Supply runs were Amaka’s third favorite activity in the world. There were few things better than watching a carefully executed plan go into motion. The back and forth across thousands of miles was unlike anything else. After hours of poring over targets and coordinating drops, the smooth, Rube Goldberg-esque machinations of acquisition were practically orgasmic. Throw in some explosions and good steaks and Amaka could have died happy.
“Remember, if shit goes south—“
“We split and go to the most inaccessible places we can think of in rapid succession, I know how this works Bryce,” Amaka stifled a yawn, stretching out her back as long as possible. They had half an hour to bust a bank, a food transports, and a warehouse for medical supplies. Seven of them stood in a cramped one room shack, surrounding a large table with various maps strewn across it. A fan turned idly overhead. Outside, a storm howled, waves crashing in the distance.
Amaka had the joy of handling the food transport with a dude so skinny she thought he might blow away in a stiff breeze. He pulled his mask down over his face and wispy beard. Her black eyes glanced to her watch. Thirty seconds. She ran a freckled hand through her black hair, pulling it back into a tiny ponytail at the back of her head.
“We should be clear,” Bryce, a dark sinned man built like a small tank, reassured the six of them. “But you all know how fast Paladins can work. If you even think you see those fuckers, I want you gone. We can always make another run.”
Amaka squished her face beneath the black wool of her mask. She adjusted her gloves. Bouncing back and forth, she punched her partners (Harry? Harold? Hank? Whatever) shoulder with a grin. Not that he could see her face, but whatever.
“C’mon buddy. It’ll be fun.”
“Ten seconds!” Bryce called. She tensed, a ball of pure energy— “Now!”
She Jumped. The rush was instantaneous, euphoria flooding her as space bent to her whims. Her heartbeat pounded in her ears as she landed. It was almost too easy—the warehouse was busy, as expected, their truck finishing loading. She could see the driver, signing off on paperwork. A pop—skinny bro landed next to her, crouched behind the warehouse door. Carefully, they flitted from point to point, jumping constantly, dancing through the crowd, toppling crates and causing mayhem as they went. Their driver they shadowed, waiting—he was heading to the truck. Amaka found herself on the roof of the warehouse, peeking out and watching. Several minutes passed before the truck finally began to pull out. It jerked to the left suddenly—skinny kid must have dealt with the driver. She Jumped in, scrambling towards the driver’s seat. She’d barely gotten settled when the skinny bastard popped into existence, looking frazzled.
“Shit, I thee he bro my noze,” he had pulled his mask up to stem the bleeding, releasing a stream of profanity. Amaka rolled her eyes, reaching out to smack him again.
“Hey! We’ve gotta move. You up to this?”
“Yeahyeah get off mah nuts,” he grumbled, wiping his hands on his pants. Amaka cringed when he gripped her hand, but focused on the wheel, on the pull.
Jumping with someone else was easily her least favorite thing. Especially when Jumping a 35 ton hunk of metal. It was so much slower, a grinding that echoed through every inch of her. She could taste copper in her mouth. Pressure built in her head, screaming for release.
And then suddenly, they had landed. Air rushed back into her lungs. Amaka coughed violently, slumping over the wheel of the truck. She peered up to her right—shit, the kid was fucking twitching—she grabbed his arm and twisted, landing outside the truck in a massive field, stumbling as he slumped on top of her. Brilliant. She looked to their company, a dude who looked like he ate steroids for breakfast and a woman whose presence made her want to projectile vomit. Or maybe that was the Jump. Whatever.
“You’re late,” the tall, thin woman informed her, violently pink curls peeking out from beneath her mask. Amaka rolled her eyes.
“Driver was taking his sweet time. It’s all yours,” Bitch, she couldn’t help but add internally. She shook the kid dozing against her. Goddamn Jump fog. He shook his head slowly, groaning, and Amaka was at least relieved that he wasn’t dead.
“Gotta move, kiddo. You know where you’re going?”
“I thee so.”
“Good enough for me,” Amaka ripped off her mask as she sprinted, the familiar twist of reality pulling her to an alleyway in Paris. Another Jump—Berlin—another—Sydney—finally, she landed in Vegas. Sweat dripped down the back of her neck. The alleyway was deserted, echoing with the roar of passing traffic. She breathed deep, allowing herself a brief respite as she leaned against the wall. Neither hide nor hair of Paladins on their run—hopefully the others would be as lucky. Her watch informed her that it was ten thirty six PM. The truck should be in Tibet by now, ready to make the final leg of the journey to the island where goods would be unloaded and stored for later distribution. Every year it seemed there were more of them to feed and shelter. If it kept up, they’d be making supply runs every week soon enough. And each run just meant another chance to get caught, even with their crazy teleportation abilities.
Amaka sighed, running a hand through her black locks and releasing them from the hairband. Shaking her hair out, she made her way out of the alley, adjusting her leather jacket. Her boots scuffed the pavement as she walked, dusting off foreign dirt from her jeans. The streets were packed, crowds buffeting about from place to place. She let herself fade into the crowd until she found some place familiar. She yearned to Jump, but there was no way it could be safe at the moment. Paladins were annoyingly good at finding them, the rat bastards.
Her memory served her well as she picked her way across town, leading her to the Nine Fine Irishmen. It was packed, as per usual, but she managed to squeeze her way into the bar. Flashing a grin, she leaned in,
“Long Island, yeah?”
