Mountain Roar (Duke of Clubs, Zorolo)

Portgas crouched low over the saddle, one hand wrapped firmly in the black reins and the other clenched around the silver revolver at his hip. The cowboy leaned forward even more, rising up off the saddle a few inches to absorb the shock as his steed leapt from one pile of rocks to another. His breath came out in even, measured huffs, passing through his black bandana in the form of visible steam as it mixed with the cool mountain air. Argo skidded down the gravelly pile, jumping to more level ground as he approached the bottom. Ace kept his movements perfectly in synch with the horse, leaning up off the saddle and to the side when the steed pounded down a twisting slope, leaning back when the horse headed down a steep incline, and leaning forward when the ground turned up.

Portgas pulled in on the reins as the graveled, steep slope came to an end, fading gradually into pounded, rock-hard dirt. Abrasive granite rose up on either side of the man, roughly two stories high, leaving a single, narrow path deeper into the mountain. A heavy, blue-gray fog hung everywhere, masking anything more than five yards away. Grunting, the cowboy slid off his horse, patting him faithfully on the neck before slipping into the fog. Argo snorted and shook his head violently as his master and friend faded from view, pawing the ground nervously.

<====}=0 – 0={====>

”Fifty.” The old man spat flatly, his arms crossed and one dirty, rough hand angled up to scratch at his stubbly chin.

“One hundred.” Ace countered, completely relaxed despite the tense atmosphere. His bandana was pulled up high, and the brim of his hat low, leaving only his brilliant green eyes visible. It had a nice effect when haggling.

“Sixty.” The old man shot back indignantly.

“One . . . hundred.” Ace repeated firmly.

“Seventy-five, and it’s a damn sight better than you deserve!”

“Done,” Ace accepted cheerfully, tipping his hat back and leaning forward. “They’ll be as cold as your mountain air by dusk.” The stubbly-chinned man only grumbled, placing his gnarly hands on the table and pushing himself to his feet. Portgas watched the mayor waddle his way through the dimly lit taproom, until he was finally at the polished oak door.

“Ah,” he called, turned to look at Ace sternly. “Remember: by dusk! If you’re late, I’m docking your pay back down to fifty!” Ace laughed out loud at that, tipping the brim of his hat towards the old man as he closed the door behind him. A young, red-haired and full-bosomed woman clad in an apron and blouse slid into the mayor’s vacated seat, setting a tankard down in front of Portgas as she did so.

“You’d better be careful,” She warned, her eyes twinkling. “The mountain’s full of slippery trails and deceptive drop-offs.” Ace grabbed the tankard as she talked, pulling his bandana down around his neck. “Most of the year, fog covers everything; you’re liable to break more than a leg if you don’t watch your step!”

“Shouldn’t you be working?” Portgas asked wryly, amused at the young waitress’ boldness.

“Pah,” She waved her hand in front of her face, disregarding the cowboy’s remark. “And lastly, you have to know about the ‘mountain roars’.”

“Oh? And what would that be?” Ace asked, genuinely interested.

“The deeper you get into the mountain, the more rock formations you’ll be see’n. The mountain wind is harsh; it blows strong and long. If you get deep enough into the mountain, you’ll heard somethin’ to chill your bones.” The red-haired woman paused, reaching across to snatch Ace’s tankard and taking a long swig. The young man could only chuckle inwardly.

“Go on,” he prodded when the woman had set down the tankard with a refreshed gasp.

Wiping her lips, she continued, “Most travelers who hear it mistake it for monsters or demons or the sort, but it’s not. It’s only the wind blowing thorough the rough rock formations and whatnot. But it’s loud, and mightily frightening. If you’re in far enough, the roars’ll block out all sound. You won’t even hear a gunshot if it’s a mere yard away from you.” Ace nodded, his eyes gleaming at that choice bit of information.

“Well, good luck, hon.” The waitress bid, rising from the chair. She bent low and gave the cowboy a peck on the cheek. “You’ll need it.” His body shaking from silent mirth, Portgas watched the shapely woman stride across the taproom and through an open doorway behind the bar. Maybe when he got back, he’d pay that woman a little—private—visit. It was rare that he found such a bold woman, especially in the face of his natural intimidation.

