Participants:
| Scene Title | Soy un Perdedor |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | An attempted robbery ends prematurely when Deckard realizes he knows the victim. Things spiral downward with a quickness, as they have a way of doing. |
| Date | April 20, 2009 |
Staten Island: Coast
Staten Island can be very unsettling at night; and night comes with several dozen reasons for Delilah not to be out alone there. She has been told almost a million times to not go to the island period, much less in the early dark.
Yet, here she is wrapped up in a rain slicker and waterproof boots, splish-splashing and swish-sloshing past puddles amid the pitter-patter of the light rain. The hood of Delilah's dark red coat is up over her head, hair hidden underneath and arms crossed in front of her chest as she makes her way along the coastline streets. The pack slung over her chest and shoulder bobs against a thigh, and the skirt that falls to her knees does little to keep the wet chill from her legs. For the most part, she has been left alone all of these times; there is a first time for everything, though, isn't there?
There is a first time for everything. Tonight will be Deckard's first time robbing a woman at gunpoint. He's decided. In advance. It's like…practice. A baby step. You know, in the event that Filitov ever tells him that he should murder one.
Stealth would be easier if he didn't have to focus so hard in walking in a mostly straight line. As things are, the gentle patter of cold rain against pitted asphalt is broken by the thicker pat and tack of boots through murky water at Delilah's back. Uncertain at first, Flint's pursuant footsteps mixed easily with the rustling of damp garbage and gutter runoff, but now they're coming quick and quicker. Semi-automatic raised with its business end pointed vaguely at the join of neck and shoulders, he's very suddenly there just behind hher, a very tall and very damp man in need of a shave and after this, probably a new leather jacket. "Hey. HEY — wallet, now, or…" what. There's a muddled, dripping, brow-knit pause that lasts about a beat longer than it should before he finishes with a snarled, "I'll blow your fucking head off!" Not very creative.
He'll think of something better to say first next time.
Through the sides of her hood, it is considerably harder to hear much of anything clearly, much less the thumping of boots and the ambient sounds of Staten Island's byways. Only when the man is practically upon her does Delilah notice, turning her head sidelong just in time to glimpse the wet sheen of gunmetal aimed at her neck. The girl simply lets him continue, frozen in place; she doesn't even move her head the rest of the way to look fully at him, though her eyes are straining to look just from where her face sits. Under the coat and clothes, slightly damp, her immediate biological reaction begins. Body and brain both say 'Danger', so Delilah's subconscious reacts spot on.
Untwining her arms from her front, Lilah lifts her hands up, pale fingers sticking just far enough out of the sleeves of the slicker. "That'd be a r-right mess to leave here- you wouldn't wanna do that, w-would you?" Right. Like criminals worry about stains, Dee. One finger points down at her bag, and she moves as little as she has to. Startling him isn't a good idea either. "'S in here, lemme get it-" Her voice is only loud enough to muffle past the edge of her hood, and audibly disturbed. Being toxic grants her minor confidence, but a gun is faster than a loogie, and she would need to turn the rest of the way. Robber wins that round.
Wallet now, he said. Now. When no wallet seems to be immediately forthcoming, Deckard's logic train breezes right past the station that would happily explain to him that she's scared shitless and so not inclined to make sudden movements. The flinting spark of his temper erupts at even that much tension and tender, eyes ablaze with blue fire when he twists the claw of his left hand into hair and hood to wrench her head back out of its uncooperative set. The gun muzzle is burrowed into her cheek, then forced up into an even harder scrape at her temple, not quite sure where to stop.
Hot breath clouded thick with whiskey is pushed into her face from his, way, way too close. Wiry muscle and knotted veins stand out at his neck, his mouth is open, his teeth are bared, his eyes are glowing. Aaand…there are no further threats. Or orders. Something a little awkward sets into a twitch at his brow while he studies her at close range, near nose to nose when his jaw shuts itself he starts breathing a little less raggedly through flared nostrils. Something a little like recognition. :(
There is no crying out when a fist knots into her hair and yanks her head back, though her teeth are bared right back in a pained gritting expression. Her hand, meanwhile, is shuffling blindly around in the open bag now, fingers searching for that little rectangle as best they can. Her mouth unclenches with the barrel presses into her cheek, and draws up onto her temple. Delilah feels like bellowing up a ruckus, but there's something stopping her that is most likely fear of death. If it were not a gun, perhaps she would be more inclined to bulldoze over her assailant.
Then, he's REALLY close, and she can smell the booze on his breath- finding his eyes with hers does not prove difficult. They're glowing like little beacons right there, on his stubble-shadowed features. Though she now has a hard little wallet in one hand, halfway up in the air- the man's studying of her face and switch to breathing through his nose cause her to pause as well- but not quite out of recognition. What if he wants something else?
Oh, but wait, there it is. A dawn of realization. "…M-Mike?" His alter ego is recognized, and Delilah's brown eyes jump wider, brows darting up into her bangs.
Fuck. The rain is picking up a little, wind ruffling waves into the drizzling fall while Deckard stands there and stares at her. Too close. The breathing through his nose thing doesn't actually do much to kill the whiskey stink hazing into her face either. Jaw muscles cinched taut, he's slow to blink and slower still to start slacking the tangled grip he has on her hair.
