bite the bullet {teva/tate/tripp]

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bite the bullet {teva/tate/tripp] Feb 2, 2015 17:52:57 GMT -5

Post by ᴥ on Feb 2, 2015 17:52:57 GMT -5

[presto] g r a y c i t y , g r a y b u i l d i n g s , g r a y r o a d s , g r a y r a i n [/presto]
[presto] s e v e n t e e n [/presto]	[presto] T A T E S E R A P H I M I'm always up to see the sun rise. The gentle orange breaking through the horizon is something I've not missed for the better part of a year now. There's something freeing about working in the pitch black only to slowly be embraced by pale light. I needed to see the sun rise today, needed to see something beautiful when the roads could soon run red. We've got a business deal, a big one. At least a hundred grand in weapons coming through and everyone knows. And everyone in the business wants it. It was only through the desperate pulling of strings and countless favors that I managed to gain the favor of a certain supplier who was willing to smuggle the shipment out of the factories. The supplier insisted that he'd only speak to me and my brothers (he's a pig-nosed man who reminds me of a weasel, never able to sit still, eyes always searching for a possible escape. you have to treat these kind careful or else they'll bolt, taking their shit with them.) I've already made their breakfasts, it lays on the table steam illuminated by the newborn sun, awaiting my brothers. Normally I wouldn't have had to worry about cooking Teddy's breakfast until later, as he enjoyed sleeping late and honestly, I enjoyed letting him. Now, I don't have to worry about cooking it at all. (don't think about it.) I've just poured my own eggs onto a ceramic plate, carefully balancing a glass of orange juice on the rim as my brothers wander into the kitchen, eyes still heavy with sleep. I grin, pulling out the chair and resting my feet upon the table. There was something satisfying about being awake before everyone else, the suffering of an early morning was worth watching my brothers come to life in these hours. The first few moments are spent in silence, the three of us eating as though we'd not had anything in years. (it always felt like that in the mornings.) It's almost peaceful until Tripp breaks the sleepy silence, an inevitable truth leaving lips that looked so much like my own. He puts words to what I've known ever since we heard about this deal, they're going to try to intercept it. A rival gang, it doesn't matter which one. There are plenty that'd love our heads on a silver platter. It stops being frightening and becomes more of an inconvenience truth after the first year of attacks. They've not caught us yet and I doubt they ever will. Teva - still shoveling eggs into his mouth - insists that we'll have no problem. In his own crude way reassuring all of us that we've done this before and we'll do it again. It's been years since mom died, years since we've taken over the business. I can't allow myself to feel terrified so I fill the silence with snide comments and stupid jabs. That's how it was, before all of this shit. Before Teddy abandoned us and before I pulled a boy off of a bridge like he had me. "If one of us goes down we have to get the hell out of there..." I manage through a mouthful "Carry the one who fell on our backs, like that time we were running from that bitch ass neighbor and Teddy-," The words slipped out and I simply stop mid-sentence. It was an unspoken agreement, not to acknowledge the gaping hole that was the empty seat next to us. I feel like crying only uttering his name aloud. "We just need to get the fuck out of there." I conclude, pushing the remnants of my eggs around the plate because I'm suddenly not hungry anymore. (don't think about it.) Breakfast continues and we don't acknowledge his absence because it'll break us all. The meeting spot is an abandoned warehouse, one far enough away from our home base that the pig-nosed man felt comfortable we weren't just going to rob him. (i'd be lying if I said the thought hadn't crossed my mind.) (i'd be lying if I said we came alone like he requested. backup waits just down the block, but he doesn't need to know that.) He welcomes us with the biggest, greasiest grin opening his arms wide as though expecting an embrace. "Ah the Seraphims! I'm glad you agreed to our... arrangement." His head cranes and his eyes widen. "Or I thought you did. I said we were to meet alone!" My gaze follows his and a rather loud obscenity slips through my lips. "Those aren't our men." I assure him, voice almost a whine. If there was something I didn't want to deal with it was a squad of no good gangbangers who didn't even work for us. I exchange a glance with my brothers, taking comfort in the familiar weight of Mandy against my hip, safety already off. (i haven't kept it on since i lost my own Safety.) The leader, an annoyingly tall and broad man greets us with open arms (begging to be shot) and thanks us in a tone that makes me want to skip all pretense and punch him right then and there, for delivering his supply safely. I have to bite my tongue hard to stop from reminding him this wasn't an old drama. Even though I'm sure it'd do him well to remember, offending the guy with at least half a dozen guns trained on us wasn't a good idea. I want to keep him talking as long as I can, slowly backing towards the supplier so I can ensure he won't bolt and take our biggest sale in years with him. It's all going well until the pop of gunfire sends a violent ringing through my ears. It's sudden and I can't tell where it came from. My world doesn't slow, in fact everything happens too fast as upon instinct I grab my brothers' collars, throwing the three of us behind heavy crates as my world is overcome by a storm of metal and sulfur. [/presto]	[presto] t a b l e b y e l e g a n t [/presto]
[presto] e v e r y t h i n g i n t h i s w o r l d i s s l o w [/presto]

