Warped Glory

Having travelled across the city, by motorbike, to the latest under construction corporate district of Arami, Deshawn dismounts his ride after having cut the engine. He has no helmet protecting his head but does remove the gloves which gave his hands added grip as he blasted down and across the city highways. Meanwhile, Spectre saunters toward him.

“Des, good seeing you my man, how’s it hanging?” Is the welcome that is provided to the CMR bassist as the camera wielding man, a hair shorter than Deshawn, sporting blonde dreadlocks and mismatched blue/green eyes offers a fist to bump.

Tapping his balled fist against the one offered Deshawn replies, still dressed in three quarter length denim shorts plastered with patches, pins and loose hanging belts, “Not bad dude, not bad. You ready for tonight? It’s gonna put us on the map, permanently.”

“Yeah, I’m always ready. Down for whatever you got. Just… What have you got in store?” A hint of unease can be heard in the black and orange boiler suit wearing man’s voice.

A wicked smile appears across Deshawn’s face. It’s followed soon after by, “You’re going to love it.”

The shaven headed man’s voice rises to a shout, booming and echoey, as the declaration passes his lips.

Right after his pink tongue appears between his white teeth to rubs against one particular tooth. It’s as if the bassist is testing to see that the tooth is still there. Like its false somehow and he is worried it might have dropped out. Likely the gesture is the result of some kerfuffle he’s got himself into some years back because Spectre is well aware that Deshawn likes to fight. At time he spoils for it, even admitted as much on some of their previous escapades together. Though, something about the look in the bassists’ eyes suggests tonight he has something bigger than usual planned.

“Get the cam rolling. I’ll do it live.” Is the assurance/demand made by the short wearing bassist who’s torso is barely covered by a shredded black vest.

It’s the exact same attire he’d been wearing during the gig at Run-Run, but at the time he’d been in possession of an additional layer, a jacket with only one sleeve. He ditched that after the second song of CMR’s set. It’s probably still at Run-Run. More than likely in the hands of a lifer who claimed it knowing who it had belonged to minutes earlier.

What the prospective new owner of the item may be planning to do with it is anyone’s guess. That is only if Deshawn is right about its fate however. He has no way of knowing. It could just be lying around, or in the trash. The latter seems doubtful seeing as the Run-Run party should still be going, but anything’s a possibility. As for whether he cares about the fate of the jacket, not really. It wasn’t his anyway. It had been Bean’s. Apparently CMR’s vocalist is not the most astute or observant of souls. That had irked Deshawn mildly as he had hoped it would get noticed and lead to… well you can probably guess, a head to head locking of horns. Not that it matters now. He’s elsewhere in the city, hanging with Spectre, about to undertake his most daring act of anti-corp. resistance to date.

With camera soon set and rolling, Spectre gestures with his one free hand to Deshawn to let him know everything is ready and that he can begin whenever he wishes. The bassist wastes no time and does exactly that, without having made any attempts to conceal his identity, regardless of the fact that this broadcast is going out live to streaming services across the net.

“Corporate shitheads have plagued us long enough in this city, so tonight we’re going big. No more small fry hit and runs. I don’t give a fuck how many of the sec services are after my ass for what I’ve done to date.” A hearty chuckle passes Deshawn’s lips. None of this is an act. This is Deshawn, his words, his manner, his actual laugh.

He thinks this is funny, some game with real consequences attached. Problem is, these real consequences are things that affect other people, not just him. And yes, he is confident none of the sec services will manage to apprehend him. If they did, he’d only get more famous than ever. Probably become a martyr. A cause built around his personality, his sacrifice. He doubts the corps. have considered what might come from that. A revolution is what Deshawn thinks would be born as he continues, “We’re going to blast a corp. building…”

“We’re what?” Spectre exclaims with a mixture of shock and horror.

“You can’t be serious Des!” Are the words that follow soon after in startled exclamation.

