swallow. (iscariotic) wrote in retrofucked, @ 2012-01-28 01:55:00 |
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Entry tags: | niran, swallow |
never been so alone.
It's wartime every time
Small talk every time
Its my favourite chloroform
It's pillow talk every time
Get it out the way
Friction wound
Ricochet
Streetlamps cast shadows low along the damp pavement of Vespers. A fog had risen -- one thick enough to mute sounds slightly, cast off their reverberations. The gunmen were stationed on the roof of a dilapidated two-story from the Middle East -- sandy and reworked by some fops who'd found it charming despite the timesick -- assigned to a sniper job for three men who'd be walking the empty street in some vague span of night.
Ran had been irritated all day, and the silence that permeated his efficiency spoke it clearer than any syllables would. He'd been chainsmoking despite the sloppiness it lent the job, but the men weren't expected until later and it wasn't something he was willing to sacrifice tonight. His fitting had left him low, the prior conversation with his accomplice lower, and the sun setting had just set it all in stone.
"Hand me that nitro."
swallow had been dragged into the same chainsmoking championship that his partner seemed to be competing in. between them, the rooftop was littered with cigarette butts. if this had been any place except for vespers, the assassin would be concerned about their saliva tainting their alibis-- but killing was common here and their innocence was of no matter.
he flicked another butt.
he understood. he didn't understand. he could see why the other man would be upset that he'd lost something he'd already had his head wrapped around. he didn't understand why suddenly he was the object of his scrutiny and, subsequently, his wordless, quiet aggression.
the killer didn't answer. just held out the requested object as he lit another cigarette.
Ran took it wordlessly, continuing to focus on the machinery propped and steadied between his knees. It was a beautiful gun, with months worth of customization behind it. The dealer cocked it, inspected the capacity, and set it carefully beside him. He looked out to the street below, the crackle of moist cigarette paper sparking their silence.
"what did you want me to say?"
the words were crisp in the shadow of their feigned indifference. he exhaled.
Ran shrugged. With a low groan he pushed up, cast his cigarette butt to the fog below.
"I don't know. Something honest." His back was to Swallow. He crouched down to light another cigarette, using the walls of the roof as cover.
"I'm probably reading too much into shit. Don't worry about it."
"i'm a terrible liar. i'm worse at telling the truth." the words were flat, toneless. "i'm gonna worry about it because you're distracted."
and as much as swallow liked to think he could take care of himself, it was always comforting to know someone had his back-- and he didn't feel like the sniper did right now.
"I wouldn't let petty shit get in the way of a job." And oh, that dealer knew how to snipe.
"And shit like what you just said," he pointed with his cigarette between his fingers, "is a fuckin' copout."
"i don't even know what the fuck this is-- do you remember us fucking or something?" swallow's tone got a little sharper, a little meaner. "because i don't-- and if that means i got fitted or something, then i'm sorry, but i told you what i knew. or what i thought i knew. but apparently, you know better than me."
"That's the fuckin' problem." He cut that attitude sharp&quick.
"I don't," his syllables fell just as sharp and mean, accent permeating each pointed, venomous snare.
"But seeing as how there's a text history -- primarily from you -- that suggests I don't have anyone much closer to me, I assumed you'd be a little more helpful; cuz fuck, lord knows Bibi'd fuckin' lie for her sake."
"neither of us socialize and what we had between us was on fucking stilts-- shaky and awkward." that cigarette was at its filter and he switched it out, dragging long, dragging hard. "you hang out with me because it's convenient since you know me from work and the only other person you've got is your whore cousin. i hang out with you because i don't enjoy people's company but sometimes, i don't want to be alone."
fucking honest enough.
"Don't call her a fuckin' whore."
Apparently, the honesty was sufficient, because it brought no other quarrel. He grabbed the scope, peering further down the street to where it dipped into obscurity -- all fog and hill and shadowed building.
there was a long pause. a longer drag.
"... it's true though. she really is."
There was a clatter, the gun scraping against settled pollution and brick. A rustle and he'd drawn near, pulling the assassin closer by clothing and the nape of his neck. He steadied himself against backlash, his face near, cigarette cast off to the side into obscurity, half wasted.
"Look," his voice was low, dangerous -- the metal of his piercings scraped against his teeth as he spoke.
"You can say what you want to anyone else; fuck, to her face if you want to, but I don't wanna hear that shit. Clear?" He pulled closer to emphasize, tightened his grip on those tendrils that were tearing out at the scalp.
"you almost make me think you like this sort of thing," the killer hissed, eyes sharp like talons as they shattered the sniper's gaze.
"That's irrelevant. You're only convenience, apparently." He pushed away, returning to his gun. Pulling a cigarette from the carton in his back pocket, he lit up one more, grimacing as he thought of the one that had been wasted for petty words.
"yeah. convenient."
swallow bit his lip as he absorbed those words. the weight of something dark loomed in his head, but he shook it away.
"i'm going down to wait on target."
"I've got you." He positioned the stand closer to where the gun would be.
"Just try to get at least twenty yards in. It'll be cleaner that way."
"sure," the assassin threw back in that brushed off, i didn't hear any of that way of his-- but he was off before another word could be uttered. he'd just wanted to escape that crushing feeling that rooftop had on him. somewhere in the back of his mind he smelled blood and he smelled water, like he'd been on some rooftop and that smell had been ingrained in his sinuses, cursed to follow him to every rooftop ever after. he'd thought he could drown it with pack upon pack of cheap cigarette smoke, but somehow, it followed him. even down the stairs, followed him.
when he got in position, he didn't even look up to his spotter-- even though he felt him looking down on him. but that's always how these jobs worked, wasn't it?
there was a puppetmaster and there was a cockroach.
he lit another cigarette.
Line them up, and knock 'em down
Shot away