Editing Working pages (section)

==Alvarez==
''rafe on discord''

Dalt peered through the scope of his rifle, the crosshairs steady on his target. It had been a long time since he had done this kind of wetwork, but the skills were still there, etched into his muscle memory like scars. The job wasn’t chivalric, but then again, neither was the man he was about to kill. Alvarez had made his own bed, and then, in Dalt’s estimation, he had thoroughly soiled it.

Through the scope, Dalt watched as Alvarez moved through the crowd on the mansion’s sprawling patio. The man was all smiles, his tailored suit gleaming under the soft glow of string lights. Around him, his “stable” of girls—young, nervous, and dressed to impress—began filtering out into the party. Dalt’s jaw tightened as he observed the scene. The guests, a mix of sleazy businessmen and wannabe gangsters, started pawing at the girls, their laughter grating and predatory. Anger simmered in Dalt’s chest, hot and sharp. Alvarez wasn’t going to leave this party alone. Not tonight. 
  
An hour passed, and Dalt had seen enough. He reached for the burner phone he had picked up at the airport, its cheap plastic casing cool against his palm. He dialed 911, his voice calm and measured as he reported hearing gunshots in the area. The operator asked questions, but Dalt hung up before they could trace the call. He didn’t need much time—just enough to sow chaos.

Five minutes later, the first police cars arrived, their sirens wailing in the distance. Dalt smirked faintly. “Better make this quick,” he muttered to himself.

He adjusted his position slightly, the rifle’s stock firm against his shoulder. Through the scope, he lined up his first shot. Alvarez was laughing, a glass of expensive tequila in his hand, oblivious to the danger. Dalt exhaled slowly, his finger tightening on the trigger. The shot rang out, sharp and final. Alvarez’s head snapped back, and he crumpled to the ground, his body collapsing into a table and shattering a bottle of Patrón. The golden liquid pooled around him, mixing with the darker stain spreading beneath his head.

Chaos erupted. Dalt shifted his aim. The man in the yellow shirt was next, his face frozen in shock as he toppled sideways, his drink spilling across the patio. The girl beside him screamed, her hands flying to her mouth. Dalt didn’t linger. He moved to the next target—a man with comically large ears. The round caught him in the side of the head, and he dropped like a sack of flour, his blood splattering across the tiles.

The man in the ugly hat went down next, the bullet punching through his nose and exiting in a grisly spray. Dalt’s focus didn’t waver. He shifted to the man in the garish Hawaiian shirt, who was drunkenly slapping at one of the girls. The shot caught him under the arm, the round tearing through his side and exploding out the other in a shower of blood and tissue. He collapsed, his face a mask of confusion and pain.

By now, the partygoers had realized what was happening. Screams filled the air as they scrambled for cover, some diving into the pool, others bolting for the mansion’s doors. Dalt tracked one man as he sprinted for the safety of the house. He didn’t make it. The bullet caught him in the back, and he sprawled forward, his body slamming into the doorframe before sliding to the ground.

Three guards burst onto the patio, their customized AR-15s gleaming under the lights. They opened fire, but their shots were wild and panicked, peppering the ground far below Dalt’s position. He considered taking them out but decided against it. They were probably guilty of “sampling the merchandise,” as Reggy had put it, but they weren’t worth the nightmares he would have later.  Instead, he aimed for their knees. Three precise shots later, the guards were on the ground, howling in pain, their weapons forgotten.

Dalt reloaded calmly, sliding a fresh magazine into the rifle. He shifted his aim past the mansion, targeting the police cars that had begun to converge on the property. A few well-placed shots into their engines and windshields were enough to send them scrambling for cover. That would buy him some time.

He quickly policed his brass, a reflex born of years of training, and then reached into his pocket. His fingers closed around the small, intricately carved card—his trump. He held it up, focusing on the image etched into its surface.

“Tesara,” he said quietly. “Pull me through.”

The air shimmered, and a portal opened before him, its edges crackling with faint energy. On the other side stood Tesara, her expression calm but her eyes sharp with curiosity. Beyond her stretched the alien landscape of Ang Ri, a world unimaginably distant in both space and reality.

Dalt grabbed the good Catholic sicario by the arm. The man was trembling, his face pale and slick with sweat. He had run out of liquid to piss out, and Dalt knew he’d need a stiff drink—or several—once this was over.

Dalt extended his hand to the girl with the colorful short hair who stood on the other side of the gate. Her eyes were wide with fear and wonder, but she took his hand without hesitation. Together, they stepped through the portal, leaving the chaos of the mansion behind.