the crow

bode mason || 41 || max-tac unit leader private rp account for psychokillers rpg

[sstaywildmoonchildd]

[mediawarboy-deactivated20180725]

Jet winced and nodded. He knew how foolish he must sound, and probably a whole lot more suspicious than he’d hoped to seem. The line between caution and paranoia was becoming increasingly blurred, but the line between caution and trust was even more so. He wanted to believe this man was trustworthy – hell, at this point he could tell that Mason was genuinely concerned for his, his son’s, and the city’s wellbeing – but he couldn’t trust the system to which he was attached. Not now, not yet.

“I appreciate what you’re doing, what you’ve done. You’ve got to believe that,” Jet said. He paused and shook his head. “I’ve done enough damage in my past. I left it behind, and I thought it would forget me as well, let me alone. But it looks like I’m still the same stupid fool,” he finished bitterly.

Jet let Bode sweep the house – little more than a large garage and two rooms, one for Dagen and one for Riley and him, and a narrow bathroom. After the all-clear, he felt some of the tension leave his chest. No bodies meant no deaths. No note meant they hadn’t gotten ahold of Riley or Dagen. Whether it was luck or something else, Jet wasn’t going to count his stars.

He flipped the light-switch, and the lights flickered on with a dull hum. He passed through Dagen’s room, relieved to see it hadn’t been significantly destroyed. Theirs, however, had been thoroughly ransacked, the crooked drawers emptied and their contents scattered, the sheets ripped off and the mattress cut open, white stuffing littering the floor. Jet glanced over his shoulder to make sure Mason was otherwise occupied before shoving the mattress aside and kneeling by the white electrical outlet. He gently pulled it off the wall, the plastic cover giving way after a firm tug, and grabbed the plastic bag nestled under the rubber-coated wires. The small black drive was still present, and he tucked it into his pocket with a sigh of relief, replacing the outlet cover with a click.

He returned to the garage, kicking aside a piece of the distributor Riley and Dagen had been working on. A spark of anger, hot and sharp, briefly filled his belly and he wanted to curse Arasaka, the corps, the universe hell-bent on making his life miserable no matter how he tried to redeem himself. As quickly as it had come the anger deflated and he only felt a kind of defeated numbness.

It was time to move on, again, and do what he did best: run away.

“Do you have a holo I could borrow?” Jet asked. “I need to get ahold of Dagen. Maybe he’ll know where Riley is too.”

“And…” he fumbled for the right words, “thank you. I know you’re trying to do good, officer. That’s a mighty rare thing around here.” He just hoped the cop wouldn’t say anything about the various bits of poached parts being refitted for not-so-legal resale.

He paused, suddenly, when he heard footsteps in the corridor slowly approaching. He quickly shuffled towards the wall with a quick glance at the cop, picking up a discarded metal bat on the ground and palming it.

Riley leaned against the crumbling brick wall of the abandoned parking lot opposite their apartment, eyes glued to the cop car parked across from the garage. He was momentarily shocked to see his father emerge from the car, followed closely by a dark-haired cop with a perpetual scowl. He frowned and ignored the loosening in his chest at seeing his father unharmed. So what, he’d been, maybe, a little worried. But Jet was alright, or so it seemed. He looked shaken, nervous, maybe more than usual which was saying a lot for him.They went into the building, the cop first, and Riley waited a few seconds after they’d disappeared before jogging towards the car. He peered through the window, assessing the contents, the license plate. It all looked fairly legitimate, not some booster-stolen piece or replica used to harass unsuspecting law-abiding citizens. It was a Max-Tac vehicle, so the kind of cops that would stop you for legitimately breaking the law rather than because someone powerful ordered them too. Not that it changed much – the cops were just as guilty in Riley’s eyes, ignoring the deceit and the corruption, failing to make any changes that really mattered, willfully blind to the corporations slowly poisoning the city. They were just a hindrance, a failure. And when the law failed, when the police failed, it was time for someone else to take a stand and ignite the necessary changes.

He knew they wouldn’t find anything in there except maybe a mess. He’d seen the men arrive, less than an hour ago under the cover of heavy darkness. He’d been on his way home, a few hours late after a recon mission had gone slightly south, when he’d noticed an unfamiliar vehicle parked close to the garage. He’d missed the men coming in, but had managed to film them coming out less than a half-hour later. He’d also caught the license plate number, but he knew with near certainty it was likely fake, registered to some poor John Doe in West Hill whose license plate was probably missing.

Riley hesitated, then walked into the building. He heard voices echoing down the hall, his father’s and the cops, both deep and low. He deliberately weighed his footfalls so he wouldn’t accidentally surprise them and get himself shot by a panicked cop.

When he emerged at the doorway, he raised his hands.

“Hope you ain’t gonna shoot an unarmed kid,” Riley said, glancing from his father holding a bat to the cop. “That’d be a stain on your record wouldn’t it.”

“And if you’re looking for the suit and his henchman, you missed ‘em by ‘bout a half-hour.”

[newvegascrow-blog]

he doesn’t say anything else at jets words, though he didn’t miss the slight delving into some of the mess - no doubt searching for whatever that thing was that he’d - liberated - from those people who, from the looks of things, were pretty determined to get it back.  he’s already said his piece - there’s not so much more to add.  if there was no report of stolen item, then bode couldn’t exactly take the guy in for the theft.  and it sounded like the kind of thing that was a little too delicate to show up on any kind of theft report that he’d ever come across... a little above the usual level of petty crime.  it was up to jet what he did.  whether he decided to keep on keein’ on - making the same moves and living in the slim hope that whoever wanted their property returned would either give up or lose his trail.  from the looks of things -- that was pretty damn unlikely.  it does bring to mind a certain something he’d once heard before --

"*Insanity: doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results. - Albert Einstein 

and einstein was a pretty smart guy all in all.  he could only hope that jet finally wised up to the reality of that phrase.

and in all honesty, he could give less of a crap about whatever in the apartment might be legal or not.  this was him going out on a limb for someone, and with the appearance of a face at the door, it didn’t seem as though he needed to step out any more.  

brow just cocks at the comment from the kid.  but there’s no inclination to answer, because the gun isn’t actually pointed and he’s really not interested in picking up that as a discussion point.  what he does have, is two suspects with shot out kneecaps and a potential link to a chem ring to deal with.  because yeah, all that paperwork and questioning was still lingering - looming - in bode’s near future somewhere.  fantastic.  

“look, it’s up to you if you wanna call this in as a robbery - a team’ll come down and check it out.”  

max-tac didn’t exactly do breaking and entering.  didn’t do robbery.  didn’t do so much other than attempting to put their lives on the line when it might count - when it might save a life - and limiting any collateral damage.  though he guesses, with that kind of backstory, they’ll just take the hit and go from there.  he can’t see jet calling anything in...

“still need you to come to the station and make a statement about the other - incident.”

meaning - not this one - but the piranha and his pistol armed pal from the alleyway.  he’d done jet a favour by coming here - could have hauled him in right there and then. so maybe, a little actual cooperation in this at least would be a nice return.  but he does turn his attention to the kid -   -- 

“riley, right?  i ain’t lookin’ for anyone.”

there’s a shrug.  there’s no one to look - for.  there’s no crime other than the breaking and entering and unless it was called in -- then it didn’t happen.  if jet decides he can’t trust cops, then bode isn’t gonna force his hand and report it either.  just another null event, swept under the carpet.  

people made their own choices. sometimes stupid fucking choices. but their choices none the less...

[ravenmockblog-blog]

Hanna was almost feeling sorry for the poor kid after Bode shut him down. She wasn’t a fan of kicking puppies, but this kid wasn’t quite cute enough to win her pity. She was torn between smirking and sighing when her superior officer turned his attention back to her. The look Hanna returned to Bode was somewhere between seizure and eye-roll. 

