The drive, peaceful, quiet. The sun, sinking softly into the sandy horizon, the sky now coated in a hazy glow as they approached the city gates of Freeze. Bellamy kept a close distance to Mason, his eyes frequently scanning the back of her frame as they rode through the sandy dunes together. Unfamiliar emotions bubbled in his chest when his eyes met that yellow helmet. Fear was beginning to settle in his gut, the foreign idea of ‘teaming’ up together felt rather impossible. Lack of judgment, heart overruling his head in this arena. The extended arm, outstretched. Inviting. Hopeful. Speeding to her side, he glanced over at her. That helmet. The beaten yellow metal, glinting back at him. With a quick word, she departed. Left in her dust, he turned towards the gates of Freeze.
A keep towered above the rest, arms outstretched in welcome, keeping a watchful eye on the sinful doings of its residents within. Riding into the city, he slowed, beginning to feel the familiar prickle on the back of his neck. Eyes, scanning, awaiting, searching his body for weaponry, something to pickpocket, anything to touch. Freeze wasn’t dangerous. Not in the way he was familiar with at least. Sweet, soothing deliriousness was found here. Lust bubbling in every corridor, and every alley. As darkness encircled the sandy dunes, the nightlife erupted almost instantaneously. A playground. Soft neon lights illuminated the smoke beginning to billow from the lips of those just starting their day. Crimson red flickered to life, women and men, little to nothing covering their skin, enticing the drunken into giving up a small fortune for a short lived bliss. Bellamy pulled his bandana further up his nose, keeping his eyes forward, ignoring the itching desire to intimidate, to frighten those who have made the naive mistake of attempting to maintain his gaze. An hour. Mason had said an hour. He could do that.
Tucking his bike out of sight, he pulled his jacket on, the night bringing a chill to his skin. Bellamy walked cautiously out of the darkened alley, his bike carefully chained to an immovable pipe. It could be stripped for parts, but he wasn’t worried. The area he was in was thrumming with hushed whispers of those who rarely encounter bounty hunters. Assassin. Murderer. Beater. Vicious. Rageful. Merciless. Strolling into the crowding street, the buzz of excitement hung heavy in the air. Young men, pointing at those stationed at the front of the brothels, snickering in between one another at the prospect of a sleepless night. Beater huffed, shoving his fingers deeper into his pockets, caressing his metal knuckles in comfort. Their presence enough to ease the tension in his shoulders.
A soft red glow illuminated his features, a bar, to the right of him. Two men leaning heavily on one another laughing loudly, while pointing at a random passerby. Innocence. Ignorance. The burn of jealousy touched his chest, feigning carelessness was easy. His life hung in the balance too often for there to be even a touch of genuineness to it. Beater made his way past them and into the bar, immediately being met with the stench of tobacco. Smoke hung in the air, stale, as if the bar was intentionally filled with the hazy leftovers of previous tenants. Few turned to face him, his entrance clearly a disturbance. A few of those who sought employment from the brothel occupied the space. Leaning heavily on men, stroking their egos, giggling softly at their carnal comments. It wasn’t as crowded as he expected, and he allowed a small sigh of relief to slip past his lips, stopping short at the cloth of his bandana. Beater took careful steps inside, eyes scanning the exit points, along with the size of the men in the bar. Large. Insignificant. Their size would be their disadvantage if they decided to engage with him. Seating himself at the bar, he yanked his bandana down, tapping twice on the worn wood of the counter. An older man strolled towards him, his eyes darting to the rest of the bar, and slowly back towards him. Hands worn, years of labor, a few scars gracing wrinkled knuckles. Owning a bar must have brought its own handful of violence. “A beer if ya have it..” He murmured out, not necessarily interested in drawing attention to himself. An hour. Tension filled his shoulders. Just one hour. Jaw clenching. How hard could an hour be?
@smokinmirrors
