Post by havlockvhett on Feb 15, 2011 23:40:56 GMT -8
Blood Loss- 1/5 ((Solo))
He ran, fire in his lungs and he ran. God he hated the fog.
No, no fog. Just night. It was only the unfamiliar damp, muggy air being tugged into the fire of his lungs.
Fire in the night sky, lit up for all the world to see. Spotlight, exiting stage right, Hans Showalter. Just a kid, a bullheaded kid. Clap for the brave little boy. Clap like the thunder of boots while he runs away, springs through searing pain and into the fog, sprints through the muddy slush of blood and piss that is No Man's Land and oh god Robert is dead.
No, no. Robert is in Chicago. Josef is the one that is dead. Josef is dead and it is only muggy. There is a two bit mugger, from down south who is running on cobbled streets. Bum shot him, winged him. Same damn leg every time. Robert'd be pissed about the suit. What is it with you Cooper, an extra set a silk ain't gonna kill ya. Robbie talked like that, extra silk, like he had something fancy in the wings just waiting to come out. Like a big box of treasure that you try and hide with burlap, all rough and dock-side on the outside, but hints of something else kept showing through. Maybe he had some rich old man, or maybe he'd just hidden under the stairs and listened to somebody else's old man. Never could tell with Robbie, that was the thing. Never could tell. he should ask, when he got home. Robbie'd be waiting. Robbie was always good at waiting, could make statues look frantic the way he could wait.
No, no. Sam would be waiting. No more Robbie. Oh god, no more Robbie.
One step, two. A leap and that was all she wrote.
Loud bastard, for a hired tough. No spine either. Screaming away like a baby, hollering to wake the dead that he doesn't know a thing about a grey cat with a murder's blue eyes, doesn't know a thing about Robbie. I know he's lying, everybody knows Robbie. He's screaming to much, I have to shut him up. He's only a hired tough, not a useful bone in his body, and he knows what I'm really here after. It's too dangerous to let him go, and too easy to make sure he stays silent. There's too much blood on my shirt now, Robbie'll be mad. He'll be even madder if I don't find a doctor. Don't leave the knife, it's nothing they can track, it's useful. Find a doctor, burn the suit.
Up. Up is hard on one leg but he manages. He needs a doctor, it's in too deep to dig it out himself. Off into the fog again, at least it's cobble under his shoes, something steady that won't bog him down.
He ran, fire in his lungs and he ran. God he hated the fog.
No, no fog. Just night. It was only the unfamiliar damp, muggy air being tugged into the fire of his lungs.
Fire in the night sky, lit up for all the world to see. Spotlight, exiting stage right, Hans Showalter. Just a kid, a bullheaded kid. Clap for the brave little boy. Clap like the thunder of boots while he runs away, springs through searing pain and into the fog, sprints through the muddy slush of blood and piss that is No Man's Land and oh god Robert is dead.
No, no. Robert is in Chicago. Josef is the one that is dead. Josef is dead and it is only muggy. There is a two bit mugger, from down south who is running on cobbled streets. Bum shot him, winged him. Same damn leg every time. Robert'd be pissed about the suit. What is it with you Cooper, an extra set a silk ain't gonna kill ya. Robbie talked like that, extra silk, like he had something fancy in the wings just waiting to come out. Like a big box of treasure that you try and hide with burlap, all rough and dock-side on the outside, but hints of something else kept showing through. Maybe he had some rich old man, or maybe he'd just hidden under the stairs and listened to somebody else's old man. Never could tell with Robbie, that was the thing. Never could tell. he should ask, when he got home. Robbie'd be waiting. Robbie was always good at waiting, could make statues look frantic the way he could wait.
No, no. Sam would be waiting. No more Robbie. Oh god, no more Robbie.
One step, two. A leap and that was all she wrote.
Loud bastard, for a hired tough. No spine either. Screaming away like a baby, hollering to wake the dead that he doesn't know a thing about a grey cat with a murder's blue eyes, doesn't know a thing about Robbie. I know he's lying, everybody knows Robbie. He's screaming to much, I have to shut him up. He's only a hired tough, not a useful bone in his body, and he knows what I'm really here after. It's too dangerous to let him go, and too easy to make sure he stays silent. There's too much blood on my shirt now, Robbie'll be mad. He'll be even madder if I don't find a doctor. Don't leave the knife, it's nothing they can track, it's useful. Find a doctor, burn the suit.
Up. Up is hard on one leg but he manages. He needs a doctor, it's in too deep to dig it out himself. Off into the fog again, at least it's cobble under his shoes, something steady that won't bog him down.