chungking express — d9, train.
Jan 30, 2024 10:05:29 GMT -5
Post by napoleon, d2m ₊⊹ 🐁 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ. on Jan 30, 2024 10:05:29 GMT -5
He chewed on the dry wheat stalk of a dying flower because they forbade cigarettes.
What a shame - smoke would do this room good. The justice building is a farrago of moldy carpets, stale water, old leather, and armpit. Those damn keepers didn’t seem like they shower. No water in those barracks? Mommy Shiv don’t provide enough for you?
They should see what she provided for the district.
He’d laud her ambition if he had a polite bone in his body because the woman clearly had enough of it - but you could not comb over a decades old problem in five or so years. The problem of Nine was a stubborn snarl.
It was not like he had any fixes for it, though. Perhaps this whole volunteering stint would turn out to be a blessing in disguise - at least he had a fancy ticket out of this flea pit, a clean slate. The idea both thrilled and unnerved him.
Whenever Gunner was involved, things got dirty too quick.
And they did. As the cavalcade of peacekeepers came to take him too early before visiting hours, clearly knowing no one would bother, they searched him thoroughly for dangerous goods.
Two polished handguns, twin jade-handled flintlocks, an assortment of knives, one chipped brass knuckle, a coil of garrote wire, and - “I want that one as my token,” he said as they pulled out a tiny, smaller than palm-sized revolver. “Thing doesn’t work. You can put a bullet in it and try.” Preferably by putting the barrel inside their mouths.
The keeper looked at him, paused, and then slid the pistol over onto the confiscated pile.
His jaw clenched alongside with his fists. “Look, I know they raise you obsolete so listen to me again asshole, I fucking–” He didn’t get to finish before a punch was thrown at his face. The pain bursted, the world’s greatest alarm clock, and it was their fault they left his hands unbounded because he used the recoil to swing back and return the damage tenfold. Socked the fucker in the jaw, a crack reverberating throughout the room, a globule of blood splattered across the linoleum.
That was how he ended up in the carriage with a black eye and bruised knuckles, a galaxy swirl of watercolors. The lights flickered and everything - sniff, sniff - smelt faintly of like antiseptic. Only thing missing was a dead body for it to be a Nine clinic. With Rhys Peace in the room though, there may be one very soon.
It didn’t take Gunner long to sniff him out, not when the other reeked of hog.
“Hey,” he called out to the other, demeanor easy, lips armed with a shrapnel smile. “Before our mentors get here, I wanna tell you something. Let’s keep this between you and me, mhm?” Gunner’s eyes gleamed as he leaned closer from his seat to whisper conspiratorially. “I’m going to put a pike through your mouth until it comes out the other end.”
What a shame - smoke would do this room good. The justice building is a farrago of moldy carpets, stale water, old leather, and armpit. Those damn keepers didn’t seem like they shower. No water in those barracks? Mommy Shiv don’t provide enough for you?
They should see what she provided for the district.
He’d laud her ambition if he had a polite bone in his body because the woman clearly had enough of it - but you could not comb over a decades old problem in five or so years. The problem of Nine was a stubborn snarl.
It was not like he had any fixes for it, though. Perhaps this whole volunteering stint would turn out to be a blessing in disguise - at least he had a fancy ticket out of this flea pit, a clean slate. The idea both thrilled and unnerved him.
Whenever Gunner was involved, things got dirty too quick.
And they did. As the cavalcade of peacekeepers came to take him too early before visiting hours, clearly knowing no one would bother, they searched him thoroughly for dangerous goods.
Two polished handguns, twin jade-handled flintlocks, an assortment of knives, one chipped brass knuckle, a coil of garrote wire, and - “I want that one as my token,” he said as they pulled out a tiny, smaller than palm-sized revolver. “Thing doesn’t work. You can put a bullet in it and try.” Preferably by putting the barrel inside their mouths.
The keeper looked at him, paused, and then slid the pistol over onto the confiscated pile.
His jaw clenched alongside with his fists. “Look, I know they raise you obsolete so listen to me again asshole, I fucking–” He didn’t get to finish before a punch was thrown at his face. The pain bursted, the world’s greatest alarm clock, and it was their fault they left his hands unbounded because he used the recoil to swing back and return the damage tenfold. Socked the fucker in the jaw, a crack reverberating throughout the room, a globule of blood splattered across the linoleum.
That was how he ended up in the carriage with a black eye and bruised knuckles, a galaxy swirl of watercolors. The lights flickered and everything - sniff, sniff - smelt faintly of like antiseptic. Only thing missing was a dead body for it to be a Nine clinic. With Rhys Peace in the room though, there may be one very soon.
It didn’t take Gunner long to sniff him out, not when the other reeked of hog.
“Hey,” he called out to the other, demeanor easy, lips armed with a shrapnel smile. “Before our mentors get here, I wanna tell you something. Let’s keep this between you and me, mhm?” Gunner’s eyes gleamed as he leaned closer from his seat to whisper conspiratorially. “I’m going to put a pike through your mouth until it comes out the other end.”