The idea of complaining crossed her mind, but Tristan was filling in for a friend and wouldn’t have been home anyway. The idea of spending the night alone bouncing off the walls wasn’t exactly appealing, so she dropped her bag onto the floor with an exaggerated thump before purposefully seating herself to take  up as much room as possible. 

“Vaguely sane, is it? Very well, I accept your compliment.” She eyed the stack of paperwork on his desk with trepidation. “Are we really going to read all of these? Or can we just pick a few kids and then take bets on how they do?” Hanna helped herself to the first file within reach and let her eyes skim over it. 

“Also, I want extra cheese.” She muttered. 

[newvegascrow-blog]

he doesn’t pull any punches. never has. and geez, if the kid can’t deal with a bark in the precinct then he’d probably mess himself or have some kind of catatonia out on the damn streets.  ( that’s what he’s afraid of... all these...’kids’ - because that’s what they were.  too young ( or he’s too old ), too inexperienced ( or he’s just seen - too much ), rolling out with some training, a badge and a gun... and the city would eat them alive.  so yeah - this is why he plays hardball - doesn’t give them a goddamn inch...tries to toughen them up, teach them as much as he can, and hopefully keep them... alive... )

so there’s nothing but that slice of self amusement as he manouvres into his chair, ( temporary desk, because his goddamn office had pretty much collapsed in the explosion... no goldfish bowl on his desk.  fuckin’ bomber murders civilians... and his fish. ) - peers over a tentatively balanced stack of papers...

“vaguely.  d’you need one of those ‘don’t have to be crazy to work here... just gotta be prepared to shoot it’ plaques on your desk?  y’know - just to make sure everyone’s clued in.”

he does look at the stack.  wonders how many of the names that were - perhaps... unfortunate enough to be made of the ‘right stuff’ - some who might just make it through to see a decade, if they were lucky... two, or more... with the help of miracles.  luck.  chance.  and maybe, just a little help from a crass old max tac officer and the skill of his team.

“be better takin’ bets on how far they make it before they quit because they can’t take it, or end up squished like bugs on a windscreen.”

[ravenmockblog-blog]

“Look, I’m not saying you’re a liar, I’m just saying I’ve never seen somebody dumb enough to try entering a street race while on their first dose of boost.” Hanna rolled her eyes at the nervous young cop excitedly recounting his first patrol. Exaggerations were common amongst new kids who were eager to prove their worth. 

“I’m off for the night, but you all know how to get ahold of me.” Hanna slung her bag over her shoulder and offered a mock salute to a few of her colleagues. However, she didn’t make it two steps past her desk before a figure blocked her path. 

“Yes?” 

[newvegascrow-blog]

“no.”

was the rather blunt response - bode’s gaze quite firmly fixed on the fidgety recruit.  street... something... fuck if he could remember.  one of the newly ‘visible’ divisions the top brass were keen to put out on the streets to have a ‘public presence’.  throwing half trained, twitchy kids into the shitstorm of night city wasn’t the best way to go about it as far as bode was concerned -- then again, he was only responsible for one team - only had so much ‘influence’ - the rest of that crap just rained down from somewhere on high.  bullshit, fucking rank and file.  and he hated it - but he suffered it... if only to actually be in with a chance to make a goddamn difference.

which is why he was now tangled in with the academy.  making sure that when they did go out there, they had their heads at least half-screwed on the right way.

as proven by the increasingly growing mountain of paperwork on his desk.

“who the hell are you ---?  wait, don’t care - go away.  now.”

and he can barely hide the small smirk as the kid stutters and almost falls over his own feet - before extricating himself from the immediate vicinity with no small amount of haste.

“congratulations evans.  you - by rote of being the only vaguely sane one here, have just volunteered to help me assess the applications for academy.  well done.  sit your ass down.  and... tell someone to order pizza.  no anchovies.”

[im-vertical]

[newvegascrow-blog]

crocodile tears | bode & matteo

[better-classofcriminal]

Matteo doesn’t think of himself as – tense, but tense people rarely do. He carries himself usually with a quiet competence, but even in those situations where he feels far more at home, there is a wariness about him that radiates outwards. It’s not exactly timidity, and it isn’t connected to fear, but he’s certainly learnt the benefits of being cautious in a world that is full of danger. 

His difficulty with reading facial expressions – albeit improving – serves only to make him more cautious. It is not easy for him to tell a false smile from a genuine one save for when he knew a person and through context – and so his response to Bode’s is a blank-faced, curious stare. People normally smiled in many different circumstances – to disarm an opponent or to show that they were no threat, to make a social connection, to express warmth, as an near-instinctive, meaningless response, to reassure. The problem lies in that he doesn’t know which of those it is.

People.

Messy, complicated, unpredictable variables, and perhaps the greatest weakness that he possesses, partially through natural inclination and partially through sheer lack of practice. He knows enough and can adjust enough in his way to be fairly competent at some forms of manipulation, but a long history of having little decision making power meshing now with most of his human interaction being confined to text message and computer screen – it’s not particularly easy.

“I understand.”

It was good advice, and he is listening, despite himself. It is not often advice is given for free, and it is nice that this piece of understanding does not come with a painful mishap as price. He doesn’t understand why the advice is offered – the stranger has no reason to want to offer him such that he can see – but he accepts it in his quiet way.

“I’m not usually involved in so much…legwork.” Head tilts, and he wonders if the stranger will see that as an indictment of the age – where technology, after claims of knitting broken bonds together, has actually torn them further apart. “And I don’t enjoy alcohol, but I wanted to buy my friend Vincent a good gift. I think he will like it.”

There’s no smile, but there is a very subtle softening of the wariness in his eyes, an equally subtle and intelligent humor evident.

“Culture is for bacteria. I don’t think it is much for me.”

[newvegascrow-blog]

legwork?  not exactly a commonly used term - no less for someone who perhaps had others to do things for them.  

the shopkeep was very much back to oblivious, so with payment made, bode did reach under the counter - retrieved two printed paper bags and slipped his own bottle into one of them - holding out the other ( didn’t do for fingers to slip on delicate glass neck and for all of that decadence to soak into the asphalt of the streets outside ) -

“--who normally does your -- legwork?”

so that’s a little snippet of something, at least.  though the manner of that ‘legwork’ was quite a simple task in this instance, bode is less curious about the manner of the young mans usual method of acquisition as he is to the name that is suddenly floating in the air with no small manner of unfamiliarity about it.  because yeah - it’s not the most common name around, though there were likely more than the ‘vincent’ he knows present in night city... the cop can’t help that curious cat ( not dead, though likely well beyond it’s allocated nine lives ) from raising it’s head and stretching.

there’s the slightest lift of brow - not quite sure if the guy was on the wrong track or if he was just pulling his leg - so he does test the water a little with a play on words of his own.  but he’s pretty damn good at reading people, and he’s edging slightly toward the latter here.

“paws, pause, claws clause... two attributed to cats, one a moment of hesitation, one a binding statement... so yeah, while - culture, is probably something microscopically buggy, sure - that ain’t the context right here.”

he’s being remarkably restrained, under the circumstances. wiry and tense still had a bit of a rabbit in the headlights feel about him, like one wrong word might just make him up sticks and bolt - perhaps decide to leave that ‘legwork’ to someone else in future...

“ain’t bad as far as gifts go.  i’m sure your friend - vincent -”

could it be?  maybe - though the last time bode had spoken the mans full name it had been with a lash of anger - and a subsequent lash of his fist - but at least the anger had mellowed, subsided quickly enough... though he’s still waiting to see if the doc comes good on that promise... and -- right now, given the way things were going in night city -- he was, hopeful, but not quite holding his breath.

“ - will appreciate the thought and effort you’ve put into buying it... birthday present or...?  something else...?”

