overjoyed_logs | [ open ] the hopes and things, the ones we make obscene

[ there's a kid staring at them from the ivy-grown roof.

in his pudgy, rasping grey flight jacket, keith's shoulders prickle up quick. his fingers twitch for a trigger, a swordhilt still stowed back in a cardboard drawer in his ratty oldtown flat, a knife's slim handle -- but no. trader, he thinks, and tries to slouch like the ones he's seen in the city garages: oldhand pilots in battered cruisers, all nervy cheapster's laughter and flaking leather getups, reeking of engine oil and nicotine. it's a conscious effort, and probably shows. luckily, the arbegth farmhouse sits at the brink of leith's cultivated lands -- three miles out from where the common road withers into half-hearted gravel and weeds, four from the ditch where they'd left jason's dusty cruiser. odds look good that the family doesn't deal with real traders often.

but it's quiet as they trudge up the path -- field-quiet, mouse-quiet, the kind of unnatural-natural silence that no real cityboy likes. keith glowers at it and the house looms right back, its windows smoothed of splinters and its red paint still wanly gleaming. the ideal hideaway for a refugee looking to lie low from the last strains of a brutal sweep of plague she helped bring around. ]

Do you want to take it?

[ their audience, he means, or the knocking. one of them's going to have to start, and to smooth-talk their way into a chance to poke around the house, and clearly it's going to take someone smoother than keith. someone not rough around the edges or remotely hotheaded, someone who's got their cover down pat and looks like he combs his hair more than once a week --

. . .

so maybe they're both just fucked. ]

[Honestly, he'd been hoping he could get away with ducking in for a look around without having to bother with niceties like knocking and asking permission. Maybe wait for nightfall, or until most of them are out of the house. But that gives their perp more time to run, and the flat farmland means that the pint sized lookout is enough to spoil plans for the subtle approach before they can start. Should have cased the place a little better, but time is a factor here.

So, the pretense. For now, at least. They're not here to tip their hands and let the mark know that they're on the trail—if she catches wind of anything suspect, or if they come around flashing RAC credentials, she'll bolt. Once they find her, it's just hauling her back for questioning about whether or not they've got any dirt on what their old boss was up to lately.

But does he want to take this? Not particularly, but y'know, he is the ranking agent here. The kid vanishes over the other side of the roof when Keith poses the question, and Jason looks up, raising his brows pointedly. (Warning their fugitive about the sudden company? Likely, if she's here.) He looks utterly unenthused about this song and dance until steeling himself into a game face, exhaling in a resigned sort of way...and raising a fist to knock on the door.

It opens to reveal a thin and severe looking woman, looking out at them with wary distaste. Too old for their target, so likely the woman of the house—one Jackie Arbegth. She opens the door by a crack, just barely enough to see inside past her, but Jason's careful not to break eye contact for a look inside. That'll be up to Keith, since it looks like he's doing the talking.]

Sorry for interrupting, ma'am. I'm Jared Miles, this is my co-pilot Kent Grant. [This will be the easy part—he swaps into a shockingly believable Leithan-leaning accent in the process of introducing them to set off as few defenses as possible. Nothing too high society, but a bit more trustworthy sounding around here than his foreign off-quad burr.] We were heading to the bazaar when our ship locked up and we had to set down on your property. If we could ask you for some help getting back in the air, we'd be sure to compensate you for your trouble.

[The wary look remains, but she starts looking more interested at compensate you.]

[ one hand wrings tight over the steering wheel, and keith jerks just in time to swerve between two cars as the light blares red, red, red overhead. up ahead, in a lane stitched tight with cars, a motorcycle rider snaps a look back, quick and black. his eyes fasten on keith's face through the windshield, and at once, the driver ducks down over the handlebars; his engine roars over the smog-smudged symphony of noon traffic, and he goes weaving through the lanes on his narrow wheels, fast, fast, faster.

a three-day stakeout, a runaway dealer with a mazy, intricate mind for oldtown shortcuts, and a hanger-on excuse for a chauffeur who'd somehow hauled himself back into the car just as keith snapped it away from the curb where an idiot had left it running. to think someone'd classed this warrant at level one.

orrish porter is a dead man.

keith spares one flickering look for his unwanted cargo -- scarred face, empty hands, shoulders too broad to pull a fancy maneuver in a compact sedan, whole frame bowed towards something other than punching a thief out of the driver's seat -- and at once kicks the stranger down from first priority to third. the sedan's not a great pick for a chase, comes with an engine that grumbles like a client digging through his pockets. but it's better than nothing, and he's not giving it up. ]

Just stay down, and don't get in the way. [ a bitten hiss. ] And hold on.

