Participants:
| Scene Title | Freedom Came My Way One Day |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | And I started out of town, yeah! |
| Date | April 7, 2009 |
Georgia
Shard's eyes flicker open.
All he could hear was screaming about butts, bullets ricocheting off nearby segments of fence. Bullets embedding themselves into other inmates, all injustly improsined most likely, and all trying to get to the light of day. His muscles were straining, he was forcing himself to put one foot in front of the other. To keep moving, to maybe just //maybe get out of that hell hole.//
His first breath brings in dirt which causes him to cough sharply onto the ground. He is laying face down, slowly he becomes aware of his body. He's laying, face down in dirt. Dirt. His eyes manage to focus long enough to see…
Red dirt. Miles and miles of red dirt. The bullets weren't coming as frequently, though many of the escapees were falling rapidly, Shard was mostly on his own. Dragging Boxer and Canfield as hard as he could. Knox was still being carried by Donnie, but that was it. So few of them had escaped. The rest were what? Dead? Recaptured? He didn't want to look back, couldn't look back, if he looked back he might see those people in black, coming to reclaim the last few stragglers. Where was he going to go? He had wounded men in orange jumpsuits, on foot. There was no possible way they could get out of here. But all he could do was keep moving. Got to keep moving. He wasn't entirely aware when his body slumped down onto one knee, exhaustion overtaking him. But he was aware when his face finally collided with the ground. Getting a faceful of…
Dirt. It's not read though, brown, as dirt should be. And then come the sounds, the sound of water spraying out. A shower? How could he possibly be near a shower? Was he recaptured? And a radio, and someone singing along with the radio. Out of tune. His arms slowly press against the ground below him, expecting a hard time at getting up. But to his surprise he is very easily pushed up to his knees.
Squinting for a moment, the rapper twists his body to take in his surroundings. Brown, and green. Trees, bushes, rocks. This isn't Moab. And then straight ahead of him, is a building. A shack? A cabin. Where the noise is coming from. He couldn't be captured. Someone would be watching him, and there was no one around. Except for that singer. So how did he get facedown in the dirt? Shard's mind struggles to comprehend the situation he finds himself in. Slowly and warily, the icon raises himself to his feet, taking a step forward to gently test the door to the cabin.
Unlocked.
Brown and green. Trees, bushes, rocks, and something larger than a squirrel but smaller than a person rustling through the brush nearby. Square-faced and squat-bodied, a lone beaver snuffs cautiously at Shard's stirring for a few spare seconds before it blinks its beady eyes and humps into an awkward web-footed retreat. Aaaahhh.
Within the cabin, the voice that is singing is singing badly about the hotel California and how it is a lovely place. Also, it is familiar. Low and a little too wincing to really be cheerful, though he is trying. The sound of rushing water cuts off with a metallic squeak and a harsh sinus-clearing sniff, which is polished off with a sizable loogie plopping into the tub before Boxer gimps out and reaches for a towel. A soaking wet rat clings to the side of his head, tiny claws twisted into spiked hair while the bald tail swings out at an awkward angle to maintain balance. Wheee!
Back in the cabin's front room, a small older ginger-haired woman with a pinched face and severe glasses is duct taped into a chair at the kitchen table. He might have actually gotten a little too exuberant with the tape, but she seems to have enough room to breathe with, so long as she breathes through her nose seeing as the silvery stuff is bound as thick around her mouth as it is most everywhere else. A pair of mice and a squirrel are busy stuffing their whiskery little faces with the contents of a cereal bag that has been torn open on the table. She does not look happy to see them.
"Living it up at the hotel CALIFORNIA — " Unperturbed, the big Russian sings on, tying off the (blessedly long) towel around his waist. Another damp rat jaunts along the rail of the towel rack while he reaches to swing the mirror aside, exposing the medicine cabinet beyond. "Any time of year…"
Leaning in for a precarious peek, Shard's brows shoot up at the sight of the poor woman tied to the chair. The beaver goes ignored, or unseen. And the door opens up just a bit more. Vincent slides into the cabin before stealthily closing the door behind him. Though not all the way, he doesn't want to risk that clicking noise. Not until he knows what the hell is going on. The bad singing goes ignored as well for now as King makes his way slowly towards the unhappy maiden of duct tape.
His hand goes down and slowly pulls back the duct tape from her mouth. As his eyes search the room, squirrels and mice eating cereal. Someone singing Hotel California badly. And Ms.Potts all tied up. He raises one finger to his lips as if to 'shhhsh' her as he pulls the tape back on her mouth, then finally. "Where are we?"
