[ Epsilon is a 19yr/old punk, looking for someone to keep him. He prefers males and generally maintains an oppositional defiant, bratty dispositionthat being said, don't even think about replying if you're not up to the challenge. ]
The adolescent lounged casually outside the abandoned little cafe. As casually as one could lounge, that was, in such awful weather. Intricate flakes of white descended in flurries from the dark skies overhead and his yellow eyes were shuttered tightly against the bitter cold. If it hadn't been for the suspicious hunch of his shoulders, however, one might've never been able to tell he was slowly freezing to death.
Of course, there was the way he was shivering, as well as the faint but nonetheless alarming blueish tinge his skin was slowly adopting. Jacket sleeves stretched over bruised knuckles, his grubby, blue-tinged fingers clutching at the [clothing] article's tattered hems - - Epsilon knew how he looked. Knew he was out of options. Hell, at this point, he should've been dead already. It was only a matter of time, really, and he could no longer recall his reasons for fighting.
You want to live.
Oh, right. He wanted to live. Well. Now was as good a time as any, he supposed.
An old, ageing, waddling man rounded the corner. He had a kind face, with a short white beard protruding from just his chin, and a full head of white hair with a silver streak. His feet shuffled as he leaned to and fro with every step. He was hunched, and made ample use of his walking stick as he negotiated the street and its irregular mounds and depressions. He enjoyed a walk around the block at night to keep him fit, and the cold made him much the better for it. It was a pleasant routine. Especially since that horribly loud café closed, his night walks had gained tranquility, his sleep had gained uninterrupted rest.
However, his walk was interrupted. An irregularity ruined his quiet, serene walk, and would certainly ruin his waking hours.
In fact, he poked this irregularity this instant. "You! Move off!" he ordered, applying his stick with poking abandon. "The café is closed! There is no alcohol for you here!" His lips were pursed, he grumbled, an incessant whine commencing under his vocal effort. "You'll ruin my morning view!"
It was after midnight and Rosie was busy cleaning the shop,when she heard a voice outside screaming that somebody had to move. She took a peek outside seeing the old man who always walked by around this time.He is getting so old and she smiled because she knew him for many years now, always kind and helpful he was, untill his wife died, he felt alone and he was sad, it was like he never could forget her.She looked further and recognized another person, only she couldn't see well because the light in the street wasn't very good. Maybe he was screaming to him or her. Rosie put her vest tight on her shoulders, it's cold and the first snow is falling. Why are there still people outside with this cold weather, it's better to be in your home where it's warm and cosy.Quikly she went inside because she had a bucket full of warm water and she needed to mop the floors because they were really dirty from all the mud that people brought in over the day. She looked through the window one more time before she went on with her work.
"Another time around the block," Solo casually instructed the driver, without looking up from his phone. He was wearing a brown cotton, double-breasted suit coat by Bertolli, crocodile-skin loafers, wool socks by Lincoln Rockwell with undergarments and a shirt to match, a silk tie by Giorgin Delamy, with a rose gold-plated pin. His hair was slicked back, accentuating an obviously expensive haircut. He had a moderately attractive face, with a square jaw and high cheekbones, but his physique was the most impressive aspect about him. He had square shoulders, and an athletic build, which resulted from years of intense training and participation in sporting events.
"Yes, sir," the elderly black man replied with a quiet demeanor that might be mistaken for dignity by anyone but Solo. The man wore a chauffer's outfit provided by his employer, with a hat to match. He was overweight, but his body suggested he may have once been lean and muscular.
"Yes, sir," Solo imitated with disdain, "Richard, why are you such a f**king bore?"
"I don't know, sir," Richard replied, and though it seemed like an automatic response, he honestly didn't know why he was such a bore.
Solo was too busy to notice the old man's response. He was engrossed in his flash game, to the point where everything else seemed like a foolish distraction. Pixels flashed across the screen, and he responded with practiced precision, until he made a fatal error. A moment later 'Game Over' appeared in front of his eyes. The anger flashed through him like a raging torrent. He looked out the window to see some punk hanging about outside an old café. Solo's firm was responsible for encouraging sub-prime loans that had lead to the café's foreclosure, though he couldn't have known this.
