The Story of the White Hart. (Luther's backstory)

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The Story of the White Hart. (Luther's backstory)

Post by John. on Fri Mar 20, 2015 3:36 am

<Author's Note: Luther is a completely neutral character who prides himself on his powers of deduction, his analytical and observational skills, and peacekeeping. This story is constructed to give him equal distaste towards both the combine and most resistance movements.>

CITY 45. THE LAND OF CIVILITY." exclaimed the propoganda poster, it's background showing citizen's hard at work with picaxes. They were mining. Luther laughed aloud as he observed the street around him, having approximately no picaxes, nor people who look like they could mine. He set down his suitcase, it being empty anyways, into the open dumpster which leaked the stench of stagnating urine. As he watched the case clunk as it falls, he hastily set off, wanting to avoid the nearby units, which were jarbling away into their built-in radios. "<:: 10-99 11-20." The unit muttered, taking a sharp right and wandering off into the marked off area labelled by overhead signs as "INDUSTRIAL SECTOR". Though, Luther had little time to ponder on the meanings of this gibberish, he found himself walking to one of the nearby public houses.

Luther stopped, looking up at the overhead sign. "The White Hart." The doors directly below it seemed to have been recently refurbished, slick pale blue metal adorned by a chrome handle adorned the entrance, which was enough to intimidate anyone who entered. As he did, however, he was met with a much different scene,  the scent of non-alcoholic beer and vomit stained the inside of Luther's nostrils, disorientating him somewhat. He stumbled forward, opening his eyes long enough to spot a small back door, it having gendered signs on them, he poised himself to the male bathroom, rushing in.

The smell of bleach comforted Luther as he exhaled heavily, somewhat shocked from the toxic atmosphere the pub had. He moved his hands to the faucet, turning the tap. Clear water came out of the faucet, splashing against the rusted metal bowl of the sink. He cupped his hands, collecting water in them before splashing himself in the face, in a futile attempt to stop him from chundering. He did so anyway, brown vomit filling the sink alongside the water.

Luther eventually halted his nauseous fit, looking up, fatigued from the episode. In the cracked mirror he could make out his own features. His pale face was distinguished against worn, somewhat old features. His nose was rose red while the rest of his face chalk white. He always hated that. Being re-assured that indeed, he was still himself, Luther turned and exited the bathroom, being prepared for the noxious odor that lingered in the bar. He looked around, noticing every member there had a red armband, with crimson text saying "LOYALIST". Luther's heart sank as he looked to his own arm, it only bearing his flesh. No armband in sight, the members of the bar quickly reported this to the barkeep, who began to stride over to luther, his nasal tone stating "Sir, this is a bar for loyalis-".

Flash.

White.

Screaming.

Luther recoiled, gripping his ears as a searing white was burnt into his eyes, a high tone ringing in his ears. He moaned in pain, attempting to keep conciousness as he stumbled back onto the concrete walls of the pub. His hands were swiftly yanked from his head, and forced behind his back. Luther willed himself to open his eyes, he looked around. Men in non-citizen uniforming were tying the bar-goers left and right. He grunted as he felt a zip-tie get wrapped around his wrists and tightened. And then actually did grunt in protest as a black polyester cloth was tied around his mouth.

As he squirmed in protest, Luther attempted to kick his assailant, at which point he had not seen. This was reciprocated with a hit to the head with something that he could only assume was the butt of a gun. Luther was dazed, light-headed, he slumped to the side before falling unconcious. As the void consumed Luther, the bar was a still agape with entropy, the loyalists that were not tied screaming, and attempting to run out, being blocked by a tall black man, who sported a baseball bat. Yells of "ANY REQUESTS TO THE PIGS AND ONE OF YOU DIES!" echoed as the younger loyalists who sat at one of the tables either cowered in fear or sobbed.

There was a 3 hour period which felt like a second to Luther before he regained conciousness, finding himself in a dimly lit room. He looked around, people dressed in loyalist uniforms were also tied and gagged. He realised that he was in a hostaging situation. Luther let out a muffled "Perrrfeect." Before one of the nearby armed men hit him with the butt of his gun, causing a minor bruise to luther's right arm. He recoiled in protest, looking resentfully at the man who had assaulted him. Infront of them was a radio system, and a microphone attached to it. There was a man armed with a spas-12 shotgun and silver tongue nearby the radio, speaking into the microphone. "Now, you have all the proof you need of your grunts being captured, swine. We demand two SPAS 12's from your armory, and all the radio units you got. Every hour that passes without our request being fulfilled means one of your grunts die."


Luther tilted his head, astounded by how stupid these people were. Trying to make demands with the metropolice? Kidnapping? Hell, using a radio? ..It would be a matter of time before the door is broken down and these fuckers are sprayed, he assured himself.

Chapter 2. WILL BE WRITTEN WHEN I ACTUALLY HAVE THE TIME THANK YOU sunny sunny sunny sunny sunny

John.

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