the m o o n controls the t i d e, it could cause you to d r o w n

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bite the bullet {teva/tate/tripp] Feb 3, 2015 20:48:42 GMT -5

Post by Python on Feb 3, 2015 20:48:42 GMT -5

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T E V A S E R A P H I M

There was a tree outside of his window. Every morning the birds would sit on their perches and tweet away like it was the most important fucking thing in the world to tell all of their birdy friends what was going on with their lives. There was nothing musical about their “songs”. They weren’t even songs. It was all just noise, and it was fucking annoying. When Cal was there next to him they were easier to ignore. He could focus on his breathing instead, a soothing and predictable sound in comparison to birdy bullshit. Unfortunately, Cal wasn’t here. Teva woke up to empty spaces, blinding sunlight, and a chorus of fucking bird sounds that grinded against his eardrums.

Mornings were the worst. He hated dragging his groggy self out of bed, he hated the crust in his eyes, he hated the cramp in his neck after a night of sleeping at a weird angle, and he hated the sensation of needing to piss like there was a thousand pound weight in his bladder. Sighing, he rubbed his eyes and relieved himself in the bathroom. Tate was cooking eggs in the kitchen; he could already smell the aroma, and that was one of the few things he could look forward to in the morning. He didn’t like talking to his brothers while he was still in the process of waking up, but he would happily enjoy a home cooked meal.

Teva shuffled downstairs with his eyes in a half-squint and snatched a plate of food. Tate’s eggs were fucking delicious, so he devoured them first. He was still fresh out of bed in his rumpled pajamas, and gulped his orange juice when Tripp mentioned the rival gang interception. Oh yeah, he had forgotten about that. The giant shipment. He shrugged and shoveled more eggs between his chapped lips. ”Whatever. If anyone tries anything, we’ll fuck em up,” he said, mouth half-full. There were three whole Seraphims, after all. That was too much experience and badassery for anyone to handle.

Tate was worried, though, he always was. Teva rolled his eyes at the mention of “someone going down.” That wasn’t going to happen. He was just paranoid. On the slim chance that it did happen for whatever reason, they all knew the protocol. There was no reason to bring it up.

He didn’t lift his head at the mention of their missing brother. Teva remembered that neighbor; he was an asshole, and a slow one at that. If Tate hadn’t cut himself off like the mere mention of Teddy was a fucking prayer to the devil, Teva might’ve smiled at the memory. There were bullet holes in their chests, wounds created by Teddy’s absence, but all hope was not lost. However unlikely it was, there was still a chance he could return. Cal had reminded him of that.

Teva finished his meal in silence. Mentioning Teddy didn’t have to be awkward, but somehow it was.

Later that evening, after two aggravating hours of dealing with Bouncer’s bullshit and organizing a back-up party, Teva set off on their pick-up run. Guns were in their proper holsters, and his knives were in their proper hiding places. Concealed and easily accessible, the way it should be.

Some ugly rodent was waiting for them at the abandoned warehouse. ”Ah the Seraphims! I'm glad you agreed to our... arrangement,” he greeted, and the sound of his voice made Teva nauseous. The pitch was almost as irritating as Bouncer’s, and to make matters worse, there was a whole fucking squad of strangers here to ruin their plans. ”Fuck sake,” he murmured under his breath, scowling at the group of men. They were all standing high and mighty, with such confidence that one could assume they owned the supplies had they not understood the context. Teva wanted to roll his eyes at them. They weren’t shit.

Tate spoke for them. That was standard procedure because Teva had too loud a mouth and Tripp was..well, Tripp. He kept his eyes trained on the leader’s goons. He scanned each of them from head to toe, searching for the little bumps in their clothes that said “Yes, I have a weapon right here! Right here!” He paused at the one in the very back. That was a familiar face. No, that was a really fucking familiar face. Teva stilled and narrowed his eyes. His heart was running a marathon because fuck, that was a rival’s face. This was going to be a shit storm. It was exactly as Tripp had anticipated; an interception. Fucking thieves.