[ -- as porter risks a dime's turn right at the intersection, and the sedan veers after him in a smoking squeal seconds after, heartbeats after, to hurtle down the narrow one-way. ]

Edited 2017-02-08 01:35 (UTC)

[ they tell him that there are no cops around this part of town. here, the company is dead.

and the company is long dead around these dilapidated buildings, these crowded, gritty slums where its people are crammed into corners, where the criminals deal with their black market trades, and their private murders, and their stirring riots to cover up the blood and their running roughshod over the pavement. there's gore and gossip, but nothing important ever happens, and the people that die are a bunch of nobodies without registry papers, without being missed. nobody seems to care about what happens in this part of town. shiro figures he's here not because anyone higher up has started caring.

anyone who's given a sedan as a patrol vehicle wouldn't think to believe otherwise.

still, it is company property. for all that the locals are convinced that their protection lay better in the hands of these rogue bounty hunters than in the hands of the bastards that stuff their pockets with crumbs from the nine (that have wrecked their towns with bombs and black clouds and aridity solution), the car is technically still signed out under shiro's damn name.

so, the tires screech behind him, and --

it's a sequence unlocked by instinct: the yank of the door to the passenger's seat, and the full dive of his body as he'd wheeled himself back into the stolen sedan. they're taking off into the streets and he's jostling with the seat belt before he's taken stock of the driver, with his wild hair and his young eyes and an offended look about him saying, really? couldn't you have driven something actually worth stealing?

but he's already looking ahead by then. ]

This is Shiro, reporting - [ a swing, and he's fumbling with his comm, every sharp corner interrupting his broadcast with an awkward delay full of disbelieving static. his other hand's reaching for the overhead handle, and the metal's wrinkling the leather before he minds his strength. ] Shiro, reporting in.

We're in full pursuit of a suspected warrant. I'm requesting extended clearance for a fifty kilometer radius from my drop point.

[ . . . and you know what? he reaches over to the middle panel to turn the fucking siren on before he shuts his comm feed off. ]

Cut him off along the border. You'll have the lunch crowd to block him off.

Yeah, and if he finds a way to get through the crowd, we'll be the ones stuck behind it. I've got a better idea.

[ it's reflex, the snap, the ease. he's worked with a hundred partners like this, it feels: steel-spined figures who dealt in strategy and experience -- who could've taken the warrant without him, probably, if only he hadn't gotten there first. it takes a moment for the rest of the sequence to reel through the back of his head: we're in full pursuit and the comm still rattling off static bursts, the lights that go whirring above the car with a switch-flick as an alarm blares on and on --

car after car's pulling to each side of the narrow street; the sedan snarls and picks up speed, a stark parting through traffic's dim curtain of fumes. it's freedom enough to wrench his gaze from porter's thin shadow to the passenger seat -- just for a second, his mouth pinched and his brows stitching dark. ]

You're -- Company.

[ it isn't an impressive ride. the company is probably made of more pride than this.

but they've given him enough to look the part at least, with his black helmet clattering around in the backseat of the vehicle, and his armor well-kept where it bolts straight along his torso and across the squaring of his shoulders. from the outside looking in, the mistake's not difficult to make. most men did not become a part of the company, did not rise so high to see themselves lowered to chase the common criminals, to get stationed to an area the local police wouldn't think to touch.

in any case, it isn't a misunderstanding worth any resentment. ]

I am.

[ it's a studying sort of look -- quiet in the interim. there's a strict rule about keeping out of the business of these killjoys, an unspoken agreement nearly unanimous among the members of the company that they aren't worth the effort, the damages, the charity.

but instead, there's this: ]

I do expect the car back in one piece.

It's not like I'd keep it.

