Connor Callahan will taste the sun (bullet_scrip) wrote in musingslogs, @ 2011-03-06 18:48:00 |
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Entry tags: | revolution man |
Who: Connor Callahan (with Gideon off-screen)
What: Turning work into play
Where: A warehouse on the outskirts of Seattle
When: Tonight
Warnings: Violence, mentions of torture, Connor
It was always a warehouse with these people. Connor wasn’t exactly sure why people liked warehouses so much. Maybe it was because they were big. Maybe it was because they usually had tools in them. Maybe it was because they always seemed to smell like rotting wood. He didn’t know. But for whatever reason, he usually followed these kills to a warehouse just like this one. He supposed he should be less confused and more thankful. After all, it did just give him free toys, which was always an occupational perk.
“You still wif me, luv?” he asked the darkness, pulling a silver lighter from his pocket. It clicked twice until creating a gentle flame that beat back the darkness in the warehouse, bringing his playmate into focus. The man was bleeding from every orifice and a few that Connor had created thanks to dumbass ingenuity. He looked like hell, but if he didn’t, Connor wasn’t doing his job right.
The man cringed, straining weakly against the ropes that bound him to his wooden chair prison. “I’ll pay you,” he wheezed. “I’ll double whatever you’ve been promised.” This was the fifth time he’d said that. Or was it sixth? “Please. I have a wife and daughter, I’ll give you anything.”
Taking a long drag on his cigarette, Connor sighed, closing his eyes. “Anyfin’?” he slurred, reaching into his jacket and pulling out the familiar flask. He didn’t have to look to find the top, unscrewing it from decades of muscle memory. His calloused fingertips trailed over the crude metalwork, finding all the sharp edges and little dents that had plagued the object over the years. Pressing the neck to his lips, he threw his head back, taking a long swig. Once the fire left his throat feeling parched, he screwed the cap back on, glancing to the man opposite him. “Bet ya can’t.”
“Just name your price,” he said hastily.
Connor hummed to himself a moment, stroking his chin as he tucked the flask back into his jacket. “Alright,” he grunted, standing up. “Lessee what you can do, lad.” With the slightest swagger in his step, he rounded his victim and dropped behind him, fingers pulling at the knots that held him fast. Once the other man was free, Connor stood before him, pulling a handgun out of its holster and placing it in his hands. He got a blank stare, utter confusion, and it only fueled his manic grin. “You got once chance, lad. That gun’s loaded. I’m gonna go over there, on that side o’ the room. If you can gun me down before I get to you, you live. Understand?”
Eyes wide, lower lip trembling, the man looked from the gun in his hands to Connor’s face. “I-I-I,” he stammered, finally closing his eyes. “I understand.”
“Good. Wait fer my signal, lad.” Turning his back on the other man – a stupidly bold move, though the warmth in his brain distracted him from this reality – he strode to the opposite end of the warehouse before turning to face him, taking a final drag on his cigarette. Breathing out smoke, he dropped the butt onto the ground, extinguishing it with the sole of his boot. “You ready?” He saw a weak nod in the dim light. “Go.”
Dropping to all fours, Connor took off, gait a mixture between loping and running as he pushed off the floor with strong fingertips and propelled himself with powerful strides. The gunshots echoed throughout the warehouse, making it impossible for him to tell where they came from. But this was good. He was back in the jungles of Vietnam, mud caked in his hear and the smell of death surrounding him. There were indistinct shouts, screams and calls, some in English and some not. None of it made sense, and yet as he zig-zagged across the floor, keeping low and keeping fast, he found himself at the eye of the storm.
Just a few yards from his target, he launched himself upright, prepared to lunge forward when an elephant plowed into his chest. Letting out a strangled gasp of surprise, he fell backwards, a fire raging on his skin. He clutched his chest, feeling syrupy blood cling to his fingertips. He rattled a breath, pain consuming his entire body. It sang in his bones and vibrated through him, red-hot and noisy. It was a cacophony of pain, a symphony of suffering, and it held him still as he heard unsure footsteps approach.
A rigor mortis smile stayed on his face as he looked up at the man, blood sliding from wounds on his arms to mingle with the metal of the handgun. It’d be a bitch to clean off. Hand shaking, he stood over Connor. This was the kill shot range, when he put another slug in him just to make sure he was dead. Still grinning, still on fire, Connor lashed out with one leg to take the other man’s ankles out.
With a gasp of surprise, he fell, dropping the weapon with a clatter. Connor lurched to his feet, trying to ignore the pain in his chest as he picked the handgun up and stood over his mark. The man whimpered, cowering in fear, as Connor placed one foot on his chest and leaned on it. He could feel bones creaking, muscles compressing, everything trying to hold up his weight. As he idly fingered the gun’s trigger, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. Speed dial “1,” and then dialtone.
After a few rings, a familiar voice filled his ear. “Hey, dude.”
Wearing an executioner’s dark grin, Connor turned into the phone and spoke with a voice thickened by pain, pleasure, and idle disconnect. “Here’s your confirmation, luv.” Peeling the phone from his ear, he held it out towards the mark. It caught a few of the man’s frantic half-articulated pleas for mercy before Connor fired four shots into his head and chest, four gunshots that echoed and bled together. Without saying another word, he hung up, slipping the phone back into his pocket.
With a sigh, he reholstered his weapon, reaching into his jacket for his flask. It burned like fire in his throat, a burn that distracted him as he dug dirty fingernails into the wound in his chest to pry the flattened bullet from his unbreakable breastbone. He sighed again, stuffing the slug into his pocket. He’d put it in the mason jar with all the others, a bizarre museum of personal suffering that he tended like a sacred church. When there was no pleasure to be had, the only comfort was in pain.