Posted here to test the source document, as it won't fly over on Absolutewrite.com. This goes down the 'New Rose Hotel' route...
We walked through a cathedral of oaks, along a path of dappled sunlight. The open park lay ahead, consumed in heat haze, but our avenue remained cool and airy. Other than our voices and the background stir of leaves, the only sounds were of children at play.
Jean-Paul and I flipped a Frisbee back-and-forth while arguing over some great issue of the moment. Marie-Claude followed behind, laughing at our over-earnest but inconsequential debate. She carried lunch in a hessian shoulder bag: a long baguette, cheese, two bottles of wine and glasses wrapped in scraps from a velvet skirt.
The rusting vespasienn, with its Banksy mural of a figure in yellow jacket – Gilet; The best a man can get (away with) – still attracted a few tourists, but La Grande Convulsion was from my father’s time and the pun had not aged gracefully. In some respects the park was a reaction to the fear and violence that had gripped society back then - an oasis of calm from which all electronic equipment was barred, along with anything construed as a weapon. All patrons were subject to scan, but thankfully Marie’s short ceramic bread knife had passed muster, so as not to inconvenience our rustic repas.
And to this Eden we came as Death, bearing gifts.
At the end of the avenue the trees split, marching off left and right to encompass the great oval sweep of well-watered lawn. The scattering of families out to enjoy the sunshine were all off to our left, where the oaks afforded some shade.
Marie took up residence on a bench and removed a bottle of wine from her bag. Jean tore off a small handful of bread but paused in the act of transferring it to his mouth. “It would appear we have company.”
Some fifty meters to our right stood a small gazebo. Two men sat inside while another three formed the points of a surrounding triangle. The trio could not been more obviously bodyguards apart from holding placards. The nearest man started towards us; broad-shouldered and blank-faced.
Our own small group exchanged smiles. Marie pushed her sunglasses up to her hairline and laughed, making her nose crinkle in a heart-breakingly fetching fashion. “Let’s not let them spoil our fun.”
I winked, “Fun it is, then.”, and pulled the handgrip on the underside of my Frisbee. The rim sprung away in eight segments, each trailing a strip of transparent plastic that went rigid, similar to a snapscreen.
Jean tore the baguette in half, revealing four short glass javelins.
Marie twisted the cork on her bottle, allowing the binary explosive to mingle. “Twenty seconds, boys. Let’s hustle.”
I spun the blades of my repurposed toy, acting as Jean’s paviser. Three objects bounced off my blurred shield, a fourth grazed my upper left arm; ‘mice’ – small weighted throwing darts. As the nearest bodyguard drew another handful from the pocket of his safari jacket, Jean stepped out from behind me and nailed him in the chest at a distance of thirty metres. The tip of his javelin was needle-sharp, easily penetrating whatever ballistic cloth and anti-stab vest his target was wearing, and the man collapsed in a heap.
Jean slid in behind and tapped my shoulder. “Advance.” We closed the distance to the gazebo at a quick jog with Marie in our wake.
The next-up bodyguard sprinted towards us, carrying a telescopic baton in one hand, darts in the other. The remaining guardian ran for the gazebo, where both occupants were now standing; Hugo Bix – populist politician with links to right-wing agitators – and Viktor Hanesh – criminal entrepreneur with interests in drugs, prostitution and arm trafficking. Our employer wanted either man dead, with a 50% bonus for both.
Another tap. “Halt.”
Marie lobbed her bottle-bomb at a distance that belied her slender flame (sinew augmentation). It flew true. We ducked down.
The blast, the roar of flame.
Two figures of fire staggered from the ruined structure, but it was impossible to identify who.
“Thirty seconds to police response!” Marie turned and ran back towards the bench. Jean launched his remaining javelins at the remaining guard, but he was already in full retreat, tearing off his jacket to cast as ersatz fire blanket. Jean raced away but I had to pause, collapsing each blade of my shield in turn, until I was once again carrying a mere toy. However I’ve always been faster over open ground and was only a step behind when he caught up with Marie at the long avenue.
We hurried on together – three scared patrons now joining an exodus from the park. I wasn’t worried about being identified to the park attendants by some helpful eye-witness. With gunfire people may hunker down, but they generally try to spot the where, and with that comes some knowledge of who. But give them an explosion to react to, especially one designed for maximum visual impact, and fleeing in the opposite direction is instinctive.
Two Gendarmerie drones sped overhead in the direction of the towering column of smoke, displaying ‘deadly force’ running lights. A third slowed to a halt, but merely as guardian angel for the crowd how storming the exits. We spilled out across the boulevard, bringing traffic to a halt in a chorus of horns, even as sirens heralded the ground response teams.
Our team cut diagonally across to the small lane beside Café Macon, slowing our pace from ‘flight’ to ‘uninvolved’. Some 50 meters on, Henri stood waiting, a raised hand on the handle of the metal roller door. He brought it down in a creaking rush immediately we stepped inside, and barred it.
We stood for a moment, just looking at each other, then smiled, grinned, hugged, laughed out loud.
