Tear Down The Walls, Wake Up The World

[Guest]

A cigarette came spiralling from the two poised, tapered nails of the man known as Balthazar's hand, flying across the open void of the street as he walked further along the sidewalk, crunching grit and gravel between the heels of his boots. In a land inconceivable to him, the opposite of the street, the butt struck the floor and rolled along a touch, extinguishing quickly beneath another random person's heel, leaving only thin tendrils of white smoke to avail its presence having ever been there.

He was garbed in his usual attire. A black trenchcoat over a blue suit jacket, with a similar-coloured tie, a white shirt beneath, and deep navy trousers. The walking boots were a fine addition; allowing freedom of mobility and the ominous sound of impending presence as rubber slapped against stone that dress shoes simply didn't provide. Hanging beneath his jacket, in their respective fitted holsters, which the man seldom wore, were the two revolvers, looking to be crafted of pale white ivory from the haft to the barrel, scorched black engravings twirling jaggedly up and down the guns' frameworks from the hilt to the very edge. They were wicked sharp; disjointed and curving, like a net or web of thorns. But the two guns were near-identical, save for their being placed under a different shoulder; and heavy-set in the bulky, modified briefcase he carried laid their origin, the wellspring from which they'd been given form.

The orb.

For Balthazar, today, it was business as usual. There was no organised regime of slaughter that either Aurelius or Vanity had provided him with; and as such, he was more or less left to his own devices. Before long, he had left the humble reaches of his manor on Moscow's outskirts, a gracious gift from the Tsar Loki himself, back when his rule had not yet been challenged by the current Sekretar. And he had hit the streets, with something dangerous flashing in those grey spheres of his, something wicked twirling and spiralling as he took intermittent tokes on that deathly white-and-orange cigarette, Drachman inscription of "Marlboro" curving along the edge.

As a matter of fact, it was well beyond something dangerous; there were open grey infernos blazing in those two eyes of his. That was what caused every-day civilians to cower and swerve around him as he carved a slow, steady path through the common Moscovian rabble, making his way as quickly as he could towards his target. His target... which he hadn't so chosen yet.

Exhaling the smoke, Balthazar walked for another five minutes before grinding to a halt and turning towards the street's various lining of stores, restaurants, outlets and whatnot. It had seemed to go on for ever; an endless avenue of continuous consumerism and tourist bullshit scorching an ugly black mark on the sheet of white that was his country, the Drachman motherland. And not just that; his city. His city, where he presided, where he lived, ate, slept, and worked.

So when the papers recorded this as a terrorist attack twelve hours from now, and branded him "a suit-garbed madman" or somesuch, Balthazar would simply look down and break into laughter, before casting the spider-spun sheets of inked-out lies aside and smiling to himself, knowing that he'd done RIOTE a great service. For RIOTE needed not only to control Drachma's military; but Drachma's populace, as well. And what was the best way to keep any populace in control?

Fear.

Setting the briefcase down, the rivers of people still moving aside from him, slowly eyes rose to the top. It wasn't a restaurant, no; not like last time, with the Xingman who had seen it befitting to match his offer, if not attempt to raise it... no, this was simply a jewellery store. Up-market, of course; the further along the sidewalk he'd come, the less and less he began to saw the pale Moscow youths, trudging through snow in hooded jumpers and ripped jeans, and the more and more he began to saw the suit-garbed stockbrokers hurriedly making their way back home to gloss over their absence and lie about the latest affair to their wife and family.

Upon an adorned overheard plaque read in calligraphic writing "Rochelle's". It wasn't a chain; it appeared to be a small, family-run business, but lucrative, as things always tended to be out here in the most consumer-infested thick of it all. "The hive", Balthazar liked to call it. That which the drones mindlessly flocked to, day-to-day, when they could not think of any better to whittle away their time upon, and peruse for rings, suits, and dresses they simply couldn't afford.

