Participants:
| Scene Title | Fail |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Brian and Deckard set out into Midtown for some nice, quiet looting, only to be interrupted by Miles's mostly naked nutcase self. Someone is shot, someone is nearly possessed, and to the surprise of everyone, it turns out that letting Deckard chaperone a small army of 20 year old clones into Hell on Earth was probably not actually a very good idea at all. |
| Date | December 2, 2008 |
Standing in the ruins of Midtown, it's hard to believe New York is still a living city.
There's life enough around the fringes — the stubborn, who refused to rebuild somewhere else; the hopeful, who believe the radiation is gone, or that they somehow won't be affected. Businesses, apartment complexes, taxis and bicycles and subways going to and fro — life goes on. Perhaps more quietly than in other parts of the city, shadowed by the reminder that even a city can die, but it does go on.
Then there is the waste. The empty core for which the living city is only a distant memory. Though a few major thoroughfares wind through the ruins, arteries linking the surviving halves, and the forms of some truly desperate souls can occasionally be glimpsed skulking in the shadows, the loudest noise here is of the wind whistling through the mangled remnants of buildings. Twisted cords of rebar reach out from shattered concrete; piles of masonry and warped metal huddle on the ground, broken and forlorn. Short stretches of road peek out from under rubble and dust only to disappear again shortly afterwards, dotted with the mangled and contorted forms of rusting cars, their windows long since shattered into glittering dust.
There are no bodies — not even pieces, not anymore. Just the bits and pieces of destroyed lives: ragged streamers fluttering from the handlebar which juts out of a pile of debris; a flowerbox turned on its side, coated by brick dust, dry sticks still clinging to the packed dirt inside; a lawn chair, its aluminum frame twisted but still recognizable, leaning against a flight of stairs climbing to nowhere.
At the center of this broken wasteland lies nothing at all. A hollow scooped out of the earth, just over half a mile across, coated in a thick layer of dust and ash. Nothing lives here. Not a bird; not a plant. Nothing stands here. Not one concrete block atop another. There is only a scar in the earth, cauterized by atomic fire. This is Death's ground.
The bleak absence of light pitched about the quiet of Midtown has softened into a gentle blur of grey and blue. The wind is cold, but quiet, picking up just enough speed to howl over ashen ice with the onset of early morning.
Pop.
There's a rattle, then a muffled clatter of chain when Deckard drags it away from the door handle it was binding. The chain is dropped — the bolt cutters are held out for Brian to take, assuming he's paying attention.
Breath fogging thick against encroaching fog, he's warmly bundled in an overcoat and gloves, with a knit cap pulled down snug over his ears. Black, black, and more black, with sunglasses to match and a lighter scarf wrapped thick around his neck and jaw. The shop is a liquor store. Hard to tell if it's still in business, but if the dust settled in the interior is any indication, it's been a while since anyone's been here.
One gloved hand takes the outstretched bolt cutters. Dressed as homeless/thuggy as he can, the two Brian's accompanying Deckard both have coats and black beanies on. Almost like matching twins. And both are armed. It seems like Brian somehow got his hands on another .40. The Brian not holding the bolt cutters holds a baseball bat. "Can't we just break the windows in?" One of them asks, his own breath steaming out of his mouth with the exhalation. "Not like anyone's going to get pissed."
"If…you want other people to know we're here." Deckard lifts a brow enough for it to be visible despite the ninjaesque collection of cover about his face. And he tries the door. Which is still locked. He jostles it a bit. Shockingly, jostling it doesn't cause the lock to turn.
Frustration stiffens at his shoulders, but he steps back all the same, head turning to Bat Brian a little warily while he shrugs the strap of his shotgun down off his shoulder. "Smash it."