[ . . .

well, it earns the quirk of a crooked smile. ]

Not exactly my main concer -

[ -- right up to the point they drive into a blind turn and into incoming traffic.

and he's leaning over to jerk the wheel. ]

[ in the same heartbeat, keith's fingers clamp over his knuckles.

the sedan shudders -- it's a narrow miss, a swerve that eels through the gap bared by a truck and two cruisers twisted out of the way just in time -- but hell if keith cares. they're through, and porter's closer now, glance flickering back in nervy darts. ]

I told you, I've got this. This isn't your warrant.

Edited 2017-02-09 09:50 (UTC)

[ porter drives like a madman, but he certainly knows how to drive. he veers straight towards an incoming van, and the massive thing takes a corner too sharp, overturning into a hydrant that spills water onto the streets in a torrential burst. the driver's already out and yelling choice words from the corner of the sidewalk, so shiro assumes he's all right.

but there's the screech of their slick tires on the wet road, and at least their sedan is still upright -- and he's letting go of a breath he wasn't fully aware he was even holding.

this killjoy's good at threading the needle, but shiro's still not letting go of the wheel. ]

The warrant's not mine.

[ . . . not just because his hand's still trapped beneath an iron grip. or anything. ]

But neither is this car. If you put it or the civilians in jeopardy, I will not hesitate to step in.

Do I make myself clear?

I know what I'm doing.

[ bitten-sharp, more grit than snap. ]

I was going to bring it back. Get off.

[ his hand, he means, but his thoughts are parsing in staccato -- he spares the companyman only a half-glare. eyes on the road. but the ride's no worse than tearing through pounding rain, than a drive with a traffic-lock still burning his back-wheel, as they cut inches ahead of a gaudy golden puff of a two-door, to shrill honking. porter's two cars away, now.

this, he can take. ]

[ it takes a moment, probably given with no small amount of unease.

but his hand slips away, and he settles into the passenger's seat as comfortably as he can when the car doesn't take the bumpy road very well. it isn't a breakneck pace. the motorbike ahead looks old, and their sedan is... up to code. at least they're closing the distance, not doggedly hanging on like they don't have any other choice. ]

You're not trying to jump on him, are you?

. . . that wouldn't work.

[ less incredulous than dark, the sullen clarity of someone who's calculated his odds and the physics balanced against them, and judged them mostly not worth taking.

reality's so fucking disappointing sometimes. ]

Don't believe everything you see in movies.

Edited (WRONG ICON.) 2017-02-17 00:22 (UTC)

[ it -- doesn't exactly assuage his concerns. ]

Thanks for the tip. I'll make a mental note of it.

[ that carries the ring of something pinched -- sour, not stern, and the tone settles in him, curling up the line of his mouth. ]

You don't have to jump on someone to run them down a dead-end. Hold on.

[ it's half a nonsequitur. there's a three-lane street up ahead (left-turn, straight, right-turn), and porter's taken advantage of his narrow ride to slip between cars just before the gap slides shut. luckily, there's a fatly dainty beetle-car slugging out of the right-turn with him -- leaving it empty. ahead, the light's burning yellow. seconds away from a choice. ]

I need to turn.

[ it isn't a question. turn spills off his tongue and he's already braced, shoulders to thighs, as they slam into the lane, skidding just short of a lamp post --

before a throttling burst twists them back into the main street, inches ahead of the upcoming traffic. ]

[ cheeky brat.

impressive though, for all that they're driving a junk heap of a machine. he braces himself for the moment they slam on the brakes, and instead, he pitches violently to the side as they take the turn, nearly ramming face-first into the dashboard.

it isn't what he'd call good driving. but the thing is, the maneuvers are clean enough to avoid obstacles, to gain the most speed in the shortest amount of time. it's dangerous driving, but they're taking the distance between them and the motorbike by steady degrees. ]

He wouldn't be driving like that if he didn't know these streets like the back of his hand. Which means he's not going down a dead-end without the proper incentive.

[ but he's already grabbing for the police radio in the central panel. it's been a while since he's actually used it, and it takes a while to find the proper channel to broadcast its signal over the outside speakers.

but before that - ]

Was that the fastest you can take a turn?

Unless you want it faster.

