The Welcoming Committee~

Previously on... The Welcoming Committe~

"We don't need anymore of your type..." was the beginning of a train of words that meant less and less to her as she started fade; consciousness slipping from her beaten and bruised body as mind reeled into the past.

~Three Hours Earlier~

Thunder cracked with a flare of lightning overhead the streets of San Paro; its citizens running amok for cover, but not from the usual storm of bullets. The night had swelled with blackened clouds, blotting out the stars as it sweltered with a hard, cold rain. A cat-and-dog weather that encouraged the innocent and the wicked alike to take shelter in the many rundown establishments nearby. One little pub in particular was stuffed full of the criminally insane and those who just wanted to make it by another day... the poor girl being a part of the latter. Despite efforts to remain unnoticed, white locks of lush hair contrasting with natural-mocha flesh did plenty to garner the attention of undesirables, and none of it helped being wrapped about a curvaceous frame crafted by nature to have all the right curves, catching any unwanted wanton eyes. With little more than a clear raincoat to hide her crop-top and jean-clad hide, the best she could was hope to avoid causing a ruckus.

Though what encouraged her to hide might not have been obvious fear a few others displayed around the typical tattoo-bearing thug. No, it was the price on her head she'd carried over from city to city that had thrown this woman into such ambiguous state of being. It was unfortunate she'd never considered San Paro to, perhaps, be the wrong place to hide. It was because of such lack of consideration she hadn't been prepared, or even aware of the city's condition until now. Behind her, a noise caught her attention... with slender frame prying itself from the counter she once so delicately leaned upon, she twisted around to answer, with eyes only, the soft cry: a meager plead for help. Before her very eyes a hardened thug, desert scar around his neck to partially conceal the many tattoos that no doubt ran down from his neck to attach to the tribal spirals on his arms, was harassing a rather meek young woman. A woman who's comely features and amiable appeal attracted more than the eye from the White-haired gal sitting at the counter. When the man began to get rough, growling down into her ear, Malise got a bit confrontational- her first mistake of the night.

"Look here, Bub. How about you lay off the young woman before someone gets upset and causes trouble in this fine establishment?" Her tone was as non-threatening as possible, but that only brought a wide, sadistic grin from the man. Though his attention has been torn from the weaker woman he'd been harassing, it was now, unfortunately, upon Malise. "Trouble...?" he repeats the word with hands going out as if he'd been questioned, "Who in this fine establishment would cause such trouble around a..." he bites his bottom lip, looking her over and making the girl suddenly quite uncomfortable. "Around such a sweet little treat like you?" He finishes, taking a step closer to her- before reeling back with a cry of pain. Blood gushed from his nose, Malise having brought her fist around in a crushing blow moment prior, before throwing her knee up into the hunched-over man's stomach. When he fell to his knees, she glared down upon him, spitting out "Don't call me girl, girl." Insult to the injury, and maybe a little salt to her. She wasn't one for being lewd and spewing out obscenities, so while it may have seemed tame to others, to her it was a humiliating defeat for the poor sod on his knees.

Well, poor Sod until she noticed the badge lying on the floor. A cry brought her attention again, eyes lifting straight up towards a table of men and women, whom had stood up and produced a handful of weapons. All pointed at her. "Run!" The meek woman cried out, sprinting away- and without much thought put into it, it's all she could do. Turning about just in time and dashing towards a nearby door, a hail of bullets followed, barking at her from behind as they collided with the molding, splintering the wood around her, but leaving her ultimately unscathed. After triumphing a flight of stairs, she was on her way through the halls of a very small apartment complex above the bar below; the thugs on her tail in hot pursuit. All the while questions began running through her mind; thoughts trying to bring logic to why a thug would have had a badge- why, if they were cops, they lacked uniforms and just open fired on her like that. There hadn't even been a verbal warning! Those same thoughts, however, distracted her from her goal - leaving her oblivious to the shadow of a man that hid around the corner.

