War Torn Streets

"Come on foureyes, pick up the fucking pace; I'm freezing my fucking tits off waiting for your slow ass." Spoke "Shotty", otherwise known as Rebecca Ronson, or Lupara if you knew her backstory. Her fingerless gloved hands were stuffed into the pockets of her steel gray military jacket. A cigarette perched from her lips as she stood there waiting for the "company man" to play catchup.



"Gee, why the hell did they give me this fucking nerd to babysit; it's not like I had any less handicaps to deal with..." she said out loud, her eyes irritated as she waited for the ''backup'' she was given on this assignment. The gun in the shoulder holster rattled as if on cue to the ''handicaps''; despite her connections and the worn-torn state of post-apocalyptic Edonia, her contacts couldn't get a hold of all of the gear she had personally asked for, and she didn't want to touch the shit that her current employer had.

"Now I'm only working with a lousy PB-6P9, and a .45. I'm really going to cut Misha's fucking balls off and feed them to his stupid dog after this bullshit." She says to herself in an angry and irritated manner. The .45, which was in the holster on her shoulder at the moment, seemed like the better of the two, but she really ached for her AK and shotgun, which apparently couldn't get slipped through the border. God, it was one thing after a fucking other.

She sighed, blowing out smoke, turning away from the Merc backup and started walking away. "I'm not waiting till fucking Christmas ''buddy'', so hurry your ass or I'm fucking leaving you behind!" she called back, still annoyed that the company gave her this piece of shit to look after.