<====}=0 – 0-{====>

He heard the “roar” now, blowing heavily through the granite arch in front of him. Ace grunted, clamping a hand down over his hat to keep it in place. Indeed, the wind did overpower his senses, driving all sound from his ears. But it passed, and when it did, the cowboy set off again. Rough, gray granite walls rose around him in a maze-like fashion, leaving plenty of paths for him and the wind to travel. Spires and arches, too, dotted the mountain valley. It was no wonder that few knowingly went into this mountain, and that fewer still came back out. A man could wander around for years, forever lost between the heavy fog, maze-like walls and obstacles, and the “mountain roars”. He, however, not only intended to be one of the few that came back out, but to leave before nightfall. His money was counting on it.

According to the mayor, only one local man could traverse the mountain valley with ease. The settlement ‘s single guide made quite a profit leading travelers through the mountain. There weren’t many, but he charged a lot. Unfortunately, said guide was gravely wounded. Shot in the gut by bandits. The same bandits that Ace now happened to be hunting. It was only by the poor guide’s misfortune that the people now knew that the bandits plaguing them resided within the mountain, and although it was not a discovery that the man was particularly glad to have made, it was one that had aided the townspeople, and subsequently, Ace. According to the guide, there was an old graveyard in the center of the mountain; now occupied by the fairly large group of raiders.

Portgas slipped behind a large rock spire, leaning his head out around it. Several fuzzy, white forms sat within the fog, grouped together. Dropping down low, Ace darted forward, guns out and ready. The closer he got, the more definite the shapes became, until he finally recognized them as various crosses, angels, and rounded rectangles. The cowboy crouched down in front of the closest tombstone, rubbing one hand over the white, wind-smoothed stone.

“Walter Whitman, proud father and loving husband.” Ace whispered to himself. His eyes wandered down to the set of dates below the name, and widened in surprise. “Quite old, these tombstones.” He muttered, looking around. The man sighed, moving out around the white cross and across the graveyard. Eventually, he heard the low murmur of voices and crouched down low, his guns raised. The wind shifted, and the fog cleared a little, allowing Ace a good look of the group of men huddled in the midst of the graves.

“Dear God, they’re cookie-cutter bandits!” Ace muttered, looking over the nearly identical bandanas, ponchos, and leather hats worn by almost every single one of the men. The ideal bandit image. How tasteless. The cowboy slipped closer, until he was on the very edge of the gathering, still unnoticed. He waited for a lull in the conversation and wind before slipping right up behind one man and placing the barrel of his revolver against his temple.

“A graveyard; how thoughtful of you to save me the trouble.”

<====}=0 – 0={====>

Not much of a challenge, Ace couldn’t help but think, snapping the barrel and cylinder of one revolver down. Empty, golden casings automatically popped out of the six chambers, falling to his feet with a bell-like tinkling. He reached into the black pouch beneath his overcoat, pulling out a group of six bullets, connected by a thin plastic holder. He slammed the cluster into their chambers as one and snapped the barrel back up with a flick of his wrist. And then he clearly heard the unmistakable sound of someone stubbing their foot and swearing rather carelessly.

One more? Ace thought, grinning beneath his bandana. With any luck, he’ll let me have a little fun.

The dry, cool air of the mountains made it the perfect place for the dark clad man to get a good workout and some more training in. Vossler had simply pushed his body too hard a little while ago, but he was in fine, working order now. The former assassin's body had completely recovered, and he was back on the trail of finding a worthy foe.

Aside from merely training, though, Monroe had enlisted the aid of someone. A person that, perhaps, could make every one of the man from 2043's dreams come true. It was a completely possible thing to happen, right? It wasn't like Vossler had any reason to doubt this person's skills, since he'd seen them first hand. The man had made a perfect duplicate of the blueprints the bounty hunter had brought him, and when the dark clad man returned, he'd request more.

Even so, the modern fencer inquired about this person who's aid he had acquired, and what truly this person wanted.

o=)----------Red Hill: Vandibrough Estate----------(=o

The blonde-haired man spun the bullet around, examining it closely. "Yes, yes, I do believe this shall do," the scientist stated, throwing the bullet carelessly.