Cracking the air out of his knuckles with a smile, Balthazar opposed himself to the jeweller's wall, rose his arm, and draw it back, keeping the fingers of his other hand poised. SNAP. With a click of his middle digit and thumb, red discharge arched through the air. The focal point? His other hand. Pushing it forwards with barely a split-second to spare, he launched his fist towards the wall, knowing full well from performing this little trick of his that timing was everything, and then a touch more. But as always, he was successful; a large, gaping hole had been left in the wall, crumbling now into naught but dust and rubble, as within the screams of middle-aged women and clerks filled the air. The blonde stepped in, with a bloodthirsty grin upon his face, and white-hot insanity coursing through those eerily pale grey eyes of his.

Not bothering yet to speak, he retrieved what appeared to be a thick fabric sack from his pocket, and tossed it upon the floor with a simple flick of his wrist. It skidded against the freshly-spewed grit and dirt from the wall's collapse, but the towering blonde gestured only to it with a smile upon his face, a toothy grin, baring those tapered canines of his, so sharp that they now drew crimson rivulets upon his very own lip, blood trailing already down his face.

"ALL OF YOUR MONEY. ALL OF YOUR CARDS. ALL OF YOUR JEWELLERY. ALL OF IT, IN THE FUCKIN' BAG."

A flourish, and he drew the revolvers. The screams of confusion increased tenfold to screams of sheer terror; drawing back the hammers, he let the guns hang slack at his side with a sick grin upon his face. Now they knew the play, the score, the board; and as of this moment, it was game, set, and match to the one that called himself Balthazar, standing in the middle, pistol at his side, this tumultuous hurricane of fear swirling about he and he alone.

[Guest]

The boy walked merrily through alleyway after alleyway, donning a slightly too large Drachman soldier's uniform, yet still not accustomed to walking amidst the masses yet; for too long, he'd traveled as the vagabond, the junkyard orphan boy scrounging for food, and being everso upbeat with that life. He wasn't ready to return to that again, but neither was he ready to leave that lifestyle behind. He'd gone from the city of the homeless to the surplus and luxury of being a high-ranking special operations soldier, yet instead put up a tent between the two, not ready for either life, having experienced the other.

At any rate, he maneuvered around a trash can, and was about to search a dumpster bin for anything interesting, scraps of metal and the like, when he spotted a store across he street. It seemed to be a fashion store of some form, but Kean mostly noticed the fact that they were selling knick knacks on a shelf in the back. Little things rich people loved to show off, tiny gold and diamond trinkets. He wanted to examine them closer up, so he entered the store.

He had a lovely time there, to say the least. He glanced over each piece of ornamentation individually, thoroughly studying each, and then went on to look at jewelery, clothing, shoes. He was actually about to be questioned by a security guard as to whether he even had money to buy anything or whether he was just hanging out, when a hole exploded in the wall nearby, and Kean watched, awestruck, as smoke was cast away, revealing the hand that had FIREPAWNCHED a hole in the wall. SO COOL.

He then shouted demands for jewelry and such, so Kean giddily grinned and nodded, darting over to the trinkets. Taking armfuls, he carted them over, and scrambled to get the women's jewelery next, as people panicked around him. Soon, as he built a good sized pile at Balthazar's feet, he began pickpocketing people, snatching rings watches earrings, necklaces, anything he could get while someone wasn't paying attention, or was too scared to care. He swiped wallets, purses, all the good stuff, and even tossed in his standard issue .357 COP Derringer, and its ammunition, as he could easily get another one. But now, he really just wanted to see what the man wanted with the stuff, as he put it all into a bag for him. "If you have all this stuff, mister, are you going to blow up a wall again? I really want to see that a second time, maybe I could do it someday!"

[Guest]

Middle-aged housewives who'd never lifted a finger in their entire life shovelled the contents of their purses and the stands into the burlap sack, choking back tears as they scrabbled around on their hands and feet. The owner went from cabinet to cabinet, slowly unlocking them, as per the chimera's request, before finally returning to the counter.

Balthazar's eyes narrowed as her entire body began to tremble and quiver more violently than it ever had before. Click. Click. He rose both revolvers dead up to his eyes, pale grey irises piercing straight along the sights and the line of fire. "Are those all the cabinets?" He spoke calmly with composure, his Drachman swift, efficient, and brutal. A guttural snarling laid beneath as undertone, but the man's aura of fury and the sense of immediacy surrounding him had long since been displayed openly on the table. That sentence itself was calm.

