Torrie Reed (hardbitten) wrote in remains_rpg, @ 2016-03-31 23:50:00 |
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As much as Torrie would love to tell herself that Theo Laberenz was a blip in her life, that she could wash him out of her memory like so much shampoo out of her hair, it just hasn’t been the case. A few days with Solomon did a lot for her mood, and for her heart, but no matter how much she wanted to she couldn’t say a damn thing to the one person who’d made it necessary in the first place. Torrie hated being the kind of woman that even cared, that in the end seemed to care more than the other person since she’d been so easily disposable. She needed something to do to take her away from the anger that was roiling just under the surface. There were so many things she couldn’t control; Zik went missing, there’s nothing she can do there either, but she’s not the type that can sit idle either. More Ghouls were going missing, ones she didn’t know, but the word slithered through the subway tunnels, and the fragmented network of the underground. They were collateral damage in whatever the new drug lords seemed to be doing. More victims that Theo had so easily ignored in favor of personal interest. Torrie didn’t even know what the hell he thought he was doing in the North Loop to begin with, he never told her really, but she was petty enough right now to blame those missing persons on him, as his responsibility. Or maybe as hers, since she’d been so caught up in her own personal shit to notice anything else. But she couldn’t continue to ignore that something fishy was going on, and if nobody else was going to give a shit than she would. Addicts might be addicts, but they still mattered more than the brain-eating dead. Torrie had been to the fringes of the North Loop before, despite the warnings. All she had wanted to do was see with her own eyes then, but now she wants some kind of hard evidence. Something she can take somewhere, or do something with. She has a starting point this time, but she doubts any APD officer is going to follow up if she can only give them an address. Not when the cartel are carrying around weapons that look like they came straight from the Capitol. She’s three homes over from the house that she’s marked on a map, camped out in an upstairs bedroom with a camera that has a better zoom than her phone. There aren’t any curtains up on the window, but so far she’s been lucky to stay out of sight. Not that she’s gathered anything she hoped for; a blacked out SUV doesn’t hit the suspicion list, and people have come and gone, but nobody looks like they’ve been roughed up. There hasn’t been anything carted out that look suspiciously like bodies. Nothing that points towards proof of abuse against the Prax addicts, but the longer she sits the more she knows she’s losing light, which only serves to amplify her frustration. It’s not safe to camp out for the night in this territory, and without proof today it means she’ll need to come back. So she packs the camera back up in her knapsack, every motion carrying an undertone of irritation, no more pleased than when she’d snuck onto the property hours ago. The downstairs level is dark and empty, she makes her way through carefully, dusty furniture and cobwebs hanging in doorways and corners adding a grimness to what was once a happy house, most likely. But Torrie only sees it as proof that the cats haven’t bothered with any other houses on the street. When she reaches the back door, a set of sliding glass that open into the yard, Torrie doesn’t expect the man that catches her around her waist. She’s caught off guard so much that she can’t get to the knife strapped to her belt, can’t use her knapsack as a weapon in the grasp he’s got on her, and god does she wish she she could defend herself better, but instead she’s left to scramble for any kind of opening, to stomp on his feet while she throws her elbows wildly. It’s a lucky shot to her assailants ribs that gives her enough space to duck out and away, to grab for her gun and aim. But her assailant is bigger than her, taller and broader and now he’s angry, cursing her out in Spanish that she can’t understand in the speed it’s being thrown her direction. He’s back in her space before she can get her shot, wrenching her left arm around enough that she hears a sickening noise, followed by a blinding pain that tells her it’s been popped out of joint. How he knew she was there is a mystery, she’d been careful, but it’s only one guy, she’s not outnumbered yet. He hasn’t yelled for his crew either, so she still has a chance she thinks, as she fights to shake off the black fringe on her vision. There’s more rapid fire Spanish, and Torrie knows before she sees it that he’s reaching for a gun, so she does the only thing she can and swings out with her good arm, with the hand still holding her own handgun, and catches him in the jaw. The crack of bone is satisfying, and gives her enough time to regroup and aim. But she doesn’t account for him aiming right back at her, disoriented or not. Her shot hits him squarely in the chest; she’s dumbfounded that she’s hit anything at all for a stretch of a few seconds. Long enough that the shot he makes before he crumples doesn’t miss either. It’s a searing pain in her side, a graze right across her ribs, tearing through her jacket and top, leaving a shallow, angry cut, and again she has to fight against the urge to pass out. The gunshots will have attracted attention, she can’t afford wasting any time, so she runs, her path back to safer streets memorized, and well covered enough that she hopes she can get far enough away before anyone comes looking. Torrie’s a stumbling mess, bleeding from her side, having a hard time avoiding branches and obstacles. No doubt creating more bruises and scrapes with each one she’s not quick enough to dodge. But she doesn’t stop until she reaches the Walgreen’s on Guadalupe, the muscles in her legs tired, breathing heavy like she’s been in a marathon, her right side soaked through from her wound. But she wasn’t followed, by some luck, the only creature in sight is a slow moving walker. The door to the Walgreen’s is ajar, so she slides inside, staying near the front where she knows there aren’t any unexpected guests. Her medical knowledge is minimal, but she knows she needs some kind of sling for her arm until she can fix it, and she should wrap her side. Adrenaline is the only thing keeping her standing, but before she fixes herself up she digs for her phone in the front pocket of her bag. If she can’t make it somewhere safer, she wants her brother to know where he can find her. |