[ in a sidelong flash.

it takes more than a lane change to charge his heartbeat, set his engine-steady pulse to pounding -- but the last of the cars have torn out of the way, and porter's back is gleaming leather, an open target, and the sight's an adrenaline shot, sheer and starry as cheap vodka. he revs just a little, goading, and feels the jolt as much as he sees it: the one-way, the little stutter in porter's wheels before he tears right again.

after him they go, down the cracked slope. ]

—don't bother with backup. I can end this before anyone catches up to us.

Edited (god, i'm tired.) 2017-02-17 05:46 (UTC)

You're not getting backup.

[ which is, in fact, the only explanation keith's getting before the speakers are blaring with his voice -- his full name and what sounds like a badge number, overhead: ]

You are eluding a Company authorized vehicle. Stop in the name of the law!

[ . . .

but of course, this proclamation does not have porter slowing down at all. quite the opposite! in fact. because he's gunning the bike at dangerous speeds, nearly missing a turn and the nose of an incoming truck. ]

[ one word shocks through his teeth, far and clear out of the dreamworks-approved vocabulary. porter missing the truck means that the sedan takes the full brunt of its blockade. to hell with courtesy, with warnings -- the heel of his hand grinds tight against the wheel as he swerves into a jagged path, forces himself through the gap between the back of the truck and the next car and through. ]

What was that?

[ it shocks the wind right out of him. his seat belt's on, and he still goes tumbling -- expects them to crash for a brief, heart-stopping second. and then they're back on a clear road, and he may or may not be feeling a little concussed from how his head had slammed against the passenger seat's window, but all in all -

this killjoy's still an impressive driver. ]

Giving him incentive.

[ it's painfully said, his shoulders still braced with tension, his voice heavy with the rush of adrenaline shooting quick through his system. ]

Look.

[ they're starting to creep along the outskirts of the city. it's a clear shot out of it now, but the thing about the area outside of the boundary, is that the company's influence is much more prominent. the roads there are only open with proper clearance, and most killjoys wouldn't dare to trespass even in the heat of a high-speed chase. but surely porter doesn't care either way.

but at the last moment, perhaps he does. it's a straight shot out of the city -- he veers into an alleyway instead, taking a sharp turn that clips his front wheel against the brick. they can't follow him into the alley, but at least the road runs right alongside the turn. ]

[ honestly, he knew he should've stolen a scooter.

a sharp stamp drags the sedan to a halt, metal struts shuddering, inches short of a lamp-shaped dent crunched into the fender. it's a lousy part, even for oldtown: cracked asphalt, gum-patched sidewalks and tenements all mismatched brick and old holos blaring in windows here and there -- charon street, and a sharp twist's snapping the keys from the ignition as the door yawns rustily wide. he spares the companyman a flicker -- but he's out of reach by the time shiro's in a position to move. ]

Just stay here.

[ as if his driver's got a lot of options when some thug's making off into a dark alley with his keys for a headlong pursuit. ]

[ yeah. he's not doing that. ]

Hey! Hold on a second—

[ he's scrambling out of his seat belt before keith's halfway outside, sliding out of the passenger door, and stopping quickly along the driver's side to press the locks. it wastes a precious handful of seconds, because the killjoy's fast, possessing a limber sort of frame that eels through the alleyway at a harsh sprint that puts his own dash times to shame. he's not nearly as quick, not nearly as agile with his armor weighing him down, his helmet in his hands when he'd thought to bring it along at the last minute. he has no gun, nothing to stun. he's a patrolman in every sense of the word, and perhaps it would've been wiser, to stay behind.

but -

porter's thirty, maybe thirty-five yards away, and the killjoy's still got a large breadth to cover to even reach the gate that porter's already shambling towards, already climbing the wires to get over the obstacle. it takes a moment to grind to a stop, to gear his right arm back as he throws his helmet over the large distance.

to nail porter right in the back of his fucking skull. ]

[ two thuds: one -- the helmet clunking into the dust, wheeling and grumbling jaggedly along a crack through the cement in the tumbling silence. two -- as porter's fingers slide loose from the wires and he crumples into a puff of dust.

silence.

keith digs his heels in, turning. above the body, he stares -- porter's eyes gritted shut; the forlorn helmet where it'd spun to a halt; the driver pounding up the alley behind him, all scruff and unruffled breathing. ]

Nice shot.