“Oh Spectre, I am so serious about this. As for far too long corps have had it easy. Even our hits have made no impact. And they need to feel an impact. So what better way than blasting one of their precious towers, hey?” Turning away from the camera and opening the storage compartment on his bike, Deshawn goes fishing for the prize.

It takes no time at all seeing as it is the only thing stored in the compartment, filling most of it to bursting.

With the package retrieved, Deshawn spins around holding it in one hand. Somehow his already wide smile has grown wider. Meanwhile his free hand points towards the package he has a hold of which sees him promise, “This, in here, will make one of these monoliths go boom. It won’t survive and we’ll go down in history. Arami, it’s time for change. Corps rule no more. It’s time to force the issue. Either the soulsuckers accept it or die. Who’s with me?”

Spectre has always known, and seen, that Deshawn Jevons was a little psycho but this, this is some other level entirely. Never did he expect that Deshawn would resort to full terrorist activities like destroying something. Damaging, sure they’ve done that; theft, obviously. But demolition, that is a whole new level. It’s the start of a slippery slope. One he feels compelled to attempt to sway CMR’s bassist away from before…

“So, with that in mind it’s time for full disclosure…”

Spectre’s heart leaps up and into his throat. Full disclosure, the term terrifies him for reasons he cannot give for he has no idea what the bald bassist might have planned.

What does that mean? At least in Deshawn’s terms. It can’t be anything good, anything that will not bring a hailstorm of shit down upon…

“…I’m Deshawn Jevons, bassist and founder of Crow Murder Revival. And I am here, in the heart of the new development for corporate fuckheads that will, when its complete, be known as Aspiration Plaza…” A mighty roar of laughter escapes from the back of Deshawn’s throat. Spectre meanwhile stands paralysed by the words which his, soon to be, literal partner in crime announced has just uttered.

Him telling the world where they are is madness. It means the sec services will be down here in a flash, to hunt them. This is not what Spectre signed up for, not at all. So, as soon as he overcomes his paralysis he exclaims, lowering the camera, “Des, this is not cool. They’ll be on us like flies on shit. We need to split before…”

“Relax. Secs are too brain-dead to get here in time. Probably not even watching those bastards are too vacant.” Deshawn knocks on his head with his free hand and then gestures with a rapid head motion for the camera to be returned to its previous position so that all this can be captured and streamed live to the world.

Against his better judgement and for reasons he could not give if he were asked, Spectre does as the musician wishes and aims the lens at the superstar rock god come corporation hater-in-chief terrorist once more.

That last part is a brand new addition to the moniker Spectre first gave the man who impressed him with the severity with which he despises Arami’s overlords. Though, until they met Deshawn had not had partaken, as unlikely as that might seem with how joyous he is right now, in any meaningful act of rebellion. Save for being a musician in a corp. hating band that is, and a fairly successful one at that. At least successful in terms of underground renown, that is. In the wider world CMR are almost unheard of, and for good reason seeing as the manicured images presented by RWT, MRQS, Reinvention, Goliath, Hampshire and all the other giants is not one that would ever marry well with the drinking, fighting, drug taking, sex hungry antics of a scene which despises the overly groomed perfection that are hallmarks meant to mask the greed of ownership, better known as the corps modus operandi.

“With that said, I think it’s time we get this party fucking started, don’t you?” There is a snarl which appears upon the musician’s face. It morphed into existence out of the smile which had been present earlier and created a strange expression of joy filled anger-hatred that is followed swiftly by assurances that, “We need to affix the charges here, here and here.”

Looking back over his shoulder the musician winks and then with a quick snap the camera is placed upon a nearby stack of building materials neatly stacked at, luckily, about the perfect height.

