Dark, foreboding clouds overshadowed the M1 motorway, adding a cinematic touch to Ren's sleek black coupe as it weaved effortlessly past other vehicles. The car's impeccable appearance contrasted sharply with the boisterous scene unfolding within.
Inside, Alko was in his own world, riding the euphoria of alcohol and music. His shirt discarded, he hung halfway out the window, trying to merge his voice with the chorus of the Swedish House Mafia track. The world outside became a backdrop for his performance.
"Don't you worry, don't you worry, childdd... see heaven's got a plan for youuuuu... don't you worry, don't you worry nowwww... yeaaaaaaaaaah."
In stark contrast, Kimberley looked the very picture of boredom. Propping her face up with one hand, she threw occasional glances at the road. The scene inside the car was familiar but grating.
Behind Alko, Udo sat silently in the back, a still figure in a turbulent car. The tiny earbuds were his only respite from the ongoing battle of musical preferences. He had long since learned to drown out the world, taking solace in his own playlists.
Alko's jubilant return to the car's interior broke the uneasy peace. "This shit is flames! Right?" he exclaimed, looking around for validation.
The car's atmosphere was icy. Kimberley's reply was predictably sarcastic, "No need to pretend. It's shite."
Their banter was like a well-practised dance, with each anticipating the other's moves. Kimberley's quick move to switch the tracks to her heavy metal favourite was met with an eye roll from Alko.
"Trash!" Alko declared, prompting a chuckle and headbang from Kimberley.
But when Kimberley slyly changed Udo's music, the quiet man finally spoke, his tone filled with mock indignation. "What do you mean 'ugh'? It's better than your 'I killed my mom' music!"
Alko grinned, giving Udo a fist bump in solidarity. "My man!"
Udo, responded, "Although your music taste is pretty crap too."
Alko, with a smirk, retorted, "I'm not gonna take that from a guy who listens to drill."
Ren, ever the peacemaker, tried to pacify the rising tension. "Hey, hey! Music is subjective, alright? Everyone's got their own vibes." He winked, adding, "Of course, some are just better than others." Swiftly, Ren took control of the stereo, cueing up "Automatic" by Weezer.
The mellow, indie rock tune filled the car, and Ren crooned along, a wistful note in his voice.
However, the song met with collective disapproval, the passengers looking at each other in disbelief.
Kimberley, unable to tolerate another moment, quickly turned off the stereo. "Yeah...I think we've had enough music for today."
The silence was palpable, but it was broken when Ren pointed out a road sign. The display read "Watford - 6.9," which prompted a smirk from Kimberley.
Alko piped up from the back seat. "What? We in Warwick yet?"
Without missing a beat, Kimberley responded, her voice laced with sarcasm, "Wrong one."
Alko tried to correct himself, "Warley?"
Ren, echoing Kimberley's teasing tone, responded, "Try again."
Alko frowned, seemingly confused, "Wattpad?"
"W-what?" Ren responded, looking baffled.
Kimberley slowly turned to Alko. "You mean Watford?"
A mock huff emanated from Alko. "I swear I said that like three times."
Ignoring his playfulness, Kimberley steered the conversation towards a more pressing topic. "Anyway...we're getting closer to our target, Kelly Grieves." She retrieved her phone and showed them a picture of a middle-aged woman with sharp features, her eyes a mix of defiance and danger. "Infamously known as K-19 for her 2016 19-man killing spree."
Udo voiced his concerns. "You sure it's safe meeting a former Herd member just like that?"
Ren glanced at Udo through the rear-view mirror, his voice laced with irony. "I wouldn't exactly call sitting in the same car as the son of Oba Iche safe either...but here we are."
"Fairs," Udo muttered.
Kimberley, explained, "We need intel on the Herd, Udo. Who better to give us that intel than someone who literally used to be a part of them?" Pausing for effect, she added, "Plus, if we need to get our hands dirty, I'm pretty sure we'll be able to hold our own, especially with you as our secret weapon."
Ren's fingers tapped lightly on the steering wheel, a subtle sign of his unease. "But how exactly do you plan on convincing this woman to join us?" he questioned.
Kimberley leaned back, deep in thought, her gaze piercing as if she could see through the very fabric of their reality and into the heart of their mission. "She's a former member of the Herd," she began, her voice low and measured. "Surely you can't just leave that cult and stay on good terms with them. She probably holds a grudge, and I'm gonna use it."
The coupe sped on, the world outside a blur of movement and colour. Ren's voice broke the momentary silence, "Yeah, but why do you think she's been hiding all this while? What if she doesn't want to be involved with them in any way, shape, or form? What if she's scared?"
Kimberley turned her gaze to Ren, her features softening ever so slightly. "That could be the case..." she admitted, then her resolve hardened. "But either way, this is our best shot. If we find this woman, you best believe I'm gonna get her on our side, whatever it takes."