When Deckard talks about other people, the wonder twins look around with palms up, looking rather bewildered. As if saying 'Who the Fuck is going to know?'. Then Deckard makes the correct move. Brian number two moves forward, the bat is brought up and swung powerfully at the glass. It shatters around him, and then more at the second swing. And then even more at the third. After that the man just cleans up a little bit, smashing jagged bits of glass away. Then he takes a step back, and gestures in. "After you, my lady."
Deckard winces at the shatter and resulting rain of glass. It's a sharp sound, and one that carries on the wind — enough that he's inclined to keep an eye on the street behind them while Brian clears out the rest. "Fuck you," muttered generally to both of them, he plants a shoe up on the lifted display shelf inside and pushes himself up and over, knocking a few spare bits of glass loose as he goes. Then he's in, black on black to pick his way through dusty shelves for the register.
"Are you going to explain to me what we're doing down here?" One Brian enter, one Brian stay. The young man mimics Deckard's motions to enter then slides in after him. Swinging the bat around lazily he tilts his head back. "I'm not an arms dealer, but don't you need to talk to.. other people? Or do you just wander around and hope you find something great?" The last words is said in a falsetto, trying to bring a little humor to his depression.
"I can't talk to anyone right now. I'm in hiding, asshole. Until someone figures out how they've been finding me…" For all that the atmosphere of the shop's rear is ink to the average eye, Deckard seems to have no trouble manuevering himself down a narrow aisle and back around behind the check out counter. He gropes around beneath it, shoulders dipping out of sight completely, and lo. A stack of receipts and papers is swept down onto the floor so that he can drag a shotgun out after them. "The nice thing about these is that they don't have to be that great to put big messy holes in people."
"Well then how are you going to.." He goes silent for a moment, just being irritated with the older man. The much older man. The practically dying on his old deathbed older man. Brian stays near the entrance of the shop. His copy outside, keeping watch.
"What the fuck? You just.. found that?" Tilting his head. "Or this.. is like.. Some kind of tresure chest you store your crap away in? Like a pirate?" A blink. "Are you a pirate?" He's not serious. Though, he sounds like it.
"If this place was mine and you tried to bash the windows in, I would've shot you already." His own shotgun slung back oer his shoulder, Deckard tugs his scarf down enough to allow for easier breathing now that they're out of the wind. The action on the new gun is dragged back, shucking the first shell merrily out across the counter. It's followed by seven more. Shuck shuck shuck, clink clatter tinkle. "I've been through here before. Made notes. There are a couple of good 7-Elevens around here, too. Most people only bother with the non-perishables." Fresh rounds are fished out of his coat pocket and pushed into the gun's belly with a fluidity that's only slightly hampered by the stiffness of his gloves.
His voice is quieted from the interior of an abandoned liquor store near Midtown's point of no return. A few buildings still stand here, but very few of them are unscathed, and it's only a matter of meters before there's more rubble than discernible architecture. A cut chain is bunched on the ground outside the door, and one of the broad windows has been recently shattered. A man standing just outside with a hefty set of bolt cutters looks like a likely culprit. Meanwhile, the light of dawn's approach hasn't yet coalesced into yellows and reds, but hovers at a forbidding shade of gloomy grey over the desolation.
A gunshot at this time of the night, in this area, is like a booming alarm — people turn on lights and such to a man's screaming and yelling,"You son of a—! I'm going to blow your balls off!" Then there is a woman's voice,"Kenneth, please! Stop!" The woman tries to grab the man's gun and delay him while the other male figure flees the scene.
Ah, the shit has really hit the fan, Miles is making his escape, jetting across the barren wastes formerly known as Midtown, holding his pants up with one hand. The man screaming with the gun in hand yells again,"If I ever see you again I'm going to blow your freakin' head off you punk!"
Miles finally slows down after a moment, trying to catch his breath. He glances behind him to see if the other man follows, but he's pretty sure he lost him. "Whew. That was close…" Miles says aloud to himself. He shivers a bit and wraps his arms around his bare naked upper body. "Well this isn't good." He looks down at his feet, which are also shoeless. "Wonderful."
