miles baines: riff-raff! street rat! (mimicks) wrote in emillion, @ 2014-08-24 15:03:00 |
|
|||
Entry tags: | !complete, !narrative, miles baines |
sooner or later, the man is bound to fall.
Who: Miles Baines, Mr. Lake, and crew.
What: Hubris.
Where: The Royal Bank of Ivalice
When: Today
Rating: Tame
Status: Complete narrative
They had done everything conceivably possible to prepare for this job, poured months of preparation and equipment into it, studied the plans and Loch’s arrangements with the security— He’s familiar with these conditions. Thrives on them, in fact, rallying to the challenge and leaping through hoops as required: Miles Baines et al. work best on the turn of a dime, the tip of a knife, the edge of their seats, adjusting and readjusting on the fly. But this time, he watches the job collapse like a balloon deflated with the prick of a blade. They’d prepared for months; they were practiced professionals; they had done everything possible— And it’s still a house of cards tumbling in slow motion. Because the Royal Bank of Ivalice is too well-protected, too high of a mark, and he watches the guards come racing out of their quarters and barracks like a disturbed hive, buzzing and pelting down hallways as the crew dissolves to make their getaway, gil spilling across the floor, errant boots kicking the abandoned coins rolling and rolling as they flee. He’s running down the streets at a complete out-of-control sprint, sickly-sweet adrenaline pounding—until he runs headlong into what feels like an immovable wall of flesh, unflinching, solid. Miles rocks back and then looks up (and up), his eyes meeting ones of piercing cornflower blue, the same deep pools of water he’s so used to, so very familiar. The man’s instincts are knife sharp: his thieves’ daggers are already out, rising to meet the knight’s blade. But at the very last second, one word runs through his head and Miles hesitates (spelling his own doom). The word is brothers. The flat of the blade collides with the side of his skull, knocking him out cold. When he comes to, there’s the familiar cold steel of handcuffs behind his back and the purring of a car around him. EKP. This is a sight he knows well, even down to the twists and turns in the street that’ll take him to the nearest guildhall. He tests the flex of his wrists, the give of the handcuffs. But they’re too tight, biting into his flesh. Finch knows his business. “The charges won’t stick, you know,” he says, through the wool in his mouth and the throbbing pain in his head. For once, it sounds like Miles is trying harder to convince himself. He feels nauseous; he has to bite the bile back, chewing down on the side of his own mouth, gnawing on his own flesh to keep himself from letting out a noise. |