[turncoatjet-blog]

Jet tilted his head and almost smiled. “I’m not here to debate right-wrong morality. But I can assure you, ain’t nothing good could come of that information with those people.” Jet had come to make such decisions based on the estimated body count, a unit of measurement he had for too long ignored. His calculations of the repercussions of such blueprints ending up with Arasaka again were… bleak at best. A thought he did not wish to linger on.

Mason’s next words made him flinch. How did you tell a cop you wouldn’t turn in evidence because you knew, deep down, that the system was too corrupt, that the likelihood of that information ending up somewhere safe was too small for him to consider with any amount of optimism. Too many times after fleeing had he turned to a sympathetic media or cop and told them his story, and too many times had he narrowly avoided being swindled, turned in for a little cash, or simply ignored. Since then, Jet’s idea of trust was so screwed up that he couldn’t even trust himself to make any kind of decision. All he knew was that, as of yet, he’d kept that information hidden, and no-one had been hurt. Still, some inkling of hope remained in him. He could have destroyed the data, wiped out all plans and with it all evidence of his own –and Arasaka’s – wrongdoing. But something always held him back; some hope that maybe, one day, the world would be ready to accept the truth. Perhaps, too, he wondered if maybe holding on to that information guaranteed Riley and him some semblance of leverage, some small reason to keep them alive.

“I’m just weighing my options, here. Trying my best to… to do right by my son, by the people of this city. This information is my responsibility. I just,” he rubbed his face and opened the car door, “I don’t want anyone to get hurt anymore.”

Perhaps that was too much to ask now. Perhaps he had sinned too much, and this was the Gods, or Karma, or some omnipresent Galactic power punishing him for turning a blind eye to the blood on his hands.

“Holopad is broken,” Jet said morosely. “And… Riley won’t answer unknown numbers. He’s a good kid though… knows how to take care of himself. Dagen is out for the week, shouldn’t be home.” Jet prayed silently that Riley would have known, somehow, if something was off. Would have disappeared as he often did, come back later after the danger had passed. Riley was good at sensing these things, catching the details that Jet so often missed. Jet followed closely behind the cop, hands sweating. He passed by him only to unlock the door, but flinched when it opened with only slight pressure. Though the room was dimly lit, Jet could already see the tell-tale clutter of broken furniture, discarded metallurgy pieces from his workshop, and scattered paperwork. He bit back the urge to yell Riley’s name, and had no idea whether to hope for a reply or not.

[newvegascrow-blog]

he does look at the guy for a moment.  pauses when the words are spoken.  no, he can’t force him to turn state’s evidence, but apparently there’s a lot more to this -- and that’s something that could be dangerous.  not just to this man and his son... but possibly to others in proximity too.  not something that settles well on the cops chest.

“y’do realise that it’s my job, right?  protect and serve?  kinda the motto, y’know?  which includes you.  and your son.  so long as your in this city.  hence...”  

the hand without the gun raises, motions into the air, a general, all encompassing gesture.  but he guesses it’s along the age old lines of the whole - rome wasn’t won in a day... yaddah, yaddah.  so right now, he wouldn’t worry about the ‘information’.  what it was... where it had come from... what potential harm it could do... other than the immediate potential harm to this man and his kid.  sometimes, you just had to deal with one job at a time - and right now, this was it.

“well if people have already gotten hurt, then maybe you can’t do that job on your own, huh?”

he shrugs, but maybe it’s something for jet to consider.  if people had been hurt before.  if people were still in danger - there was still that risk of getting hurt... especially his son - then perhaps keeping this - thing - whatever it was... under wraps... wasn’t going to end up with a happy ending - for anyone concerned...

but bode turns sidelong, falls silent as jet moves to open the door.  a headset with thermal might be handy about now - but he’s been in worse situations, less prepared.  though what he can see - from the light leaking in from outside - meant that either the guy lived in a swell of chaos, or the apartment-garage... (?) -- residence... had already been turned over.  but the lazer and the low light provides enough visibility to see - to sweep the room - no apparent presence there.

moving swiftly along the hallway, taking note of the instruction jet had given him as to the layout of the building.  room to room -- the same evidence of a ransacking in each of them, someone had been here, searching for - something - could be an opportunistic robbery - but from what jet had told him, it sounded far too coincidental to be a matter of timing.  but the place... other than the scattered belongings... appeared to be empty.  

“hit the lights - ain’t no one here.  but looks as though someone was here - pretty damn recently.  and if they didn’t find what they were lookin’ for, looks like you and your boy ain’t out of the red-zone just yet...”

[kyoka-sui-get-su]

[newvegascrow-blog]

five by five || bode & marx

@hamiltonsdevil

it was silent now.   other than the stuttered crackle of plaster and brickwork shattering.  peppered with bullets not twenty seconds earlier.  it might have left a ringing in his ears, but the noise was tempered toned and honed to drive out certain frequencies and focus on others - to amplify the small shuffle of steps and the click of a trigger trying to pull on an empty, superheated barrel.

his exosuit was -- home from home.  worn black, and slightly faded sand blasted from the deserts of new vegas.  that, and the headset that clicked up a visual - infographics, radar, thermal imaging all delivering a wealth of information that needed to be read, digested and acted upon in seconds.  there was a single channel open.  one that was solely reserved for use by max-tac active units.  and now - oh, yeah... they were active.

“we have seven civilians still in the building - surrounding area is clear and street crew have a two block radius cordon.  at least four on the same floor as the target.”

as the -- psycho.

psycho.  not usually a term that would be normally be acceptable.  but here, there wasn’t really any other word that would suffice.  a hopped up, super augment who’d lost their grip on reality to the point that any manner of -- sanity -- slipped free and violence reigned... and -- rained.  literally - down upon the heads of night city’s civilian population.  the ‘innocent’ ( for all intents and purposes here ).

he loves.  and hates this job.  it’s something he lives for.  something he believes in.  and yeah, the system might be flawed and fucked up ten ways from sunday - but it was the best they had.  the best anyone had.  you want protection from the corps - you gotta pay for it - in more than one way.  sell yourself, your morals, your soul.  lucky enough to hire your own militia?  doubtful - so this was it.  they - were it.  the last line of defence for a defenceless populace.  just men and women who still... believed... somehow, that in the chaos and the mess of places like this, that there was still some... good... some way, perhaps... that things could be turned around.  those that were ready to put their lives on the line - and fight for them - and for that belief.

he does.  believe. that things can be... better.  that people can be... better.  if they’re just given the chance.  and maybe a little helping hand along the way.  not just a job - but a duty - a self-commitment to things other than greed and hate and harm.  opposing things which flooded wretchedly through these streets - corruption rife... that’s the part he hates... watching them - people - succumb.  through fear or even a simple need to survive - slipping into the shadows and not knowing how to pull themselves out.  worse... the ones who dragged them in there in the first place.

however... right now - that last line of defence - amounted to just four.  

it’s an unknown quantity.  an un-chipped augment, with no intel, no record of what tech might be stacked up in flesh body.  and while he might not agree with the whole - ‘chipping people like dogs’ thing - it sure as hell would have helped in a situation like this.

“use of live ammunition has been sanctioned as per city code: DS366427.  shoot to disable if possible.  to kill only if necessary. ---watch your backs... watch each others backs. ---hannah, tristan - take the side entrance. ---marx - you and me - will be going in the front door.”

nothing like making an entrance.

