thequietcut (thequietcut) wrote in modernage, @ 2010-06-26 21:59:00 |
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Entry tags: | thomas elliot | hush, william hand | black hand, ∴ scenes: completed |
Narrative + OPEN to William Hand
Who: Hush (and Open to Black Hand)
Where: An abandoned warehouse and known gathering spot for the homeless in Philadelphia
When: May 5th, late night
Summary: Tommy takes some time out of his busy schedule to train.
Reginald Jenkins had been panhandling all day with his harmonica, but the scattered showers had made everything a bit of a bust. Still, he had made enough money to buy some food, and since his friend Stretch had been nice to him last week, he thought he ought to share with the man today. They usually met up at the old paper warehouse--a number of them lived there in a cycle of rest and being chased out by the cops or yanked out by well intentioned Christians. By the time he got there, he was surprised to see there were no fires. No one was home.
Maybe the cops had pulled a raid? He coughed, glancing this way and that. His ears didn't pick up a sound. It seemed strange but since there were no signs of the cops, he settled in on an old mattress and spread out his dinner.
High above him a figure crouched. The man surveying the scene wore a long trench coat and bandages wound about his head. One gloved hand caressed one of the two guns harnessed to his body. How easy it would have been to end a miserable urchin life in that second, but no...that was not what he was here to accomplish. He had his suspicions about his enemy, and if it was one thing Tommy knew about Bruce it was that the man was brilliant at tactical subterfuge. He remembered Camp Hi-Hill and how the Wayne had tugged out pure fury in him, caused Tommy to make himself vulnerable and tip his hand just minutes after he and Bruce had been enjoying a sun-drenched morning on the lake. Yes, Bruce was not someone to underestimate, and so if Tommy were to begin a campaign against him, learned patience and cunning would be his weapons.
Instead of a gun, he pulled out a scalpel. Carefully, silently, he made his way down to the floor of the warehouse where his quarry was eating. He was a mere twenty feet away when he kicked a dirty can out of the way. He wanted the adrenaline to start, wanted his victim afraid even to the last breath. Reginald's head snapped up accordingly, but in the dark moonlight, he couldn't see where the noise had come from. He was ready to dismiss it entirely when Tommy let his boot scrape the concrete floor. Gathering his things haphazardly, Reginald made a move to leave. That was when Tommy stepped in, delivering a fierce headbutt that sent the man to the floor. It was an nondescript kind of wound that one could get in any kind of scuffle. Now for the hard part. As Reginald scrambled up again, Tommy brought the knife in against him at a hard angle. He felt the resistance of the blade that he had been looking for. Scalpels were a special kind of blade for minimum resistance and scarring--quite unlike what you would see in a street scuffle, and so he had to inflict some of the roughness himself.
"Hush," he murmured as he clamped a hand onto the man's mouth and twisted his weapon. The man started to shake and shudder, falling to his knees before slumping to the floor entirely. Tommy searched his pockets for any personal effects, and finding the harmonica, he set this on the ground and smashed it under foot. Everything here told a story of petty theft, jealousy, rage--of the kind of intimate killing that he had wanted to imitate. He wiped his blade on the man's pant leg. Not bad for a practice round.