| Sweating bullets [open] | |
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| Tweet Topic Started: Jul 3 2013, 02:09 PM (95 Views) | |
| Red | Jul 3 2013, 02:09 PM Post #1 |
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Newborn
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Fuck. It’s after the last skull cracks that the old soldier backs up with his rifle gripped tightly in his hands. They had found him. They had been following him. They must have—there could be no other way that they could have found him here—There’s a hand on his shoulder and his eyes widen in response. Without thinking, he rams his shoulder back. Somehow, at some point, his hands had flipped. There’s a sickening crunch and a gasp in pain when the butt of the rifle meets the invader’s nose, and Red can smell blood thick in the air. Only now does he start to feel the sting. Green eyes travel downward to watch the spread of blood—his own blood, this time— stain his white button-up. His knees threaten to buckle and his heart pounds in his chest, but he runs. If there is anything that he can do, he can run. But something is wrong. Something is incredibly wrong about this. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he can remember the crippling pain of bullets shredding through his flesh. He had a soldier over his shoulder but he had kept running, he hadn’t even stumbled once. But something is wrong now, something is different, and Red doesn’t like it. He had been shot—with something—a gun, but what? There’s something different now. The gun, the bullets. The bullets. Silver. Suddenly, he understands. He knew they were trying to kill him from the beginning, why else would they have shot him? He abandons his truck on the road and heads for the woods. The trees pass by him in one massive blur in his peripheral vision. The sound of the shot still rings in his ears and leaves a painful throb just above his right hip. Instinctively his left hand clamps over it, providing as much pressure as possible while running with the other hand occupied by a rifle with no bullets. Useless for firing, useful for breaking skulls. But why is he running? Because they might get up, they might chase him, they might get him again. With his mind in a panic, Red pushes harder, ignoring the weighted feeling that soon begins to creep into his legs. Pain spreads like a poison from the area, and so does his own blood. His hands feel wetter—so does his shirt. How much is he bleeding? A lot, probably. He doesn’t care. Instead, he runs. Except, he can’t run anymore, and he’s not exactly sure when he stopped. The world around him feels blurry and his chest feels too heavy. He breathes deeply and he pushes forward with a grimace. Is this what getting old is like? Is he even old? Not that old. Only 83. He will live. He will not die. The stumbling walk feels like it has taken a century and maybe it has. The sky is significantly darker. Had he been running this whole time? Probably not. The walk only ends when there is a break in the woods. This might have meant a safe haven for many, but Red can only think of that stupid movie bambi and when the stupid mom went into the stupid field and got stupidly shot. He finally makes it there, but it’s a cabin. A cabin with lights on. People. People could mean help, people could mean death. The place smells of pack and wolves and every instinct in his body screams at him to turn around and leave, but he doesn’t. Instead he approaches. The sun isn’t completely gone yet, but it’s different. Had it been a few hours? It seems like it has. Maybe not that long. How long does it take for this to kill? He’s halfway there when one knee gives out beneath him and the rest of his body follows. His rifle lands right over his wound and he grunts with the pain that it causes, gritting his teeth and clenching his hands into fists. He could get it out now. He could if he tried. His hands seek out the bullet wound. One, two, three. "God fucking damnit!" |
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| Billy | Jul 3 2013, 08:03 PM Post #2 |
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Alpha dog.
