hector chasse. (ironarmor) wrote in warrantlogs, @ 2016-01-26 10:40:00 |
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Entry tags: | hector chasse, npc: killian |
WHO: Killian Stracke & Hector Chasse.
WHAT: An otherwise ordinary afternoon is violently interrupted.
WHEN: Early afternoon, Tuesday.
WHERE: HQ, office floor.
WARNINGS: Violence, death, terrorism.
"— Him. Do you remember this asshole?" Hector set the open file in his hands down on Killian's desk and nudged the papers towards him, turning it slightly so that he could see the mugshot from a direction that wasn't entirely upside-down. One blunt finger (knuckles still battered, but better than before) stabbed at the picture. It was an old bounty, from back in the day. The others, he'd gone over with Bristol, but this particular one could only really be reminisced about with Killian. In a way, it was almost a nice distraction from the reality of the situation. Remembering past successes. Crowing at the way they'd put too many criminals to name behind bars. Just because they were out now didn't make those victories any less worthwhile. "He was a pain in the ass. Fucking shot me." In some ways, it was almost nice to think he might have a second chance at some of these bounties. They were older, now. More experienced. Hector pulled at the collar of his shirt, tugging it until the quarter-sized pock mark in his shoulder was visible. "I should pay him back for the favor," he grumbled. The file was tugged closer so that the picture could be more closely scrutinized. The recognition was already in Killian's eyes; he rarely forgot the true assholes, however many years ago they'd been. "You could give him a matching set," he suggested, tracing his thumb over the year that the file had been dated. Amazing how it could feel like yesterday, but eons ago at the same time. (His fingers itched, suddenly, for the pilot's console of his former ship.) "Jesus, though. Our RO's writing was like goddamn chicken scratch." A page was flipped, another. "Yeah, that's because he was half-blind," Hector snorted as he sat back — and winced, setting a hand to his chest with his mouth pressing into a thin line. How many times did he move without thinking? Goddamn injuries should've been healed yesterday. "And he needed glasses. Remember how he used to squint at us? I'm not sure he could've hit a target at twenty feet, if Phan had asked him to pass the shooting test." Hector tilted his head, slightly to see the pages. "What was his alias — William Kidd? The bounty, not our RO." He scoffed breathlessly. "Fucking Billy the Kid." "Fucking Billy the Kid," the pilot echoed in deadpan, turning the pages back to the mugshot. It might have been a decade ago, but there were details he'd held onto since. He remembered the distinct smell of gunpowder and smoke on this one, among other things, and his eyes drew up. "Didn't he have other special snowflake aliases?" Because one was never enough, of course. "Sure, I remember something like that. Obsessed with the old Earth gunslingers. Westerns. He had a fucking six-shooter." The memory that stuck with Hector was the smell of his flesh where the bullet had gone through, the tang of iron in the air, and his overwhelming rage which had almost been a calming focus. He remembered being proud of himself, later, for how he'd put aside the pain in favor of the fight, pushed through his body's limitations to help finish it. His youth and training had made him practically invincible, at times. He remembered how deeply satisfying it had felt, to have that kind of control over himself and to have it contribute to the seizing of a bounty. Little things like that which had made him a candidate for Killjoy promotion, ultimately. Good times. A lot better than these times. Killian had been right there, alongside him, for most of it. "Come on," Hector cut himself off, abruptly. "I'm hungry. And unlike you, I eat real meals, not liquid lunch, so you're going to come get some food with me so I can at least say I saw you eat something." Pushing himself slowly to his feet, he managed not to groan from effort. Much. With an easy flick of the wrist, Killian flipped the folder shut, though his eyes were focused elsewhere — namely, on Hector. He had wondered, and not especially briefly, whether that recent visit to his apartment would change anything between them. It had been an emotional endeavour for them both, but if something had soured, he couldn't see it. Which made it easy to roll his eyes. "Funny, I was just talking to Phan about installing a food funnel into the wall so I don't even have to leave. Liquid lunch, my ass." Said ass did come up off the seat, all the sarcasm aside, though he didn't straighten completely, moving with the haggardness of someone who hadn't made any genuine effort to actually leave the office. "Do you even work out?" Hector demanded critically, watching him get up. He had an excuse: he could barely take a deep breath. An annoyed glance was directed upward, but only for a moment. "Shut up," was the only comeback to that, neither yes or no. Killian rolled his shoulders back (a flash of a wince, there) and pulled from the desk, like less proximity to it would draw from of the topic of his health. As Killian came around, Hector threw an arm over his friend's shoulders, steering him towards the door and out into the hallway. It was still early. He could hear phones ringing, the quiet of the serene RAC office only interrupted by the muffled sounds of life. All the soft blue light cast a paleness over their features. He never liked sticking around the