"So I'm paying you four hundred dollars for a gun, you are stealing right in front of me." Brian raises his hands up in protest. "I could just go around and steal my own shotguns." He mutters in irritation. "I want more. By the way, I came into a little more money." A LOT more money. "But if all you're going to do is rob 7-11's of shotguns maybe I can get it mys— Shutup." He hisses as if Deckard was the one talking. "Get down. Someone's out there." He crouches down.
Outside the other Brian squats low as well, placing the bolt cutters on the sidewalk. He goes to sneak behind a burnt out car that would hide him from Miles' gaze. His .40 is pulled out of the back of his pants.
Inside, Brian speaks, "He's…. naked?"
"They don't all have guns." One more pump pushes a round up into the chamber, and Deckard tests the safety, back and forth before he leans to hold it over to Bat Brian stock first. "Safety's on with one in the chamber. It's not like a fucking advent calendar down here. It takes a lot of time and effort to—" Shit. Deckard ducks at the ring of a shot across Midtown, one knee popping in protest against the speed of the movement.
His shotgun is dropped down off his shoulder again, balanced carefully in his right hand while he tugs his scarf back up and squints through the counter. "The fuck."
Miles grumbles with each step,"Ow.. ow… ow." Rocks, glass, and an assortment of other things tends to be a bit rough to walk on barefooted. The gangly tall male figure makes his way through the wastes, treading lightly and carefully. The man speaks to himself,"No worries, he won't be home until tomorrow she said. Geez." He shakes his head disbelievingly, scoffing then coughing. He lifts his hands up to his mouth, breathing on them as he rubs them together to try and keep them warm and then sticks them underneath his arm pits. He looks around a bit. He then reaches into his back pocket and pulls out his wallet to count how much cash he has, then he shoves the wallet back into his pocket and continues to look around.
Squatting, Brian moves over to the counter and picks up the shotgun. He then goes towards the door. Having more than one set of eyes is extremely helpful in a situation like this. "He's alone. No shoes, no shirt, no problem." He mutters, "A wallet, doesn't look like he's packing. Maybe he was running from somebody." A pause. "What the fuck do I do?"
Deckard stays down in a crouch, breathing forced slow and quiet behind the wrap of his scarf when Miles finally comes into view. Through the counter and what's left of the wall. "No gun," he says after a moment, way more decisive than he should be at this distance, in the dark, wearing sunglasses.
There's a pause while he turns Brian's question over in his head, gloves creaking as their grip is adjusted around his gun. "Mug him. Or sell him your shoes."
Miles just continues on walking through the ruins cautiously, more for the fact that he's barefooted and it's not exactly sand he is walking on or something. He sighs, looking behind him, then looking around again, he turns direction, unknowingly heading toward Brian and Deckard as he seeks a street and/or a payphone.
"Mug him?" Brian asks of Deckard with wide eyes. Holding the shotgun steadily in his hands, he gives a quiet sigh. "I like your second idea better."
Popping out from behind his cover, the outside Brian holds up his gun level with Miles. "Sir." He says softly, "Would you like to buy a pair of shoes?"
"Think of it as…teaching him a lesson. Next time he's wandering around mostly naked in Midtown it might be mutant axe murderers he trips over." Content to stay down, Deckard watches with interest when the second Brian makes his appearance with no apparent contact from the one right next to him.
"Take whatever cash he has and leave the cards. Shoot him in the leg if he tries anything funny."
Miles comes to a stop, glancing over in the direction of the pair of voices, noticing the dimly glimmer of light off of the barrel of the gun, lifting his head back and raising his hands up in the air. "You need to point that thing at me to sell me shoes? What is this, a new marketing strategy to improve the economy around this place?" He chuckles, tilting his head to the side, narrowing his eyes, trying to peek around to see the location of the other man's voice.