Unlike Deshawn, Spectre has a mask covering his face and a hood over the remainder of his head. It’s precautionary but does not mean Deshawn has not seen the man’s face; he has a number of times. The audience, the wider world, on the other hand has not. Spectre likes it that way and while the rockstar does not agree that identities should be hidden, he has never felt it right to berate his friend for his choice. After all, he’s seen the man’s face. They’ve gone drinking. Partied nights away together and caused, by this time, a good amount of low level grief for the cities real law enforcement.

“Give me a hand Spectre. Plant the charges over there. I’ll take the one on this side. Better make it quick though.”

“Why, you said…?”

“Ha. No not that. The charges are pre-set.” Admits the musician without any hint of the concern in his voice that Spectre has when he exclaims, “WHAT?!?” in response.

“Yeah, it had to be done. Only way I could take them. Don’t worry though. It’s all good. We’ve got plenty of time.” Is the assurance provided by the shaven headed man who until a few months ago had been in possession of a reverse Mohawk, or Nohawk.

Reasons as to why Deshawn dispensed with it are entirely unknown, though it has been the subject of much debate as it is a look he had sported for nearly seven years. Prior to that the bassist had been in possession of a full head of shoulder length black hair and only changed due to a bet he took and lost, which was that CMR would get booted by their latest record label and be compensated enormously for it. It didn’t happen, the booting off the label that is.

“How much time is plenty?” Spectre feels it prudent to ask, his eyes glued to Deshawn while he has a couple of the explosive charges in his grasp.

“I don’t know, about twenty.” Is the response that is offered alongside a shrug that instils absolutely no confidence in the masked man whatsoever.

Ignoring the lack of certainty, but hoping the charges have a display of some kind which will more accurately convey such information, Spectre adds, “Isn’t that long enough that sec, if they turned up and found these, could defuse ‘em?”

“Yeah, probably would be, if I didn’t have a detonator too.” Deshawn smiles out half of his face with a look in his eyes of complete control. It’s almost as if he’s done something like this before. However, Spectre knows for a fact that he has not.

“Now get to laying those charges. We don’t got all night.” A twisted laugh escapes Deshawn’s mouth in the seconds after his utterance and continues throughout his short jaunt to one of the supports for the skeletal structure of the in-progress building that is in the process of being constructed.

It feels like it was a lifetime ago that those words were uttered but it was minutes in truth, something Spectre doesn’t fully believe as he follows suit and heads for the supports on the right of the camera’s shot.

Reaching the first and inspecting the charge, Spectre learns there are eighteen minutes remaining. A little relieved Deshawn was accurate, he affixes it, carefully and then moves on.

It takes seven minutes before all five are adhered to the supports which will not have any hope of withstanding the blasts which are inevitable, whether Spectre or the sec and corps like it or not. The only positive is that he can always disappear, city hop. Deshawn on the other hand has no hope of that. He’ll be a prisoner of Arami for the rest of his life. One the masked accomplice thinks will end sooner rather than later for it will, now especially, be inevitable that the secs catch him. Which one, he hasn’t the slightest clue, but one absolutely will.

“You ready?” Is the next utterance from the musician turned terrorist who is continuing to beam with such intensity you would be forgiven for thinking he is some kind of shining star.

Confused; Spectre queries, “For what?”

“Just grab the camera and…”

“Freeze! Do not move. Etruscan, we have bead on you. Failure to comply will be met with lethal force.”

Turning his head to look, Deshawn cannot believe that one of the sec services have caught up to them. It shouldn’t be possible. Sure, he gave away his position but…

“Fuck you corp. lapdogs.” Is the response provided through the gritted and bared teeth of the musician who makes no attempts to raise his hands in compliance with the order that has been given.

“Raise your hands, Mr Jevons, or you will be put down, permanently.” Is the swift addition made to the musicians defiance.

The hope and aim is to scare Deshawn into obedience. It doesn’t, as evidenced by the sneer which twists onto and across his face.

“Believe these fucks Spectre?” Are the next words out his mouth.

He is met with no reply. And turning his head, Deshawn finds his masked friend is nowhere to be seen.