RAC headquarters for long if he didn't have to: felt like being trapped in an aquarium. "When I'm not fucking injured anymore," the engineer informed Killian, their heels echoing on the floors as they walked, "I'm going to make a proper exercise regimen for you. You spend too much time behind the damn desk, you're going to lose your figure, you know." He snorted. "Not to mention, if you haven't noticed, we're in the middle of a goddamn criminal crisis, here. You need to be in shape or else someone's going to jump you on the way home one night, and you're going to get your ass handed to you." Casually, without bothering to glance behind them, he dropped his hand to grasp Killian's backside for a moment. Look — look how fine we are. Look how normal everything was, even after that conversation. Teasing and jabs. Like old times. There was a quip prepared on the tip of Killian's tongue that all but melted away at the sensation of that carefree hand (they were in public), so close to becoming a strangled sound. His sigh was long-suffering. "First of all," and a hand came up, knuckles almost daring to knock into those bruised ribs, "phrased like that, you're making me sound like a chick, and second—" It was subtle, brief, the quiet that stretched out. Just a split-second, not even a whole one, of nothingness, and then— everything all at once. The deafening roar, the crunch of metal, the sheer, explosive force whipping the two of them apart as glass burst in all directions to rain upon the hallway. It had taken only a moment, but it seemed, as Killian's spine cracked into a wall of glass and he connected harshly with the debris-covered floor, that time was at a standstill while the world around erupted into smoke and fire. Everything felt like it was pulled out from underneath them. Hector stared up at the ceiling, the gently throbbing red lights that seemed to warn of urgent changes, and he knew that he was still in RAC headquarters. Yet it didn't look right, didn't feel right: instead of glass and eerie blue lights, it was torn, bare concrete and metal, and live wires spitting pretty sprays of white sparks overhead, and that goddamn pulsing crimson light that made him feel like he was inside of an aorta. He could hear his own heart beating in his ear, slow and steady, but it was a struggle to breathe, like a ton weight had landed on his chest and left him gasping, clawing for oxygen, his head spinning. Get up, he ordered himself. Found his limbs, one at a time, and tested them for functionality: he could feel dust and rubble sliding off of him as he shifted, but everything seemed to work, and he dragged himself onto his hands and knees with wet, gritty coughs. Vaguely, he was aware of a fine ringing in his ears beneath the rest of it, high-pitched and steady. Explosion. Yes, that was it: that was what had happened. One heartbeat they'd been walking down the hall on the way to get lunch, him and Killian, and the next — Shakily, Hector dragged a hand over his face to wipe away the patina of dust clinging to his eyelashes, blinked against the smoke making his eyes sting, ignored the streak of wet blackness that came away from his mouth. His gaze swung desperately back and forth through the debris, the broken glass — Killian, where the fuck was Killian — — until he saw the curve of one shoulder in a jacket, the dust-coated waves of hair, a body laying very still on the ground beneath far too much glass. Heat rolled through him, swallowing him alive. His old friend, far older than Killian, older still than his acquaintance with the RAC: anger. It filled him until he was little more than liquid fire wrapped in skin and he moved without feeling anything but the rage, hindered slightly by a certain tightness but everything so much easier as he bent over the other man and brushed glass from his body, brushed dust from his face and set his black-smeared fingers to Killian's throat. There: a faint, slow pulse of life. Kill. His mouth formed the word, the nickname, but he couldn't hear his voice. He rasped through the pressure, anyway. Gonna get you out of here. Turning the other man on his back, he noted the dark, glistening streak at his temple, noted the pattern of dancing flames refracted by the hundreds in every piece of glass laying around them. The heat wasn't just inside of him, now, it was on his skin, and he was coughing more even as he slid his arms beneath his friend's body and hauled him up from the ground, pulling him close, safe against Hector's chest. Even with the strength burning through him, each step was slow, staggering an unsteady path over glass crunching beneath his boots. He saw a hand stretched where he was about to step, and he paused, following the arm until he found a head, until he met the wide, empty eyes of a woman staring up at him — receptionist, he remembered, the same woman he always jerked his chin impatiently at as he strode past her desk to find Killian's office himself — One step after another, he kept going until there was someone next to him, someone equally smeared with smoke and dust, touching his arm and gesturing wildly towards a door. Someone who led him down the stairwell one step at a time with Killian's limp body clutched to his chest. All at once, there were no more steps. Just another door: it opened, and everything was bright, bright, too bright for him to take in as he stood amidst distant noise and his own rasping breaths and hands, finally, trying to take Killian from him. He's alive, he thought he croaked, keep him alive or I'll kill you. Swaying, Hector waited for whatever came next. |