She was soon rewarded with her well-deserved drink. The bartender seemed plenty pleased by the fifty she dropped and her cheery wink. It had been too long since she had left her hidey hole and let loose. Besides, what was the point in her little hoard of cash if she never got to use it? Amaka cast her gaze about the bar. Was it too much to hope for a source of entertainment? Probably.
“Remember, if shit goes south—“
“We split and go to the most inaccessible places we can think of in rapid succession, I know how this works Bryce,” Amaka stifled a yawn, stretching out her back as long as possible. They had half an hour to bust a bank, a food transports, and a warehouse for medical supplies. Seven of them stood in a cramped one room shack, surrounding a large table with various maps strewn across it. A fan turned idly overhead. Outside, a storm howled, waves crashing in the distance.
Amaka had the joy of handling the food transport with a dude so skinny she thought he might blow away in a stiff breeze. He pulled his mask down over his face and wispy beard. Her black eyes glanced to her watch. Thirty seconds. She ran a freckled hand through her black hair, pulling it back into a tiny ponytail at the back of her head.
“We should be clear,” Bryce, a dark sinned man built like a small tank, reassured the six of them. “But you all know how fast Paladins can work. If you even think you see those fuckers, I want you gone. We can always make another run.”
Amaka squished her face beneath the black wool of her mask. She adjusted her gloves. Bouncing back and forth, she punched her partners (Harry? Harold? Hank? Whatever) shoulder with a grin. Not that he could see her face, but whatever.
“C’mon buddy. It’ll be fun.”
“Ten seconds!” Bryce called. She tensed, a ball of pure energy— “Now!”
She Jumped. The rush was instantaneous, euphoria flooding her as space bent to her whims. Her heartbeat pounded in her ears as she landed. It was almost too easy—the warehouse was busy, as expected, their truck finishing loading. She could see the driver, signing off on paperwork. A pop—skinny bro landed next to her, crouched behind the warehouse door. Carefully, they flitted from point to point, jumping constantly, dancing through the crowd, toppling crates and causing mayhem as they went. Their driver they shadowed, waiting—he was heading to the truck. Amaka found herself on the roof of the warehouse, peeking out and watching. Several minutes passed before the truck finally began to pull out. It jerked to the left suddenly—skinny kid must have dealt with the driver. She Jumped in, scrambling towards the driver’s seat. She’d barely gotten settled when the skinny bastard popped into existence, looking frazzled.
“Shit, I thee he bro my noze,” he had pulled his mask up to stem the bleeding, releasing a stream of profanity. Amaka rolled her eyes, reaching out to smack him again.
“Hey! We’ve gotta move. You up to this?”
“Yeahyeah get off mah nuts,” he grumbled, wiping his hands on his pants. Amaka cringed when he gripped her hand, but focused on the wheel, on the pull.
Jumping with someone else was easily her least favorite thing. Especially when Jumping a 35 ton hunk of metal. It was so much slower, a grinding that echoed through every inch of her. She could taste copper in her mouth. Pressure built in her head, screaming for release.
And then suddenly, they had landed. Air rushed back into her lungs. Amaka coughed violently, slumping over the wheel of the truck. She peered up to her right—shit, the kid was fucking twitching—she grabbed his arm and twisted, landing outside the truck in a massive field, stumbling as he slumped on top of her. Brilliant. She looked to their company, a dude who looked like he ate steroids for breakfast and a woman whose presence made her want to projectile vomit. Or maybe that was the Jump. Whatever.
“You’re late,” the tall, thin woman informed her, violently pink curls peeking out from beneath her mask. Amaka rolled her eyes.
“Driver was taking his sweet time. It’s all yours,” Bitch, she couldn’t help but add internally. She shook the kid dozing against her. Goddamn Jump fog. He shook his head slowly, groaning, and Amaka was at least relieved that he wasn’t dead.
“Gotta move, kiddo. You know where you’re going?”
“I thee so.”
“Good enough for me,” Amaka ripped off her mask as she sprinted, the familiar twist of reality pulling her to an alleyway in Paris. Another Jump—Berlin—another—Sydney—finally, she landed in Vegas. Sweat dripped down the back of her neck. The alleyway was deserted, echoing with the roar of passing traffic. She breathed deep, allowing herself a brief respite as she leaned against the wall. Neither hide nor hair of Paladins on their run—hopefully the others would be as lucky. Her watch informed her that it was ten thirty six PM. The truck should be in Tibet by now, ready to make the final leg of the journey to the island where goods would be unloaded and stored for later distribution. Every year it seemed there were more of them to feed and shelter. If it kept up, they’d be making supply runs every week soon enough. And each run just meant another chance to get caught, even with their crazy teleportation abilities.
Amaka sighed, running a hand through her black locks and releasing them from the hairband. Shaking her hair out, she made her way out of the alley, adjusting her leather jacket. Her boots scuffed the pavement as she walked, dusting off foreign dirt from her jeans. The streets were packed, crowds buffeting about from place to place. She let herself fade into the crowd until she found some place familiar. She yearned to Jump, but there was no way it could be safe at the moment. Paladins were annoyingly good at finding them, the rat bastards.
Her memory served her well as she picked her way across town, leading her to the Nine Fine Irishmen. It was packed, as per usual, but she managed to squeeze her way into the bar. Flashing a grin, she leaned in,
“Long Island, yeah?”
She was soon rewarded with her well-deserved drink. The bartender seemed plenty pleased by the fifty she dropped and her cheery wink. It had been too long since she had left her hidey hole and let loose. Besides, what was the point in her little hoard of cash if she never got to use it? Amaka cast her gaze about the bar. Was it too much to hope for a source of entertainment? Probably.