The dark haired mercenary didn't really flinch, but caught the bullet all the same, placing it in his jacket. "Why only six?" the warrior asked as he looked at the madman, inquiring as to why this man had only made so few of the weapon.

"Because," Mark stated simply, taking a slight sip of his tea, "those bullets need a test run before I'll make more. The blueprints you gave me were very descriptive, yes, but lord knows what will happen if I made even one error, not that I would," Vandibrough stated absolutely carelessly as he took another sip of his tea.

"Interesting. And what payment do you want?" the dark clad man asked dryly.

"Nothing at the moment. You said you have more blueprints you wanted to be made into things. Bring them in and I shall make them, and when the time is right, I shall ask of you what I want you to do," Mark said with a smile as he turned his chair around and looked at his book case. "Now please see yourself out. Mina doesn't much like you, and I'm sure you've got something to do," Mark stated, not really interested in talking to Monroe any more.

"Whatever," the former assassin said as he turned and left the building. He now had a new bullet type to test out that wasn't the one he normally used. Now all he needed was a worthy test of this bullet.

o=)----------Back on the Mountain----------(=o

Vossler examined the bullet that he had been given. He'd waited damn long enough to use it, and if that wasn't bad enough, the God damned mountain was so loud he couldn't hear himself think. Monroe had, however, been smart enough to bring earplugs, and had them in now, watching the events that transpired in the graveyard.

His enhanced sense of sight observed the guns that this cowboy used. What an uncouth method of fighting. Double Action Army guns as well. Monroe hated guns, but more then anything else, he despised DAA guns. If a person were to use a high caliber hand gun, they should at least use SAA. After all, Monroe did have the most powerful handgun, he felt, known to man. The Colt Single Action Army.

It wasn't like DAA or semiautomatic weapons, or even automatic, weapons were a bad things, Monroe just felt that a true fight wasn't decided by guns. Even so, he didn't really care at the moment. He'd be having other things made, and most of them were modifications to bullets, so his Colt had a very fond place in his heart now.

Without any real thought about it, Monroe leapt from his perch, landing a few feet from the graveyard, and walking silently towards it. The modern fencer rested his right hand against the hilt of his sword, ready with his left to draw it. Vossler stopped and stood behind a tree, removing his revolver and loading six of his APP shots into it and closing the chamber and spinning it slightly. If this guy thought cowboy gun antics would work here, he'd wind up quite dead.

The mercenary holstered his gun and continued walking towards the uncouth cowboy, but suddenly found an annoying urge and stepped back, accidentally letting loose several swears and curse. Vossler looked at his foot, and noticed he had kicked a tombstone. Great, now he was revealed to this damn guy. Well, it wasn't like he could avoid it.

OoC: Oh, just a note: I've upgraded Monroe, so go take a look. He's very awesome now.

No one pays attention to a skeleton in a graveyard. That's where skeletons belong.

When the gunshots rang out, Johnny watched bright red splashes of color dart across his vision, leaving pink trails among the spinning, multi-colored nexus. Pretty. Soon after, someone's blood started oozing into his grave.

Irritated, Johnny sighed and waited. A minute later, the salvia trip ended and the hallucinations faded away. Then, he sat up and rose from the grave. It was a shallow thing, and the bandits had taken the coffin anyways for whatever reason. Maybe they wanted to melt down the fillings in the corpse's teeth and sell 'em. Who cared?

They were dead, anyways.

The wind started back up again as Johnny peered around the graveyard. It was no bother, really. It wasn't as though he needed ears. The wind continued, but it became a minor, almost whispering noise in his hearing. One of the advantages of being a skeleton was that you transcended bodily needs.

Except sex. Everybody loves sex.

There was the jackoff that had ruined his trip. How inconsiderate! How dare he shoot everyone while Johnny was trying to reach a higher level of consciousness? The zombie considered pulling out a Beretta while the ignorant cowboy's back was turned, but decided not to. He was trying to get to Heaven, after all. Murder wouldn't help.

"God ****ing **** ***********..."

The curses cut through the air like a F-16 flying through a flock of seagulls.

