@mayormentats
THE OCEAN ABOVE IS BLACK, dressing the towering man with a coat made of night. footsteps traverse along the rotted ground, his shadow following behind like an obedient ghost. the silence is familiar; an old friend listening to the solemn rhythm of vincent’s heart beating inside his chest, unchanging in the air of loneliness some 200 years later. however, this particular loneliness fairs differently. self-inflicted, rather than forced.
he tightens his grip against hancock’s freshly washed clothes, folded neatly & cradled by the weight of his forearm. blood still painted the fabric, splotches sized like pin-pricks; an effort made in vain, as no matter how much fluid could be scrubbed away, the reminder remained within the squint of an eye.
mass pike tunnel e looms ahead, skyscrapers stretching high against the rubble, watching over the graveyard of cars — the phantom beeping of horns, panicking for evacuation, mimicks the echo of a piano player's notes from miles away. the past entertains the darkness as vincent continues forth, allowing the parade of memories to float on by like an unpleasant odor. mushroom clouds. radiated sulfur. sweat.
the warehouse manifests out of thin air, a projection of reality outside vincent’s tunnel vision. he stops, standing beside a once bright yellow, now decrepit truck. hancock’s warning lingers in the back of his mind. don’t fuck with the lock. fine — but, part of him thinks he could break in no problem. most locks had a master system, & this one probably wasn’t any different – what a sight to see. vincent settled as hancock enters the space, finding his warehouse infiltrated, an all knowing, shit-eating grin greeting him from across the room. maybe even right inside the door.
No.
hancock’s tone turned serious at the mention of waiting. vincent’s wrist burned, remembering the pressure of hancock’s grab & the impression he’d left as he slapped that note into vincent’s palm,.the immortal man's breathing hitched in just that split second, caught off guard & distracted by the smell of cigarette smoke — which damn, why did he forget his smokes?
he flicks his head to the left, then the right, spotting a train car; its backside just inches off the track. he retrieves his knife as he paces forward, opening the side door with anticipation for an enemy, but it’s empty, save for a lone chair & a patch of stained wood. he holsters his blade. takes the seat. lays the clothes against the floor. leans forward, meeting his elbows to his knees. no way anyone would follow him out here, still, he wasn’t exactly on marowski’s goodside, especially after insulting his shitty handywork which nearly got vincent killed by the mayor of goodneighbor – or so vincent spun, leaving out many, many details -- details that held a power over him he could only relay as, haunting.
minutes pass & still he’s left to his own company, hiding inside a traincar. it’s expected, isn’t it? why would hancock give him any more than necessary of his deserved time? what gave vincent that right? bringing the clothes felt ridiculous now. this whole thing — god, he should have packed up & left when he had the chance, & there were plenty of them, still he stayed. couldn’t be hancock’s sake. perhaps for his own revenge? freedom from marowski? some deeply misunderstood alliance between himself & a betrayed friend?
none of these harbored enough life; the reason was always selfish.
the distinct jingle of keys alerts him. vincent twists his head up, his whole body lifting as if he’s tied to a rope that’s actively being pulled, then he grabs the clothes & inches closer to the edge of the traincar, peeking his head out, his brown curls brushing against the doorway. he’s spying on the earth, watching the front of the warehouse, waiting for his turn to appear like a rabbit out of a magic hat.