[hideous-revelation-blog-blog]

[newvegascrow-blog]

wouldn’t have done what I did if I could foretell the future

“yeah, well.  that makes two of us, vincent.”

still the heavy, sharp delivery of the other’s full name.  he offers no hint of familiarity.  though he supposes… he’s equally as responsible for… all of this.  the cost of lives lost weighing a little heavier on already bowing shoulders.  he was the one who’d released the suit after all.  it had been a bad choice, based on misplaced trust.

course - it’s entirely possible that the doc had done exactly the same thing.  misplaced trust.  in someone else.  someone who had caused… this… …but he’s too damn tired and too damn sore to try to wrap his brain around the intricacies of that unrolling ball of string… all tangles and knots and snipped, frayed ends.

however.  even for the snarling, wounded creature that he is right now - he is a little surprised that the softly spoken, often timid medic dares to move closer.  because the most dangerous thing right now ( at least as far as vincent is concerned ) - isn’t another explosion.  not any masked suited man in a modified exo suit.  not even the risk of a little more of the building coming apart around the seams…

…it’s his proximity to the pissed off, angry, weary - emotionally compromised cop.

and sure.  he has his moments.   he’s used to dealing with intense, fractious situations.  that’s his damn job.  but most of the time, it’s not his own emotions he’s trying to keep in check.  not his own psyche that’s taken a blow.

and perhaps it’s a notion of that surprise that allows the doc to get close.  to start administering the smallest amount of aid that he might be able to at first glance.

“people are dead.  they’re DEAD vince!  what is it about that that you’re gonna set right!?”

it’s another of those sharp barbs.  and it’s borne from an anger that - unfortunately - in that moment…. boils over.  very probably misdirected, but there’s not a lot he can do.  or maybe doesn’t want to.  to put a cork in the sudden explosion.  and even hurt, these old bones can still move quick enough ( well, his arm can - he couldn’t run right now if his heels were on fire, and his arms are just about the only functional thing he has to work with – ) – so he takes a swing.  a quick jab.  an unfortunate thing for the doctor who happens to be the only one here, bearing the brunt of all of that exhaustion and desperate helplessness… 

striking him dead on the nose with a sharp crack.  enough to jar bode’s arm, feel his knuckles crunch - and vinces’ nose - and have him off balance, even sitting on the ground.  finally just… giving up, slightly propelled by his own motion and the closeness of the punch - flopping onto his back with a groan‘.

however…  as with the previous.  and literal - explosion.  this one is equally as short lived.  bode just looking up at the sky.  it looks like it’s getting lighter.  he can’t remember.  was it day time or night time?  probably doesn’t matter either way.

he closes his eyes.   stops looking.  starts listening. focuses on the sounds around him.

“okay.  fine.”

it’s not much of an apology.   actually… it’s not really an apology at all.  

he’s not gonna say ‘sorry’ for what was probably a sorely busted nose.  because that?  well, he’s pretty sure that vince deserves that for being a fucking idiot.  and bode?  well… he just had a ceiling fall on him and the side of a building partially collapse for his trouble… there’s something already broken in him… somewhere.  ( and no, he’s not being poetic here - he means very literally - broken… because if it wasn’t then it wouldn’t be physically hurting so goddamn much ).  so… he’s calling that one even. and here they are.  both scattered and bleeding in the rubble of their own mistakes.

“fix what you can fix.”

he’s not really talking about his own injuries here.  because he has a suspicion that the doc wouldn’t take a chance at coming close a second time over.  which is okay.  he could do with a nap about now.  and the brick under his back isn’t comfortable in any way.  but he honestly doesn’t think he has the strength to move.  

course, that would give vince the perfect opportunity to drop a damn rock on his skull.   maybe… he will.   or maybe he meant it.  those words… maybe… just maybe… he was as passively guilty - remotely responsible - in this circumstance as the cop himself.

vincent hadn’t been the one to pull the trigger.  in a manner of speaking. hadn’t been the one - he thinks ( he’d like to think - because he’s all about seeing the good in people.  believing that sometimes… mistakes are just made… people have an inherent capacity to fuck up… and then you live with the regret in the aftermath… then… you try to do something about it )  - with the intent to harm… to kill…

one chance.

everyone gets…

one.

chance.

“you’re a stupid asshole vincent.  but – say i do believe you.”

still talking to the blackness of his own closed eyelids.

“that you really didn’t know whoever you gave that suit to could be involved in something like this.”

as yet unproven, but things were certainly pointing in that direction.

“you ain’t gonna be able to get it back without getting yourself killed now, are ya? which means one more body for me to scrape off of the street. more goddamn paperwork to fill in -  and i think i have enough of that right now…”

…a small thought that his desk which had already been overflowing with paperwork since the moment he set foot in the office was probably buried right now under ceiling tiles and other crap…

…and so was his fish.

which hurt okay?  he loves that fish. …loved. past tense…

but he’s talking in a manner that hopefully implies that - as much as the doc had likely trusted the wrong person… bode was willing to let his trust linger in that ‘no-space’ - not severed… not repaired.  but hovering there with the potential to go either way…

he doesn’t want vince dead trying to fix something that went beyond him.

“i can’t get involved in this one vince.  because if i do, it becomes ‘official’ and you’re up shit creek and paddle-less… and so am i for givin’ the damn thing to you in the first place.  plus - i’ve got my hands full right here…”

one hand waves vaguely in the air.  the cop still not making any effort to move, though he does open his eyes and turn his head - needs to see if there’s any truth left in the man he once called ‘friend’.

“…just… tell me you have back up?  that you’re not about to jump in over your head.”

[ripperdxc]

  He is not ignorant to the full use of his name and the unsavoury sharp tang to the voice that’s delivering it. Still he can’t abate and leave as instructed, in this instance Vince would insist to stay, to even draw closer. He was in many ways unafraid of the snarling barbed words of the cop he was perhaps a little afraid of what he might do but Vince had dealt with men far worse than Bode before. Somehow thus far it hadn’t ended badly, or at least not too badly. But for all accounts he knew when the words grew too sharp, when they were directed towards him with liberal assault and were intended to pierce through his chest. Perhaps if Bode was not injured he would’ve caved by now, given him a meek nod and headed in the opposite direction with his tail between his legs. But this was not one of those instances.

  It is, in the end this false bravado that results in him stumbling backwards, an explosion of force catching him dead on the nose with enough volley that his balance falters and the surgeon lands the small distance onto the floor. He’d been precariously balanced as it was crouched and so the curled fist was more than enough to land him on his ass. Callused fingers grope at his nose and the flare of pain that comes with it, there’s a metallic tang against his lips that’s slowly seeping in and onto his tongue.

  This time he keeps his distance, thick woollen sleeve of his coat doing a good job of staunching the flow of blood. He hadn’t ever thought himself particularly suave or charming when it came to the looking in the mirror, he certainly didn’t feel like it now. Nose had a delicate crunch to it that would need tender care later.

  He listens, at a safe distance, sleeve still delicately pressed to his nose. Winces anytime he moved the slightest inch and disturbed the precarious balance between staunching the blood flow and aggravating the crunch. He does as he should’ve done minutes ago and simply nods. “What is one life in comparison to a city?” The words are spoken so plainly, unadorned and simple that it would be difficult to misconstrue his intent. He would get that suit back and if it resulted in a tender bloody end he wouldn’t say he was grateful, he wasn’t in the best of places, couldn’t shut his eyes for more than a moment before blood splattered across them in his dreams. But if he could do one final deed, one final atonement that would…protect the lives of those he cared for. Then it was worth it.

 He can’t help it, that instinctual nature to think of others before himself and the list was long, more added too it daily, and although he’d probably hate him for it, more so now, Bode was included.

  Back up.

  It wasn’t something he had considered, although for all intent and purposes Vince had naively thought he could merely have a quiet word with the young man. He had seen him when he was nothing more than skin and bones, had never thought him dangerous, still couldn’t. There it was again, misplaced trust and a naivety. He always saw the good in people, sometimes when it wasn’t there at all.

  “I,” he starts, not really sure where he was going because he doesn’t strictly have back-up. Sure, he could call Cain and string a favour (the soldier owed him his life in many regards), but he was chaotic, impulsive and would likely cause more bloodshed than necessary. Anyone else he wouldn’t dare put into the cross-fire. There was too much on the line. No, for this he would do it alone—somehow.

