(no subject)
"Hold on, please, just..."
Their pursuers gained on them in a 1970 Plymouth GTX, dirty and dented, but the engine sounded pristine. And large. His eyes lingered affectionately over the grille in his mirror. Well, they were fucked.
He unclenched his grip on the steering wheel and forced himself to calmly replace his hands at the standard 10/2 positions while taking a deep breath. Composure was what he needed; to think clearly. Freaking out never helped anyone in a crisis.
"It hurts..." his passenger strained the few syllables out between clenched teeth.
Fuck fuck fuck. This was not the clear-headed, problem-solving thought process he was aiming for, but it was all that would come to him. Fuck.
The passenger shifted position, seeming to achieve a better one, but not without a grimace of pain and mirroring the driver's own thoughts. "Fuck."
It was supposed to be comforting, what came out of his mouth in response; instead it was panicked and completely obvious.
"Just... we can't stop, not yet."
He distributed more weight onto the gas pedal, a pointless gesture of frustration inspired by his lack of ability to to even say anything right. Not that his speed mattered except for the precious gas he, at any other time, would be hesitant to waste. Rangers didn't patrol this far south, and for the first time he found himself wishing they did.
Finally, a valid idea entered his head. He checked to ensure the barren consistency of the road ahead and the GTX in his cracked rear-view. Satisfied with what he saw, he stretched his reach behind the passenger's seat and brought back a towel from the floorboards.
The passenger looked incredulously down his nose at the driver's offering. "It's dirty."
"You're bleeding out on my fucking seats and you're going to be a bitch about a towel?" He pushed the unstained side of the fabric against his passenger's wound harsher than he meant to. It was the first good look at his leg he'd gotten: shredded, raw flesh of thigh dangled out of ripped jeans and oozed clumpy blood over the passenger's thin fingers. It looked bad, really disgusting. But he didn't think it was life-threatening, if it could be tended to soon.
"Hold it," the driver ordered, with so much authority the passenger did as he was told, smearing his blood on the other's hand.
The driver ran his clean hand through his hair, mentally preparing himself for the answer to his question.
"What the fuck did you do to piss off an entire gang of Ravagers?"
look at me pretending i know shit about cars
Their pursuers gained on them in a 1970 Plymouth GTX, dirty and dented, but the engine sounded pristine. And large. His eyes lingered affectionately over the grille in his mirror. Well, they were fucked.
He unclenched his grip on the steering wheel and forced himself to calmly replace his hands at the standard 10/2 positions while taking a deep breath. Composure was what he needed; to think clearly. Freaking out never helped anyone in a crisis.
"It hurts..." his passenger strained the few syllables out between clenched teeth.
Fuck fuck fuck. This was not the clear-headed, problem-solving thought process he was aiming for, but it was all that would come to him. Fuck.
The passenger shifted position, seeming to achieve a better one, but not without a grimace of pain and mirroring the driver's own thoughts. "Fuck."
It was supposed to be comforting, what came out of his mouth in response; instead it was panicked and completely obvious.
"Just... we can't stop, not yet."
He distributed more weight onto the gas pedal, a pointless gesture of frustration inspired by his lack of ability to to even say anything right. Not that his speed mattered except for the precious gas he, at any other time, would be hesitant to waste. Rangers didn't patrol this far south, and for the first time he found himself wishing they did.
Finally, a valid idea entered his head. He checked to ensure the barren consistency of the road ahead and the GTX in his cracked rear-view. Satisfied with what he saw, he stretched his reach behind the passenger's seat and brought back a towel from the floorboards.
The passenger looked incredulously down his nose at the driver's offering. "It's dirty."
"You're bleeding out on my fucking seats and you're going to be a bitch about a towel?" He pushed the unstained side of the fabric against his passenger's wound harsher than he meant to. It was the first good look at his leg he'd gotten: shredded, raw flesh of thigh dangled out of ripped jeans and oozed clumpy blood over the passenger's thin fingers. It looked bad, really disgusting. But he didn't think it was life-threatening, if it could be tended to soon.
"Hold it," the driver ordered, with so much authority the passenger did as he was told, smearing his blood on the other's hand.
The driver ran his clean hand through his hair, mentally preparing himself for the answer to his question.
"What the fuck did you do to piss off an entire gang of Ravagers?"
look at me pretending i know shit about cars