"Okay. I'm not saying this just because I have a gun. But please don't make anymore jokes. You're just not funny. And you're not allowed to laugh at your own joke dude." Brian insists taking a few steps forward. "Now throw me your wallet, and I'll give you some shoes."
Inside the door Brian whispers. "Shoot him in the leg? What? What the fuck man?! He didn't do anything." Shotgun Brian hisses.
"If he tries anything. Pay attention," Deckard mutters back, eyes narrowed into a squint when the guy starts looking around elsewhere. "When you run into weird shit in the middle of a deserted disaster zone, better safe than sorry is a good motto to live by."
"And if I refuse?" Miles slowly lowers his hands down from the air. "Maybe I want a shirt too. At the very least a shirt and shoes." He tilts his head to the side, studying the man for a moment. Miles then wraps his arms around his chest again, he's visibly shaking, freezing his butt off is what he's doing, despite obviously being mugged, but that doesn't seem to bother him that much… This is New York after all. "I just want to get out of the cold, alright? If it's money you want, I will give you everything I got on me right now, which is about 58 bucks for shirt, shoes and a little warmth. Hell, I don't care what you're doing, or who you are, all I know is that it's freezing out here and I've got icicles hanging from my nostrils."
"You're talking too much." Brian says adamantly. "Throw down the fucking wallet, I'll throw you some shoes and a jacket. But I swear if you move, I'll shoot you in the leg." Holding the gun firmly, he stares down the barrel at Miles. "No more talk. Wallet. Ground."
"He's a weird motherfucker." The young man in the store hisses under his breath.
From Deckard, silence. Seeing is easy. Hearing is another matter. He has to strain to make out both voices, and even then, it takes him a minute to interpret what he's hearing. When he does, his head turns immediately to the Brian in the shop with him. "…Did you really just say that? You say you'll shoot him in the face, dipshit. Jesus Christ."
Miles sighs, shrugging his shoulders,"Deal." The man takes his hands out from under his arms pits and says,"I'm going to grab my wallet, so don't you know, get trigger happy or something." He slowly reaches into his back pocket and pulls out his wallet, there's only cash and a fake ID in it, he tosses it to the ground at his feet. "There. It's on the ground. Now, how about those shoes and jacket."
"What?!" Brian asks in a defensive voice. "I don't exactly do this every fucking day. Asshole." Brian fires back rather quickly. "Don't call me a dipshit. I'm sensitive." He maintains. With a deep frown over his shoulder to Deckard.
"Alright now back up. Sit on the ground. And you don't make demands from me muh'fucker. I'm being generous. So if I choose to still give you the shoes and jacket it's a gift. Now back up!" Brian starts to slowly meander forward.
"I can feel myself getting stupider by association," Deckard continues at a grumble, voice hoarse in the cold. There's a quiet scuff when he sits back out of his crouch. Might as well get comfortable while he's here waiting — one long leg stretched creakily out before the other behind the register. "You're really going to be sensitive if he calls your bluff and kicks you in the balls."
"Yes, sir." Miles chuckles, shaking his head. "You're the man with the gun, you really think I'm going to do something stupid so you can blow my leg off? Nah that's okay." He shrugs his shoulders helplessly, taking one small step back, but he doesn't sit on the ground, he just folds his arms over and hugs his body for warmth. "Come on, hurry up, I'm freezing my nuts off here."
"Your face!" Brian corrects when Miles says leg. "I'll blow your face off!" An irritated glance. "I told you to back up fucker. Back up further and sit down. You get one warning." Brian says angrily. "Don't make this get messy. It's an eighty cent bullet to me."
In the shop, Brian sneers at Deckard. "I'm about to kick you in the balls." Taking after the older man's example he also goes to sit down. "Is that good? Eighty cent bullet? I got it from a movie.." Brian says quietly.