"Hey, no — DON'T — " comes Boxer's voice from the bathroom, jarred out of song by Shard's reeaaach for the duct tape. He is too late, unfortunately, and later still in limping hurriedly to swing open the bathroom then the bedroom door, towel held up at waist, rat still fastened to his head.
"BLAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH," says Ms. Potts, "WHEN MY HUSBAND GETS HOME — "
"Put it back on!" Boxer orders from the doorway, "Someone could hear! Ffhucking idiot — "
Eyes going wide the rapper takes a step back before flinging his attention up at the man with the rat on his head before looking back down at the woman. Frowning deeply, he shoots an accusatory look at the other man as if this sudden noise was all his fault. "Calm down!" He says, irritation clear in his voice. And the duct tape is replaced quickly, and pressed down hard. Shard's expression completely and utterly perplexed. Straightening Shard casts a long look at the other inmate-former inmate?
"Where are we?" He asks harshly, taking a step away from Ms. Potts. "Who is this? And where are we, and how did we get here? And where are we?" The man asks, looking around at the cabin. "This isn't Moab. How far away are we? Did you drag me here? Where's Cans? And Knox?"
"We are in Georgia. This is an angry lady named Gretchin. I do not know why we are here or where the others have gone. I am not dragging anybody — my ass is burning." All of this is explained as if Shard is an idiot for not knowing any of it already. "I have only seen you. And her. She did not like my uniform sooo — " a vague tip of his head indicates the mess of tape that should see to it that she goes nowhere anytime soon.
Sporting a grave assortment of black inked tattoos, Boxer looks more like an inmate without the orange jumpsuit than he does with it. "I needed a shower anyway. There are clothes in the bedroom. I think her husband is a police officer, but we still have the assault rifle and there is a shotgun in the closet so I do not think we will have problems…" He is still talking to himself when he turns to retreat back into the bathroom. One of the mice plops off the table into Gretchin's lap, and onto the floor from there to skitter through the cracked door after him.
"What do you mean we won't have problems?" King asks with an overwhelming amount of incredulity in his voice. "You took a woman hostage. A woman who has a cop husband. What are we gonna do Boxes, kill everybody and go to Mexico?" He seems kind of angry. "How did we get in Georgia?!?" Georgia. Wut. Walking into the kitchen the man looks like he is in a heap of disbelief. "How do you know we're in Georgia?" Boxer could be dumb and not know where Georgia is. Or just guess that anywhere that is not Moab is Georgia. So Shard needs to make sure. "Besides, you used most of the bullets in that thing, how much do you have left? And how did we get in Georgia?!" Putting his hands on his head the man glances out the windows. "This is crazy. Get clothes for me too." He demands, still trying to asess the situation. Georgia is far from Utah. They couldn't be in Georgia. Glancing at Gretchin he gives a little frown. Georgia…
He does seem kind of angry. This the squirrel notes with a twitching, flicking bristle of its tail while it continues to stuff lucky charm marshmallows into its cheeks. "Her driver's license says Georgia. I do not know for sure — she would not answer my questions. Too busy trying to bite me." Grumble grumble, mutter mutter about hospitality. Georgians are assholes.
"I am going back to New York. No one there will care what I do to crotchy old ginger ladies in Georgia okay?" Voice raised through the muffle of the door, Boxer twists around to frown at his bruise-blackened butt and leg before he sets to winding bandaging tape around the worst of it, antibiotic cream and all. At least it has stopped bleeding. …Mostly. No answer on how many bullets are left, probably because the official number is 'two.'
"I do not know how we got here. Maybe someone dropped us off, but I am not going back to Utah."
"Dropped us off?" Who would drop two convicts off? Maybe those people who brought the guns and explosions. His eyes wander to Gretchin again before he moves into the hallway. "Look any minute this woman's husband could come home. And who knows, maybe someone saw you come in, or me come in. We gotta get rid of these uniforms, and get moving. Doesn't matter where. New York, sure, whatever. We just got to get on the move. Does she have a car?" He asks, almost scowling when he walks in to find Boxer doing his asscream.
Turning around and trying to mentally cleanse his eyes, he manages not to make a big deal of it vocally. "Does she have a car?" He repeats, "We can take it and go get on a bus or something, I don't know. But we're fugitives, I guess. We've got to keep a low profile. And we should probably get that looked at. By a doctor."