Now he knew the leader’s intentions. He was bullshitting around with Tate to waste time before the inevitable. Teva‘s gaze didn’t falter; he watched the familiar face carefully until he saw an arm budge. It slithered like a snake to the side of his belt. A finger disappeared beneath the hem of his shirt.

Teva withdrew his gun and fired.

A red paint spatter appeared on his chest, and the asshole collapsed like a domino. Fast as fucking lightning, that was. Hell yeah.

Before he could even think of his next maneuver, Tate yanked him by his collar and pulled him behind a pile of crates. He landed on his hands and knees, icy metal still gripped in his right hand. Gunshots erupted behind them, and he saw a bullet bury itself inside the wall.

Well, shit.

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Last Edit: Feb 4, 2015 13:49:12 GMT -5 by Python

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bite the bullet {teva/tate/tripp] Feb 17, 2015 23:40:27 GMT -5

Post by Deleted on Feb 17, 2015 23:40:27 GMT -5

• B • U • L • L • E • T •

_____________________________

The problem with Tripp Seraphim was that he was trying to forget something that was engraved in his memories.

It was painted in his memories with a gun barrel paintbrush, and each and every morning that his eyes opened became harder and harder and harder.

He had hope that he'd come back, yeah, but they were tiny shreds, slowly disintegrating with each morning that passed, with each day that felt like it never ended.

The business, at least, had things to distract him.

This drug deal was one of them.

And Tate wasn't the only one up early, even though he was downstairs slaving away for them, the two shared a common aspect, they both awoke around the same time every morning.

But while Tate could distract himself with breakfasts and lunches and dinners, Tripp had nothing but the peeling paint on his walls.

And it hurt, it hurt so fucking badly, because when all you have to look at is a wall, your mind tends to take over, and so do your doubts.

There's shudders running up and down his spine with each creak of the steps he's wandering down. And even though his eyelids are still heavy (they always are), he'd made a half-assed attempt at taming the mess of hair on his head, and he'd failed.

He'd failed a lot, that much was true.

Teva was an animal, attacking the plate of eggs like they were gonna blink out of existence any moment, like his orange juice was going to disappear into the air instead of down his throat, and as he pulls the chair out there's a half-assed attempt at a smile on his face.

It falters and dies.

Chains, bindings, there's ropes around the painful memories of their mom being shot, and every time he thinks of him and everything he was to them theres a little snippet of those ropes, those bindings, those chains that are cut, and maybe thats why this whole thing is stressing him out so much, because Tate had assured him that their brother would come home, but Tripp'd been sure for a whole night that their mother would come home too.

Far too often it's not him breaking the silence, it's the silence breaking him. And for that very reason, as his body plops down in the chair next to Teva and the weight of the world comes crashing down on his shoulders, as his hands tremble ever so slightly when they raise the egg tipped fork to his mouth that he breaks the silence for one of the first times in his life.

"There's a rival gang planning to intercept it."

But it isn't like Tripp to break the silence, and for a few moments he feels their eyes bore into him, before Teva assures them that everything will be alright in between gulps and fork scrapes.

His fork spears an egg, scraping against the plate and hovering there as Tate speaks.

"If one of us goes down we have to get the hell out of there..."

But not without the other. He begins to raise the fork to his mouth.

"Carry the one who fell on our backs, like that time we were running from that bitch ass neighbor-

No.

and Teddy-,"

The forks in his mouth like the barrel of a gun and for a single second he feels the metal in his teeth and he spits it out because this time, there's no Teddy to hug the depression out of him, to kick the gun away.

The fork clatters against the plate, but the sound is swallowed by silence.

His name had become a rarity since he lift, something that carried weights the size of the world when it was uttered and as Tate slips up the chained up memories, of guns and telling him to fuck off come back

and they bite him

and it hurts so fucking badly.

He doesn't break the silence this time.

The man is a pig-nosed, slimy fuck, and every time he spoke Tripp resisted the urge to pop him in the mouth or, better yet, put a bullet through his leg. And Tripp zones out as the man begins to speak, because his voice makes him want to put a bullet through his own fucking leg, jesus.

The warehouse their in smells like shit, and his nose scrunches before he catches the last part of what Tate says.

"Those aren't our men."

So that's why it smells like shit. Tripp's eyes wander over to where the group of wannabe gang members stand, smirks drawn across their faces like they were worth shit. In his mind, he imagines each one going down as my gun fires.