  He doesn’t tell Bode this.

  The lie doesn’t come easy from too honest lips, a little rough around the edges but his too worn, exhaustion settling into every iota of his being that it slips from his lips like silk. “I’ll be fine, got an old friend who’ll cover me if it goes side-ways.”

  “He’s just a kid Bode.” Just yet another kid who probably grew up on the rougher side of town, learnt to fight or to run, which-ever was easiest, first. Survival was more than an art down there and it certainly wasn’t a game, even just on the fringes—for all accounts Dionysus lived on the edge of it. Skirting the edge of something much darker and dangerous than the horrors that lurked in the park at night. “Doesn’t excuse this, any of this. But it makes you wonder…what pushed him and so many others to violence?”

  “Where have we gone wrong?”

It was not a question directed towards Bode himself, a mere wondering or more accurately a thought spoken aloud. “I’ll get the suit and if I can…I’ll bring him in but without the suit he’s not going to last long. He likely wouldn’t last until a court hearing unless he got serious medical attention.” Last time they’d spoken he was far from willing to have another’s lungs become his own. He saw that fiery intent stirring in green eyes, he wanted to live and die as himself. His fate supposedly sealed and accepted, even if Vince hadn’t accepted it.

  “Here.” Vince slides a small green packet between them, inside were the few medical supplies that he had left but more than enough plasters and bandages to patch up a few meagre hurts. “Just go get checked over by your doctor.” He didn’t want another body weighing on his conscience.

[newvegascrow-blog]

~FIN~

[newvegascrow-blog]

crocodile tears | bode & matteo

[better-classofcriminal]

He has been out of the spotlight for so long that when it is suddenly turned upon him it is startling, disjointed, unsettling. This was not how it was supposed to go – he had done his homework, he had decided upon an establishment that both carried high-end alcohol and seemed to have a relatively indifferent personnel – and there was a sliver of irritation that he was found out so immediately – drew attention when that was the last thing he expected or desired.

It occurs to him then, only then, that his planning and precision was probably what caused attention to be drawn in the first place – he had been too cerebral, too careful, when this was truly just another social transaction (which was precisely what made it difficult in the first place, it was so much simpler over the internet.)

Narrow shoulders are tense in surprise as the other man makes his way over – and there is nothing in a cursory sweep that dictates that this interaction is hostile – if anything the other seems more than a little tired, more amused (which admittedly rankles a bit) than actively pugnacious. In fact, he does not seem pugnacious at all - despite the cuts and bruises to his face, the slight limp as he walks, that suggest that he was recently embroiled in something less than pleasant.

Dark eyes watch him carefully, a small furrow forming in his brow, subtle, listening. There is a tinge of something that isn’t precisely anxiety, but is a sense of – unsettlement, as his fake ID is pulled over. He doesn’t want the inconvenience of having to go to somewhere else after he has meticulously planned this interaction (and it would have likely worked if not for this…stranger.)

It may still work.

“Why would I want to make this…less convincing,” he murmurs slowly, eyes still on his face and brows tilted in still slightly, before they clear. He sighs, averts gaze for a minute. “Oh. That is…you’re being humorous.”

First time buying booze, huh?

“You will perhaps not believe me if I say I am buying it for a friend?” A flicker of humor in return, although he does seem a little crestfallen at the unraveling of admittedly hard work. “It is true that I am buying it for a friend. I do not know much about alcohol, albeit that it is very popular.” His voice was soft, tinged lightly with that foreign aspect, more frustrated with himself than with anything else – he should have been more organic in delivery, less rehearsed (easier said than accomplished).

There is a flicker of confusion as the ID is pushed back at him, slender fingers reaching for it and sliding it towards himself further – the small furrow on his brow returning as dark eyes flit over to the stranger again. He doesn’t understand why he is…helping him, when he clearly has gone out of his way to comment on the illegality of the act. There is another long look in his direction – wheels visibly turning in an attempt to work this out – before he turns back to the store owner. Raises soft voice slightly, meets the eyes of the elderly man and simply states –

“I would like to purchase this, please. That will be all. Thank you.”

There is an exchange of money – a fair bit of it, something luxurious he’d never purchase for himself – and then the bottle is his.

A glance back to the stranger again now that he has his prize in a paper bag. Confusion as to intent – but the advice had been helpful. This is not his area of expertise.

“Thank you – for your assistance.” And for not being an impediment.

“This is…new.” An admission, genuine, and even with the well made black clothing, the height, and the aura of self possession, he does look very young under those florescent lights – very aware of his own weak areas that he’d have to strengthen.

“There is much to learn. I overestimated the complexity of this task.”

[newvegascrow-blog]

he has to kick deaf and old in the shin to get him to pay attention - the old guy looking up and finally moving to the counter with a small noise to the affirmative as he takes the money without even a second look at the id.  bode just greets the kid with a small encouraging nod and a wide bright smile - handing over the cash for his own purchase before the store owner retook his seat and returned to some - semi-comatose resting state.

“perhaps i would believe you.  if you want to buy booze underage, there are plenty of places to go buy it - rather than here - there ain’t many people your age would know what that bottle even is, let alone think about spendin’ that kind of money on alcohol...  this is - usually - for those of a more... refined taste.  i’d possibly even say ‘cultured’ if that was something that could be applicable to alcohol.  not sure...”

he finishes that with a small shrug.

most people of this guys apparent age would bypass the booze altogether.  synth-chems were cheaper.  and sometimes even easier to get a hold of.  a lot more - trendy (?? trendy?? do people still say trendy?  probably not - eh, fuck it, he’s old. ) - than booze.  

there’s a small huff of breath in a deep chuckle, arms folding onto the counter - looking at the young man and wondering if - whether he tied a bit of string between his ear and his toe and pulled - if he could maybe fire a projectile from that tense wiry body.  it’s probably a miracle that he’s not vibrating on his own frequency... or maybe he is.  something only audible by... dogs... or bats... or something.

“advice.”

not assistance, particularly... just a little bit of a helpful hint.

“it ain’t the task that’s complicated...”

bode standing lax, leaning on the counter - easy, fluid, completely at home in most situations.  probably because he’s been in most situations.

“...could be something like buying a bottle with a fake id.  could be something else.  but it’s usually not the task you have to figure out.   ...walk into a store.  choose a bottle of liquor.  present id.  hand over money.  walk out.  pretty straightforward, right?  but then you have to take into account the variables.  which usually come in the form of - people.”

a small gesture to himself and to the shopkeeper - who he’s pretty sure is snoring now.

“case in point.”

“will they trust your id?  will they question your intent?  will they change the circumstances of that straightforward transaction... will they fall asleep...?”

a slight angle of his head to the oblivious other.

“you can be as proactive as you like, to any given situation, but you gotta be prepared to be reactive too - to change your approach according to those variables.  you get me?”

[turncoatjet-blog]

Jet grit his teeth. The questions were putting him on edge but he also knew he needed this man on his side in case things went sour.

“Information,” he said. “Information that… can’t get into the wrong hands.” He couldn’t delve deeper, not without revealing exactly what and who he was. A risk he wasn’t willing to take just yet.

As they pulled over, Jet felt a thrill of anxiety swell in his belly. He fumbled at the car door, barely registering Mason’s words until the man used his name. Jet turned back towards him, eyes wide, and licked his lips.

“Yeah, sure.” He squeezed his eyes shut, briefly, to picture the apartment. “We live in the garage. The entrance is on the left, the red door there,” he gestured, “two stairs up and… maybe ten paces down before you turn a hard left. Door is rebar-enforced wood, one deadbolt lock, a chain lock, and two durasteel sliding latches, one up top and the other about hip-level. Only my son and I have keys. And Dagen, the… landlord.” He exhaled slowly. “That’s the only entrance. The windows above the garage maybe, but they’re maybe eight feet up. The garage door’s been rusted shut and bolted to the ground for years.”

