Lenka

 

~.:!!!LENKA SWEET!!!:.~

why can't I get the writing any bigger than that? It needs to be MASSIVE!

Everyone. Go visit her blog now, damn it. 

Talk to her. Invite her to things. Do everything to get her back on. Please?

The person(s) who successfully bring her back into the Blogosphere will not only have my forever gratitude, but will also have a short 1-3 piece about their OC's kicking @$$. Ok? Please?

 

Other, less important things:

Who's in charge of the Eight Great's? There's this idea that I think I mentioned earlier, about having a "Blogger's Dictionary" there, and so I wanted to talk to them.

I got new TDK headphones today, listening to them right now. Epppiiiiccccc....

Also, everyone head over to the Bio-rama.

 

And now, onto the next part of the Fanfic.

Kallista reeled backwards, the world spinning as she collapsed onto he ground. She groaned Jack's form entered her view, grinning down at her. He reached both his hands down and hauled her up for a moment, then lifted her off her feet and slammed her down onto the wooden table. The back of her head smacked against it, and a strangled cry came from the back of her throat.
She needed to concentrate. Her eyes tried focusing, but the least she could do was stare up at cracks that spider-webbed across the rood. Then even that was gone as Springheeled Jack's ugly smile loomed, a fist drawn back behind his head.
'No,' she thought, her mind clearing. 'Not today.'
She brought her head forward, banging it into Jack's own forehead, then caught his fist and twisted it out of her path. It hit the edge of the table, and Jack swore, swinging his clawed hands uselessly. She moved underneath the clumsy strikes, grabbed his head in both hands, and drove her knee into it.
He stumbled back, disorientated for the moment, and Kallista flipped backwards, standing properly on the table. He glared at her angrily, but instead of clambering up onto the table to fight her hand-to-hand as she expected, he unholstered the same gun that had shot Mitchell, took aim, and fired.
She barely had time to register this when the first bullet whizzed past her left ear. She knew the next one would be better aimed.
Kallista turned tail, running the length of the table as he emptied the clip at her. She kicked bowls and cutlery out of the way in her effort to escape, even jumping over a man who was slumped over the table, somehow asleep during all of the gunfire. Something seemed familiar about him, but Kallista couldn't put her finger on it, and the bullets were getting more accurate. She slid the last metre over the edge of the table, and crouched there. She heard the sound of the spent clip of ammo dropping to the floor, and Jack sliding in a new one. But there was a whole ten metre table between her and him. Hopefully, if he tried to circle it, she could just crawl the other way until she was at the doors.
Of course, Jack was smarter than that, and instead he jumped onto the table and began taking slow steps onwards, the gun trained at the opposite end where Kallista was crouching. "Don't worry, sweetheart," he said in what he probably thought was a friendly tone. "I ain't gonna shoot you. I just wanted a little talk, is all."
Kallista said nothing, the chance of escape getting smaller and smaller with each step Jack took towards her.
Jack's foot caught on something, and he smiled when he looked down


The man that had been slumped on the table flickered his eyes open, and grunted as he tried to rid himself of the remaining tendrils of sleep. He groggily began to sit up when he heard what had awoken him: gunshots. Instinctively he kept still, the top half of his body still slumped on the table. He heard a rush of wind as something flew over him, and then heavy footsteps running away. Still, the gun fired.
When it stopped, he heard someone else step up onto the table. Their footfalls were dead quiet, and they moved with the gracefulness of a cat on a carpet. The man spoke with a thick London accent, trying to act innocent. But the way the London man said it, the way he moved and the smell of mustiness and dried blood on his clothes spoke volumes of danger.
Suddenly, the man slumped on the table felt the Londoner was standing above him. His heart was beating a million miles a minute, and he swore that he could feel his own fear perspiring off his body.
Then he was hoisted up to his feet, the Londoner holding him up and pointing a gun to his head.
"Oh," was all he said.

Jack grinned at his new hostage. He called out to the girl hiding at the edge of the table. "Hey down there. Come out, and I swear I won't spill the brains of this here hostage all over the damned floor, okay?"
He heard Kallista Pendragon curse to herself. Slowly, she stood up, her hands in the air. She saw the hostage and gasped. Jack wondered what she was astonished at. He set his own gaze on the man he was holding captive, and saw nothing of the ordinary, wether it was the dark brown hair of medium length, the open trench-coat that he wore, or even the strange leather straps on one leg...
Jack cursed. He knew this man. But, unfortunately for the Terror of London, it was too late to do anything.
"Hello, Kallista. Hello, Jack." Said Israel Elysium, who was, of course, the previously asleep hostage.
Jack choked in surprise, and Israel's elbow snapped backwards into Jack's nose, turning the spluttered choking into a muffled howl of pain. He spun, his palm connecting with the criminal's chest, sending him flying off the table and landing in a heap on the ground.
Springheeled Jack wobbled to his feet, one hand covering his broken nose, the other trying to stop his top hat from falling off. Israel's hand flashed, pulling his double-barrel sawn-off shotgun from the holster on his leg and pulling the trigger. Jack was flung back over the resteraunt counter by the force of the blue wave that shot out of the barrel.
Kallista walked over and joined Israel, who was standing in the same position, his gun trained at the counter. "Thanks," she said, and he put the gun back into its holster. "Nice shot, by the way..."
"It was meant to be loaded," Israel replied, scratching his head and searching his jacket. "Dammit...where'd all my shells go?"
"Oh," Kallista said simply, and there was a stirring behind the counter.
Israel's hand flew to his shotgun again, but before be could draw it, a small, black barrel rose from behind the counter and shot him six times in the chest.
"Oh," he repeated, and fell to the floor.