Bang, he imagines

"Well, thank you for the delivery, boys." The leader says.

Bang, he imagines

He opens his mouth to say something else.

Bang, he hears.

And in the split second that one of the rival members falls his head is slammed into a wooden crate as Tate throws them behind it.

And theres bullets flying and tension breaking and as his eyes scan over the rival gang and the three of them they rest on the gun Teva's holding in his hands.

Are you fucking kidding me, Teva?
"Are you fucking kidding me, Teva?"

His guns in his hand and as his grip tightens everything s l o w s.

Mom once told him he was such a good shot because he had nothing else to worry about.

But he had to disagree, because his eyes scan over Teva and Tate and as he feels Teddy's spirit hugging all the fear out of him the only though he has is that

he'll be damned if he lets them die.

Two gang members fall as he pops out from behind the crate, before retreating behind it as a bullet flies through the side.

This was a shit storm, but all storms come to an end.
___________

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bite the bullet {teva/tate/tripp] Feb 19, 2015 21:07:52 GMT -5

Post by ᴥ on Feb 19, 2015 21:07:52 GMT -5

[presto] g r a y c i t y , g r a y b u i l d i n g s , g r a y r o a d s , g r a y r a i n [/presto]
[presto] s e v e n t e e n [/presto]	[presto] T A T E S E R A P H I M My skin burns where we've slid across the concrete but adrenaline kisses the pain away in an instant, body moving on pure instinct as my gun has somehow slid into my hands. "Are you fucking kidding me, Teva?" That's Tripp. My eyes find my brothers, chest rising and falling with desperate breaths as I work out what had happened. The smoking gun was quite literally in my brother's hands. Teva had started a motherfucking shootout. Goddammit Teva. Teva is too rash. Too quick. That's why he's 'Trigger'. Because he doesn't fucking think and it has gotten us into shit so many times before. Fuck. The sound of gunfire surrounds us and a familiar burning twists my guts into a congealed mess. Anxiety. Because I'm not as strong as them. Not like Teva or Tripp. I can't not think. The thoughts force their way through my mind like razors into a vein, the what ifs and the probablys that will most definitely be the death of me one day. They're always giving me shit, my brothers are. Because I worry about anything and everything and I'm just like Mom but even worse. And maybe I smother them and maybe I worry too much and I know they can take care of themselves but I can't stop. I can't stop worrying just like I can't stop thinking of my baby brother and of just how much I've failed him. My mind is a minefield, it takes only the slightest misstep to set everything off in a chain reaction of pain and weakness. A colorful haze that never stops and never starts. Perpetual pain. I'm not as strong as my brothers and maybe they already know that. My breath shakes when I inhale, lungs resisting every attempt. My pointer finger is steady on the trigger. "Could have given us some warning, asshole!" I snarl, voice cold; successfully cloaking the panic consuming me like the white rapids of the river could have. If I close my eyes I can almost hear it's roaring, like the blood pulsing through my ears. It calls to me and if I was more selfish a man, I'd have headed its beckoning long ago. (Because that thought will not leave me either.) (Because the pain is too much all the time and I can't breathe and maybe it'd be easier to stop trying.) I stand, exposing myself for a quick second and I wince as bullet breaks the air next to my ear. Once. I pull the trigger. The recoil send my body backwards but I lean into the gun, keeping myself steady as I send rapid shots into the crowd before collapsing back behind the crates. Sweat upon my brow and lungs devoid of air. The adrenaline is the only thing keeping me alive. There's a warm trickle making its way down my cheek, tracing my jaw beading upon my chin. With my free hand I touch my ear, feeling a slight nick where the bullet had barely grazed the skin. Fuck me. "Shit!" I pull my sleeve over my fist, wiping the excess and staining the dark cloth a slight burgundy. At least it was me. I know I can't blame Teva for this whole thing. I trust my brothers more than anything and he wouldn't have done this for no reason but I'm scared. I'm so, so scared because what if the next time it's not me? What if Teva and Tripp get hurt and this whole fucking trade off was by my hand and maybe we shouldn't have even gone because we knew this was going to happen. Mama didn't raise cowards but she also didn't raise fools. I can still hear her voice, replay her exact tones when we talked. I remember what she told me that night she found me, thirteen and foot stuck halfway out the window. It was maybe a few months before she was killed and I was a little pompous shit. I felt invincible because that's what she was and so I must've been too. And I didn't like school too much but I liked the people and they told me about this party late at night and it was going to be fun and I should totally be there. There was going to be drinking and dancing and beautiful people and even though Mama had told me I couldn't go I thought I knew everything and I thought she was just overprotective and annoying; I told her that too. Mama just shook her head and told me to sit with her and I was so angry that I was going to miss the party but I listened anyway. "Don't you know what it's like to have fun!?" I'd snarled, small hands wrapped together and sat angrily within my lap. "Of course." she'd replied, raking her nails through my hair and smiling that smile that looks just like Teddy's. "How do you ever have fun if you're always ruining mine?" And I sounded my age then, even though I thought I was much older. "It's not my job to have fun, Tate Seraphim. It's my job to protect you and your brothers. Even if you get angry and hate me for it, I can only do what I think is best. Imagine if I wasn't around, Tate, who would keep your head on straight? Fun is just that, but family is everything." Turns out that peacekeepers showed up at the party and everyone got whipped in the square the next day because of the drugs that had been lying out in the open. And I told Mama then and there that I was always going to trust her judgement because she was always right. She still is. Even though I don't have to imagine she's not around anymore. Because Mama wasn't invincible and neither am I. [/presto]	[presto] t a b l e b y e l e g a n t [/presto]
[presto] e v e r y t h i n g i n t h i s w o r l d i s s l o w [/presto]