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She's on her way home from work when she see's him stumble his way out of the surrounding bush and onto the cabin's porch steps. It hadnt been a particularly grueling day -- watered down compared to any other day of the week -- she'd had to do some paperwork for some cases. Click around in the database and check in on the other Blackwater area's out of her view. There was nothing out of the ordinary to take care. Nothing that would catch the general public's attention. There had been a car crash down in Alabama, down in Luke's jurisdiction, that'd been caused by ''a dog like creature'' running out into the road. But that was easily forgotten enough. And with a few phone calls and chew outs that mistake wouldn't be made a second time without consequence. Her day was looking a little relaxing, but she should have known better. Before she's out of the car, she shoots Sabra and Lynn a text messages. Sabra getting ''Get the door, it looks like we're going to be breaking open the whiskey'' and Lynn getting something a little more formal ''Cabin emergency, come ASAP. We got a bleeder.'' And boots crunching the gravel, her old jeep shifting with her weight -- Billy doesn't even bother locking it when she makes her way to Red. Kneeling beside him and hoisting him up above her shoulders. She's a small thing, still as bird-like as the first day she'd flown to close to this blackwater beehive. But she's got a good amount of strength, it comes with the territory, and her muscle mass has been picking up since she'd started as the local authority. It's not as easy as eating butter, more like churning butter, but it's manageable and before Red might know what's going on Billy is dragging him inside. Right on past Sabra who already has the door open and is likely looking irritated. "Caden go get auntie Vianne then go to your room, Go on, me and your mama got em' e'll be fine." She says, when she notices the little boys eyes lingering too closely. He'd long since seen blood, born in the smell and used to the taste. But the household liked to think there were some things that were lost to him still. It gave them a small sense of modesty. Billy, with the help of her beta, sets the man down in one of the kitchen chairs. And disappearing in the hallway, she returns with a couple of ragged but clean towels to press to his wounds. Apply pressure. "Well, work was fine." she starts casually as she presses, waits. "Only thing I had to do was go get that damn old man from the bar. Always drinkin' like it's water, god damn his blood's Budweiser, wanna make a bet onit Sabs?" |
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| Sulla | Jul 8 2013, 02:22 PM Post #3 |
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Newborn
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Loyalty destroys everything in its path. Men must sacrifice; men must make decisions. What separates Sulla from the boys of his age is simple. Sulla is different from the freed teenager. It is not the inability to feel that holds him different from others nor his failing eyesight. Not even his day of fame make him different. In this case, it is what he has endured and how he has endured that separates him, the man from the boys. Boys his age are not as mature nor have suffered total loss. Boys his age do not experience loyalty or the sense of being able to tie down, romantic or not. There is nothing sexual or romantic about his loyalty. That sort of bond is something that wells no desires in his heart. Eyes do not wander to physical features because there is no urge. A person alone to himself; a love between only them is unwanted. Sex does not cloud his judgment like a boy. Family is what weaves his way into thoughts, pushing first and foremost. His loyalty to family is uncouth in nature, disguised by his need for dignity. Everyone is disposable. Every person in this world can be rid of in a blink of an eye. Anyone can be victim to the fact they are useable and almost everyone has. Days spent out in the real world and under a sociopath’s roof have made this all too clear. The logic of a cult, a clan of sorts, blinds its members. Sulla has lost sight of humanity and faded into the reaches of a man named Giles. Giles comes first and foremost, his father no, but he was still something close to a paternal figure. Family comes first and nothing drives that more fervently into the mind than watching your family burn. By Malphas. Yet he was helping Malphas. How troubling. His stay at the fates’ house is calculated. He is not close to many here, only a selected few which is a few too many. It makes it hard, harder than it should be. Men are pawns to be used and while Giles has no problem using them, guilt something the vessel could not feel, Sulla felt something. Something he did not enjoy the taste of and would rather avoid. Everyone here comes second only to Giles but some come first on the level of friends. This, now this is very concerning. Nights are spent worrying about Giles and how he will affect those two in this household. Sulla is not hated. He is a far more peaceful creature than his leader to say the least. He is a preferred presence, if they must choose between Giles and himself. Or well, he hopes he is the preferred. Blinded yes, but not completely so. Sulla knows the devil man’s true nature is nothing beautiful. In fact, people getting along with him other than the cult (it would soon be others in the cult, but the two men are the only two for now) is worrying. The warlock is not meant to be an ally but an adversary. Most in the house do not care for him but Billy does, therefore Billy concerns him. A woman willing to go out on a date with Giles should do more than raise eyebrows. He has a sneaking feeling she is leading him on, never pushing away the grown man’s puppy love. Pushing it away and fueling it are the wrong way to go. Sulla knows he will have to address the situation before it gets too out of hand. There’s always a possibility Blackwater will be cleared off the map as if a bomb had swept through the rolling hills. Concentration for the book in his fingers is not there. The thoughts above wander his head, pulling out concern that never fully shows. The laconic face remains the same while the less than frivolous matters remained locked. A mind slowly draws back to the book as he hears a vehicle rolling in. Billy of course, the damsel he must address but tonight, something is different about tonight; he can feel it in his bones. The letters are too small. His nose is squished to the page as if somehow, putting his eyes on the words will make him be able to read