Bone to Pick


azrael_icon.gif danko_icon.gif

Scene Title Bone to Pick
Synopsis Azrael's pissed Danko broke his favorite Barbie. Danko pays him back in bullets.
Date August 25, 2009

Staten Warehouse

Harrison's dead and the interior of the warehouse she was housed in is on the move. Six men are variably involved with the process of packing up laptops, radio equipment, notes and weaponry. Four aren't here at all — one of them in the hospital with a blown up knee. In a dank old office squirreled off to one side of the rusting cavern, Danko has just concluded a conversation over the radio he's now slinging back over into its case on a battered desk.

His coffee's still lukewarm a foot or two over, but he hasn't touched it since he's been in here. Other things to think about. The locked up radio in its bulky case is dropped a little carelessly onto the floor at his feet, and he's on to tugging out the matte black of his gun so that he can pop the magazine and set to mashing a fresh round back down into place atop the rest. Would be easier if his hands would stop shaking.

"The chicken soup in this place sucks," comes a voice from the doorway. As familiar as Danko likely is with the marines he surrounds himself with, this one in particular should strike him as odd. If the different intonation and usage of voice weren't enough indication, the completely lax manner in which this marine now seems to hold himself with should be some indication that something is very, very wrong. That and how he's currently playing with a hunting knife and drawing a bit of blood from his finger.

Fumble. The spare cartridge tumbles away from the press of Danko's thumb and goes spiraling away in a circle across the cement floor, which would be irritating enough in itself if it hadn't been prompted by a marine who should have better things to do than bother him. Emile is slow to turn, close-bristled burr as colorless as the ash grey of his eyes when they find focus on the source of the tension bit into the base of his skull.

A beat's worth of survey is all it takes for him to turn the rest of the way around, magazine palmed back up into the butt of the gun before black leather and austere pinstripes as he goes. "There a problem, soldier?"

"In a manner of speaking," Marine Azrael says, head tilting to the side as he observes the military leader. He steps into the dank office and closes the door behind him. He stretches an arm out and examines it, "Sometimes I forgot the wonder of a well-toned, youthful body, and I must say that sometimes I miss it. But no matter, ruminations such as those are irrelevant." His gaze returns to Danko. "You seem to have recently acquired and broken one of my toys. If not for the fact that such was to be the eventual outcome of my own machinations, I might be inclined to gut you and your men with a particularly large spoon." The knife resumes its course, slowly cutting away bits of flesh from the host soldier's left index finger. "You should be thankful it was only Harrison you messed with."

Danko's shorter than most of his men. This interaction is no exception. The closer Azrael gets, the further his eyes are forced to lifted to maintain lifeless contact beneath the hard level of his brows.

For the short term, he has nothing to say, deep set eyes and the flat line of his mouth rigid with seething dislike, but soon as a little triangle of damp finger flesh goes pat against the floor with a dribble of blood, the hammer is cocked back and his gun is hefted stiff-shouldered into the air between them.

"I break something that belongs to you. You break something that belongs to me. If you animals are finally getting around to evolving a sense of justice, I guess Hammurabi's as good a place to start as any."

The height difference is not lost to him, oh no, but the gun does make him pause his advance. Azrael looks down the barrel and tips his head to look past it at Danko. "Such a waste of a perfectly good marine, save maybe for the missing pad of his thumb." There is no twitch at all to any of the gouges he makes with the knife. "Feel free to—"

"Son of a bitch," muttered harsh through the clamp of his teeth, Danko's already pulling the trigger on 'feel free.' One, two, three shots plow through the marine's chest and rend their way out the back again, making Azrael's exeunt less of a statement and more of a mess than he might've hoped for, even if death isn't as immediate as the man pulling the trigger might've wanted. He's swift to snap the gun up to his own temple once that's done, nose rankled against the sear of hot metal there, chest rising and falling fast around fury deep-rooted enough that he won't let it cross his face while Azrael's marine gasps and gurgles out one last gagging breath in his slump against the far wall.

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