He glanced through the car window, at the rearview mirror. Aside from the rusted speeder parked across from the neighboring apartment complex, and the usual smattering of other rundown vehicles, he didn’t see anything amiss. Either Jet’s fears were unfounded, or they were too late. He shuddered and glanced at the officer.

“You want to go first?”

[newvegascrow-blog]

i’ll take point -- he catches himself... can’t talk ‘cop’ with civillians.  so there’s just a nod when jet misses the term and asks if he wants to go first.  he forgets, sometimes, that he’s dealing with people who aren’t used to this.  who don’t live and breathe constant facing up to potentially incendiary situations.  people who actually - have a life... though this one seems to be less of a life and more a dance with constant paranoia and checking over his shoulder.

“wrong hands, right hands - it’s a matter of perspective man.  pretty sure whoever thinks they deserve that info would say they were the ‘right’ hands.”

didn’t seem like any way to live to the cop.  and he doesn’t know what the info is, or why the guy took it.  maybe looking to sell it on to a higher bidder.  or through some altruistic bent to stop some perception of wrong-doing by... well, whoever he was working for at the time.

“you know, there’s always the option of turning states evidence.  anonymising the intel and getting you off the radar... witness protection and full anonymity... maybe something to bear in mind.”

he doesn’t think that it’ll happen.  though it’s an option that’s open.  especially if there’s significant risk... which there seems to be in this case.  not just to jet, but to his kid too...

there’s only a beat and bode is slipping out of the vehicle, engine drawing to a silent standstill as the keys are pocketed and he reaches for his gun... it’d be a pretty shitty day if he had to shoot - more - people.  and a hell of a lot of paperwork when he gets back to the office.  quiet observation, checking the street - and taking mental note of the layout of the entrance, the building - as per jet’s description.

“just unlock the door then stay behind me.”

the gun is pointed to the ground, safety on, targeting laser on - leaving only a faint, green dot on the asphalt, moving across the street with brisk, quiet strides.

“don’t call out.  don’t make any other noise.  we’ll sweep the whole place.  do me a favour though - try to call the kid one more time.  i wouldn’t want to shoot your landlord by accident, y’know?”

[onexye-blog]

Finding M-X | Bode & Q

[onexye-blog]

  He stifles, skin prickling as if there’re spikes lacing his spine. An assertion that’s rarely seen in the young fixer, loud-mouthed and abrasive but he is rarely pissed. So avoidant of trouble he’ll back out of an argument, fight, it didn’t matter what he’d flash a smug smile, wave his hands and head in the opposite direction as quick as humanely possible. That was if he couldn’t flirt his way out of trouble—which in the past he’d been quite adept at. Then just as he’s all riled up, ready to fight his corner and bare his fangs for once, if they weren’t rotten away from the sheer amount of junk he ate, he quietens again.

  I took a chance on you.

  It’s insignificant really, a trifle matter that probably would’ve flown right past anyone else, but for someone to consciously give the fixer a chance, a shot to do something right, was remarkable. Enough that Q fell into a morbid silence that didn’t quite fit him in any shape or form. Still it lingered, and lingered, until enough time had passed that if it were anyone else, say Victoriano, his temperature would’ve likely have been taken. Lips finally purse and then quietly as if the subtler he speaks the less likely Bode is to hear he utters, “I’m sorry.” All he can think of, all that is truly crossing that mind (contrary to the belief of most his mind is neither blank nor filled of x-rated movie clips—the latter might be up for debate), is her. That overwhelming notion that he had to protect her, Dante too, because who the fuck else was going to. He wasn’t a white knight in shining armour, he’d proved that at his first failure to keep the surgeon safe, but gods, for them he’d try.

  In truth his aversion to Moretti was ridiculous, half rejecting his mother, half accepting that she’d have rejected him. He couldn’t let ghosts dictate his life, no more than he ought to let those with still beating hearts rule it, but those alive had a lot more swaying power. He thought of Lynna and her dead eyes, sluggish hands and half slurred speech, a ghostly pallor tainting what had once been a warm face whenever she went through withdrawal. He had fought that all of his life, and now he was right there beside her. Quin dropped and stubbed the cigarette out, gaze lingered on it for a moment as he scolded himself for not contacting her sooner. He had a few more apologies to make yet.

  “Ain’t everyone got something they wanna run from? I made Q.” Uncharacteristically soft as he speaks, head no longer downcast as dark eyes meet his. “I ain’t proud of everything but I was good at what I did.” No, he wasn’t talking about smoking and popping his way through his stash. “Quinton never did anything. Gonna change that now, you happy?”

  It’s not a split of personality, he is both and neither of them at the same time. His moniker, his title in truth, was simply something he’d carved for himself—be it good or bad, he worked for it. Quinton Moretti relied on his surname to carry him through life, slotted into a neat little white collared job with a suitable marriage that’d further his campaign. But here, on the streets, he’d fought to make a name for himself, in a city where no-one gave a shit, he made them give a shit. Be it because they liked or hated him.

  This, this wasn’t his second chance, in truth it was really his third. Likely his last and there was finally a glimmer of hope in those dark eyes that he might, possibly, just listen. “And y’know, you don’t know me either.” There was more to him than his criminal record, or so he hoped. “I got people to protect.” Elli. Dante. Maya. Matteo. “Gonna do right by them.”

[newvegascrow-blog]

‘i’m sorry.’

apparently miracles did happen.  because no, he’s not hearing things and apparently, that was an actual freaking apology.  wonders... never cease.

it’s stark.  the change that slips into place.  not quite as sullen.  and no brash mouth full of slick words to rumble over the cops head with false, meaningless bravado.  he just watches... looks at this, slender, wiry youth and for the first time since he was in that damn interrogation room, close to pissing his pants with fear... bode sees something actually, honestly real.

“okay.  apology accepted.”

that’s it.  enough recognition.  an apology and it was done with.  not exactly the kind to bear grudges ( not unless they were serious, life threatening things that wired their way down into his bones and knit themselves in... ) - this was something passed and done.  kinks that needed to be worked out between them.  because if they were going to work together ( and he can only hope that maybe, just maybe, instead of just mole... snitch... informant... whatever, that quinton might just get a taste for something along the lines of ‘doing the right thing’ - and not just the right thing in the moment, for himself - but start to see that... bigger picture... ) - then there were boundaries to test... lines to find... cross, bear the consequence and once and then not cross again.

there you are, kid... was wondering when you were gonna show your face again.

‘quinton never did anything. gonna change that now, you happy?’

“actually?  yeah.  i am.”

he says it with a small nod - and the snap and edge isn’t present in the words.  a genuine offer of something in return.

“no, don’t know you.             -----but the guy i want to get to know is the quinton who makes something of himself.  even if there’s bits of ‘q’ in there - of whoever else you’ve been - don’t care so much who you ‘were’ - more interested in who you ‘are’ - who you want to be.”

he does reach out and grab the guy again, but this time it’s not a snap or jerk of movement.  just pulls the kid toward hum, steadies a hand on each shoulder and looks him dead in the eyes... ( eye - the optic still confuses him a little ) - 

“do right by you... do right by a stranger... do right by everyone you meet.   and when it counts - for those people who matter most - it’s second nature.  and you won’t just ‘do right’ - you’ll do better.  the best.”

okay... that’s enough for now. he’s not gonna drag him into opening up about shit.  it had been intense for a moment there, but at the end of the day, he’d gotten the job done and managed not to get himself killed.  all in all... he’s calling that a win.  not just from a ‘cop’ perspective.  but from a decent freaking human being perspective who honestly didn’t like putting people into sticky situations they might not be able to cope with otherwise... but it’s all he’s got for now.  if q really was determined to make a go of this, make it just as real as the side of him that bode could see right now - then he believed that he could do it.  unfortunately - this was the only avenue open to  either of them right now... q wasn’t a recruit and he’s only here by the grace of goodwill and bode’s own word - his reassurance that he would be more useful helping them than banged up.