[ well, what else do you say??? ]

[ it takes several seconds to make the run. porter's down for the count, dusty and alarmingly still on the ground. it occurs to him that he's not even sure who he is.

... or who this killjoy is, for that matter. or if he even is a killjoy. ]

It beats watching the car while you're out having all the fun.

Got your warrant?

Guess you should've picked a better career.

[ it's dry, and not quite sharp enough. he's already crouching to flip porter over, prying zipties out of a pocket to lace his wrists together. they're really going old school this afternoon. ]

Why, do you need to see it?

. . . I guess I should've.

[ but that's not news, and he's -- snorting at the little display. ]

Don't worry. I have a feeling I can trust you.

Because I have your keys?

I don't know.

[ and yet -- shiro, he says. and the same boy's wearing blinding, solid strokes of red on his armor, forced belly down on the floor and seething, you know me.

it takes a shock-still moment, to blink the snapshot series away. ]

[ ... and another to recognize that he's already moving, settling his fingers a little too hard on this stranger's shoulder.

well. ]

Are you all right?

[ nailed it ]

[ but there's a difference. here, now, the shoulder goes rigid beneath his touch, unarmored and twice as quick to jolt. heartbeats after, and he's got a hand knotted around the companyman's wrist. not enough to yank, but it keeps him from moving as keith's eyes reel back to his face.

porter's still pliant at his heel; around them, every shadow lies still. ]

-- Are you?

[ but that isn't concern, either, as much as a telegraphing staccato: let go. ]

[ it makes him flinch.

but it's a ready reaction to unwarranted contact, and he's taking it as it comes. and the same voice is still playing clear into the curve of his ear, and it's always angry, and just a little hurt. i promise you, i didn't steal it.

but the killjoy's still holding his keys. ]

Yeah.

[ but he's pulling himself away to press his fingers to his head, nursing the ache along his temple. it's a knife, he thinks wildly; make sure the boy's not armed when they get back to the car. but then again, how could he ever think that he would hurt him - ]

. . . Yeah. I guess I wasn't ready for the sprint.

Gave me a bit of a migraine.

[ an expressive look trails down the narrow walls: barely a block's length from their ambush back to the sedan, gleaming dusty and unstolen in the half-light. ]

Then you're really working for the wrong people.

[ it's not the right line when the voice's all raw, darkened with another moment's shadow and a heavier weight than the fingertips sliding across forehead and squaring brow -- but he's just lingering now. overthinking. it's none of his business and they don't have all day. with grim, practiced effort, he hooks his grip into porter's bound wrists, clambering to his feet. ]

. . . are you gonna be okay to drive back?

[ wow, very sensitive of you, you piece of shit ]

I'm good, thanks.

[ it only takes a beat to crouch, anyway, to pick up his helmet and to shoot a glance at porter, who's rather bulky next to keith's thin muscle and shorter stature.

. . . he should really go, when he's already interfered enough. ]

I figure you'd still need a ride, considering how you got this far in the first place.

Unless you'd prefer to use his bike.

[ where it's still slightly smoking, the brick chipped where it had collided. ]

. . . you don't have to.

[ with a flicker of something -- bewildered, maybe. wary would be better -- but there's a dig between his furrowing brows, his knuckles white where they've hooked porter's cuffs. in the quiet, an eye sweeps over the companyman: the set of his shoulders, the company-issue helmet, the clear-eyed ease. none of it looks quite like something to guard against.

and yet. ]

I can find a ride. And technically -- [ this a little more begrudged ] I'm pretty sure I owe you.

[ he's not offended. it's the nature of their circumstances. company isn't welcomed around these parts, and even to the killjoys, to these rogue hunters who can only go from place to place under the ever-watchful eye of the company's clearance, they're still a wretched group. that's something that shiro understands, and he's not in any position to try to convince anyone otherwise. he can't remember the last time he felt completely stable, or neutral, or looked at the blood on his hands and didn't curse himself for not being stronger.

he's not trying to excuse himself; he knows he's still part of the problem. ]

Don't mention it.

If it's all the same to you, I'd actually prefer it if you forgot I was here.