The weight of her words lingered in the car. It was a mission fraught with uncertainty and danger, but for Kimberley, the stakes were too high to back down now. She would go to any lengths to ensure their success, and Ren knew it. The car's engine hummed its continuous drone, the only sound breaking the charged atmosphere between them.
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In the hushed evening of Watford, the corner shop stood as a sanctuary for the group.
Kimberley and Ren, lost in idle conversation, leaned against the shelves lined with goods inside. Outside, Udo sat perched on an upturned crate, the dull rustle of a crisp packet underscoring the murmur of the town, his face half-hidden behind a mask.
Unexpectedly, Alko approached, his face bare to the world, a can of beer held with the ease of long practice.
"Why are you unmasked?" Udo inquired, a frown creasing his covered visage.
Alko's reply was as nonchalant as his approach, "20 quid, and I'll down this in 0.2 seconds."
Udo's brows knitted further in bemusement. "What?"
"Did I stutter?" Alko's words carried the lightness of jest, but his eyes held a glint of challenge.
"You serious?" Udo's skepticism was palpable.
"100%," came Alko's unwavering affirmation.
"Prove it then, and the 20 is yours."
A flicker of amusement crossed Alko's face. "I need to see the money, though."
The crinkle of notes punctuated the air as Udo extracted a crisp £20 bill from his pocket and presented it with a flourish. "Here. Now do it."
Alko regarded the note with a nod. "Wow, you had that ready, huh? Anyway, pull out a timer, don't want you claiming I cheated."
"Sure," Udo responded, retrieving his phone and opening a timer application, his thumb hovering over the start button.
"You ready?" he asked, the anticipation building.
With a deft motion, Alko cracked open the can. "Yep."
Udo began the countdown, "3-2-1..." and pressed the start button...
...and in a blink, it was over.
"Done," Alko announced triumphantly, the empty can already crumpled in his grip, as if it were nothing more than a piece of paper.
"What?" Udo couldn't mask his disbelief, his voice rising above the evening's stillness.
Alko casually wiped his mouth, an air of nonchalance about him. "What was my time?"
Udo was still for a moment, the screen of his phone neglected. "Bro, what do you mean? I didn't even have time to turn it off—"
"That means it was definitely less than 0.2 seconds." Alko's assertion was firm as he reached out and plucked the note from Udo's hand.
Udo gave him a side-eye. "Sus."
"Huh? Wait, no, don't make it weird," Alko countered, his hands raised defensively.
Udo simply shrugged. "No, I'm just saying, why are you that good at swallowing?"
Before Alko could retort, a chorus of screams sliced through the quiet of the evening. The distant cries were jarring against the calm chatter of the shop. They shared a look, one that communicated a shared history of oddities and troubles.
"Guys..." Udo's voice was filled with apprehension.
Responding to his tone, Kimberley and Ren hastily exited the store, ready to confront whatever chaos lay ahead.
"What the hell's going on here, then?" Kimberley demanded, curiosity etched in her voice.
Together, they observed the grim scene unfolding before them—Gula monsters attacking innocent citizens, their monstrous forms indulging in a macabre feast.
"Holy shit! We gotta save them—" Ren's urgency was palpable.
Kimberley, however, had a different perspective. "Oh, I don't think we'll be needed here..."
Ren was puzzled. "What?"
Suddenly, the roar of an engine cut through the chaos, and a sleek dark blue Aston Martin DB11 Volante tore down the street...
Within the luxurious confines of the Aston Martin, the atmosphere was tense with determination. In the driver's seat sat Damon, his clean ginger buzz cut fade contrasting sharply with his dark blue chauffeur uniform.
"Hope you're ready, lads. There's loads of 'em," Damon warned, his voice steady despite the chaos outside.
Seated in the back was Rory, 25, a sturdy and shirtless man, his powerful physique defined by dark blue suit trousers and a classic flat cap perched jauntily atop his head.
"So are we saving everyone in sight or...?" Rory questioned, his tone a mix of concern and wryness.
Beside him, Scarlett, 29, exuded an air of elegance. Her blonde hair flowed gracefully from beneath a vintage cocktail hat, and she was dressed in a classic trench coat that added to her allure.
"Good question. I don't know about working for free..." Scarlett mused, her gaze thoughtful.
In the front seat, Captain Smyth, 35, his face adorned with a moustache and his head crowned by a fedora hat, smoked contemplatively through a pipe. He sported a trench coat over a white vest and a pair of suspenders, embodying a classic yet enigmatic aesthetic.
"We only help those who have shown gratitude for our work, as we've always been doing. Annie, are they worth our time?" Captain Smyth inquired, directing his question towards the control room.
In the control room, Annie, 26, a composed brunette in a suit, monitored the unfolding chaos through a myriad of flat screens. These screens displayed a meticulous record of whether the victims had paid off their "debts" or not.
"They're worth saving, captain," Annie's response was swift and certain, reaffirming their commitment.
Back in the Aston Martin, Captain Smyth nodded approvingly. "Good, then let's do our job."