“What the…”

The musician could not be more confused seeing as he is surrounded and there is no way…

Suddenly he spots Spectre, real name Jonas Shen, and he is stood with Etruscan.

“I…What the…”

“I’m with them, Deshawn.” Is the revelation that smashes into the musician turned terrorist like a freight train.

And even once it has sunk in he doesn’t believe it.

“Agent Fenn…”

“He has a detonator somewhere about his person.” Replies the man Deshawn has known for months as Jonas ‘Spectre’ Shen. And now he finds Shen isn’t his name at all.

Rage boils up from deep inside. If he was not under threat of immediate execution by firing squad, as that is essentially what it is, he would throw himself at the man who claimed to be his friend and choke the life from him like the lying backstabbing bastard that he is. Alas, all he can manage is, “You corp. turd.”

The bassists tone is filled with contempt, so much in fact that his top lip curls as the words are spat from his mouth. A healthy dose of hate and loathing imbued for added measure.

In response to the insult Agent Jim Fenn shrugs. It conveys how little he is bothered by what he’s been called. After all, let’s face it he’s been called much worse than that many times before in his life for holding the position that he does. And you may be asking what that position is exactly. Sure, it’s obvious he’s a part of a security services for one of Arami’s corporate giants. But more than that he is a specialist; his type are known as infiltrators. Usually, however he would not be deployed to get in with a single person but rather an entire enterprise, usually criminal.

Yet it was believed that Deshawn Jevons posed a more grave threat than any criminal enterprise. That is why Etruscan will, if possible, take the man in alive. After all, making him a martyr could result in continued, long term issues, whereas breaking down his renown, his street cred, is how you turn a man like Deshawn into yesterday’s news.

“Mr Jevons, listen very carefully.” There is a pause from the lead Etruscan sec officer following that statement.

It has the desired effect, eventually, but only after the musician-come-terrorist has finished staring down Agent Fenn. When that happens the lead sec officer continues by saying, “You should be under no illusions that we will shoot. However, what I want you to do is reach into whatever pocket that detonator is in and using your thumb and pinkie only pull it free. Is that understood?”

A permanent, deep snarl is etched into the bassists face while the camera continues to stream the events across the globe.

After a long silence Deshawn offers in response a short, sweet and simple reply of, “Fuck you!”

With that his hand dives deep into a pocket. No one fires. He knew the threat was a bluff. That is why when he wrenches free his hand with detonator tightly in his grasp, he roars his demand of, “Get the fuck back you spineless shits or I bring this whole lot down on our heads.”

There is conviction in his eyes as well as his tone, which suggests he is fully prepared to do as he claims. Alas, these words do not marry well with everything else known about the man, but there is the chance that he could be serious. The Etruscan sec teams don’t believe he is however and so the lead officer urges one last time, “Final warning Mr Jevons, place that detonator on the ground or we will…”

The sec officer never gets to finish as the grinning Deshawn exclaims, “For freedom from corp. douche bags!” and begins to depress the button on the detonator. Several of the Etruscan officers open fire as a result. In turn the rounds slam into the musician delivering high voltage discharges meant to disable his muscles and prevent the detonator from being fully depressed and the charges activated. It works and the bassist of CMR goes down, convulsing wildly.

Agent Fenn knows this isn’t over and exclaims, “The charges are also on a timer, we need to defuse them before…”

The charges explode. The ground rocks, violently. Deshawn smiles as he stares up, his body continuing to convulse. He feels the heat from the explosions boil the air around him. Sec officers scream. All those sounds are lost when the twisting sound of failing metal reaches his ears. He’s pleased to hear it for it means that the skeletal structure of what was planned to be a massive tower is buckling under the strain.

The last thing Deshawn sees before he is swallowed up in the flames and concussive blast of the demolition charges are glints appearing and disappearing as massive sections of ruined metal tumble toward him.