"Now you sound indecisive," Deckard continues to critique from afar, shotgun tipped forward to rest against the counter ahead of him so that he can reach into his coat after a pack of cigarettes. "And if he's seen the movie, he's probably going to laugh in your face." One stick is knocked out and pushed into his mouth. The box is replaced by a lighter. The lighter is flipped open. The cigarette is lit. It's a familiar process. "Touch me and I'll blow your fucking head off and say we were caught."
"Easy there, Eastwood." Miles takes another couple steps back. "You realize that I've been standing in the cold for almost 20 minutes now, I'm going to get hyperthermia if you don't hurry it up. I already told you, I'm not going to do anything, I could care less about anything but getting out of the cold right now." Miles sighs, shaking his head disbelievingly. He mutters lowly under his breath,"You're really getting on my nerves…"
"You know what? On second thought. I'm getting fed up with this." Miles then begins to step foward again in a casual manner, moving back to pick up his wallet,"If you're going to shoot me, then shoot me, I really don't care," he says quite flatly. "But I'm not going to stand here in the freezing cold any longer, give me the jacket and shoes, asshole." He reaches into the wallet and pulls out the cash,"Here is all the money I got, take it." He then extends his hand with the money in it.
"You're an idiot." Brian retorts to Deckard. "You blow my head off, I come blow your head off and say we got caught. There are more than one of me, idiot. And I'm aware of all of me." Frowning he looks back to Deckard. "I would thank you for the shit you're telling me if you weren't such a ass-dick-cunt about it." He says angrily at his companion. "How do you make friends?" Then suddenly, Brian's eyes go wide. "He's trying something!"
His brows lower as the man comes closer. "I said! One warning!" Lowering his gun outside Brian squeezes off a shot at the man's lower body. A little nervousness from pulling a trigger on another human being. But he did warn him. Didn't he? He's the idiot for not listening. His bad. Right? After squeezing the shot, the young man raises the gun. "Sit down fucker!"
"You have more than one body. I have more than one shell," Deckard argues back without much feeling, smoke lifting in lazy drifts from the corner of his mouth. He looks Brian over again, dimly appraising on the tail end of that string of insults until the other Brian's voice lifts outside. His head turns, probably a little too quickly to pretend he's completely cool about the idea of some kind of disaster happening out there.
And then there's the shot. The lean salesman is armed and up on his feet a lot quicker than he crouched down off of them, spurred by adrenaline, among other things. Like the, 'Oh, shit.' factor. "God damn it."
The man doubles over after being shot at, his legs buckling under him as his knee is blown clear out. He yelps in pain,"Jeeeessus… son of a—- " Naturally, he reaches for his leg at first, rolling around on the ground for a moment, wallet having fallen to the ground next to him.
"Oh shit. I shot a guy." Brian reports as he bounces to his feet next to Deckard. Holding his own shotgun firmly. "Uhh.. Maybe we should get out of here?" Brian asks with a slight tilt of his head.
A grimace appears on the outside Brian's face. And he almost apologizes. But that wouldn't be very bad ass, now would it. "You should listen to what people with guns say. And go to a hospital." Brian informs him, though with this recent occurrence, he's not so interested in the wallet anymore. He stays still.. and basically waits for Deckard to tell him what to do.
Deckard isn't helpful. He just stands there behind the counter, sunglasses at a blank while he stares after the pair of them out on the street. "You shot him in the fucking knee." His nose rankles, his teeth bare out in a thin line, and he swats the back of his hand hard over into Brian's chest next to him. Thump. He doesn't actually say it aloud, but 'Moron.' is pretty implicit in the gesture. Then he starts for the shattered window.
"I've met a lot of Brians," he congratulates the one outside after he's hefted himself out of the shattered glass at the shopfront, "but so far you're the stupidist by far."
"Maan.." He says in a nigh whiny voice. "Why you gotta keep fucking making fun of me? Support me or something, constructive criticism. I'm not fucking sixty like you. The Brian following Deckard holds his shotgun tight as he walks out behind his copy.