"Probably," Boxer agrees, ignorant or uncaring of the intrusion while he is working on his butt. It hurts a lot. It is distracting. "I did not see a car. I think maybe wait until her husband comes home and take his." Soon enough he is dragging a pair of khaki sheriff's uniform pants up over the bandaging. They are approximately the right length but a little loose, which — does not bode well for the size of this police man whose car he is intending to steal. "We can tape him down too. Should be tomorrow before anyone comes looking." A belt, a belt. He could use a belt. The rat on his head drops down to his shoulder, winds down an arm and manages to complete a leap onto the closet doorknob. It's joined by its fellow brown rat before it winds its way in. "I do not think anyone has seen. We are in wilderness."
"Wilderness." Shard repeats, glancing over his shoulder at the sheriff pants. "If he's a sheriff. There must be at lease a small town nearby." The man intones. "If we take his car.." His hand raises to his lips. It's been a long time since he has had to think about doing illegal things. But this time, it's a necessity. Right? "We could take out the power. Maybe even block the roads some." A shrug is given. "Keep them from getting word out about us, at least for a little. Give us more time to get away." Glancing at the rats he purses his lips. "Make sure you don't touch me."
"Maybe," Boxer agrees without much feeling. His style of planning is more streamlined. Get a car, drive out of town. Drive to New York. Try to find a doctor along the way, because he is butthurt.
"I am not gay," argued blandly in defense of any touching that may occur strictly by accident, he limps his way over to the closet to unhook the leather strap of a belt as if he knew it must be there all along. "You don't touch me and I will not touch you." Next comes the undershirt, and then a short sleeved uniform shirt over that, complete with the sewn in last name of Brown. If he does not look or sound very much like a Mr. Brown, he does not seem to care.
"I never said you were, brother. I'm just saying, make sure you don't touch me." Shard says with exasperation. Glancing out at the hall. "We should move Gretchin. Don't want that to be the first thing Mr.Gretchin peeps when he waltzes in." The man says before stepping out of the hall and walking crisply to the front room.
Within moments, Shard is walking back, the back of the chair held in one hand. With the woman still strapped to it, he seems to be carrying the woman and chair and all with ease. Stepping into the bedroom, the chair is set down before the man lets out a satisfied sigh. "Well. I guess we just wait for Mr.Gretchin to get home now. You hide back here, stick the gun in his face and I'll wander around the back. If he has a partner, I'll take care of him, and.." He gives a shrug. Seems pretty simple, really.
ONE HOUR LATER, Mr. Brown and his partner are taped up with Gretchin and Robert Boxer is now officially Deputy Brown, complete with a brown jacket to hide the remainder of his tattoos and aviator sunglasses that he is trying to sit correctly on his nose with the aid of the rear view mirror. His window is down, allowing cold wind to stream crisp through the passenger's side of the patrol car. He has brought his rats with him: one skirts from shoulder to shoulder and occasionally stretches up to nose at an ear, the other seems content to search a jacket pocket for cookie crumbs left behind by its previous owner. Shard got the hat.
"Maybe in a few days we can call and see if someone found them so they do not starve," is the first thing he's said in a while, voice raised over the whip of the wind to combat the fact that his head is halfway out the window. "Can we turn the radio on now?"
The hat is currently in his lap, and the darker of the pair is dabbing at his forehead. He had to do most of the work. Knocking over power lines, removing important parts from cars, and making roadblocks. Finally he gets to relax a bit, and do the driving. While Boxer sits happily in his seat with his little furry friends. This partnership hasn't been the most awesome thing in the world, thus far. Shard's been feeling like he's doing all the thinking, and the acting. While Boxer gets a cool rifle and rats. OF COURSE SHARD GETS THE HAT.
"Good idea." He says as he tilts his own pair of aviators up, then places the hat back on his head. Sheriff Whitehorse has one arm dangling out his window, his other hand gripping the wheel lightly as he maneuvers the vehicle down the highway. "Yeah. Turn it on. We should only keep the car and the uniforms for. One day, two days max. Once we get out of the county, other cops might get suspicious as to why we're making a cross country roadtrip."
Boxer was lookout. Being lookout man is an important job, even if he did not actually see much of anything worth seeing while Shard went Godzilla on the lines and everything. He also fed his rats. That was important because they were hungry, only now he is hungry too and he did not think to grab anything other than the handful of cereal that they already ate.
"Okay." On goes the radio with a punch of his finger. A few dial twists and button mashes later, rap music thunders through the system, jarring the car's bass and rattling the cage that separates the front from the back. Also, this makes it even harder to hear. "OKAY."
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