Without hesitation, he rolled down the window and tossed his smart phone at the boy on the street. Solo had been a quarterback in high school and, although he was not at his best in terms of aim, the phone struck true.
"SCREW YOU!" Solo called from the car, raising his middle finger offensively as he did so, "Richard, pull over the car, right the f**k now, you limp dick!"
Rosie was almost done with mopping the floor and everything looked nice and clean for a change, she was proud of it and smiled in her self,if my mother could see me now she would be proud too, with the work she had done.She wanted to trow the bucket with water that was really dirty with mud and god knows what else you can find in there when she heard a scream again. what is going on outside normally there is nobody at this time.She saw a car coming by and it was a fancy one she had never seen before, what is that doing here?and why in this neighberhood,sometimes it's not safe arround here, last week there was somebody killed by gunfire so from that day on she carried a knife with her only for safety.The car stopped and Rosie saw a man coming out, dressed in expensive close and all.What is he doing, why is he screaming so loud, is he mad at the boy who is standing there by he old cafe that has been closed now for several months.She new it was a boy now because he moved a little bit so he was standing under an old lamp.He looked scared and cold, what is he doing over there al by himself?
Leo was walking down the littered sidewalk with a average pace. Even though he just offed his most recent contract hit, he was feeling pretty damn good. He was wearing a black tee shirt and blue jeans. Tan, steeltoe workboots pounded the pavement while his matching tan leather jacket kept him warm from the biting cold. Leo reached into his jacket's inner pocket, pulled out a cigarette and lit it with his shamrock engraved Zippo. A waft of the cigarette smoke blew past his face and over his sandy, shortly shaved head. Leo was a contract killer. He didn't do it for the money, however. Leo did it at a decent price for the working-class man, and most of his targets were corporate, silver spoon fat cats. All of his targets were indeed a*****es. Yet another triumphant puff of his cigarette when he noticed some douchebag, who looked like he came straight out of a Macy's catalog, was yelling at some kid. Leo wasn't about to just walk past a chance to mess with pampered scum. Leo walked right up to the rich dude. "Is there a problem?"
After exiting the still moving vehicle and angrily crossing the empty street, Solo was mildly startled to hear a voice coming from his side. His first instinct was to reach for the miniature 9 mm Beretta he carried with him, on account of him being in a dangerous neighborhood. On this matter he hesitated, instead choosing to turn towards his would-be aggressor.
'Just my goddamn luck, another disenfranchised f**ker,' Solo thought to himself as he spotted the modestly dressed individual approaching him, he simply repeated the words back with an angry tone, "Is there a problem?!" He turned fully to face this new person and to get a better view of him.
"I'll tell you what there's a problem here!" He yelled, his body seething with rage as a result of the loss he had suffered on his phone, "There's a punk-ass with a bone to pick to the left of me and a guy who looks like an uglier Jack Kerouac in front of me!"
'Maybe this night isn't a total loss after all,' Solo thought as he readied himself for a fight. The cocaine and scotch buzz left over in his body from the office party and subsequent escapade at the club had been steadily declining over the last half-an-hour, but the prospect of street fight brought a rush of adrenaline that felt like a godsend into his body. In truth, he had been mentally hoping and preparing for this ever since he had left the club earlier in the evening. Although he wasn't a great fighter, he could hold his own, he thought, though it might've simply been the confidence boost of the coke. Besides if things went south he could dive for the car or, barring that, reach for his gun. In the instant all these thoughts raced through his brain at astounding speed, only the idea to reach for the gun seemed appealing at this point, and he forced himself not to act on the impulse.
"What the f**k you gonna do about it, f**k-nut?!"
Immediately after the rich and clearly high manic called Leo a "f**k nut", Leo surprised the man with a quick yet powerful right jab directly to his throat. Leo knew his former military training would come in handy especially living in this city. Leo turned to the young man and asked, "You alright? know this a*****e?". Leo had no idea what can of worms he opened up.
(OOC: I love your character Solo. I have a feeling that he's definitely one to set things up and keep shit exciting)
Solo was caught off guard by the attack and stumbled backward, out into the street, clutching at his throat with his left hand. Under normal circumstances, this would've been the time he reconsidered his actions and backed off, but late nights and hard, yuppie partying have a way of limiting a man's inhibitions. Without thinking, he reached into his coat and drew the miniature handgun he was carrying, fully intending to blow the man away. However, due to the fact that his throat had just been violently battered, his aim was pretty far off and he fired all seven shots wildly outward.