Don't touch her. The light in his eyes dims, dulls, and fades. The gun retracts, pointed at nothing. He frowns at his hand. Double fuck.
Now would probably be a good time for an apology. Theoretically. It's just — even with booze sludging thick in his brain and in his blood, 'Sorry I tried to rob you,' sounds like a stupid thing to say.
He is very lucky that it was her hair he had grabbed. Generally that does not involve skin contact. As soon as the slack is given, Delilah wrenches herself away from his hand and clinging fingers. Provided he lets her go, she stands up straight with a new dose of boldness- chin up, shoulders back, eyes burning. Without her hood up, the rain finally lays down a layer of wet onto her hair and face.
She seems to want to say something, but instead she faces down 'Mike' with a fuming stance and expression. What a pickle.
In quiet contrast, Mike looks like a wet cat with a gun, musculoskeletal frame tending towards the less intimidating end of the spectrum now that rain has had plenty of time to cling at his clothes and slick down whatever bristle he might have attained otherwise. He also has the presence of mind to look mildly ashamed of himself. The same sentiment stoops his shoulders and slacks his grip on the pistol, like maybe he isn't entirely sure how it got into his bony hand to start with.
Hair curled dark and flat against his skull, when he eventually thinks to do something, said something is limited to him wiping his left hand down the side of his sodden blue jeans.
Standing right in front of him and looking up that inch or so into his eyes, Delilah grits her teeth behind her cheeks, nostrils flaring. She was scared, now she is angry- and the same substance still leaks from her skin, however the water there with it dilutes the amount just a little. So the teenager does not look so much waxen as she does a little bit too wet for having only been in the water a moment.
Without fanfare and without any real warning, Delilah pulls back her arm and rockets off a hard-fisted, powerful punch right at Mike's face.
Somewhere between 'whud' and 'smack.' That's kind of the sound Delilah's fist makes when it bricks itself off of Deckard's face, even if all he can hear is the sudden insistant 'skreeee' of tinnitis ringing around inside his skull. His head turns after the blow, sideways and up, with a satisfying stream of water slung along the movement's arc. Ow. Pain registers dimly through whiskey, but it does register, and there's a warmth oozing sluggishly into his stubbled moustachio that isn't snot.
Don't hit girls. That's the rule, isn't it? But what if they really deserve it?
In his current state, his id seems to have readier access to his reflexes than his superego, because the instant his eyes light back up, his left fist cuts itself into a harsh hook right back at her dumb teenage girl face. He probably hits harder too, 'cuz he's a dude, and a jerk.
Part of her was expecting him not to hit her back- and part of her was. So when Deckard does choose to hit a girl, she is half ready and trying to wriggle out of his way; Delilah is somewhat successful, stepping back far enough so that when his fist connects with the side of her face, it glances off of her closed eye socket and over her cheek, the rest of her suddenly balancing precariously on one leg. That one is going to sting and swell in the morning.
But so might he- because the next thing that Delilah does is stand up out of her little stumble with a *aaaaahhhhhk* ringing through her throat. Once Dee is in his face again with her own, up close and personal- she hocks that giant spitball at his face.
Don't. Touch. Her. But she touched him first. It really isn't fair. Then again, most things in his life aren't.
The cold drill of smelly acid rain off his head is starting to feel hot. It burns the jut of his ears — too large without the unruly scruff of greying hair to balance them out — and singes down the back of his neck in a hot stream that's enough to have him turning his head again. It feels wrong. Wrong enough to spur the faltering nag of his heart into an uneasy gallop just in time for him to catch Delilah's loogie with his long face.
Viscous saliva splats from cheekbone to eye, and even before that dose has had time to sink in, the world is skewing up at a creative angle under his feet. He leans; stumbles. The gun clatters out of his grip so that he can press a hand up over the offending eye. Aaaaaahhh. Another stumble and a sideways stagger, eyes aglow, and within seconds he's not much better company than a dog gone retarded with rabies. Probably best not to stick around until he gets to the part where biting people seems like a neat idea.
There is just one more thing Delilah feels the outstanding desire to do before scampering off; she takes a quick stock of her state(still good!). As the gun clatters to the ground, the girl steps after it, booting it off further and then stepping after the man himself. If he hasn't fallen down in the interim, Lilah puts a sudden boot between the man's ankles, lifting both arms to push 'Mike' over and down into the nearest muddy puddle.
Deckard isn't in a state to put up much resistance. Over he goes with a lackluster splash and spatter, sturdy jacket soaking up most of the impact. Shoulder first, then all the way over onto his back with a sinuous, labored twist of his spine. His breathing is quick and shallow, lambent eyes tracing rapidly over something Delilah should probably be glad she can't see. Meanwhile it's pretty clear if she has anything to say she should leave a message or call back later.
Delilah takes a deep breath, and lets it out with a loud snort not unlike an angry boar that has chased off a tailing hound. Shoulders straight, the girl simply turns away and marches off into the night. She'll be able to get over this, most likely- and possibly feel a little bad about the spitwad later on- but will never let Deckard live it down should they come nose to nose again. For now, however, Delilah will wear her big black eye like a badge of honor. As for Deckard, he can lie there in the rain and think about what he has done. Goodnight.
Soy un Perdedor
I'm a loser baby, so why don't you kill me?
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