The woman at the counter couldn't fully complete her sentence before twin gunshots burst into the world and spattered a red mishmash of blood, brain matter, and ground shards of bone all over the wall behind. BANG. Smoke rose like tendrils from the ivory-white barrels of the revolvers. Balthazar didn't bat an eyelid as the crashing echo of the simultaneous explosions faded back to give way for hysterical screams as the women scrabbled for cover.

A snarl escaped his mouth as the limp body of the clerk drifted to the floor. He lifted the sack - hefty enough already, but far from full - before heading around to the trays she'd opened. No words escaped his mouth, just the dull sensation of a growl as he scooped up everything with open, calloused hands, and shovelled it in openly and indiscriminately. He couldn't kill too many, after all; it was fear that kept the populace in line, not mass murder.

It was like the Tiberian concept of decimation. Brutal and efficient. One tenth of every large body of people dies, so the rest know their place, whilst keeping numbers down. A combination of population control in both the physical and mental sense. For some time, Balthazar had idolised Julius Caesar on all but one point. The Brutus issue. Allowing someone to get that close to you was a mistake in the first place.

Before long, a young boy scuttled in, eagerly picking wallets and purses - that the others had seemingly omitted from the usual grand drawer - from sobbing women and pale-faced men, before finally tossing them all into the sack - along with an armament of his own. Frozen in bewilderment for a moment, Balthazar dove back in and dug out the petty excuse for a firearm, holding it between his thumb and forefinger, before finally releasing it back into the clinking metal-and-mineral sea of diamonds and Rolexes within. "If you have all this stuff, mister, are you going to blow up a wall again? I really want to see that a second time, maybe I could do it someday!"

The perplexed state quickly faded as the blonde chimera burst back into laughter. "BAHAHAHA! EXCELLENT! IT SEEMS I'VE FOUND MYSELF A LITTLE HELPER!" Click. Click. He drew back both of the hammers on the pair of revolvers once more, before pointing them straight down to Kean and snarling, his lip upturning as he jerked his shoulder towards the snivelling and shrieking masses trying to shelter each other from the pain of it all. "Now get back down with the others where you belong, you little shit,"

Obviously having no sympathy for children, he swatted the child aside, jutting the cold metal barrel of the revolver into the boy's back with a swift, jerking movement, hoping to push him down onto the floor where the chimera was convinced he'd belong. Of course, pressing better judgement into the sense of it all, and not wanting another incident with Aurelius after what had happened at the log cabin with Nyx and Gaia... killing the little fucker in the public eye probably wasn't a good idea, even if it would assist that much more to the aim of it all. Their dearest Chaos, or his newest incarnation, at least, still had his morals, and, much like his predecessor, wished for Balthazar to reign in all his unchained psychopathy.

Killjoy.

"That everything?!" He snarled, scanning over faces; stained make-up, trembling cheeks, and the distinct smell of someone having soiled their underwear presumably told him yes. Looking from aisle to aisle, then from tray to tray, it was evident the store had been stripped bare. And the bag dropped by his feet was very much plump and ready to work with. "Hm. Good."

Kneeling down, he slowly tied the mouth of the sack up, and tossed it from hand to hand as quickly as he could, nodding falsely as he did so. However, without warning, Balthazar grasped the neck of the sack with both hands, and tossed it into the air, snapping his fingers. Red electricity arched through and sheared past oxygen, viciously tearing towards the burlap. And when it reached it; a moment of silent stasis. All watched as the bag slowly spiralled and fell, undulating as its mixed contents shook from side to side.

Then, all hell broke lose. A distinct rip, first, as the burlap seemingly tore itself into shreds. And then, indiscriminately, the contents within hurled themselves in every direction they could. Earrings, necklaces, rings, amulets, and even just pure diamonds, shattered and carved aside by the sheer concussive power of Balthazar's alchemy. For a few moments, inside the store, it rained gold, diamonds, and pearls down upon all lucky or unlucky enough to be sitting within; high-speed, improvised-shrapnel gold, diamonds, and pearls, but gold, diamonds, and pearls all the same. The most expensive nailbomb on the market.

