Unfinished WIPs - 3. City
“Do you even know what you’re even looking for?”
“Yeah!” Virgil shoves his tiny yellow paper into Scott’s hand. “Look here, mineral white, and I need a red that doesn’t have a yellow hue, it doesn’t matter what kind of red.”
Except they’ve been standing in front of the oil paint aisle for thirty minutes. “If it doesn’t matter what kind of red you get, then why don’t you just grab one?”
The artist frowns. “I don’t know.” His eyes steer back at the collection of reds. “There’s permanent rose, that looks okay, but… I don’t know… Because I need something that looks good if I mix it with cobalt blue to get purple.”
“What if you bought all the fancy blue-y reds?”
“I’m sure we have money.”
As if like a trigger word, the front door to Virgil’s favourite art shop is slammed open without warning. A hooded man struts in, his face covered up with a balaclava, a gun firmly gripped in hand. Scott eyed the model from the safe distance of the aisle that he and Virgil were hidden in.
Virgil’s hand reached out to Scott’s bicep and tugged. “There’s a backdoor through the staffroom.” He whispers.
“Our position is already as safe as it is; I’d rather not risk being seen escaping.” Scott whispers back, ignoring the suggestion. He holding onto Virgil’s hand tightly while his other hand lands on the brother’s shoulder, guiding the younger down to a crouched position and following behind.
The gunman’s attention was still directed towards the till man. Scott’s teeth grits as he watches the man voice force aggression towards the stoic shopkeeper, the muffled threats and the barrel of the gun doing absolutley nothing to persway the shop owner.
A reserved urge to protect surges through Scott as he notices the weapon move into two hands rather than the original one. He steps forwards, ignoring the hissed protests of panic from his little brother.
“Hey!” Scott yells. The gunman swiftly spins on his heels at the exclamation. With no goal mind — just dead focus on the armed man in front of him — Scott storms over there, his steps are wide, each sending a thud that vibrates the nearby shelves of the aisle. Blue eyes narrow into sharp fury, shoulders tensed and fists clenched.
The gunman hesitates, he takes a step backwards with his eyes wide before remembering the weapon in his hand. He raises it up to Scott’s direction, but Scott’s angry stride doesn’t halt. The man shoots.
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