And If You Think There Is Shelter in This Attitude Who: Idris & Samuel. What: Samuel unknowingly meets the unintentional author of his suffering. Where: Out and about Pax Letale. When: 13 October, 6:20 p.m. Warnings: Language, almost certainly. And possibly violence!
It had been a difficult few weeks for Sergeant Samuel Wolfe. His anniversary gift had bolstered his spirits quite significantly, as had the frequent trips he and Lia had taken to the firing range to properly break it in; so, too, the gift he’d given her had proved no small comfort, and had seen equal use in the subsequent nights. But the dreams continued to trouble him, growing especially dark in the wake of his strange night with Rylee, the violence they had enacted seemingly without conscious thought. Worse, as the days had worn on, Samuel felt disturbingly unwell. Long used to being a generally healthy individual, rarely sick and almost never tired, Samuel found it difficult to adjust to the lethargy that had been steadily bearing down on him since October’s first crisp days. The sluggishness he had felt of late had begun taking its toll on his work, and the number of trips per shift he was taking for refills of his already sizable water bottle had led to more than a few snide (if largely unfunny) comments from his coworkers. As could be expected, Samuel had mulishly refused the suggestion to make use of the PD’s preferred twenty-four hour medical clinic. The threat of unpaid leave - or worse, to his mind, a workman’s compensation, company enforced stint on disability - loomed all too near over his head.
And so it was with racing mind and pounding heart that Samuel arrived home that night far earlier than planned, having been given the unhelpful direction by his Lieutenant to take the night off and ‘consider his options,’ which were, in Samuel’s humble opinion, no real options at all. He peeled into the apartment’s parking lot, whipping into his parking spot with a wholly unnecessary squealing of his tires. He trundled his shopping bags out of the truck, slamming the door of the monstrous red Ram behind him, shoved closed with the shrug of one broad shoulder. As he strode toward the entrance he cast a glance into his bags, ensuring he had forgotten nothing. Satisfied that all was there - Gatorade, new filters for his Brita pitcher, even Vitamin Water for when the vague, undefinable taste of Gatorade ‘yellow’ no longer sated him - he carried on, until his eyes fell upon an unexpected interloper.
Vagrants and panhandlers were, of course, not entirely unheard of, even in Pax’s decidedly ‘nicer’ neighborhood. But today Samuel was in no kind of mood. The situation was further exacerbated by the fact that one such drifter was armed with a guitar, of all things, and was busy plucking out a terribly atonal rendition of Muse’s “Supermassive Black Hole.” The closer Samuel drew to the man, the harder it proved to stop himself.
“Can it, hippie, or I’ll shove that fuckin’ thing up your ass sideways,” he snarled. “Then I’ll fuckin’ shoot you both. Got it?”