The copy walks forward and bends down to pick up the wallet Miles threw down. The gun is still pointed at Miles, though he seems a little more frantic now. "Get to a hospital man." He says, taking off his jacket he tosses it on top of the man on the ground. "Fuck me, I didn't aim for his knee."
"What the… damn you.. You've ruined it!" The man calls out, he then rolls over when Brian is close enough and reaches out for him. The dark haired man gritting his teeth in pain as he does so. The man's blood covered hands grasping Brian's arm, staining it with his blood.
If the injured man can get ahold of Brian, then Brian can feel some 'strange' force moving from that man to Brian's body, or at least something /trying/ to move into his body, but it only takes a brief moment before it is 'repelled' away, and the man curses in agony,"Son of a… What the hell is wrong.. work damn it… ugh!" .. Again, that same feeling as before is repeated twice more before he finally let's go and turns away, cursing some more,"F-in son of a.. mother.. Jeeeezzz! Just f'ing dandy… damn it.."
Footfalls crunching over shattered glass, Deckard gives one of the Brians what might be a dirty look. It's hard to tell, with the glasses and scarf and coat collar flipped high around the back of his neck. "I'm forty," is sniped back at the same Brian, just in time for him to blast a clod of shotgun pellets into the cracked asphalt a few feet from Miles's head. "SHUT THE FUCK UP and stay still or the next one is for breakfast. Eastwood, tie the jacket around his upper leg. Whiny, you call 911."
Brian's face is suddenly contorted into a pained expression. Dropping to his knees, the man growls. Both of them do. "He's.." Comes the groan from Shotgun Brian. "He's Evolved.. He's fucking doing something to me." The man hisses.
"What the.." The .40 is brought up and swung at Mile's nose. After gaining reprieve from Mile's.. strangeness. Brian falls back to his rear before scooting up rapidly. "What. The. Fuck. What are you trying to do to me?!" Brian hisses, bring the gun up to point at the man. "What is your ability?! You tell me or I'll kill you right now." A quick look to Deckard. "Get away from em Jackie, he's… tryin' somethin!"
The man cradles his nose as he's struck, and then the blast hits the ground next to him, he curses again non-chalantly. Now his nose is busted and bleeding profusely along with his leg. After a moment of groaning in pain an insane laughter bellows out, mirrored by sounds of agony. "You have no idea who you're messing with." Miles glances toward the other man, watching to see if he gets closer to him. Then he tries to crawl toward him and reach out for him, but he's too far out of reach so it's a fruitless attempt. "Come a little closer, you ugly bastard…" Miles grabs the wallet and holds it tightly in his grasp, waving it around,"If you want it, then you'll have to take it." The man's blood spreading all over anything he touches at this point.
"Jesus Christ—" What else is there to say, really? Deckard scuffs a couple of hasty, stumbling, glass-kicking steps backwards while the guy crawls and flails and bleeds and waves the wallet around. He keeps the shotgun up, more out of reflex than anything, but doesn't fire again.
"Just — fucking call 911. Call them, tell them to lock on the phone and we can get out of here."
Straightening up, the two Brian copies both point their weapons at the man. The baseball bat has been left in the store, and instead the shotgun is pointed at Miles' hand. He pumps the gun once, more of an intimidating noise than anything. "You're not very smart." One says. "I could just blow your hand off. Now, I'm warning you. You tell me what your ability is or I will honestly, swear to God, kill you right now." He looks over to Deckard. "Damnit.. I just got a new fucking cell phone." He complains. But he does go in his pocket and pull out the cell phone. One of those pay as you go disposable thingies. His nice cell phone had to be gotten rid of because of his last cafoffle. His thumb raises.. 9 1 1…
"Kill me then." Miles coughs, then spits blood out at Brian's feet rebelliously. "Come on. Please do it. I /dare/ you." He says with a little emphasis and flair. He rolls over to his back and just lays there,"I can feel it starting to set in. I'm going to die.. this body is getting really cold and numb all over… It really is a strange feeling." He scoffs, staring up at the night sky, he smiles,"You want to know what my ability is? I can turn people into kittens… Furry little cute kittens." He laughs some more.