Barely having time to gasp, an armored woman spun about, into the hall, and Malise's face collided with the butt of a rifle. She was seeing stars as she fell onto her back, still clinging to consciousness, and as she started to roll over and push herself up, she felt a pinch upon her butt. About to consider how inappropriate it was for anyone to be taking the time to pinch someone's ass, she suddenly went stiff, bleating out in pain as sparks ripped through her form from toe to top. Like that, she was down, unmoving, breathing ragged.. and soon, in cuffs in the back of a colorful car marked with C.S.A Enforcers. That's about the time the wheel-man started having a chat with her, despite she was barely listening. Confused and dazed, she came to again- escaping the flashback only to spy the blaring headlights of a massive armored truck to her left. Thankfully she was in the right hand, rear-passenger side. However, she also wasn't wearing a seat belt. When the car rolled, she tumbled inside, shoulder heard snapping and metal screeching out in deafening tones. Pain by now had become an abstract compared to the blurred world around her; eyes weren't making sense of things. She saw figured moving, as if they were walking on the ceiling and opening doors... and then she could barely feel herself being dragged out, carried by two, one who barked out something about blood and her eyes.

Where are am I going...? Was the last thought to run through her mind before she slipped into unconsciousness, eyes barely catching a drop of blood spilling towards the rain-soaked asphalt below, only to be washed away... perhaps like the past she once lived. Her new life in San Paro was just beginning.

To be Continued...

( Open Role-play! )

(I totally will wait until I'm sober to reply to this.)

((OOC: Wasn't sure if those two figures were specific people you had in mind or not... :/ Let me know if I need to change anything! ))

"Well ain't dis jus' great. Jus' mudder-fuckin' great!" The wheels of the armored car squealed in protest as they took another hard right on the rain covered street. Leaning back out the window, N-Tec's bark mingled with the wailing siren of the enforcer charger behind them. Sparks flew as the bullets ripped through the hood and windshield, causing the pursuing vehicle to swerve dangerously across the road, but the driver managed to regain control. A moment later and the N-Tec's fire was returned.

The green mohawk-topped man cursed as bullets rained against the side of the armored car, forcing him to duck back inside. "Ya jus' had ta kill da fuck, didn't ya? Couldn't jus' let us leave wit' da damn cash!"

"I says I was sorry!" The shaved-headed driver snapped back as he kicked the break and sent them expertly sliding around a civilian sedan, missing the lucky sap by mere inches. "But dat piece o' shite was givin' me a bad look! You saw it!"

Slamming another clip into the assault rifle, the large Irishman sneered at his thin, wiry, cousin from behind his Irish-Flag colored hockey mask. "Da 'bad look' was 'im rollin' trying ta stop 'is broken nose from bleedin' all over! Da broken nose YOU gave 'im!"

"Fuckin' arse 'ad it comin'..." Redd mumbled back in annoyance as they screeched around another turn.

Lupus' golden eyes glowed softly as he dropped the now-empty steroid canister to the ground and he growled in euphoria as the substance coursed through his blood stream. All he needed was an assault rifle and a little bit of juice to make him feel truly alive. Pulling himself out the window, the muscle-covered Irishman let the bullets fly with new found vigor. He howled in joy as he saw one bullet rip into the charger's cabin, sending a spray of red against the window. Tires screaming, the enforcer vehicle careened off the street and plastered itself against an unforgiving brick wall. "I fuckin' got da rat bastards!" Lupus laughed in victory.

"Great, now let's get dis ting over ta da Rain Dogs scrapper 'fore more of da fucks- SHITE!"

Redd's out of place 'shite' came from the surprise of another enforcer car driving across the street in front of them. Unfortunately for the poor badge-carrying bastard, these particular Irishmen weren't ones to obey the rules of the road, particularly the fact that red lights mean 'stop'. Despite slamming the break, the 12,000lb armored vehicle continued straight into the enforcer's side, sending the thing tumbling across the road like a hot-wheels toy. Thanks to physics, this sudden change in speed did not as quickly effect Lupus, who had been leaning far out the window. Before he knew it, the large man was sailing through the air, right over the police car, and straight into the windshield of a parked sedan.

"Well fuck..." Was all the small wiry Irishman could cough as he stamped out the cigarette that was now attempting to start a small fire on the upholstery.

Redd was already lighting himself another cigarette as he opened his door and dropped onto the street. "You alright, cuz?"

"What da FUCK do you tink!?" Pulling himself from the shattered remains of the windshield, Lupus slowly took stock of his injuries. Despite a few deep cuts, and maybe a sprained arm, he was surprisingly okay. "Nice drivin' ya fuckin' shite."

"Blame dis fucker, not me!" Redd shot back, kicking the twisted remains of police car for good measure. Falling onto one knee, he peered into the cabin and was surprised to see a handcuffed girl still groaning in the back seat. "Ay, Lupus... der's still someone alive in da back! A pretty-little lawbreaker by da looks o' it!"