“alright, alright... pep talk over.”

one of those hands pats a slender shoulder as the other one pulls away - points down the alley - away from hotspot and back to a safer part of the city ( and bode knew the tail would keep an eye on the kid till he was on better streets than these ).

“get your ass home.  take a bath.  watch some porn.  go to sleep.”

[atxstnic]

[newvegascrow-blog]

crocodile tears | bode & matteo

[better-classofcriminal]

Matteo doesn’t drink – alcohol.

It isn’t because of a lack of availability – rules are fairly lax in Night City when it came to something as commonplace as underage drinking, and he is certain he could procure his own if he wanted to – or send someone for it, no shortage of idle hands.

It isn’t because of morality – although he is aware that it has a tendency to make people stupid, and occasionally more dangerous, he has no standing on the issue. What alcohol does is exaggerate what already exists – it doesn’t create it. The thing at fault is always the person, not the drink.

He simply…does not like the taste of most of it, especially hard liquor. Had his tongue baptized with the stuff at eleven and wound up coughing heavily to the general amusement and derision of the rest of the gang – another seeming sign of weakness. He does not like the way that it dulls the sharp edge to his mind, makes it difficult to focus, and his low body weight means that his tolerance is extremely low – he prefers to keep himself observant. In a deadly world where one slip could spell death, and one mistake devastation, any other action would be like playing chess with dynamite.

So, it is perhaps a little – surprising that he is here in the first place. He is simply here, moving with brisk – and lightly confused determination – to purchase a gift for someone else, and the only reason that he is at this particular shop is that he has heard that it is a good one. It’s a curious concept to him – has been since earliest childhood – that such things as fermented potatoes and grapes and rice could be ranked – in fact could be judged with great detail by the discerning consumer.

Perhaps it would not be so strange if he was born to greatness. He’s a…visitor in the world of the luxurious, a cautious guest. Now, he has enough money to be considered ‘well off’ by most members of the general populace, but if one spent any time in his company, it would be obvious that he was not always that way. Most of the money that he has is carefully stored in several bank accounts outside the country, as untraceable as he could make them with the assistance of the highly motivated and intelligent – and it is ‘new money’ indeed, saved only in fits and starts for many years, his main gain a roof over his head – now freed, well, business was better. There is no affectation to him that screams of the wealthy – and all the little signs about him point to this fortune that was almost disregarded except for practicalities.

His clothing is not of any particularly well-known brand – but the fabric is well made, an almost invisible patch sewn into it where a hem had frayed – he has never broken himself out of the habit.

His car is well-built and practical, not particularly flashy, but not a junk model either, and it is the safe, boring choice of a man who spent three weeks pouring over information before making a deliberation.

But that is the…smart way to do things, surely? He does not understand these big boys in the Mafia and in gangs beyond who flaunt their opulence, who show off their dripping gold. Why would one want to scream ‘ I am a gangster, ‘ as an amateur – when true skill bred whispers and kept one safer?

Ego. He…doesn’t have time for it.

He is here to prepare for…a date.  It is his first, and he doesn’t entirely know what to do, but he remembers that Vincent wanted a drink that one time – in retrospect understood it to mean alcohol. He thinks he might get him something nice, something that won’t be enough to make him sad, but might prove a good gesture. It is why he is here himself instead of sending another – he doesn’t expect much trouble (has brought a decently made ID in case) and wants to make his own selection.

In the end, it’s a while before he makes his decision – a small, pretty glass bottle filled with fermented potatoes that claims to be the ‘standard’ – makes his way up to the counter with admirable confidence for someone who had never purchased alcohol before – young face neutral and quietly determined.

“I would like to purchase this alcohol, please. I take it these are your finest potatoes.”

Humorous, perhaps, but his features are entirely deadpan as he slides his false ID forward.

“…thank you.”

[newvegascrow-blog]

by the time the young man finally makes his way to the counter, bode is about to burst at the seams.  just tipping his head in quiet observation as the other enters the shop and... well ‘fish out of water’ would be a wholesome underestimation here.  

there’s something slightly stiff, slightly awkward... even though the movements are fluid they’re there with a manner of something calculated --  that seems like the guy had previously taken out some kind of protractor and measuring tape and decided exactly how to move and where to be and what to say before he did it... painfully thoughtful... it’s amazing there’s not smoke coming out of his ears...

a bottle is selected - delicate glass, and pristine presentation... it’s actually not a bad choice all in all - but he suspects that it’s been chosen because of the appearance and advertising and not the contents.  he’s young.  too young to be in here if the experienced cops estimation is good - and it usually is... however, he’s not about to bust some kid over trying to hook a bottle of booze... he’s in a goddamn store for one - no hiking drugs on the street, no petty theft or trying to smuggle the bottle out under a jacket ( just as well, because on that slender frame it would be excruciatingly obvious ).  he’s even so goddamn polite about it...

he does - however - almost choke on the catch of his own breath.

I take it these are your finest potatoes.  

dear sweet baby jesus - it’s a good job he’s got the constitution of a rock because there isn’t even a snort or a snigger that leaks out - but holy hell - he might just suffocate himself trying to hold it in.

and the presence at the counter, the words, the slip of id isn’t enough to catch the attention of the aged, deaf shopkeep ( seriously though, someone could probably walk in here and just clear out the whole shop and the old fart probably wouldn’t notice ).

okay, okay... enough.

taking a few steps over, he places his own bottle on the counter and then one finger on the id - sliding it toward himself to peer at it.  it’s good.  fake - but good.  of course... he has his own id.  something he could flash in lieu of any forthcoming protest.   an ncpd badge.   not fake.   but he’s content to leave that nestled in his pocket - for now.  doesn’t want to spook the guy.             ----------then again, he probably doesn’t look very ‘cop’ right now... dressed in ‘civvies’ - still covered in half-healed cuts and bruises after the ‘incident’ - and a slight limp when he walks ( the leg’s still ‘clicking’ but it’s functional enough ).

“y’know - all you need to do to make this - less - convincing, is to add in some kind of sharpie mustache or beard... get creative.”

tongue in cheek, and there’s a small smirk creeping onto his lips... 

“the ‘please’  and ‘thank you’ is a nice touch though.  lot of people don’t got the manners they were born with these days.  first time buyin booze, huh?”

an eyebrow raises - bode pushing the id back in the young mans direction - this time walking around to the other side of the counter... that just earns him a brief look from ‘deaf and disinterested’ ( who was also more than aware that his regular sake purchaser was a cop, and probably could give less of a shit ) - a small huff of breath as he goes back to doing whatever it is he was doing.  contemplating the meaning of life or some crap...

“take another run at it.  keep the manners - speak up a bit - and... never, ever, refer to --”

ohgod, he’s going to lose his shit at any moment... so there’s a small cough as a bark of a laugh almost threatens to slip free.

“--potatoes... try somethin’ along the lines of - ‘just this today, thanks’.  or ‘this one, please’.  keep it short, simple.”

[ripperdxc]

  “Shit,” the expletive is so quiet that above the surrounding chaos it would be hard to hear, a rarity from the lips of the surgeon and an indicator of just how far out of his depth he was here. “No…he wouldn’t do this…” Except Vince didn’t know that. The boy might’ve been skin and bones when he’d met him, deadened green eyes that never quite met his and short, sharp responses but was he really capable of this level of destruction? Suit or not. Perhaps Vincent simply saw the best in people and that blinded him from seeing what else they were capable and made of. He’d spent his life amongst men that were capable of delivering huge waves of bloodshed and yet, for his own sanctity, he’d levied patching them up and protecting them by finding the good in them. A habit, that perhaps now he ought to be more cautious with.