Before long, only shards of crushed, contorted, and scorched diamonds clattered back to the floor in irregular sequence like stony raindrops. Jagged strips of burlap and screwed-up ruble notes came next, wafting down as lightly as they could, shaking from side to side in peaceful cacophony as you'd imagine feathers. Before long, all was still, and within the looks of men and women was only confusion. Confusion in some; others winced and gingerly brushed at shallow cuts or puncture wounds opened up all over their bodies courtesy of the chimera's handiwork, but for the most part, all within weren't too damaged. Aside from the clerk, of course. Balthazar chuckled with a little glee, regarding the spray pattern that her worthless brains had made all over the wall.

Tearing from his pocket a notebook, Balthazar holstered his weapons and spared no time in brushing on to phase two of his deranged and depraved little operation. He flipped the thing open to a blank page, and tossed it on the floor by the shop's patrons, now down on their hands and knees. It spiralled over to the small, purple-haired boy in particular; removing a pencil from his pocket, too, the chimera tossed that over likewise.

"I want you to all write down your names and addresses in block capitals. Clearly. And don't think that giving me the wrong address or a fake alias will help you, because, it won't. I'll find you. Trust me. It'll take me longer, but I will. And when I do?" A vicious snarl took to the blonde's face. "I swear to god, I'll make you wish you hadn't fucked with Balthazar in the first place."

[Shula Brighton]

{BUMP}

[Guest]

Oooooh? It seemed the man was pleased with Kean's helpfulness! How splendid!~ Not even flinching as two guns were pointed at him, nor breaking his smile, he barely registered it as the man swatted him aside like a fly, casting him into the same crowd as the other hostages. Within the crowd, one man saw this and was particularly moved, standing, alongside three friends, and making a stupidly mad charge for Balthazar, with shouts of rebellion, stating he shouldn't have mistreated the poor child like that. Now, as Kean didn't have his derringer anymore, having deemed it to be of value to the man who he deemed to be a SUPERHERO, he did as he could with what he had; extending both arms, thumbs and forefingers touching, palms facing one of the men making the charge, and with the power of the Sun stored in the rather bootleg looking watches on his wrists, belted out a singular photonic blast. A blinding light was emitted from the boy's hands, surprising all, but then descended into being a mere flash of energy, a whir akin to a slowed down flourescent bullet. The ball of energy pierced the man's skull, an instant game over; the poor wannabe rebel hit the deck, and he hit it hard, the right side of his face now a badly burned exit wound. The other men stopped, dead silent, in horror, and the other hostages did so as well, not that Kean noticed in the slightest. He calmly spoke, rather.

"Don't interrupt him while he's doing stuff, it isn't nice." Then he sat back in his position on the floor and glanced to Balthazar, as if to say "Go on now, the pest was taken care of." Having cleared up that distraction, he now focused solely on Balthazar's little show. He watched with glee as the kings and quee- erm. As Balthazar tossed the money bag up and shot it full of all sorts of red magic and stuff. Then...

Boom.

To say chaos exploded around the room... An understatement. Kean was the luckiest; at his height, in his position, the shrapnel went over his head, brutalizing those unlucky souls who happened to be behind him. He escaped the spray relatively unharmed, with but a few scraqtches, and a piece of stray diamond that had slightly singed his hair in passing; a scowl beset his face only momentarily at realization of the blackened purple strands' condition. Other than that, the display was vibrant, glorious; beautiful...

Soon after, the man tossed his loyal assistant a notepad and a pencil, giving distinct instructions. Kean wasn't the best speller, but hye could write, thankfully only in capitals, not having mastered lowercase letters yet.

'LISTORA KEAN VRACZUN.' Tapping the pencil on his chin, he scrunched his head in thought, before finally deciding that Drachma's HQ was as close a home to him as any. 'DRACHMAN EAST HQ, DORMS.' Smiling as he had done as instructed, he passed it along to the next person, who likely filled it out using instead of the pencil, the fecal matter accumulated on their fingers from Balthazar's mere presence. That, or the pencil.