Stumbling over to the wreck, Lupus helped pull open the back right-side door. "Well I guess it's her lucky fuckin' day den... Let's get her to da truck an get da fuck outta here!"

With the seemingly unconscious girl between them, the Irishmen carried her over to the armored car. "She's a good lookin' bonnie," Redd chuckled as they hoisted her into the car. "if ya washed all da blood out of her eyes."

A few moments later and the trio was speeding towards 'Malone Pawn and Discount Goods', which was only a few blocks away. There was a large set of garages behind the place that dealt in stolen vehicles.

They paid very nicely for armored cars.

"How hurt is she?" Redd asked as Lupus inspected the 'passenger' sitting between them.

"She seems alright... maybe a good bump on da head, but nuttin' too serious." Pulling a half-full bottle of vodka from under the seat, Lupus took a long swig before pouring some on a torn piece of cloth he produced from his pocket. "Dis might sting a bit, girlie."

With a brown leathered shoe making mark not far from the base of the dormant volcano upon the floor, as he traversed its heavingly bald mountain range; an exchange of goods was in occurance. In the reasoning of its initiator, an appropriately fair trade. Two or three fifty dollar notes, from its back pocket; and in return, an invaluable sentence of wisdom: "You'll be paying for the damage, 'sweet treat'." he voiced sarcastically, almost scathingly, toward the unconscious lump, stepping over with the other, to make way toward the entrance.

From in front, one of the wolves seemed particularly hungry, with what it thought a gazelle having out-run its teeth of judicial authority, at the final moment before clenching them closed - and it was convinced there was some more prey to be had, before this day of hunting was over.

"You can't talk to us like that!" it barked, rising suddenly from its chair at a loosely held together table of even looser circumstance, cluttered with bottle, badge and half-emptied clips of ammunition; the freshly brewed trails of lead intwined with the lingering of smoke from an ash-tray somewhere behind.

"Not even if you ask me nicely?" dipping the angle of his view to the side, all the better to catch the light within the pupils of the man with the badge; all the better to gauge his worth.

"Your'e under arrest for...--"

"Speaking?" the merchant smirked.

"Place your hands where we can see them." ,his hand moving toward the traditionally black polymer handle which rested along the side of his belt; perhaps owing to a loose thread or lack of preparation that as he did so, the strap itself came unclasped and collapsed to the floor, nestling itself neatly between the tip of the chair's one-of-four legs and the breadth of the side of the table edge.

"My suggestion would be to... not.", the unsettlingly calm reply. The man immovable in both his stature and positioning; the former individual's disappointment of he not having reached for a holster of 'grave endangerment' slowly moulding into relief, in accordance with the realisation that the situation in which he had thought entertaining to enter was actually far more serious.

The battle lines drawn between legal and -il had been scribbled over with a bright yellow crayon of childish mis-direction when the sprawled mass on the floor had earlier thought prudent to stake their claim toward a participant of unwilling involvement in a game to show them how pretty a picture it could draw with its absurdly silly smile of, now, half-absent teeth.



For now, there was a localisation of confrontation - not of criminal and enforcer, but of person to person.

For now, there was still a chance toward reconciliation and appeasement, without either side inviting the equal and mutually assured detruction of the other.

For now, these were the only two thoughts on either side of the vinyl playing to repeat within the mind of the man at the table; but the music was beginning to fall into the background, and the lyrics increasingly muffled by the slow, soft thud through the floor-boards from downstairs of his beating heart.



A weight of decision and vastly out-balanced scale of risk to reward which he found himself no longer able to support with increasingly absent legs of his own; a subtle clutch to the tables' enabling his descent back into the comfort of the chair.

"Thank you." the other smiled, his genuineness of expression becoming increasingly disconcerting to the young enforcer, within the context of the situation at hand - proceeding to the the small teak door to which he had originally departed toward.

The air outside was considerably less dense and infinitely more insightful with the words it carried from just around the corner. "You know, you didn't have to. But thanks."

"You're welcome. There needs to be at least somewhere in this city which isn't carved to the specifications of a bullet hole."

"Well... I sure hope that girl isn't. One of the C.S.As made a grab on the way out. You know, she's most likely... well anyway, I'm gonna have to go make some calls to fix my door."

"... safe." he mouthed, almost whispered, silently to himself - but then, with how she had handled the wrecking ball back inside, how could it not be so. Perhaps he would make sure it was.