Johnny's skull turned, only his eyes and top of head exposed, and looked through the gloom with ease. Oh, great. Someone else. This was preposterous, ludicrous and downright inconceivable! He couldn't be alone anywhere! He was in the middle of the goddamned mountains and he ran into gun-toting, hip gangster wannabes. Inconceivable! His fleshless jaws gnashed in annoyance.

He ought to pop these fools right here...bony hands silently pulled free two semi-automatic pistols from their holsters.

But not yet. Let them goof off for a while. If they found him, oh well. It would take more than one shot to kill this skeleton. Yes, indeed.

He lay back down and listened.

After several seconds, he dropped one pistol and reached into his bulletproof jacket. The hand came back out clutching a frag grenade. He pulled the pin and tossed it in the cowboy's general direction.

On second thought, waiting was boring.

An explosion rocked the earth.

The first thing Ace noticed, to his surprise, was that this man wore not the white of the bandits, but a completely black outfit like his own. The cowboy hesitated, pointing his gun up and wondering if perhaps the black-clad stranger was an ally. That thought was blown away as a bullet ripped through the fog, passing well over his shoulder. Leaping to the side, Ace came up rolling behind a swirling spire. Another bullet whizzed thorough the air to hit the sturdy spire, and the cowboy spun around the barrier on the opposite side, snapping a gun across the curving rock face towards the black, hazy form. Not waiting to see if the bullet had hit, Ace dove away from the spire, his body curling to roll along a shallow ridge in the ground that led into a narrow furrow. The black-clad gunman heaved both arms over the ridge, bracing the butts of both guns on the ground. The mysterious stranger, too, had moved, considerably closer and well off to the side.

Ace swiveled both guns to draw a bead on the black shadow—a good deal more defined now—but was prevented from firing as an explosion lit up the blue-gray fog, coloring it a pastel orange-red. A shower of granite chips pelted Portgas, the explosion shattering the spire he had previously hid behind. The cowboy stared at the crumbling rock formation, considering his good fortune in moving away as chunks or rock crashed to the ground. Realization struck, and Ace’s head snapped back just in time to see the black form disappear behind a granite wall. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that the explosion had come from a completely different direction than the black-clad form, meaning that Ace faced two enemies, not one. It also didn’t take anyone just this side of retarded to realize that Ace stood—quite unwisely—between the two.

Throwing himself backwards, the cowboy crawled along the narrow furrow as quickly as he could, somewhat protected by the low ridges on either side. Another explosion rocked the earth—this time to Ace’s other side—sending the gunman leaping to his feet and practically flying towards the shelter of a higher, jagged wall. He made it just in time, a bullet burrowing through the shallow edge of the wall and driving a good ways into the opposite formation. Ace came up rolling again, and whipped his left arm back out against the edge of the wall, firing off two subsequent shots towards a fast-approaching, white (Ace was surprised yet again; was this one of the bandits?) form. This time, the cowboy did stay to watch, determined to witness the outcome of his shooting. It was to his absolute incredulity, his total unwilling disbelief, that the white form took both hits squarely in the chest (Ace heard the strangely light chimes of both bullets), yet continued to advance, undaunted.

Spinning on one leg, the cowboy fled into the maze-like corridors of the mountain walls. Darting to the left and into a branching passage, Ace took a mental recount of his ammunition: one gone from his right gun and two from the left, leaving five and four. Good, just enough to blow White away. The path before Portgas opened into a wide, fan-shaped clearing full of small boulders and two broken arches. Diving through the opening and behind the closest boulder, the man spun back around to face the enemy he had deemed “White”. He was far past being surprised by this point, so he took the good amount of ground his foe had gained on him stoically enough, the hazy white form more than halfway through the last, branching corridor. Ace open fired, leaving the pursuing man nowhere to run in the narrow passage.

Not that it appeared to matter. The bullets failed to take effect again, and Ace glanced down at his twin revolvers as if they had somehow betrayed him. Gritting his teeth, he emptied the rest of both barrels into the fast-approaching foe, quickly snapped both cylinders open, and slammed two new rounds into the empty chambers. For the well-practiced and amazingly quick Ace, this only took between two and three seconds, yet by the time he looked back up, it was to see his foe upon him, the thin white form leaping into the air and across the gap between the two to land on top of Ace’s boulder. Despite his very firm resolve to remain unsurprised for the remainder of the battle, Ace’s jaw dropped as he looked up at his opponent.