[ but he doesn't push it. insisting is just going to raise the boy's hackles when they're alone, when it's a dark alley, and he's still not sure why he'd grabbed him just seconds ago.

he doesn't move to help heave porter's weight up either. ]

You know how it goes, I'm sure.

Edited (double negatives trip me the fuck up) 2017-03-01 09:10 (UTC)

. . . don't worry about it.

[ with the remark, for whatever reason, sparks the faintest crook of a smile.

whatever. it's not every day that a level one retrieval warrant turns into a chase-and-collar. call it the adrenaline rush -- the feeling of getting something nearly right. ]

Already forgot your name.

[ . . . well, his excuse is that it's only manners, and his mother's raised him right.

so there's an easy smile, friendly, as he extends his hand. ]

It's Shiro.

[ you dumb fucking salsa chip, you literally just told him to forget you. ]

[ but sure. handshakes. they're civilised human beings, they can manage that -- even a tunnel rat'll learn a couple mannerly tricks if you smack him upside the head for a few years. one hand untangles from the rat's knot of porter's bindings to take the offer.

easy. ]

Shir—

[ but his isn't a memory.

he swallows and it's dust -- softer than salt but quicker to crowd and cloud, shrouding his tongue and along the lining of his throat, thickening where it spreads and clamoring, clumping, tumbling in a torrent. his fingers have gone tight -- but that's instinct, surviving, and his throat flexes once and again as if to work through the words, the urge to mouth each syllable. one of these days, you're going to fall. rust flaking from his gloves, a marble of a moon sailing loose overhead, and the jitter and clank of an old fire escape giving way as he yanks it down. aged-green railings run silver beneath the moonlight, clambering past windows gone dark and still. a bent dark head, skewed brows, lamplight pooling glassy across a heap of battered textbooks. the murmur of a frame wheeling open, and a lower answer. (had he ever wanted something that badly? something that could drag him out past curfew like a thing on a leash, engine-exhaust running sweet in his lungs, leave adrenaline shining in every vein as he climbed--)

all that studying's slowing you down, ——.

two syllables, catching like a stutter beneath his ribs -- and there's metal again, steel grinding fine beneath the flex of his hand (it's good to have you back), words all sparks and fluttering out of a coal-lump thought, seeded in the pit of his stomach --

but that isn't part of the night, part of the stripping wind that'd snapped in his teeth and gone whistling up each sleeve. it doesn't belong to the desert dark, the chrome-ribbed handlebars that'd twisted like something made for him to touch -- has no part alongside the broad, slow grin, the way it'd gone sweet and wry around the slow curve of hope you brought your helmet. a taste and a sound and an image -- and piece by piece, the night's going clear: a dim-lit garage, impact thudding up through him where he'd rocked back on his heels -- fists knotting where he'd jammed them into his pockets, his boots gritty with sand, a laugh still snagged in his lungs as he tilts his head up for a familiar shadow to trail back to his side. waiting.

waiting for someone.

come on, smiling -- he remembers the felt shape of it, basking under the quiet brightness in their corner of the world. they're garrison machines. let's see your worst— ]

Edited 2017-03-01 09:23 (UTC)

Shiro.

[ his eyes are stark-lit, wide, his mouth still rounded on an empty echo. ]

Did you just --

[ feel that -- but it's a stranger standing before him, an ordinary shadow, a military stance, a soldier's haircut with an odd white tuft. no one he knows -- and still he's flushed, staring like a boy dragged through his first marathon. his hand's still caught in shiro's. the drowner's instinct: hold fast to the high points. the things you know. anything to keep your head above dark waters.

he yanks away. ]

[ that's not a reaction that he's used to.

after everything he's done, there aren't very many who actually know. he imagines the company brainwashes the others into accepting him back, but then, he doesn't have to imagine that there's a high likelihood that no one cares at all. he was a hero once, he held high rank once -- he has been demoted since, and no one's bothered to ask him any questions, to wonder why it took him so long to return from a routine prison run, when he was scheduled to dock in westerley months and months before he eventually landed.

no one questions his absences or his new scars for all that the underground touts his victories on black market billboards, throws him back into the ring for gold coin, for the humor of seeing a companyman lowered to this. they try to make him into a monster, and there are times when he's caught staring at his opponent's wide, black eyes across from him, and he realizes that they'd suceeded.

there's a wide-eyed look about this killjoy, now, a little lost, a little stricken, but fear produces all the same effects. ]

. . . this far along the edge of town, you're probably not going to find a cab.