  It wasn’t the earlier threat that sends a slight shiver down his spine, instead it’s the twist of his words that follow. That why you’re really here, Vincent? A voyeur in the aftermath? It’s a sharp jab, one that hits him right in the chest and with a sickening nausea the blade twists. “No…” He utters softly with cobalt eyes downcast. Only manages to lift his head and meet Bode’s gaze as he stumbles and falls backwards, the harsh bloodied look of distress twisting that blade even further. “I didn’t plan this Bode…I didn’t know this was going to happen. Believe me wouldn’t have done what I did if I could foretell the future…”

  Except it’s written right there in the cop’s stark gaze, there was no coming back from this. Still Vincent kneels before him as if he’s about to repent for his sins, certainly would be later. But not through prayer. At least not the kind of prayer that the Catholic church would sanction. He’d spill his thoughts, all of them, down to the very intimate anguish and sorrow that was bleak and harrowing upon his shoulders, onto the page through ink. His personal confessional that required no lenience on another. No speculative worship of a man high above. Just honest words and a shaking hand. Because no matter how hard he focused on stilling them, they wouldn’t.

  Odd given how the surgeon was quite adept in facing stressful situations, knew what to do and how to approach things, what to say and how to comfort people. It had become second nature through all these years. Yet this was not a hurt he could fix. Least not beyond the scratches and scrapes Bode had endured. So when he leans close enough to clean up the wounds he’s sustained it’s in full knowledge his hands are likely to be swiped away, at best. But unfortunately for Bode, he was quite persistent, a little stubborn perhaps in this area. If he had amends to make, he’d make them, subtly, quietly and perhaps over considerable time but the guilt would drown him if he did nothing. That, and there was the small simple fact he could not simply abandon Bode here injured, friend or not now.

  “There won’t be another…” There’s a quiet sureness as he speaks slowly, “I’ll find him and set this right… Bode you need this to be taken care of, bleeding heavily.” He half utters beneath his breathe, deathly focused on staunching the bleeding with the thin on the grounds provisions he had left over. There’s a pause before he speaks again, as if mulling over and crunching the fate he’s been dealt. “I won’t bother you again…I promise. Just please let me help you?”

  “I’ll go afterwards.” There’s a quite promise there, no matter how much it hurts him to usher it.

[newvegascrow-blog]

wouldn’t have done what I did if I could foretell the future

“yeah, well.  that makes two of us, vincent.”

still the heavy, sharp delivery of the other’s full name.  he offers no hint of familiarity.  though he supposes... he’s equally as responsible for... all of this.  the cost of lives lost weighing a little heavier on already bowing shoulders.  he was the one who’d released the suit after all.  it had been a bad choice, based on misplaced trust.

course - it’s entirely possible that the doc had done exactly the same thing.  misplaced trust.  in someone else.  someone who had caused... this... ...but he’s too damn tired and too damn sore to try to wrap his brain around the intricacies of that unrolling ball of string... all tangles and knots and snipped, frayed ends.

however.  even for the snarling, wounded creature that he is right now - he is a little surprised that the softly spoken, often timid medic dares to move closer.  because the most dangerous thing right now ( at least as far as vincent is concerned ) - isn’t another explosion.  not any masked suited man in a modified exo suit.  not even the risk of a little more of the building coming apart around the seams...

...it’s his proximity to the pissed off, angry, weary - emotionally compromised cop.

and sure.  he has his moments.   he’s used to dealing with intense, fractious situations.  that’s his damn job.  but most of the time, it’s not his own emotions he’s trying to keep in check.  not his own psyche that’s taken a blow.

and perhaps it’s a notion of that surprise that allows the doc to get close.  to start administering the smallest amount of aid that he might be able to at first glance.

“people are dead.  they’re DEAD vince!  what is it about that that you’re gonna set right!?”

it’s another of those sharp barbs.  and it’s borne from an anger that - unfortunately - in that moment.... boils over.  very probably misdirected, but there’s not a lot he can do.  or maybe doesn’t want to.  to put a cork in the sudden explosion.  and even hurt, these old bones can still move quick enough ( well, his arm can - he couldn’t run right now if his heels were on fire, and his arms are just about the only functional thing he has to work with -- ) -- so he takes a swing.  a quick jab.  an unfortunate thing for the doctor who happens to be the only one here, bearing the brunt of all of that exhaustion and desperate helplessness... 

striking him dead on the nose with a sharp crack.  enough to jar bode’s arm, feel his knuckles crunch - and vinces’ nose - and have him off balance, even sitting on the ground.  finally just... giving up, slightly propelled by his own motion and the closeness of the punch - flopping onto his back with a groan‘.

however...  as with the previous.  and literal - explosion.  this one is equally as short lived.  bode just looking up at the sky.  it looks like it’s getting lighter.  he can’t remember.  was it day time or night time?  probably doesn’t matter either way.

he closes his eyes.   stops looking.  starts listening. focuses on the sounds around him.

“okay.  fine.”

it’s not much of an apology.   actually... it’s not really an apology at all.  

he’s not gonna say ‘sorry’ for what was probably a sorely busted nose.  because that?  well, he’s pretty sure that vince deserves that for being a fucking idiot.  and bode?  well... he just had a ceiling fall on him and the side of a building partially collapse for his trouble... there’s something already broken in him... somewhere.  ( and no, he’s not being poetic here - he means very literally - broken... because if it wasn’t then it wouldn’t be physically hurting so goddamn much ).  so... he’s calling that one even. and here they are.  both scattered and bleeding in the rubble of their own mistakes.

“fix what you can fix.”

he’s not really talking about his own injuries here.  because he has a suspicion that the doc wouldn’t take a chance at coming close a second time over.  which is okay.  he could do with a nap about now.  and the brick under his back isn’t comfortable in any way.  but he honestly doesn’t think he has the strength to move.  

course, that would give vince the perfect opportunity to drop a damn rock on his skull.   maybe... he will.   or maybe he meant it.  those words... maybe... just maybe... he was as passively guilty - remotely responsible - in this circumstance as the cop himself.

vincent hadn’t been the one to pull the trigger.  in a manner of speaking. hadn’t been the one - he thinks ( he’d like to think - because he’s all about seeing the good in people.  believing that sometimes... mistakes are just made... people have an inherent capacity to fuck up... and then you live with the regret in the aftermath... then... you try to do something about it )  - with the intent to harm... to kill...

one chance.

everyone gets...

one.

chance.

“you’re a stupid asshole vincent.  but -- say i do believe you.”

still talking to the blackness of his own closed eyelids.

“that you really didn’t know whoever you gave that suit to could be involved in something like this.”

as yet unproven, but things were certainly pointing in that direction.

“you ain’t gonna be able to get it back without getting yourself killed now, are ya? which means one more body for me to scrape off of the street. more goddamn paperwork to fill in -  and i think i have enough of that right now...”

...a small thought that his desk which had already been overflowing with paperwork since the moment he set foot in the office was probably buried right now under ceiling tiles and other crap...

...and so was his fish.

which hurt okay?  he loves that fish. ...loved. past tense...

but he’s talking in a manner that hopefully implies that - as much as the doc had likely trusted the wrong person... bode was willing to let his trust linger in that ‘no-space’ - not severed... not repaired.  but hovering there with the potential to go either way...

he doesn’t want vince dead trying to fix something that went beyond him.

“i can’t get involved in this one vince.  because if i do, it becomes ‘official’ and you’re up shit creek and paddle-less... and so am i for givin’ the damn thing to you in the first place.  plus - i’ve got my hands full right here...”

one hand waves vaguely in the air.  the cop still not making any effort to move, though he does open his eyes and turn his head - needs to see if there’s any truth left in the man he once called ‘friend’.

“...just... tell me you have back up?  that you’re not about to jump in over your head.”