Last Edit: Feb 19, 2015 21:10:54 GMT -5 by ᴥ

the m o o n controls the t i d e, it could cause you to d r o w n

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bite the bullet {teva/tate/tripp] Feb 19, 2015 23:03:57 GMT -5

Post by Python on Feb 19, 2015 23:03:57 GMT -5

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T E V A S E R A P H I M

His joints throbbed where his bones impacted concrete. He could hear bullets scraping past the splintered wood of the crates behind him. It was their only cover, and it was proving sturdy already. The black metal in his right hand was cold and familiar, light like a feather yet the weight of its power strained the fibers in his wrist. The definition of chaos could be heard from the deafening explosions of gunfire. It wasn’t his first shootout, and it wouldn’t be his last – not when business always entailed bullshit like this. Fucking intruders thinking they were hot shit and sneaky. Teva wasn’t blind. He knew what that subtle body language meant. He was a hound; he could detect immediate danger from miles away.

Despite his ringing ears and the adrenaline vibrating beneath his skin, he knew how to focus. His body instinctively curled in on itself for optimal protection, earning him time to sort his shit before the response commenced. He could hear Tripp’s protest, and lifted his head to scowl at him. ”I saw that asshole going for his gun!” He said, shifting to his knees. His brothers were already on their feet, igniting the air with echoes of a counterattack. Surely there were bodies dropping where Teva couldn’t see; Tripp was a sharpshooter, he never missed a target. Tate wasn’t too bad either, he had his experience.

He was also a prick.

”There wasn’t enough time for a fucking warning!” He leapt to his feet and aimed for the nearest target. A flash of blonde hair was all he spotted before he pulled the trigger twice and sunk back down into the shadows. He hoped the bullets hadn’t been wasted. His brothers always had to remind him how shitty his aim was. He didn’t have time to fucking aim to perfection; the longer he stayed in their view, the riskier it was. They could fire a bullet in his chest at any moment, and the idea was enough to make his hands tremble if he dwelled on it too much. That was why he had to be impulsive. No thoughts, just acting. There was only time to strategize when he was out of sight.

A curse alerted him to his brothers. Tripp was an impressive machine of concentration, and Tate was holding his sleeve to his ear. ”You hit?” Teva asked, voice laced with as much concern as he could muster under pressure. As long as it wasn’t his skull, or he wasn’t deaf, he could recover. He squinted and noticed the blood dribbling from a miniscule nick. A close call.

A corner of the leftmost crate shattered from the impact of a grazing bullet. Teva poked his torso out from around that same corner and fired twice again into the room, following the movements of dark figures. He was pretty sure the first bullet had lodged itself into the wall somewhere, but his second earned him a yell. Unless that was one of Tripp’s, of course. He decided to credit himself regardless.

There were spare bullets in his pocket. Rule number one in a shootout: don’t run out of fucking ammo. Rule number two was not to waste ammo, but Teva couldn’t make any promises there. He could never keep count of his own bullets, so he double checked and settled on his knees again. There weren’t that many guys here. This could be finished really fucking quickly, especially with Tripp by their side. Reinforcement was just a few blocks away. They could kill all of these assholes before they even caught wind of the gunfire.