“You’re dead!” Portgas blurted, his eyes wide as he stared up as the armored skeleton.

“Same to you,” Johnny retorted, his jawbones gaping in a wide grin—at least, Ace thought it was a grin; it’s hard to tell when there’s no flesh. The skeleton brought a gun to bear, leveling it Ace’s way. The cowboy’s arm flashed up, the skeleton’s bullet rebounding off the sturdy side of the human’s revolver. There was a quick flash of metal as the two snapped out their second guns, pressing the two barrel-to-barrel. Without pausing to consider the situation, Portgas sidestepped and whipped his right-hand gun across Johnny’s jaw, knocking the skull sideways and planting the tip of the gun where the neck bone joined with the skull, his left-hand gun simultaneously knocking Johnny’s gun away and slithering it under the skeleton’s bend knee. The black-clad cowboy completely let loose, emptying both rounds and sending Johnny’s skull flying away into the fog and his right leg from the knee down clattering across the rough, uneven mountain ground.

“Ha!” Ace laughed out triumphantly, leaping away as the skeleton fell forward off the boulder. The clothed bones hit the ground and fell to its one remaining knee, but came up again, hopping towards Ace. The man similarly leapt back, his guns pivoting downward and ejecting a dozen empty, golden casings. Clamping his right gun under his left elbow, the cowboy turned and ran, reaching into his pouch and withdrawing two new rounds, the skeleton still—oh God, how was it still moving?!—hopping along behind. He heard the click of the guns and dove to the side, a blaze of bullets piercing the various boulders right along behind the cowboy. Thoroughly frustrated, Ace snapped his revolvers closed with a flick of both wrists and whipped around from behind one of the broken arches, “coming out with both guns blazing”, as it were. And despite his predicament with the gun-toting skeleton—he still couldn’t believe it!—a part of Ace’s brain still asked, “Where’s Black?”

Monroe watched with some level of interest at this strange turn of events. A skeleton, eh? The people of that island town had described one fighting with the green haired fencer, Zorlo. It was hard to say if that guy really was dead, but it did seem so, given the total lack of skin. Either way, the dead guy seemed to do nicely, and the former assassin merely watched for a few minutes.

Well, this seemed to be the best time to test out his new toy, and the enhanced human was going to do just that. Quickly opening the chamber to his revolver, the modern fencer dumped the bullets from within his gun out and into his hand and then placed them inside of a pocket, ready to be used when he finished what he was doing. The modern man tossed the one used bullet casing and reached his hand into his jacket, pulling out a different kind of bullet, one with a slight shine in on the tip. "This should do the trick."

In fact, this would be the first field test of the No. 2 in action, which made this fight all the more fun. Monroe slid the bullet into an empty chamber, all by its lonesome, and clicked the chamber closed, spinning it slightly afterwards. The dark clad warrior to aim, first at Johnny, and then to the far right at a tree. Much better. Mostly since this weapon didn't have any variation, but that made it all the more fun to use in battle. "Show time!"

The modern fencer took a slightly step to the side and cocked the hammer back before pulling the trigger. The muzzle flashed brightly as the bullet was ejected from the chamber and released out through the muzzle towards its target. Neither Johnny nor Portgas were the initial target, but they were a good way to test out this little toy. Especially if the rumors about Johnny Bones were true.

The bullet traveled very fast towards the tree, but when it struck the tree, the bullet rebounded off in another direction, right towards the cowboy, it seemed. Even so, that wasn't the case at all. Monroe knew physics and trajectory, and his true target was about to be revealed. The bullet struck the rock next to the black clad cowboy, but didn't stop. It's real aim was for Bones.

The bullet bounced from where it had struck the rock at an insane speed, ripping through the front and back of the zombie's armor, and continuing to whizz right past Monroe's head before finally getting lodged in a rock. Worked better then expected, hadn't it? Either way, the dark clad man had received the attention he wanted to.

Vossler opened the chamber of his gun and reinserted the five unused No. 1 rounds, closing the chamber as the dead man seemed to approach him. The bounty hunter merely holstered his gun and shoved his hands into his jacket pockets and marched nonchalantly towards the dead man. Things were only now getting interesting.