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A Bundle Of Pish

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Bill Sweeney's Home
Cowal Place, Dunoon, Scotland, UK
Saturday, November, 7th, 2015
10:20 PM

 

The sound of violence cut through what should have been an otherwise sleepy night in the seaside town of Dunoon.  Sprawled directly in front of an exquisite Baronial style home.  Were half a dozen men, attempting to fend off an attack by at least two dozen assailants.  Te men sieging  were armed with firearms, unlike the estate's knife wielding defenders.  However, any illusion that they had paid a visit to the local Dunoon gun shop could quickly shattered by a cursory inspection of their weapons.

 

The material shone brightly even in the dead of night and was adorned upon each man's arm as if some sort of hand cannon.  Furthermore, rather than bullets it was instead crimson colored lasers bursting forth towards the homestead.  The skirmish attracted the attention of the local populace.  Doing everything to get out of the way of the crossfire.

 

Everyone knew who lived in that house.  And what the consequence of such an open declaration of war meant for anyone unfortunate to get caught in the aftermath.

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Foreshadow had been perched across the way.  Waiting until someone actually tried to claim Sweeney's head.  He didn't expect a public shooting, in Scotland of all places.  But, it wasn't as if the machinery they were lugging around was easy to get to begin with.  Sometimes I wonder if my weekends just aren't exciting enough.  Pulling out his multi function escrima sticks, Foreshadow ran off his perch diving down at an arc.  Swinging towards the nearest group of gunmen the precognitive acrobat took no measure to hide the smile on his face.

 

"Uh oh, the tourist crashed the party.  Isn't this a little backwards, aren't I suppose to be the pro gun one or something?"  Foreshadow called out to the nearest gunman.  The gunman turned in response only to be greeted with a crisp jab on the side of his head before he knew what hit him.  Though his head flew back, the man appeared unharmed by the maneuver.  All the greeting did was serve to tell the gunman where to shoot, raising his hand cannon towards Foreshadow.

 

"Now you're just being rude."

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Suddenly, a huge cloud of smoke erupted in front of the house, blanketing the dark night sky between the assailants and the house. A dark shape emerged from it, red eyes blazing beneath a dark cowl. A large cape flared behind the figure, swept back by his rapid motion and the cool night breeze. "Back off, noo!" he commanded in a thick Scots accent. "Ah won't warn ye twice, ye ken fa ah ah'm."

 

Arrowhawk hefted his bow, an arrow already nocked and drawn. He glanced to the side, taking in Foreshadow. "What the hell are you doing here?" he demanded, Scots accent fading away to become a little more neutral.

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Those defending the home immediately dropped their knives as a reflex.  Scrambling to set their backs against the walls of the house.  As if a spectre had descended upon them.  The gunmen weren't quite so jumpy.  They did, however, stop shooting upon the home.  With one man going so far as to shout out wildly through the thick smoke.  "I think

 

"Haaa Belter.  Always wanted to mount a cape on me wall."  The man directing the gunmen gleefully croaked.  "Haw you ya wido, you lot think it wise to step into our business?  'Mon 'em.  I'll carve a hole in you both I will."  Both Arrowhawk and Foreshadow were treated to the sight of this man waving his blaster arm erratically in the air.  Not exactly sure of how to pinpoint the archer under the blanket of darkness.

 

"Oh, I was just partying with the Fenian, go orange.  Y'know taking in a game, hitting a pub, oh riiiight no that was last week.  This week, I'm here protecting a criminal from the other criminals that want to shoot him dead.  You?"  Foreshadow joked casually called in response to the question.  "Just think of it as on the job commuting.  Except the Ministry of Powers doesn't take billables."

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Arrowhawk flicked a contemptuous gaze towards the house. Could the arsehole be any more of a walking stereotype? You go away for a few years, and apparently it all degenerates into an episode of Still Game. 

 

He turned his gaze back to the other cape. The new Foreshadow, if he wasn't mistaken. "Very funny. But you know what the Tories're like, I'm fairly sure you could make a case for privatising metahuman intervention if you were that desperate for a paycheck. Y'know, if you want to be the one to tell that to Her in Charge." The first Britannia was one of a handful of people even he wouldn't try to mess with. "We can sort this out once we get rid of all them trying to play silly buggers with laser guns. This is Scotland, not the bloody Enterprise."

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Foreshadow stepped forward sending a right cross to the nearest armed thug's jaw.  He dropped, but not before Foreshadow stabbed the tongue of his boot into another man's liver.  Making his way forward.  "I'm not really lacking for money, especially not enough to try and start that conversation.  But, I do have an important question.  Why do they call these sorts Neds?  I don't get the reference at all."

 

At this point one of the men found himself blindly swinging his arm cannon in the direction of Foreshadow's voice.  Still unable to find his target under the cover of smoke.  And given a straight kick to the solar plexus for his trouble.  The precognitive acrobat then abandoned proper form jumping forward and kicking two men in the head at the same time.  "He's not wrong guys, or else I'd have a protein re-sequencer at home.  If I can't replicate my food, you can't shoot laser guns.  Those are the breaks."

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GM

 

"Shut it, you bloody muppet!"  The guy in charge of the thugs with arm cannons shouted out.  Waving his own hand cannon around frantically.  Whether through luck or actual cognizanze he seemed to stop his flaying where Arrowhawk was hiding.  Unfortunately for him, by the time he started firing Arrowhawk had already re-positioned himself.  His shots coming nowhere near close to hitting their target.

 

"Do I have to do everything meself?  Shoot these two mugs before they tune us up, youse mugs!  About as much use as an ashtray on a motorbike."  He balked in frustration.  Clearly, the superhero run in was not in their plans.

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