He sprang to his feet against and thrust his arm out. His finger was on the trigger, but it didn’t pull. He dropped his weapon the instant his body crumpled backwards, both from the jolt of pain in his thigh and the force of acceleration. He collapsed straight onto his ass and hissed in pain. ”Fuck!” He gritted his teeth and stared at the scarlet wet spot on his jeans. It started to spread like spilled ink in the fabric. ”Fuck, fuck, fuck,” He squeezed his eyes shut and tilted his head back, skull smacking against the wall rather ungracefully. It felt like a wasp sting with an extra dose of burning toxins, and he knew the bullet was buried in his muscle. There was no exit wound.

He groped around for his gun and cupped his other hand around the red spot. It was on his upper, inner thigh, like the shooter had been aiming straight for his crotch.

That made him furious.

[/presto]

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bite the bullet {teva/tate/tripp] Feb 26, 2015 21:15:49 GMT -5

Post by Deleted on Feb 26, 2015 21:15:49 GMT -5

B U L L E T

_____________________________

He's fucking pissed.

Finger on the trigger, he can feel his heartbeat thump thump thumping as he takes shelter behind the crate, the sounds of bullets and bodies and his own breath ricocheting off of the stress in the air.

He hated the sound of bodies hitting the floor.

Teva or Tripp or someone shoots a bullet and he hears a scream and a gurgle and then a thump and a crack and there's a body on the ground with a hole swallowing his head and there's red filling the floor beneath him.

Up in his brain theres a record player on repeat, and that thump hits the walls of his skull over and over and over.

thump, thump, thump.

He hated focusing on what happened to a body, maybe that's why he was such a good shot, not because he had nothing else to focus on but because he had no reason to focus on what he'd just done.

He hated seeing the face of a dead man after he shot them, and in most circumstances he'd be one two shoot and onto the next target before he even had a chance to hear the scream and the gurgle and the thump and the crack. He hated watching Death do it's job.

Dead people, dead people all around them, there's a sea of living breathing bodies around them and they're stranded at sea, carrying Teddy on a sailboat made of tucked in bed sheet covers and the beams from their broken home.

There's an island in front of them, but before anyone can even think of shouting "Land!"

They see a woman

She's on her knees in the sand

And her beauty is stunning, a siren without a song, an artist's masterpiece and she's just sitting there, with the sand clinging to her scraped up knees.

The sea is quiet, calm, and far too collected for an occasion like this. There's no murmurs from the wind or tears from a young child and as a man cloaked in white takes his place behind the woman who's beauty encompasses her like a dress the silence drains everything from the world and

and he raises a black hunk of metal to her head and

and she looks up and through the bruises and gashes she mouths something and

He saw Death and he hated it, the locks in his legs click clicking and he's stuck, frozen and watching the glass walls around him shatter and all he hears is the crack bang thump and the sea is raging and one by one their sailboat starts to break apart and the wind starts speaking screaming and the ocean becomes the tears of Teddy and Teva and Tate and Tripp and

He swore to himself that he'd never watch Death again after that day.

"Shit!"

His hands on the trigger, and he pulls one two bang before he realizes that that "shit" wasn't from the drug dealer

or the rival gang leader

or one of it's members

It's from Tripp and his focus breaks snaps and he watches the boy he just shot fall and he watches Death and

He's afraid to look at Tate or Teva, because he's afraid what he see's will be much, much worse than whatever Death he'd just seen in the form of a rival gang member.

Something yanks him by the throat and he's down behind the crate, wooden walls cracking with every bullet, and he watches blood trickle fall down Tate's ear.

It's just a scratch, but it could have been so much more.

He zones out

and then he zones right back in.

And he can feel the warmth of his own heartbeat in his fingers, and the metal laced between fingertips isn't cold with the hand of a Death watcher it's hot with the fire of a burning focus.

He wants them all dead.

But they aren't worth watching.

He see's their veins and he watches their blood run cold as their eyes lock onto metal and he feels the muscles in his finger

tense

and release

And before he can watch their shit covered bodies fall he's onto the eyes of the next one.

His forehead is fucking huge.

Its basically a fucking target in itself.

He thinks.

"Fuck!”

He'd always considered fuck to be worse than shit. And he's not just afraid to turn around this time he's utterly fucking petrified.

But it's instantaneous.

And all of his focus is put on the boy with the hole in his leg and for a second he thinks he isn't moving and he drops to the floor and a single shiver runs up his body from his toes to his spine to his brain and

Teva fucking scowls and he hears his teeth grinding, he swears.

