The Torc Cannon

The Torc Cannon

The Punks mock leather trousers creacked their irridescant pink surface rinkeled and smugged with exhust from her out modded Luniaire 6 the bike of the heavens. She swerved again as the torc connon beared down on her, its surface a mirrored sheen rippling her reflection.

The wind sliced at her – she wasn’t supposed to go this fast without a face sheild but she’d bearly had time to grab the goggles and they were balanced pocerasly due to being rammed on hastily, with one hand – over a mohark of vibrant magenta. She swore as another blast missed but the bow wave hit her anyway making the bike ver of course.

She was heading to the Industs! Industry gone mad – factories and shanty town combined, deralicked and dangerous. Ferrial kids and cannibals, the whole complex was inside a steel cave with old ducting and vents hanging down from the vast roof. It made the shopping malls of the 20th century look like onebedroom bedsits and she was about to collide with it!

There was no time to do anything, her heart hurt, she ducked and she was inside! She’d manoveured inside the Indust! Specks with glowing pallid faces looked up at her – she hooted in triumph – thunder, a roar shaking the steel roof over her head, the world trembeled.

The Punk saw the Torc Cannon rentching its way after her, debris hot and twisted was showering down, the Punk dare not think of those glowing faces. Time slowed, some scense honned in time told her to reach up, with a forced that dislocated a shoulder she grabbed a pipe rough and cold and swung herslef around in an acrobatic move even she could not belive. The blast scorched her bike seat making the synthetic sticky. It adhered to her as she hit the seat but there was no time to worry about her threads – a wall loomed large in her vishion. goggles lost in to the Indust floor below. She jerked the bike and dived, grit stung abraiding her face, she was releived she’d taken her chain off the force on the noise ring alone made her fear what exactly she was going to have left of her nose.

She exited through a window curving herself and the bike to the side – they made it though she gashed her leg, no time to think on that. She headed up on the bike, eyes watering, the world seised to exist, she could see nothing, she was riding on her instincts along. She looped round, the strain on her hips and arms as she clung to the bike upside down made her ache, fire shot through her dislocated shoulder but this adreniline muted it to an annoying buzz.

She jumped onto the torc cannon landing hard, the air pushed from her lungs, her bike with its cracked lumonius paint spiralled out of control, she had to hope they’d think she was still on it or that she’d fallen off with blood lose. Of course the armamont of the cannon should have been wired to fry her. It wasn’t – she mentally cursed herself for not thinking of it and then slowely edged alone the smooth surface. Her gloves gave good traction – they needed to for the sky bikes and she’d paid enough for them. Her boots left black smers on the shiny surface as she inched along.

The Torc Cannon suddenly dipped, she slid a good legnth – being brought to a stop by a head on collision with the service hatch. Metallic blood filled her mouth – she wasn’t sure but her noise seemed to be broken too. Minor injuries she could cope. Jingerly she reached into her acid pink bomber and pulled out her laser pen. Gritting her teeth she vaporised the bolts remembering to move her head just as the hatch was wripped off by the wind.

She slivered into the hatch head first. Alarms should be blearing to say they had a hull breach. Without the wind the inside was erry quiet, her ears ached from the cold and her injuries where mounting but hey FUCK EM. She’d been through too much to let this stop her.

Wiping the blood and grit from her face as she jogged along, the flame boots now devoid of most of their lurid pink glitter she raced towards the mid section where her instincts told her the control room would be – having the most sheilding from both the blasts and vechiles exhurst. The first grey clad jack was around her fifth coner – he didn’t see the laser that vaporised his neck and part of the too shiny bulk head behind him. The reflections made it somehow pretty, a contusion of flowering blood, the Punk felt sick.

She raced on.

She was almost to Control when the blasts behind her started, leaving scorch marks marring the metal. She rolled and run crouched. She skidded to a hualt in Control and ramming her lazer pen into the controls closed the emergancey sill doors – Fools! She’d designed the locking mechanism they should have changed them.

She glanced up at those left in the room, of course they where all foot soldiers and civs, but still they had to have a high clearance to have been sent after her like that.

She held the laser pen like the weapon it was, ‘Where’s the Ocelot?’ she asked quietly. The soldiers looked blankly at each other. And then she saw it, sitting on the commanders desk – being used as a paper wieght – milky onyx. A little cat statue and she would have gone through ten times the pain to get it.

The door behind her rattled – they were attempting to ram it. She edged to the cat and careful not to take her eyes off of the soldiers put in on of her many pockets. Its mass was bulky and hard thumping her ribs.

She lasered the controls. The Cannon lerched. The soldiers skidded, The Punk didn’t they would attack her now, she knew. She flatterned the first past, by sinking her boot into the sternum. A sickening crunch.

The laser pen vaporised anothers eyes , the smell was acrid and seared the back of her throat.

The third however was obviosuly special branch, a gorotte went round her neck and tightened before she’d even seen the movement. A desperate tussel and the soldier went sprawling hitting her head on the consol. The metallic smell of blood filled the air along with the charred flesh. The door was begining to dent but they were descending fast – the Punk ran to the commanders seat and pulled the bright orange webbing around her. There was no screen though and there was enough loose equipment in the room that she’d be lucky not to end up shickabobbed.

She screamed on impact.


The darkness was pungent, a stickyness, made her fingers slippery as she attempted to undo the webbing. Once free she clicked the optic in her her piercings, white light spilled from her – giving away her position. The ocelot was pressing against her – it had at least bruised her ribs during the impact – blood lose was starting to be a problem.

There didn’t appear to be any surviors – she grabbed the first aid kits – the rucksack under Control with field supplies and after abit of rummaging and the help of her RFID scanner she found the laser pen. She had to cut her way out the air getting thicker with fried electronics.

She stumbled – she needed shelter and quick – if the Cannon blew then she needed to be underground. She scanned the area – the rocks told her all she needed to know – she had live here with the gypsies she had outlawed – in caves. She stumbled foreward into the darkness.

Posted: Thursday, February 16th, 2012 @ 10:16 pm
Categories: Short Stories, The Punks World.
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