Riotfish, Inc.: In Debt

The Battle Wagon rocked gently from side to side as it rolled slowly to its destination, driving into the sinking sun. D'khara sat in the back, across from Little Timmy and Roger. Oliver's massive, shadowed bulk was shoehorned into the passenger seat, and Mrs. Meade was driving.

"Do you have an ETA for us, Mrs. Meade?" Oliver asked.

"We should be there in about fifteen minutes."

Mrs. Meade sat hunched at the wheel, her frail form lost in the giant driver's seat.

The engine grumbled as they drove 20 miles below the speed limit. Honking cars passed them on both sides. Other drivers demonstrated to the Riotfish crew a diverse and explicit array of hand gestures.

The light in the back of the Battle Wagon flickered. D'khara's stomach roiled. His first time out with the Riotfish.

First time out, he thought. I have to focus. Have to do my best. Have to execute swiftly, precisely, effectively, and why in the name of all that's holy does Roger have that many grenades?

Roger was liberally pimpled with ordnance. Dozens of grenades hung from his vest. His baseball grenades were an old design, but cheap and effective. D'khara couldn't tell for certain under the shifting mass of explosives, but he was pretty sure they were all hanging from their pins.

Roger's face was a study in quiet anticipation. Lost in thought, occasionally licking an eyeball... it was as close to peaceful as D'khara could imagine Roger being.

Little Timmy sat next to Roger in the back of the Battle Wagon. His mouth writhed in an unvoiced argument. A little grin popped up on his face from time to time, so sweet and unexpected that it nearly balanced the manic anticipation in the rest of his expression.

He was fiddling with his 9mm Kealan submachine guns, one in each hand. They were his prize possessions: short and black, with angled faces, short knurled charging handles, and long receivers hanging back over the grips. He had mounted Picatinny rails along the tops of the blocky SMGs, and had swapped out the stock magazines for long, straight 50-round stick mags.

As a final insult to these otherwise fine pieces of equipment, he had mounted a free-spinning muzzle brake to each barrel, hand-filing them so that each shot spun the brake, causing each subsequent shot to go in a slightly different direction. He claimed it let him create a "cone of fire".

D'khara had seen him use his Kealans at the range, and all it actually created was a mess. The safest place to be when Little Timmy was firing was directly behind the target he was aiming at. You'd want to stay there for a while, too, since Little Timmy apparently didn't realize that he could stop firing before both guns were completely empty.

Theoretically there were worse marksmen, but D'khara had never personally met one.

Little Timmy was constantly thumbing the safeties of his Kealans on and off, spinning them around by the trigger guards, repeatedly muzzle-sweeping everyone in the wagon.

"Could you stop that?" growled D'khara.

Little Timmy ignored this, except to ostentatiously spin his Kealans around some more.

"Little Timmy, are you behaving back there?" Mrs. Meade called.

He rolled his eyes and slung his Kealans. Both of his submachine guns were fitted with a strap he pulled over his shoulder, and a clip that hooked to his belt, creating a crude sort of gun-suspenders.

He stayed leaned forward on his bench, eyes still alight with anticipation.

The Battle Wagon lumbered by the front of the Byrd mansion as the sun began to set. The gate was wrought iron, lofty and light and airy-looking, but deceptively strong.

The guards out in front of the gate glared suspiciously, but glaring suspiciously was their job. Especially when confronted with such a déclassé vehicle in their neighborhood, a vehicle so old it was still rolling around on wheels instead of floating by on modern gravwells.

The Byrd mansion itself sat at the top of a gentle hill, with a long curved drive leading to a roundabout circling a classical fountain in front of a broad, low flight of stairs leading to the main entryway. Cultivated topiary dotted the meticulously manicured lawn. More guards patrolled the lawn, visibly armed with high-end submachine guns. The place oozed class and old money.

The mansion was three stories tall, clean and well-maintained, with eggshell plaster and a distinct Art Nouveau feel, all curls and swoops and elegant curves. Proud, smooth marble columns flanked the recessed entryway, which was delicately carved in whimsical overlapping swirls, with oddly-shaped amber windows casting a warm glow from within.

All in all, it was a bucolic scene of the best kind of peace money could buy.

The Battle Wagon passed the property, drove down about a quarter mile, and turned around. It rumbled back toward the Byrd mansion.

As the Battle Wagon neared the front gate, it turned toward the side of the road and stopped, its rear doors facing the gate.

"Okay everyone," Oliver said, turning around as best he could in his seat to address the three in the back. "Recall that your primary goal is to maximally attract attention. Mrs. Meade and I will take you three as close to the entrance of the mansion as we possibly can. Mrs. Meade, would you be able to get us right up to the front door?"

"Hmm? What's that?"

"The front door of the mansion? Can you get us up there?"

"Oh, certainly Mr. Oliver."

"Thank you, Mrs. Meade. Well, then. Is everybody prepared for the operation to commence?"

D'khara nodded firmly, Little Timmy shrugged, and Roger popped his finger out of his nose. It was as much of an agreement as Oliver was likely to get.

"Okay. Mrs. Meade, let's line up the Battle Wagon."

The Battle Wagon jockeyed back and forth a couple times as Mrs. Meade lined up the vehicle. One of the gate guards started walking toward them to check on their suspicious behavior. The other guard pressed his finger to the device in his ear and muttered, presumably warning the guards inside that There Might Be A Problem.

Oliver hunted for the right control on the Battle Wagon's console. It was crowded with hand-built buttons, switches and dials that had accrued over the years as one and another feature had been added to the aging vehicle. Finally finding the right button, he pressed it.

Two grapnels fired from the hastily-welded tubes on the back of the Battle Wagon. They trailed steel cables, and crunched firmly into the pillars surrounding the gate, embedding themselves in the decorative stone. The pair of speed winches gave off a high-pitched dual whine as they snapped the cables taut. The high-torque winch took over, steadily pulling at the pillars.

The guard who'd come to check on them started yelling, and reached for the driver's side door handle. Oliver lunged across Mrs. Meade to lock the door. Mrs. Meade sat quietly smiling, oblivious.

Oliver experienced a strange optical sensation, as it appeared that the guard was drifting toward the front of the Battle Wagon. It took him a second to realize that the Battle Wagon was actually moving slowly backward, dragged by the winch.

"Mrs. Meade? Mrs. Meade! The brakes! You must apply the brakes!"

"Hmm? Oh, yes."

She firmly pressed the brake pedal, but not before the winch had wound the Battle Wagon back up to the gate, lifting the rear tires off the ground. Everyone inside was pulled toward the front of the vehicle by the shift in gravity.

The Battle Wagon was now pulled tight to the gate, with only the front tires touching the ground. Too late, Oliver punched the e-stop for the winch.

"Mrs. Meade, which button de-tensions the winch? We need to release!"

She smiled dimly at him and gazed down at the crowded console.

"Oh, it's one of the blue ones, I think. Let me see..."

More guards were making their way to the Battle Wagon. The first gate guard started banging on the window.

"Just go!" Little Timmy yelled. "I want to get this thing started!"

"Oh, well, that makes sense," Mrs. Meade said, and applied the accelerator. The rear wheels spun in the empty air.

The gate guard was yelling, and had his handgun pointed at Mrs. Meade's window.

"Just a moment. I need to engage the four-wheel drive." She turned one of the knobs on the console. Heavy clanks sounded from underneath. "It will be just a moment dear," she said.

Oliver was trying to signal the guard not to shoot. The guard, unswayed, backed up two steps and fired directly at Mrs. Meade.