He's relieved, but there's blood staining his clothes and staining the floor and

He's fucking pissed.

These fuckers.

He can feel Teva's anger, and even though he's usually a calm and tranquil sea

There's a storm raging.

Teva is groping for his gun and, when his fingers find it, so do Tripp's.

He looks him in the eye and he feels the anger emanating from his brother.

He nods to his brother once, some sort of madness in his eyes before he grabs the gun and spins it on his finger before it's snug in his hand.

Tripp Seraphim's highest quality was that he stayed calm in battle.

And he'd never let his anger get the best of him until now, and it honestly didn't feel that bad.

Besides, twice the firepower meant twice the bodies.

crack bang thump

_____________________________

ᴥ
Head RP Tutor

4,550 POSTS

Pronouns: he/him
last seen May 4, 2024 20:19:51 GMT -5

oof

bite the bullet {teva/tate/tripp] Feb 27, 2015 7:10:16 GMT -5

Post by ᴥ on Feb 27, 2015 7:10:16 GMT -5

[presto] g r a y c i t y , g r a y b u i l d i n g s , g r a y r o a d s , g r a y r a i n [/presto]
[presto] s e v e n t e e n [/presto]	[presto] T A T E S E R A P H I M "You hit?" Teva's voice breaks through the ice clouding my thoughts. A knife thrust into the thick sheet, sending hairline fractures throughout the whole of my barrier. And I watch as it breaks into thick shards around me and I'm not trapped anymore. My fist breaks through the freezing waters just as I manage a quick shake of my head. "No. No I'm fine." Because it was me. The blood is drying and the small cut burns but I stand again. There's death all around. Bodies upon the floor and thick, congealed blood making its way around them and I might be sick. Just the sight strains my throat and as a bullet bursts in another body. Ravaging his chest as it carves a path through his heart straight to the wall behind him. And just like that they all fall down. I can't count the times I almost died in those five minutes. Disaster makes its way around me, bullets curving my body or breaking the air beside me. And I keep firing. Pop. And I keep killing. Pop. And I've got to protect my brothers. Po- *"Fuck!"* My knees crumble and I'm bracing myself against the crate in an instant. I've memorized my brother's tones, the infliction of their voice and how they sound when they're in pain or when they're sick or tired. Because we are all made of the same pieces but we're nothing alike. We're opposites. Because Tripp is quiet and Teva is loud and I'm a mess. And because even though Teva and I are at each other's throats most of the time he still stopped to ask if I was okay when I'd been grazed. And I know that this time it wasn't me. Teva is on the ground and there's dark red blooming upon his pants. Guilt crawls through my veins, burning every inch of my body so terribly that it's left frigid and numb. This was my fault. Teva was shot because of me. I might as well have pressed the barrel against his leg myself because we shouldn't have even come because we knew this was going to happen and I should have put my foot down and said fuck this but I didn't and this is all my fault, thsi is all my- I crawl over to Teva, biting back winces at every shot echoing about the warehouse. We've killed so many but we've hardly made a dent. And their bullets will break through the crates soon enough. And it's all my fault. My heart is pulled into my throat with a hook and a fishing line. I can feel the metal upon the sensitive flesh, every beat some kind of excruciating pain and I want it to end but I don't know how to end it. (Because I can only escape this one way. And leaving isn't an option anymore.) "Teva..." the word escapes in a panicked whisper as my eyes linger upon his wound. All my fault. He's hurt because of me. It's all my fault just like Teddy's arrest. (How does it feel to have the world's weight upon your shoulders Tate? How stupid were you to take that burden willingly?) "Fuck, okay wounds need pressure. So you don't bleed out. Fuck. Fuck. Okay." I'm wearing a jacket. It's made from soft black cloth and cost me a small fortune but it'll do. I slip it off my arms, revealing skin flushed white with panic and fear. "Okay. Okay, you're going to be fine." The words are more for myself and I think we all know it. I move my brother's hand from his wound, tying the jacket tightly around his thigh and knotting it. And I have to save my brothers. I can't lose another one. Not when Teddy willingly ran so far away. Not when losing them would be my fault. Because I am a house of cards one breeze from falling over and getting lost in the wind. A house of cards silently begging for the release. I stand, firing off a few more shots into the crowd. And my feet move, slowly at first. They stumble and slide, finding a pattern before breaking into a dead sprint. There's a pile of crates at the other side of the warehouse but I don't care if I make it to them. Their attention turns to me, a stupid kid exposing himself to a storm of sulfur. And it's pure chance that I've survived. I could be hit at any moment. Even as shelter draws closer and their fire becomes more rapid, the thrill of danger is intoxicating. I'm not scared. I can't think of anything in this moment. There's not an ounce of guilt searing across my flesh and painting itself upon my cheeks. I feel nothing and it's absolute bli- God, it hurts. White hot pain snaking across my side at the speed of light. I'm on the ground, momentum sending me behind the crates by pure chance. God, it hurts. There's no strength left within my limbs. I'm limp upon the ground and I can't tell whether I've been shot or whether I care if I have been. I can't think of anything but the burning as I lay there with red slowly blooming across a white shirt. Like paint diluted by water. And down goes the house of cards. [/presto]	[presto] t a b l e b y e l e g a n t [/presto]
[presto] e v e r y t h i n g i n t h i s w o r l d i s s l o w [/presto]

