Tusslin' [Blitz! Jack]
Oct 21, 2014 20:34:25 GMT -5
Post by Artemis on Oct 21, 2014 20:34:25 GMT -5
The muscles in Sam's arms strained at pulling Matthew to his feet; he was certainly heavier than a bale of hay, but Sam still had the capacity to be surprised at what having three square meals a day for the past few months had done for his physical strength. Matthew, for his part, was obviously trying to stand on his own two feet but didn't seem to have much fight left in him (so to speak).
"I didn't know you're a Peacekeeper. I... was training to become one until last month. Today a guy attacked my friends, one of them is a PK, too. I just didn't know how to handle it all."
Sam wasn't sure now whether that haymaker had knocked the sense into or out of Matthew's head to merit such a confession, but it gave him the faintest inkling as to where those obvious flogging marks on his back might have come from.
"So, what happened then?" He asked, "Why ain'tcha wearin' yer own badge?"
Not that it was really his place to ask, but if Matthew was suddenly spilling his life story...
It was bracingly cool outside in contrast to the stuffy, stale air of the fighting ring; it was late enough that the streets were very nearly deserted save for the occasional patrol of Peacekeepers (who didn't pay them any mind as they walked by across the street). Matthew didn't seem quite as enamored of it as Sam was, trying to pull his shirt tighter around himself as if it would stave off the breeze blowing right through them.
"I think it's that way."
"You sure? I ain't been here long 'nough to know my way 'round, so I gotta take yer word fer it."
They set a grindingly slow pace, with Matthew frequently stopping to lean on a wall or lamp post to regain his bearings. Each time, Sam stood still and watched, and waited; this was a perfectly respectable part of town (save for that underground ring), but Sam hadn't dragged Matthew out of the fighting ring with the intent of letting a battered (and, apparently, very overwhelmed) man fend for himself.
What a sorry pair they looked like, though.
"I'm not even sure if my friend's alive. He got shot. Last thing I know they were operating on him." Matthew spoke up after a long while, on one particularly long stop.
Sam frowned, folding his arms.
"Yer buddy took a bullet and yer out here lookin' fer a fight?" He asked, a little incredulous and probably speaking very out of turn, "C'mon, man. Would ya want him leavin' ya high and dry if it was you they was operatin' on?"
"Are you going to press charges against me?"
For a moment, Sam really paused to study Matthew's face. Besides the fact that there was a sizable bruise forming on his temple and his broken hand was turning a painful-looking shade of purple, dark lines under his eyes spoke volumes that even someone with his particular lack of body-language skills could read. He was exhausted, physically and emotionally.
And he'd never been one to kick a man while he was down.
"Naw." He said finally, "Think ya been through enough a'ready."
"I didn't know you're a Peacekeeper. I... was training to become one until last month. Today a guy attacked my friends, one of them is a PK, too. I just didn't know how to handle it all."
Sam wasn't sure now whether that haymaker had knocked the sense into or out of Matthew's head to merit such a confession, but it gave him the faintest inkling as to where those obvious flogging marks on his back might have come from.
"So, what happened then?" He asked, "Why ain'tcha wearin' yer own badge?"
Not that it was really his place to ask, but if Matthew was suddenly spilling his life story...
It was bracingly cool outside in contrast to the stuffy, stale air of the fighting ring; it was late enough that the streets were very nearly deserted save for the occasional patrol of Peacekeepers (who didn't pay them any mind as they walked by across the street). Matthew didn't seem quite as enamored of it as Sam was, trying to pull his shirt tighter around himself as if it would stave off the breeze blowing right through them.
"I think it's that way."
"You sure? I ain't been here long 'nough to know my way 'round, so I gotta take yer word fer it."
They set a grindingly slow pace, with Matthew frequently stopping to lean on a wall or lamp post to regain his bearings. Each time, Sam stood still and watched, and waited; this was a perfectly respectable part of town (save for that underground ring), but Sam hadn't dragged Matthew out of the fighting ring with the intent of letting a battered (and, apparently, very overwhelmed) man fend for himself.
What a sorry pair they looked like, though.
"I'm not even sure if my friend's alive. He got shot. Last thing I know they were operating on him." Matthew spoke up after a long while, on one particularly long stop.
Sam frowned, folding his arms.
"Yer buddy took a bullet and yer out here lookin' fer a fight?" He asked, a little incredulous and probably speaking very out of turn, "C'mon, man. Would ya want him leavin' ya high and dry if it was you they was operatin' on?"
"Are you going to press charges against me?"
For a moment, Sam really paused to study Matthew's face. Besides the fact that there was a sizable bruise forming on his temple and his broken hand was turning a painful-looking shade of purple, dark lines under his eyes spoke volumes that even someone with his particular lack of body-language skills could read. He was exhausted, physically and emotionally.
And he'd never been one to kick a man while he was down.
"Naw." He said finally, "Think ya been through enough a'ready."
1979e6 - Matt Dunham
9f4400 - Sam MacLaren
