assailant. For a few long seconds he stares into the darkness, but then -- there! -- he sees the flicker of flame in the shadows before him. He realises what's happening just in the nick of time, rolling out from his hiding place just before the desk bursts into flame, charging forward and barrelling straight into the man, sending them both crashing into the wall. He's taller than Frank, thinner, gaunter, face riddled with tumours. Frank's face falls, sorrow washing over him as he regards the splicer, sees once again what men twist themselves into here. That doesn't stop him from raising the gun to the man's temple. He knows he'll be killed himself if he doesn't put an end to this now.
His brother's face flashes in front of him as he pulls the trigger.
Ah-- there it is. The familiar blare of the alarm as an intruder passed in the path of a security camera, the blast of the guns attached to the Security Bots. Frank had never liked those; he'd always been cynical of their effectiveness when compared to a human. Stick one of those robots in a town like Brockport: tell it to go drop by the mall parking lot and disperse the kids who were out after curfew; tell it to sober up the town drunk in a cell - but treat him kindly, after all jail's the warmest place he has to sleep; tell it to do a hundred tiny things that supported a community and made it keep ticking, gave it heart. Rapture wasn't like that, he thinks bitterly, for the millionth time since Mike had dragged him down here. Here he's just a body in a uniform, a faceless representation of the supreme authority of Andrew Ryan. Still, he could hardly expect a sense of community in a city full of determined individuals. Instead he'd had to create that feeling for himself, looking within his own home rather than the wider township he'd been so used to - it was the reason he'd ended up with so many kids.
As the noise of the alarm and the whirring of the bots subsides, Frank rounds the corner, one hand hovering over the handle of the pistol in his holster, expecting to find the bullet riddled corpse of the would-be thief in the center of the floor. Instead-- nothing. He glances round cautiously, and when he continues to see only shadows steps forward into the room, figuring that the body must be slumped in some dark corner. But as soon as he steps in view, the security alarm begins to blare again, and the bots head straight for him.
It's a trap. Son of a bitch spliced Security Bullseye.
The curse that escapes Frank's mouth is lost in the wailing of sirens, the volley of gunfire. He dives under a desk, then fans out his palm and hits the camera with Electrobolt, hating himself for having to resort to the plasmid even as the sparks fly from his fingers. The camera fizzles, and then the red light on it goes out. One down. The security bots circle above him, hovering just above the cover he's found, waiting for him to come out. He begins counting down the seconds in his head, knowing they'll go away after a set amount of time, glancing round the small part of the room he can see from where he's ducked down to see if he can pinpoint his assailant. For a few long seconds he stares into the darkness, but then -- there! -- he sees the flicker of flame in the shadows before him. He realises what's happening just in the nick of time, rolling out from his hiding place just before the desk bursts into flame, charging forward and barrelling straight into the man, sending them both crashing into the wall. He's taller than Frank, thinner, gaunter, face riddled with tumours. Frank's face falls, sorrow washing over him as he regards the splicer, sees once again what men twist themselves into here. That doesn't stop him from raising the gun to the man's temple. He knows he'll be killed himself if he doesn't put an end to this now.
His brother's face flashes in front of him as he pulls the trigger.
