when: june 2nd, evening
where: a warehouse, neutral territory
status: closed for @reginadalys
He’s having a difficult week.
Well. Difficult might be an understatement, but this was supposed to be the cherry on top of the cake, something bright and shiny to talk himself out of a bad mood. This was supposed to be a victory, of a personal sort, both for the Montagues and for Boris, a way to eke himself back into the good graces of his kith slowly but surely.
This is Renata Gelli, and she is currently hemorrhaging her way to the end from a bullet in her body, if not already dead. He watches with a little tug of regret as red ichor bubbling from past her teeth and lips and gracelessly onto her chin, her neck, her pristine pressed shirt with flowers on the collar. She smells very suddenly of piss -- Boris isn’t sure if that’s because a bullet struck her in the bladder or if she was so terrified of death her body reacted without realizing. Or it’s the biological function of dying. He’s never looked into it. He knows it happens, sometimes.
Boris is also praying to God that he’s not next, which is why he has two hands up in a hold on gesture, staring at the woman on the other side of the warehouse, holding what very well may be a smoking gun. Ah, cherry on top.
Difficult week.
“Wait,” he says, and nothing else. No I can explain. No please. No I have a lot to live for, I’m very handsome, look at my cheekbones, I’ll make it up to you. Just a soft wait, as if that will make any real difference. At his feet, where Renata has crumpled to the ground like someone smashed her into pieces with a sledgehammer, her body makes a little gurgling noise. Spittle now joins bubbling blood. Her eyes twitch. Boris casts his gaze down. Maybe she isn’t dead. Huh. One’s thing for certain: no one is calling for help, at least not for her. If he were to call for assistance on his behalf, Boris doesn’t think anyone would come.