[ it's a softer sort of tone, a little more careful, because he's still not sure what the boy is seeing -- just that, despite all of the metal, he can imagine the echo of the strong grip. it's like having a phantom limb when it takes time to remember that he can flex the fingers of that hand at all. ]

I'll let you drive farther inland. You can decide when to pass the keys back to me.

. . . I wasn't going to call a cab for a warrant.

[ they're already walking by then, trudging through crooked shadows and past overflowing trashbins, step after dragging step with porter smearing a trail through along the smudgy cracks behind them. it's a solid anchor: heavy bones and dead weight overlaid with the faint reek of days-old grease -- and the zipties jutting plastic along his fingers is a strain he knows, something he's learned to bear. he got the target -- that means it has to be good enough.

how did you not see that?

but that's a stupid question -- he's been running on fumes for days. told too many stories. there'd been that fever, a serpent wreathing city after city across the face of the moon only days ago. a thousand, thousand reasons to dream that he's found a face like this before -- heard something like this careful, measured kindness. he's turned from wild-eyed boys rambling in fitful dreams, reaching for shadows and nightmares; he's watched grown men pitching through the streets like drunks. no reason to think it's anything else. he's not that different, that lucky. at least they know the cure by now.

the car takes some fumbling in the end; at the sidewalk's edge he tugs the latch once, twice -- glowers, and unlocks the backseat to pour his detainee onto it, hogtied and sprawling in idle dreams. lucky porter. ]

If your head's better -- you can take it.

[ but remembering his spine comes a little after the words -- too late, he straightens, tips his head up to find shiro's eyes. ]

Edited (MISTOOK THE TIMELINE, GO TO BED.) 2017-03-01 11:00 (UTC)

[ . . . he's not sure how he offended.

they're curbside now, and although it's not a crowded street, there are people going about their business, witnesses enough to make the two of them a crowd. the low, decrepit buildings with their dirty windows are filled with occupants, with people in chairs along the balconies, and drying their musty laundry. no doubt that everyone recognizes his black armor, but no one stops to talk to them. everyone's staring.

the killjoy should feel some sort of security in that, but there's a strange, nervy energy between them still, even when the boy's lifting his face and looking him in the eyes.

shiro, you know me.

but hell, he still doesn't even know his name, and it's not looking like a good time to ask. ]

Then I'll drive you to your destination.

Did you have a broker? Or are you dropping him off directly to the guy who issued his warrant?

Client.

[ a hive's worth of answers buried in one word; whatever conversation'd been sprouting between them, the moment in the alleyway'd weeded it out, salted the earth after. he slings the keys over in a brief flashy arc -- spares a brief squint for porter's decidedly unwashed face, like a doublecheck, before he slides into the passenger seat. ]

. . . at least he's getting what he asked for.

Dead or alive?

[ it's a legitimate question. but it doesn't really expect an answer.

clients. brokers. all of these human lives being passed from hand to hand like some sort of business. but he's got enough on his plate than to overthink the morality behind bounty hunting.

for example, he's got what's looking to be a long, uncomfortable drive coming up. but he slides into the driver seat, turns the key into the ignition, and pulls them back onto the lane.

silence, then. so much for exchanging names. ]

[ open ] the hopes and things, the ones we make obscene

JASON TODD ( W4D5 )

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SHIRO ( W2D4 )

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WHY.

i've lost control of my life and everything in it

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i'm going to bake you scones again and grind fucking ghost peppers into the batter.

you need to add a restriction onto this log on the account that you're a rude fuck

"log warning: contains people who don't understand how delicious ghost peppers are??"

log warning: contains people who are in this game**

right. you wrote a whole app for me. :x

drops right now immediately

WROTE WAS PAST TENSE, TRY BUILDING A TIME MACHINE.

DROPS IS PRESENT TENSE, I DON'T NEED TO TIME WARP

ALL THE DROPS IN THE WORLD WON'T ERASE THE WORDS YOU WROTE FOR ME!!

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1/2

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