it. Near-sightedness is starting to mix with far-sightedness which is all but disheartening. His hands move the book closer and further, attempting to find the happy medium that does not exist. In defeat he begins to set the book down, sadness beginning to brim unseen in his lungs as his sight begins to fail. Sadness does not last long though. A commotion is sent through the house. Sabra’s cute boy Caden is around (is right for a child to see this sort of violence?) while Sabra hoists the door open. Eyes flicker as the small gal drags in a man far larger than herself. It becomes all too clear something is wrong with him. The blood is not strong enough for a human to smell but is enough for a witch to feel. He is still too calm, dropping the book and standing up. Magic has been deemed evil in this household. Sabra and Billy set this mysterious redhead down in one of the chairs as Sulla begins to wander in. Magic has been deemed unworthy, a vile thing that only destroys in this household. The closest thing to Giles’ son has left him with a reputation he disapproves of. His magic is as trusted as the drunk’s: not at all. A bleeding soldier is all he needs to prove himself. Eerie and calm as ever, mind focused he pushes past the two. The two deserve respect but this is serious. There is no time to be wasted so he quickly utters an, ”Excuse me,” before shuffling in. Tranquilizing and holding a man down with magic is not his specialty but are needed. Magic seeps into Red’s muscles, calming him down slightly while another holds him to the chair. More muscle is never too much so he is hoping Billy or Sabra cover his tracks as he goes in for the kill. Finger tips move towards the pulsing energy. The pads of his fingers touch the flesh but instead of being painful they are soothing, like ice pressed to a burn. Magic seeps into his body as Sulla prepares to work on the thrashing hooligan. ”Shhh,” he whispers, trying his best to work more tranquilizing magic into the man so he can care for the wound. ”Calm down or I won’t be able to get the bullet out.” He emphasizes the last for does the man want to live? Fingers stabilize the wound so the trickling blood pulls to a halt. The wound still stings and the broken flesh and muscle cry in pain like a bitch in the night but the metal pulls its way out as if the cool fingertips are a magnet. Pain is not felt from the removal Yet he still pulls his fingertips off, the bullet removed. Magic slips though, hoping Billy and Sabra have him as he goes in for the pain while that tranquilizing and binding slips off. Sulla hopes. |
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| Red | Jul 11 2013, 05:55 PM Post #4 |
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Newborn
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It only takes a few seconds before somebody’s hands are on him and his rifle is suddenly gone. Somehow between the yard and his panic he too is gone, sitting in a kitchen chair with pressure being applied to his new hip wound. Another bullet wound shouldn’t be a problem, but it screams in agony at the touch of the pretty blonde girl that casually tends to her while talking to another woman. She’s touching him. She’s touching him, and Red has to twist uncomfortably in the chair to remove her hands from him and replace them with his own. He applies enough force to the afflicted area to leave a goddamn bruise, but it’s better this way—it is better this way. Because these women are strangers, and in this position, there happens to be a hell of a lot of damage that a stranger can do to him. His hip screams in pain, Red grits his teeth so hard that he fears they may crack under the pressure. This is not how he intended his day to go. Maybe it’s not how these women intended for their day to go either. If his mother hadn’t taught him any respect, Red would have been quick to shove their hands away and to snap at them with pointed teeth and furious eyes that beg to be left alone like the wounded animal he is. But he had learned better than that. He keeps quiet, quiet other than the occasional grunt and huff of breath that keeps the spread of pain in his hip at bay. The story quickly changes when there is a strange man—younger than twenty—approaching him, reaching towards his hip with gentle fingers that Red responds to with the twitch of his lip. “Don’t you fuckin’ touch me, boy.” Or I’ll break your god damn neck. But in the midst of it all there is calm, a calm that comes just as quickly as his anger. His muscles loosen and while he still has every desire in the world to clock this man in the jaw, he doesn’t. He zones out instead. “Get it the hell outta me.” There is still the ringing in his ears, the pound of his heartbeat and the panic that begins to creep back up on him. Wide green eyes fall back down to his bleeding hip—which, at some point, stopped bleeding—the bullet is gone. The bullet is gone, and suddenly Red understands what the hell he’s dealing with. That magic bullshit, fucking A. He stands suddenly, shouldering away from anyone that might be too close to him, finding some place in the kitchen that places a few feet between he and the others. Pain rockets through his hip and his shaking leg screams at him to sit, to stop moving, to stop standing, but Red ignores it and keeps one hand clasped over the oozing wound. “Good on the Harry Potter shit, kid. But I’m fine.” he growls. No pain, no gain, right? That’s what the Captain had told him in Vietnam when he had taken three bullets to his back. His heartbeat is calming and while the world becomes a little clearer to him, uncertainty slips into his expression. “Just where the hell did I land myself into this time?” His car is still abandoned somewhere. He had nothing valuable in there anyways… Did he? Did he? And where is his rifle? Outside of this house, this cabin. Abandoned on the ground, waiting for him. He needs to get out of here. Because this place smells heavily of wolves and blood, of pack and of family, and it makes the old soldier uncomfortable. He doesn’t care about learning their names, and he sure as hell doesn’t care for them to learn his. Not yet anyways, not now. Packs always spelled trouble and Red has made it his life’s mission to steer wide and clear away from them and their fucking hierarchy and their rules. He doesn’t have enough time for any of that bullshit. And yet here he is, smack dab in the heart of wolf’s territory. Isn’t that just fucking grand. In stress, Red runs his free hand through his hair, smearing his own blood across his forehead. He needs to get out. Where is he? |
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2:49 AM Jul 11