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"We have a 10-31 on Somerset and Lucks. 10-32 and 10-99, we believe it to be members of the Factory, over."
Sirens blared. Helicopters shone their lights down on the streets from overhead. Police cars blocked off roads and warned civilians to stay away. 10:34 pm. 78 degrees Fahrenheit. New moon. A person in a motorcycle raced down the road, swerving between stopped cars, hopping up on the sidewalk, popping wheelies across the median strip. The motorcycle was decked out in shades of violet, the wheels glowing in a neon purple, as well as the handle grips and a few swirling designs along the sides. The person at the cycle wore a helmet in the same purple, the same lit up swirl designs along the side, their face hidden by a visor. People screamed as they ripped past, men pushing their wives or girlfriends out of the way of the screeching tires, others picking up crying toddlers and pulling them into the safety of an alcove or store. The rider clicked down on a lever next to the kickstand with the heel of the boot that went up to their knees, and turned, leveling a rifle up towards the sky and shooting with precise accuracy at the operator of one of the three helicopters, while the motorcycle drove on by itself without them, dodging things in its way. The helicopter suddenly toppled and swerved, as the now dead pilot sat limp at the chair, and the snipers inside tried their best to steer to safety. They landed with a spine-chilling explosion in the middle of the park. None of them survived. The neon motorcycle rider frowned softly under their helmet.
They turned back to the rode and threw the rifle over their shoulder, a strap on it keeping it on their back like a musician would carry their guitar. They grabbed hold of the handles and revved, speeding down the road. Another click of the lever, a nitro boost sped them along the median strip, the tires screeching at a sudden turn down an alley. The rider seemed reckless, but they knew exactly what they were doing. They had two objectives: lose and/or shoot out the other two helicopters, and meet with this heist's top priority accomplice. Circuit was the one with 70% of the money in her paws, after all. And the Candy Man would not be having a first-timer getting away with it all.
They raced through the sprawling maze of tall, grubby, hopelessly dilapidated back alleyways. With yet another click of the lever, all of the lights on their person as well as the motorcycle flipped off, and the engine of the cycle went mysteriously silent despite still chugging along amazingly fast. At the back of Angelo's was their meeting point, the citywide famous Italian restaurant, and Jacqueline "The Candy Man" Dohrman was steadily approaching such destination.
Sirens blared. Helicopters shone their lights down on the streets from overhead. Police cars blocked off roads and warned civilians to stay away. 10:34 pm. 78 degrees Fahrenheit. New moon. A person in a motorcycle raced down the road, swerving between stopped cars, hopping up on the sidewalk, popping wheelies across the median strip. The motorcycle was decked out in shades of violet, the wheels glowing in a neon purple, as well as the handle grips and a few swirling designs along the sides. The person at the cycle wore a helmet in the same purple, the same lit up swirl designs along the side, their face hidden by a visor. People screamed as they ripped past, men pushing their wives or girlfriends out of the way of the screeching tires, others picking up crying toddlers and pulling them into the safety of an alcove or store. The rider clicked down on a lever next to the kickstand with the heel of the boot that went up to their knees, and turned, leveling a rifle up towards the sky and shooting with precise accuracy at the operator of one of the three helicopters, while the motorcycle drove on by itself without them, dodging things in its way. The helicopter suddenly toppled and swerved, as the now dead pilot sat limp at the chair, and the snipers inside tried their best to steer to safety. They landed with a spine-chilling explosion in the middle of the park. None of them survived. The neon motorcycle rider frowned softly under their helmet.
They turned back to the rode and threw the rifle over their shoulder, a strap on it keeping it on their back like a musician would carry their guitar. They grabbed hold of the handles and revved, speeding down the road. Another click of the lever, a nitro boost sped them along the median strip, the tires screeching at a sudden turn down an alley. The rider seemed reckless, but they knew exactly what they were doing. They had two objectives: lose and/or shoot out the other two helicopters, and meet with this heist's top priority accomplice. Circuit was the one with 70% of the money in her paws, after all. And the Candy Man would not be having a first-timer getting away with it all.
They raced through the sprawling maze of tall, grubby, hopelessly dilapidated back alleyways. With yet another click of the lever, all of the lights on their person as well as the motorcycle flipped off, and the engine of the cycle went mysteriously silent despite still chugging along amazingly fast. At the back of Angelo's was their meeting point, the citywide famous Italian restaurant, and Jacqueline "The Candy Man" Dohrman was steadily approaching such destination.
