CLOSED ⤧ consider this the hint of the century, consider this ...
Who: prayforprey & nicotine_patch.
What: Genkaku's out of prison, with Shinjiro's Evoker in hand. He's got a present for Badou. ... Maybe more than one.
When: A good while after this thread with Shinjiro, and after Badou comes out of hiding (Rabid's posting today/tonight?).
Where: A Dark Room where Badou develops film.
Warnings: The usual for these two.
Finding Badou is easy. Follow the trail of cigarette butts and ash, ripped little corners and tears in wallscornerssheetslines. It’s like following an animal that leaves its scent on everything, can’t help but live in a filthy way -- if only because he’s too fucking lazy (crazy) to not pick up after his own mess. The hunt isn’t even that fun, not really. Nicotine yellow stains like aging bones in marrow.
The gun feels heavy in his pocket, but he supposes that might be from the blood loss. His arm still aches where the man twisted it all up and mangled (just like his insides: c’mon, fuck me up, make me pretty), he can still feel the wound on his cheekbone from that dirty gun, he can still feel the barrel (no sights, no sights … one sight?) against his tilaka. It feels like familiarity, like before he got his perfect set-up in DW. It feels raw and real and wild again.
He likes it.
Finding Badou is easy. It’s not gaining his attention that’s harder, the way he’s always aware not aware too bothered too bored to know where he is what he’s doing who it’s with --
But he manages. He doesn’t have those steel-toe shoes on, not yet, has them strung over his back, trying to keep the blood off of them and his clothes as much as possible. He’s glad the man kept the hallway light off so when he opens the door sosososo quiet (thinks, maybe this is his natural habitat, but no it’s too quiet too calm too in need of light from a bullet’s neat nose) it doesn’t pour in and ruin the surprise.
Monsters go bump in the night. Demons don’t make a sound.
He sets his Super Monk clothing down in a corner, the boots down silently on top, feels his head weave light and heavy all at once (bloodloss? nicotineloss? obsessionfever?), needs the dull static of comfort (needs it more than he wants to admit, some inner, horrible, clawingtaking thing).
Jeans and a T-shirt. Perfect. It’s not even a pounce, just something light and warm and that makes him stick, the suction of the large wet wound across his chest and thinthinthin layers of fabric to the small, knob-knocked spine. He presses his face (gravelfucked dirtsmeared) to the likewise right cheek, pressingpressing until he feels the black bands against his own skin in a texture all its own --
and breathes sweet, life-loving second-hand smoke.
He knows what’s coming. The itchtwitchultraviolence, and he pleads (a lie to himself, a bigger liar to Badou because they both know what he wantswantsneeds) for a reprieve as he feels muscles tense about to spring loose -- for just a single, single moment:
“Cmon, not yet. Gimme a sliver. I think I fuckin’ deserve it.”
What: Genkaku's out of prison, with Shinjiro's Evoker in hand. He's got a present for Badou. ... Maybe more than one.
When: A good while after this thread with Shinjiro, and after Badou comes out of hiding (Rabid's posting today/tonight?).
Where: A Dark Room where Badou develops film.
Warnings: The usual for these two.
Finding Badou is easy. Follow the trail of cigarette butts and ash, ripped little corners and tears in wallscornerssheetslines. It’s like following an animal that leaves its scent on everything, can’t help but live in a filthy way -- if only because he’s too fucking lazy (crazy) to not pick up after his own mess. The hunt isn’t even that fun, not really. Nicotine yellow stains like aging bones in marrow.
The gun feels heavy in his pocket, but he supposes that might be from the blood loss. His arm still aches where the man twisted it all up and mangled (just like his insides: c’mon, fuck me up, make me pretty), he can still feel the wound on his cheekbone from that dirty gun, he can still feel the barrel (no sights, no sights … one sight?) against his tilaka. It feels like familiarity, like before he got his perfect set-up in DW. It feels raw and real and wild again.
He likes it.
Finding Badou is easy. It’s not gaining his attention that’s harder, the way he’s always aware not aware too bothered too bored to know where he is what he’s doing who it’s with --
But he manages. He doesn’t have those steel-toe shoes on, not yet, has them strung over his back, trying to keep the blood off of them and his clothes as much as possible. He’s glad the man kept the hallway light off so when he opens the door sosososo quiet (thinks, maybe this is his natural habitat, but no it’s too quiet too calm too in need of light from a bullet’s neat nose) it doesn’t pour in and ruin the surprise.
Monsters go bump in the night. Demons don’t make a sound.
He sets his Super Monk clothing down in a corner, the boots down silently on top, feels his head weave light and heavy all at once (bloodloss? nicotineloss? obsessionfever?), needs the dull static of comfort (needs it more than he wants to admit, some inner, horrible, clawingtaking thing).
Jeans and a T-shirt. Perfect. It’s not even a pounce, just something light and warm and that makes him stick, the suction of the large wet wound across his chest and thinthinthin layers of fabric to the small, knob-knocked spine. He presses his face (gravelfucked dirtsmeared) to the likewise right cheek, pressingpressing until he feels the black bands against his own skin in a texture all its own --
and breathes sweet, life-loving second-hand smoke.
He knows what’s coming. The itchtwitchultraviolence, and he pleads (a lie to himself, a bigger liar to Badou because they both know what he wantswantsneeds) for a reprieve as he feels muscles tense about to spring loose -- for just a single, single moment:
“Cmon, not yet. Gimme a sliver. I think I fuckin’ deserve it.”