Last Edit: Feb 27, 2015 7:17:02 GMT -5 by ᴥ

the m o o n controls the t i d e, it could cause you to d r o w n

Python
Head Librarian

4,515 POSTS

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last seen May 3, 2024 22:50:35 GMT -5

bite the bullet {teva/tate/tripp] Mar 7, 2015 0:55:26 GMT -5

Post by Python on Mar 7, 2015 0:55:26 GMT -5

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[presto]

T E V A S E R A P H I M

Murder was on his mind. At this point it was simply justice, because this was their fault. Not Teva’s, not the gang’s, but whoever those assholes were, the fault was in their ignorant decision to infiltrate something completely out of their league. There were three of them – one having been knocked to his ass by a bullet – but they were the best of the best. Tripp was three men in one, hawk’s vision and perfect precision. If Tate and Teva didn’t shoot down every piece of shit in this joint, Tripp would pick up the slack in a matter of seconds. These motherfuckers were doomed from the start. It was the anger talking, but Teva was determined to make damn sure they got fucked over. Their grandparents would stir in their graves from the force of their wrath.

When his fingers traced the outline of his gun he felt another hand claim it. Palm pressed against the spreading splotch of blood, he glanced up to find his silent brother’s gaze, blazing with fire and madness. They shared a bloodthirsty urge to seek vengeance and victory, Teva could feel it like a thrum above the screams of his burning nerves. His brother had a peculiar talent of speaking without words, as if his intensity was enough to send a telepathic message. He understood, but he didn’t want it. He wanted to claim his gun and shoot the pricks himself. The bullet wound was only a minor hindrance – he could still scoot around and kneel behind crates. He could still point and fire.

Tripp commenced an onslaught instead, double the firepower and ferocity. Teva watched transfixed in the sidelines, trying to focus on anything but the warm trickles of blood traveling down his leg.

Tate was at his side in seconds, playing the role of mother at an inappropriate time. He always panicked when shit like this happened. There was no need; he was suffering sharp pangs, but the injury clearly wasn’t fatal, just a bit messy and crippling. ”I know, I know,” he hissed, hand still pressed firmly into the wet patch. He wasn’t a fucking novice, he knew wounds needed pressure. Tate was just rambling. ”I’m fucking fine.”

He growled in protest as Tate pushed his hand away from the wound. The explosions – the amount of which had lessened, he noted – were background noise, but he couldn’t hear his own ragged breaths above the ringing in his ears. Tate was wrapping his thigh in a jacket. He realized it was the best anyone could manage. It was decent absorbent material. Temporary, of course. That bullet was going to be a bitch to wriggle out later, and his nerves tensed from the thought of it, sending another shock wave of fire into his system. He grunted and squeezed his eyes shut.

When he opened them, Tate was gone. He thought he saw a blur of motion behind the crates, and separated himself from the wall to follow it. He already knew what “it” was. ”Tate!” He scooted himself forward, growling like a mad dog each time the bullet seared its way through another nerve. ”What the fuck are you DOING!”

He peered above the box last second. A form collapsed behind another stack of crates, and then nothing. No movement, no response, no backfire. He didn’t catch himself staring in horror at the silent scenne, not until a bullet whizzed past his ear and jerked him back to safety.

This isn’t happening.

His heart wasn’t seizing in his chest, cold as ice. His insides weren’t scrambled from terror. He didn’t feel knives in the back of his brain, scraping against his sanity. He didn’t stare up at Tripp with a mask of pure, unadulterated panic.

He wasn't trembling.

He waited. It was all he could manage.

[/presto]