The first bullet struck a wall, far left, embedding itself in the old brick structure. The next two hit a wall, to the right. Another shattered the window of the abandoned cafe. Two more shots entered through the doorway of the building where Rosie had been cleaning. Finally, the last shot struck an old man passing by, though Solo was unable to determine where he had been hit. Immediately after the rush of the excitement wore off, Solo felt his stomach drop.
"Oh no..."
Leo was expecting to get hit with at least one of the seven shots that were fired. With his extensive knowledge of weaponry, he knew the damn fool's weapon was spent of it's rounds. Leo ran to the opening of the store and shouted, "Call an ambulance!". Leo then rushed to the old man. The round went into the old man's leg. "Shit! It tore through his femoral artery...". The assassin lodged his shin into the wounded leg above the bullet wound long enough to take his belt off and used it as a tourniquet. Once the bleeding slowed down, Leo turned to the trigger happy silver spooned. "The f**k is wrong with you?! Any time people like you see a little bit of violence, you rich bastards always use something you bought to get you out of trouble. When the ambulance gets here, I'm kicking your ass!". Nothing could cool him off from his rage at this point.
Hearing gunshots, Mac the local hobo stumbled out from his alley, drunkenly staring at the rag tag group of angry fellows.
"The hell are ya'll doin'? If you're wantin' to kill someone, would you mind takin' it elsewhere? I don't want no cops in my alley," he slurred angrily.
A drunk bum came out and was yelling something about his alley. Leo wasn't really focused on him so much as he was making sure the old man didn't bleed out. The yuppie didn't seem to be very responsive either and was just standing there in a daze.
Seeing the two men fight, the old man waddled on. This was no business of his, he decided. He was just here for the rest, which he clearly wasn't getting. First there was one young man ruining his well-deserved serene walk of rest, then there was an expensive and loud car pulling over and now there were another two men shouting, the young man seemed to be standing still out of shock, and the waitress from across the street was giving them all weird looks. Great! he thought. Now she'll never look at me with those kind eyes again!
The old man took his cane and his waddling, and clearly decided to go and apply them elsewhere.
That is, until shots went off all over the place, at which point he decided to clearly take them to another place much faster, and all of a sudden something hard and painful clearly hit his leg.
His mind recoiled. His body just kind of fell over.
Did he just get shot? One of the two angry men ran in one direction, yelled something, came back and put something tight around his leg..clearly placing his hands on an old man's upper thigh to do it.
A twitch. That's what the reaction of the old man could best be described as. A twitch, in the outer corner of his left eye. Followed by a shiver in both hands as he clutched his cane. A clear shape-shift of his face like a ripple across a creek as his features distorted from kind, shocked, and flabbergasted, into an ugly, teeth-baring, hate-filled beady-eyed prune. Yes, a prune.
And that prune rose from the ground as if he had rejected its reason of existence. He arose like a man from a grave. Like a vampire from a coffin. It was instant.
So was his stick, though. You should never underestimate an old man with a stick. Especially if the cane's head is a massive lump of steel and can whizz through the air with a fearsome hum to crunch your kneecap. And down goes the groping pervert.
Not that the second angry man was any luckier. The old man was holding his stick by the pointy end and swung it down in a hum so strong the air seemed to vibrate along the street, the steel knob coming to a sudden stop in a meaty crunch flattening the end of some very expensive-looking loafers, all the while his voice raising steadily, unstoppably, to a throaty roar.
"I did NOT FIGHT, SURVIVE, AND LIVE THROUGH HELL IN 'NAM TO COME HOME GROW OLD AND GET SHOT BY A RICH FATCAT BRAT WITH NO RESPECT FOR HIS ELDERS!" The heavy end of the walking cane reversed direction as soon as soon as the crunch was felt, heading for what could quite possibly be a very expensive trip to the dentist for a very rich man.
Not that the old man could've done much more at this point. His heart pumped faster, sending boiling blood where it needed to go - but he felt a growing sensation of dizziness, a slow onset of weakness, a creeping, rippling cold..
Oh yeah. It was a good idea to lay down, the old man remembered. People who got shot in 'nam always laid down. Why was that again?