Brian has partially disconnected.
Breathing heavily around the jut of his cigarette, Deckard has gone back to staring, cold eyes tracking the beat of Miles' heart alongside the rise and fall of his lungs. "Don't kill him," is insinuated a little more calmly into the conversation now that he's at a safer distance. "Just call. Tell them a little girl's been shot and you don't think she's breathing."
"Hello?" Brian mutters into the phone. "A little girl has been shot. I don't breathe she's thinking." Quick breath. "I don't think she's breathing. Lock the number and get here quick." The phone is tossed at the man's back. The two Brian's back up, eying the man. "Weird guy.." The man with the .40 walks around the side of Miles, going to tie his jacket around the leg. The other Brian places the shotgun barrel on Miles' head. "Don't touch me."
Miles smirks and yells out,"I've been shot by two muggers!" Miles looks down at the man attending to his leg, as soon as they mistakenly brush up against him that same strange feeling washes over the Brian clone again. It doesn't matter where or how he's being touched, just as long as he's being touched apparently, that much might be obvious by now. Miles grits his teeth and growls,"What the fuck?! Are you evolved too? Is that why I can't use my ability on you… Must be.. What is your ability?" Miles hadn't really been paying much attention to just how 'identical' the two clones look, but he's certainly taking a longer, studying glance at them now. "Wait a minute.. are you twins?" Miles tilts his head, twisting around to look more. Miles then smirks deviously,"You know, if I live, I can describe you to the authorities. You idiots. Actually, hmm.. I've got something much much better in mind.. Just you two wait, I'll see you again.. and when I do.." He let's out another crazy chuckle and he starts to sing,"Time is on my side… Time is on my side~"…
"He fired first!" Deckard yells helpfully over the open line, cigarette held aside once the shotgun has been tipped back over his shoulder. "Guy's a fucking nutcase. Wipe off the phone. And on second thought, don't leave your jacket here. Bad call. We can get rid of it later." Otherwise pretty quiet through Miles' ranting and raving, he looks the guy over one more time and turns to go.
A frustrated glance is given to Deckard, and Brian retrieves his jacket. Picking up the cellphone he gingerly wipes it on Miles' own pants. Stepping back, .40 Brian frowns deeply. "He's a crazy motherfucker." Shotgun Brian relieves the man of the pressure of the barrel, giving a little sigh. "Sorry about the bullet thing, bro. Hope you don't take it personal.. Uhh.. Let's do lunch." Then the 'twins' join. "He's gonna tell on us. How many twins like us are there?" Sigh. Poor twins. Good thing one of them can suddenly disappear! With that the two walk off with the older man. "I got blood on my jacket now." Grr.
Getting sleepy. The half naked, bleeding man's eyes start to flutter open and closed repeatedly, like his eyelids are getting heavier. Showing signs of fatigue and drowsiness, his breathing slowing to a crawl, along with his heartbeat. He just lays his head back, relaxing now, giving in to what may seem inevitable, continuing to sing softly,"Tiiiimmee~ is on my side… Yes it is…. Tiiimmmee~ is on my side~… Yes it is~…"
The man watches the other two take off, he chuckles and states, "You know, it doesn't have to be this way, guys. Petty criminals? Looking for a big score? I could probably help out with that you know?"
"We're going to burn it anyway," Deckard mutters, smokestick plugged back into his mouth as they walk. It's getting lighter, however gradually. Red and violet creep into pale blue on what's visible of the horizon. "If I were you I'd stop singing and focus on not going towards the light!" is called back at Miles once they've made it a little ways. In the distance, there are already sirens, and he nudges one of the Brian's sideways around the side of a collapsed building, assuming the other will follow. Out of sight.
 December 1st: Out of Hiding |
 December 2nd: Dearest Daddy Deckard |