That was our last joyous moment together.
We walked through a cathedral of oaks, along a path of dappled sunlight. The open park lay ahead, consumed in heat haze, but our avenue remained cool and airy. Other than our voices and the background stir of leaves, the only sounds were of children at play.
Jean-Paul and I flipped a Frisbee back-and-forth while arguing over some great issue of the moment. Marie-Claude followed behind, laughing at our over-earnest but inconsequential debate. She carried lunch in a hessian shoulder bag: a long baguette, cheese, two bottles of wine and glasses wrapped in scraps from a velvet skirt.
The rusting vespasienn, with its Banksy mural of a figure in yellow jacket – Gilet; The best a man can get (away with) – still attracted a few tourists, but La Grande Convulsion was from my father’s time and the pun had not aged gracefully. In some respects the park was a reaction to the fear and violence that had gripped society back then - an oasis of calm from which all electronic equipment was barred, along with anything construed as a weapon. All patrons were subject to scan, but thankfully Marie’s short ceramic bread knife had passed muster, so as not to inconvenience our rustic repas.
And to this Eden we came as Death, bearing gifts.
At the end of the avenue the trees split, marching off left and right to encompass the great oval sweep of well-watered lawn. The scattering of families out to enjoy the sunshine were all off to our left, where the oaks afforded some shade.
Marie took up residence on a bench and removed a bottle of wine from her bag. Jean tore off a small handful of bread but paused in the act of transferring it to his mouth. “It would appear we have company.”
Some fifty meters to our right stood a small gazebo. Two men sat inside while another three formed the points of a surrounding triangle. The trio could not been more obviously bodyguards apart from holding placards. The nearest man started towards us; broad-shouldered and blank-faced.
Our own small group exchanged smiles. Marie pushed her sunglasses up to her hairline and laughed, making her nose crinkle in a heart-breakingly fetching fashion. “Let’s not let them spoil our fun.”
I winked, “Fun it is, then.”, and pulled the handgrip on the underside of my Frisbee. The rim sprung away in eight segments, each trailing a strip of transparent plastic that went rigid, similar to a snapscreen.
Jean tore the baguette in half, revealing four short glass javelins.
Marie twisted the cork on her bottle, allowing the binary explosive to mingle. “Twenty seconds, boys. Let’s hustle.”
I spun the blades of my repurposed toy, acting as Jean’s paviser. Three objects bounced off my blurred shield, a fourth grazed my upper left arm; ‘mice’ – small weighted throwing darts. As the nearest bodyguard drew another handful from the pocket of his safari jacket, Jean stepped out from behind me and nailed him in the chest at a distance of thirty metres. The tip of his javelin was needle-sharp, easily penetrating whatever ballistic cloth and anti-stab vest his target was wearing, and the man collapsed in a heap.
Jean slid in behind and tapped my shoulder. “Advance.” We closed the distance to the gazebo at a quick jog with Marie in our wake.
The next-up bodyguard sprinted towards us, carrying a telescopic baton in one hand, darts in the other. The remaining guardian ran for the gazebo, where both occupants were now standing; Hugo Bix – populist politician with links to right-wing agitators – and Viktor Hanesh – criminal entrepreneur with interests in drugs, prostitution and arm trafficking. Our employer wanted either man dead, with a 50% bonus for both.
Another tap. “Halt.”
Marie lobbed her bottle-bomb at a distance that belied her slender flame (sinew augmentation). It flew true. We ducked down.
The blast, the roar of flame.
Two figures of fire staggered from the ruined structure, but it was impossible to identify who.
“Thirty seconds to police response!” Marie turned and ran back towards the bench. Jean launched his remaining javelins at the remaining guard, but he was already in full retreat, tearing off his jacket to cast as ersatz fire blanket. Jean raced away but I had to pause, collapsing each blade of my shield in turn, until I was once again carrying a mere toy. However I’ve always been faster over open ground and was only a step behind when he caught up with Marie at the long avenue.
We hurried on together – three scared patrons now joining an exodus from the park. I wasn’t worried about being identified to the park attendants by some helpful eye-witness. With gunfire people may hunker down, but they generally try to spot the where, and with that comes some knowledge of who. But give them an explosion to react to, especially one designed for maximum visual impact, and fleeing in the opposite direction is instinctive.
Two Gendarmerie drones sped overhead in the direction of the towering column of smoke, displaying ‘deadly force’ running lights. A third slowed to a halt, but merely as guardian angel for the crowd how storming the exits. We spilled out across the boulevard, bringing traffic to a halt in a chorus of horns, even as sirens heralded the ground response teams.
Our team cut diagonally across to the small lane beside Café Macon, slowing our pace from ‘flight’ to ‘uninvolved’. Some 50 meters on, Henri stood waiting, a raised hand on the handle of the metal roller door. He brought it down in a creaking rush immediately we stepped inside, and barred it.
We stood for a moment, just looking at each other, then smiled, grinned, hugged, laughed out loud.
That was our last joyous moment together.
