Metropolis [ preview ]

[Sykotik]

Something new I started on a day or so ago... what do you guys think? Is it worthwhile attempting to finish? Also, this is all very preliminary and I may change the events in this first chapter later on, but blah blah blah; read and comment, please, thanks.
--Sykotik

Prologue

It may be a bombed out shell of a world that the war has left us, but it isn't necessarily a dead world. For all the dangers and desolation the barren and dusty plains hold, the remnants of the human race still cling to survival, seeking safety and shelter in the remnants of pre-war cities and towns – and often not finding it.
One such place is the city of Metropolis – the largest city remaining in the wasteland. It has no government, having been destroyed in the war and when the Enclave was vanquished. It has no nationality, having been taken down with the fall of the government. It, as its people, simply exists.
It is not utopia. The harsh call of survival ensures this. Survival is a constant battle in the post-apocalyptic landscape: the hunt for food, the struggle for power, and the fear for your life in the prime of anarchy's time. The term city has lost its' connotations of safety and shelter; now, it is simply a smattering of ramshackle buildings where the inhabitants watch the sands of time trickle away.
Sometimes, Metropolis' turbulent scales of balance makes for some interesting living...
...for some, it may mean the last breath they take...

I

The bar was dimly lit, and the smoky air obscured vision to about ten paces away. It reeked of spilled beer, unwashed bodies and stale cigarette smoke. The mumble of conversation and the loud laughter crackling like gunfire assaulted the ears without mercy. It was a favourite bar in the lower part of Metropolis, aptly called The Pit.
In a lonesome corner, Jeremiah sat, looking at the shadows casted on the table by his bottle of beer. A mercenary by trade, he'd picked up all the tell-tale signs of his profession. Numerous scars from encounters with both raiders and caravan guards, a well-muscled figure, the alert eyes and an air of danger. At the moment, he was clad in faded blue jeans and a leather jacket decorated with several sharp spikes. A wicked knife was pinned into the table where his calloused hand lay ready to grasp the handle, should the action be required. Holstered by his side was a 9mm pistol, gleaming dully in the neon lights of the bar. He picked up the beer, raised it to his lips and drank.
Setting the bottle down again, he looked around him again. Not too far away was a table surrounded by several of what must be guards. They were equipped with a variety of close combat and missile weapons, and they eyed the other patrons suspiciously. Most likely one of the local higher-ranking gang members had decided to come down to The Pit for a drink, or more likely, for business.
Time blinked.
The music, murmur of conversation and laughter grew silent, and the dust specks in the air hovered motionless.
Blink.
The bullets began flying, amidst screams of terror and curses of rage. A patron next to Jeremiah dropped, blood gurgling out of her throat as a thick cloud of bullets punched viciously through her torso. Jeremiah cursed savagely, grabbed his knife from its wooden sheath in the table and dove for cover behind a table that had been conveniently tipped over in the sudden confusion.
Behind the table, he could still hear the buzzing of the lead flies slicing through the air, the noise of the confused, scared and angry people trying to escape the sudden firefight they had been enclosed in, when suddenly the table rocked from the impact of a body slammed through the air by a shotgun blast. The man who had been the target of the two twelve gauge shells' payload wasn't ready to let go that easily, and with effort he turned to Jeremiah.
"You... take this... tape... it's Metropolis' only... hope... guard it... with your life... don't trust... anyone..."
With these words said, the icy grip of death squeezed the final breath out of the man's lungs. Jeremiah looked at the unseeing eyes of the dead man, then at his blood-smeared hand, holding a battered holotape. After a second of hesitation, Jeremiah pocketed the tape.
During the exchange, the firefight had reached an end. Jeremiah stood up carefully, gun at the ready, scrutinising the battlefield.
The Pit was in even a worse state than it normally was. Dead bodies littered the floor in various poses of agony, and blood covered the walls and floors, shining a slick red in the lights that had survived the onslaught.
The guards at the table were busy searching through the dead bodies when they saw him stand up from behind the table.
"Hey! Get the fuck out of here, unless you want to get your fucking head blown off!" one of them yelled at him, motioning with his automatic towards the door.
Jeremiah glared at him icily, then remembered the holotape in his possession, and the dead man's last words. He nodded coldly at the man, holstered his gun and walked out of the bar, leaving behind the carnage.
Outside, he looked up at the dark sky. A storm was brewing. Jeremiah looked behind him at the door of the bar. They would soon find the dead man slumped behind the table where he had been taking cover, discover that the tape was gone, and then they would put two and two together.
He walked down the street, weaving a path through the burning barrels, the garbage and the throng of Metropolis' denizens as the first polluted rain drops began falling from the sky.