Because you want to survive.
Oh, right. He wanted to survive. Well, now was as good a time as any, he supposed.
Stumbling closer to the crowd, Mac finally took notice of the old man lying on the ground.
"Shit!" He lurched forward, the shock of seeing someone bleeding on the ground sobering him up considerably. "Good, you've already got the tourniquet going. We need to elevate the leg above his heart, too. That should help out a bit. Where the f**k is that ambulance!?" Mac was panicking now, envisioning cops crawling around, driving him away from his alley and the sweet Rosie, who was always hard at work.
Leo grasped his painful, throbbing knee and looked at the old man in shock as he messed up rich boy and just laid back. It was a moment before Leo realized why the man was acting so tapped. With PTSD you had to reign the person in with familiarity. The bum seemed to be a tad bit late on the upkeep, so Leo calmly pushed him aside and said to the old man, "You hurt my knee, you mean old f**k. You want to live another day with two legs, soldier, you better hear me out. Breathe calm and stay with me. When you get better, you owe me a round for f**kin me up, soldier, hooah?". Completely baffled, Seviyn wondered why he didn't walk his normal route.
The shock of having fired his weapon was quickly washed away as a hard knock smashed into his foot, and nearly into his face. Instantly the fear and anxiety left him, and new-found rage made his way into him.
'You bastard,' Solo thought to himself as he dodged the swing at his face. Immediately he tossed the empty handgun at the elderly veteran while the man in the leather jacket was yelling at him. Solo turned and yelled at Richard to leave before going to the driver's side door of his car. Richard continued to stand in front of the car with a bewildered look. Solo took this as a sign that he was useless. He opened the door and popped the trunk, just as he heard sirens blaring a few blocks away.
"Guess the pigs were close, huh?" Solo yelled to the others near his car as he moved to the now open trunk, "Well see how they hold up to this old girl."
As he said this he retrieved two things from the trunk of his luxury Lincoln; a duffel bag loaded with supplies, and a fully-automatic Avtomat Kalashnikov model of 1947 he had meant to be a present for a friend the next day, which he proceeded to load with a magazine of 7.62 mm rounds. It appeared his friend would not be needing as much as Solo, however. He didn't much care for the friend, actually, nor any of his friends, as he thought about it. Indeed, life had gotten boring, almost as though he were a walking zombie, moving from one expensive meal to the next, he knew he couldn't do it anymore and that it was killing him slowly.
You know you want to live, don't you?
Oh, right. He wanted to live. Well. Now was as good a time as any, he supposed.
'Am I losing my f**kin mind?', Leo thought as random, weird events kept taking place one after another. The smell of gunsmoke, and blood lingered through the air. The increasing volume of distant sirens indicated that the police were to show up soon.
'Great! It really can't get any worse.', He assumed inwardly. The rich guy, who seemingly lost his ever loving mind, apparently heard the sirens, too, because he was muttering something about pigs. He reached into his trunk and pulled out some Russian spray-and-pray weapon. Everything fell silent for Leo. Time even seemed to slow down. Leo got up from the old man's side, pulled out his glock 17 and pointed it at the man. He was not looking to kill a man right before the police were to show up. Especially not with a weapon he just did a hit with.
"Put the f**kin gun down! We don't have to do this. I don't want to deal with cops, and I know you don't want to deal with cops.", negotiated Leo. He had a bone to pick with Rich Boy, but now and here was not the time or place for a fight.
"You leave and I'll leave. No one has to die, no one has to go to the pen.", Leo suggested, hoping the crazy bastard would listen to reason.
Rosie had heard the scuffle, but had wanted to finish her work so that she could go home. When she suddenly heard pops and two bullets embedded themselves in the "welcome" sign on the far wall, she went down on the floor immediately and heard a voice calling for an ambulance, so she reached for the phone from the safety of the floor and called both the cops and an ambulance.
When she heard the old man shout, she stood up and walked to the window, and saw the old man lay down on the street, a younger man bending over him while clutching his knee. She watched from the disturbed safety of her shop and saw the events unfold. Were they pointing guns at eachother? That old man had better not be hurt...
[OOC: I want to repost, but I don't know how to progress this without Solo replying. Now we play the waiting game.]