[Guest]

Balthazar snatched the pad from the last person and flicked the pencil away. No crudely-made shivs for an uprising in this little hostage situation. Sirens wailed outside and the chimera yawned, scanning trembling faces and vibrating hands and putting them to names. One at the end stuck out in particular. The beaming little short-ass. The last name on the list, scrawled in what seemed to be a five-year-old's handwriting. "Listora Kean Vraczun". The chimera squinted at the page for a moment, looking to the ever-contented child then back to the page, before shaking his head.

He'd noticed the Derringer, and thought nothing of it. Fuck, expectant mothers bought tiny guns in Drachma to give their kids for protection at birth given the current state of absolute horror Moscow had been thrown into. Balthazar giggled childishly, knowing he wasn't helping there. But his brow furrowed as he snapped back to reality and noticed the rather strange uniform; and a glint in the boy's eyes... a glint he knew too well. "What the fuck kinda name is Vraczun?" The chimera snarled.

Slowly, he moved forwards and grasped the boy's arm, drawing one revolver and gripping his wrist tight with a sick grin. "Listen up. I'm going to walk out and wait around the corner. The rest of you are going to slowly run out in the opposite direction. Anyone stays inside, the kid's brains go all over the streets. Clear?" Balthazar sneered. "Because it should be fucking crystal." Grasping Kean and not bothering to look towards him, the terrorist scanned faces, emitting a low, guttural growl, before nodding. They'd comply. Some of them were scared shitless - literally, their shit had left their bodies. It was starting to stink.

Pivoting on his heel, Balthazar dragged Kean along and made his way swiftly out of the jeweller's, and turned left straight down the road immediately, making no attempt at hiding the fact that he had an active hostage in one hand and a firearm in the other. The pair only had a few moments of relative silence before the streets exploded with banshee wailing and hysterical sobs; a few moments in which the chimera's grey eyes narrowed, he drew back the hammer on his single drawn revolver, crouched down to the boy's level, and spoke with a cackle upon his depraved tones. "Watch this."

As predicted, not a second later, as if those words had set the spark to the powder keg, it was as if all of Moscow's relative chaos had been redirected to this one spot in particular. Flowing from every pore of every citizen, utter madness erupted onto the streets as sobbing men, women, and children threw themselves haphazardly into the sidewalks, roads; one even splattered himself over the hood of an Audi fairly swiftly. Total chaos. Just how he liked it.

"AHAHAHAHAHA!" Balthazar howled, raising the revolver and picking targets at random, before firing, squeezing off shots with the same triviality that regular people - a category the Drachman most definitely did not belong to - would, say, brush their teeth, or twist their car's ignition. Crack. Crack. Crack. The cylinder spun with every resounding shot and loaded a fresh shell into the chamber. Crack. Crack. All across the streets, businessmen, middle-aged housewives, wailing teenagers fell to the ground, a mishmash of ethnicities, ages, and races, clutching their torsos respectively as the chimera's rather impeccable and seemingly indiscriminate aim proved true once more. Crack. The last shell left the chamber empty, gunsmoke still trailing from the barrel as the terrorist blew it away and holstered it, turning on his foot once more.

"Ah, fun, fun, fun..." Balthazar sighed. "Nothing like a tad of armed robbery, mass murder, and needless terrorism to keep the populace in line." With that, he grasped Kean and cocked his head further down the hill as he licked his lips and slowly strode down. "Well, Vraczun... you'd better come with me." The chimera snarled, guttural tones seeping into his voice as every word escaped the threshold of the beast's flexing jaw muscles. "Time to find some hot young thing and sate my most primal urge... by getting a bite to eat." Maybe he could give the little boy his first lesson on how to slit a corpse open and which organs to safely eat raw. The terrorist had resolved that he was in the mood for lung, today. He'd had kidney a few days ago and it'd given him bowel problems ever since.

Tartarus' cannibalism 101!

[Csilla Angelis]

{BUMP}

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